Fate's Needle Page 18

  The morning air smelled of salt and blood when they finally returned to the hall. Where the shield walls had collided, bodies were littered, strewn about like flotsam washed ashore on the tide. A few of Frodi’s men prowled the fallen enemy with knives, slitting throats for good measure. The injured gurgled a final protest. The dead just stared with the accusatory gaze only corpses can manage. All in all, the dead were less numerous than the chaos had warranted.

  Finding a place away from the carnage, Ulfrik and Yngvar placed Magnus’s body on the ground. His face was unrecognizable, cleft in two and caked with gore. Yngvar covered it with the cloak. “He was a good man,” he said.

  “He has gone on to the feasting hall,” Ulfrik said, looking at nothing but seeing Grim’s face taunting him, over and over, in his mind’s eye. “He died a warrior’s death, and we’ll see him again.”

  They bowed their heads, unable to say more.

  “Ulfrik!”

  The call came from further up the hill. Turning, he saw Snorri waving to him. Three of Frodi’s spearmen guarded Snorri and the seven other men who had betrayed Grim. All were seated, with their weapons stacked outside the triangle of spearmen. Some were simple farmers who had drilled with Orm; others, like Snorri, were hirdmen. All of them were now without a lord or a home.

  Ulfrik clasped Snorri about the shoulders in greeting. “I heard I have you to thank for the return of my sword,” he said as they parted again.

  “The girl was true to her word, then. I had my doubts. There came no word from you until Grim learned you were here. When he mustered us for battle, I knew it would be our only chance to join with you.”

  The other men stood, and Snorri turned to introduce them. Ulfrik missed the first few names. In battle, all thoughts of Runa had faded, but her mention renewed the pain of her loss. Snorri stopped talking, alerting Ulfrik to his rudeness. He shook his head and apologized. “You all know Magnus. Grim killed him today.”

  The men dropped their heads, murmuring their anger. Snorri nodded toward the covered corpse. “I suspected that was your burden. He was a fine man, and he died a brave death. He will be avenged.”

  The other men echoed their agreement, but when their words faded they stood in awkward silence. Ulfrik felt his eyes mist again. He did not want to shame himself before men who had braved so much to come to his aid. He should be glad for their loyalty, but losing Magnus and Runa seemed a poor trade. Wrong as it was to think so, he could not shake the feeling. He needed time to think, or to forget; for now, he did not know which would lead to a clearer mind.

  “Grim has no honor,” a broad-faced man wearing a dull expression said.

  Ulfrik recognized him as Dan the Stone Thrower, who won the rock-throwing contests every autumn without fail. “He turned on the families who served his father. Killed them or burned them out of their homes.”

  “He burned Auden in his own hall,” added another. Ulfrik could not recall the man’s name, but knew him nonetheless. “He invited the men from Vestfold to the job, gave our land to some far-off king who wants to collect taxes on top of what we already pay to Grim.”

  Complaints rumbled through the group. Grim had disenfranchised the men of Grenner and while many more were unhappy, they feared switching allegiances.

  “Grim can call on reinforcements from Vestfold,” Snorri explained. “Their power is fearful and far-reaching. Only us hard-headed fools, too dumb to understand the danger, risked making the move. Some of us have already paid in blood.” He pointed to a few corpses, throwing spears jutting from their backs.

  Ulfrik forced himself to look. Although already tired of seeing corpses on his behalf, to avert his eyes would dishonor their sacrifices.

  “Lord Ulfrik,” Snorri said, dropping to one knee, “We came to you because you are your father’s heir—the noble blood of Orm and Auden. You can lead us against Grim and his foreign king. Accept my oath and the oaths of these men.”

  The others followed Snorri to their knees, bowing before Ulfrik.

  He was surprised to find himself shaking his head. He needed the men, it was true, but he felt incapable of doing them the honor they deserved. “I can only offer you the life of a homeless wanderer. Pain, poverty, and suffering are all I own now.”

  “I would offer you my blade, were it not being withheld from me.” Snorri cast a glance at a spearman, who looked on as one might watch children at play. “But I swear, and my companions swear with me, to serve you as the inheritor of the oaths we gave your father. My blade is yours, Lord Ulfrik.”

  “Put your hand upon my blade, Snorri Sigurdarson.” Ulfrik drew his sword and Snorri laid his hand upon it. “I am your lord from this day forward,” Ulfrik said. “I take your oath and in return swear to protect you and your kin. Now stand, all of you, and be welcomed.”

  As the men stood, Ulfrik sheathed his sword and smiled. The men appeared pleased. In better circumstances, their oaths would be greeted with cheers and feasting, but the mood was soured by the dead still bleeding into the earth around them, and by their weapons still under guard. Ulfrik embraced each man with a strong clap on the back and a word of thanks; it was all that could be done for the moment.

  “There you are!” Frodi, his mail bedewed with blood and his white-braided beard clotted with rusty stains, strode across the open field, pointing at Ulfrik all the way. “Look what you brought here. Look at this!” He pulled up to his full height before Ulfrik and his watery blue eyes gleamed with anger.

  Ulfrik met Frodi’s gaze with a contemptuous look. He could care little for Frodi and his mood. The man had robbed him of his honor when he took Runa as a slave. Ulfrik was not going to lie down any longer, nor be humiliated before his men. “I see I brought you a chance to show your might to Thor Haklang,” Ulfrik said. “I brought you a chance to smash an enemy power on your border before it grew.” Ulfrik glared out from the visor of Grim’s helm, refusing to take Frodi’s bait.

  The old jarl appeared to soften, even if barely. “What is this business here?” Frodi hooked his thumb at Snorri and the others. “You are taking oaths from enemy prisoners? Maybe you should join them?”

  Ulfrik and Frodi stared at each other for a long while. The threat was real, and Ulfrik had to choose his words carefully to avoid worsening matters. At last he shrugged and let Frodi stare him down. “If you would make prisoners of men who fought for your home—died for your home.” Ulfrik jabbed a thumb toward Magnus’s corpse. “Then you must make prisoners of us all. This is your land, Jarl Frodi, and your law.”

  They fell silent again, and Ulfrik raised his sheathed sword for Frodi to take.

  Frodi did not look at it, but threw his hands up in disgust. “Bah! You test my patience. They can have their weapons and go with you. But everything I said last night still holds today, and extends to your men too. Do not return to my lands again. You will not be welcomed.”

  “Neither will you be welcome in my hall,” Ulfrik retorted. “Think on that, Jarl Frodi.”

  Frodi appeared to consider it a moment. Then he laughed, deep creases appearing at his eyes. “I will be up all night thinking about it. And by the way, that’s a fine helmet. How did you come by it? Found it in the mud?”

  Frodi left and Ulfrik watched him stalk off. The three guards looked at Ulfrik with expressions that ranged from disinterest to minor admiration. Rather than return the weapons, they wandered off, leaving the pile unattended.

  Yngvar appeared at Ulfrik’s side. “He’s got the personality of a speared boar.” He snorted at Frodi’s departing back. “But he’s done with. I hate having to bury Magnus on his land. Seems something of a dishonor, doesn’t it?”

  Ulfrik nodded, looking back at Magnus’s body. They had dressed him in the fur he so cherished, and placed a good sword in his hand for the feasting hall, but his grave would be shallow and hastily dug. Ulfrik hoped it was enough to deter animals.

  The other men sorted out their weapons as Ulfrik considered their next move. Some of the men had fa
milies, whom he hoped were aware of their men’s decisions. Food and shelter were their priorities, and finding a winter camp had to come next. His mind immediately began mulling over the details.

  But there was one last thing he had to attempt. While Yngvar conversed with Snorri and the others, Ulfrik slipped away.

  ***

  Ulfrik found Bard sitting alone in the hall, slumped against the wall. He stood over him, glowering down with the sternest face he could muster. Bard appeared small and scared. He was smattered with blood, but instead of wearing it like a man, he wore it like a boy with a nosebleed.

  “Before I leave this land, you must return Runa to me,” Ulfrik insisted, assuming the commanding stance his father had used when giving orders, both hands on hips.

  Bard squinted up at him, as if staring into the sun. He said nothing. Ulfrik repeated his demand.

  Finally, Bard hauled himself to his feet with deliberate slowness. Still squinting, his face crimson with exertion, he said, “That is not possible.”

  “Of course it is possible,” Ulfrik countered. “You bring her to me, and I leave with her.”

  “She is my father’s slave now. Don’t be foolish.”

  “Your father’s slave?” Ulfrik laughed. He had been controlling himself, but felt his discipline unraveling. “You took her from me within hours of my arrival. Your father hasn’t the interest in her that you do, Bard.”

  Bard looked away from Ulfrik, his face flushing even redder. He folded his arms like a child, but did not speak.

  Ulfrik snorted at the silence. “Very well, I’ll put that aside. I granted Runa her freedom, and your father condemned her to slavery—that is unjust.”

  “Really? She still wears the slave collar she had when you bought her.”

  “I never bought her; I found her.”

  “And who witnessed this freedom you granted her? As far as I can see, she is a slave. You owe me much, Ulfrik, for all I did for you. I cannot be responsible for what my father does. I treated you well, respect that.”

  Ulfrik was shamed by the words, and surprised to find that Bard had backbone when pushed. For a moment, he hesitated, thinking. Then he said, “You are right, Bard. You were good to me. There is no witness to Runa’s freedom, but it does not change that I granted it to her.”

  Bard turned to leave. “I’m done here.”

  He was stopped by Ulfrik’s hand on his chest. “We are not done. If you won’t accept that she is free, let’s talk of her slavery. Frodi took her as payment for what I cost him. Let me buy her back from you.”

  “Buy her?” Bard stepped back and Ulfrik’s hand dropped from his chest. “How could you buy her?”

  Ulfrik hated that this had come to be, but it was his only choice. He held up Fate’s Needle and the green gem on the pommel glittered between them. “I will trade you this. It is well made, a gift from my uncle. It is dear to me, but I would surrender it to you for Runa.”

  “It is not enough,” Bard said in a clipped tone, and turned away.

  Ulfrik stung from the rejection. “This is a fine sword, inlaid with jewels. All that for a slave girl? It’s more than enough.”

  Bard continued to walk.

  Ulfrik grabbed his shoulder, roaring, “Do you have any honor? You offer hospitality that ends in slavery!”

  Bard rounded on Ulfrik, batting away his grip. Loud enough to bring onlookers, he screamed, “You forget yourself, Ulfrik. You are no longer welcome here. Leave me now, or you will die a dog’s death.”

  “Is that so?” Ulfrik said through gritted teeth. “You will give me a dog’s death? Will you piss your pants until I die of laughter?”

  Bard scowled and the shadows of armored men drew about him. “You will not be laughing when you die,” he said coolly.

  Ulfrik knew he had botched his last chance. Bard’s protectors were closing in a ring, and if Frodi came, the jarl would not hesitate to kill him. “Peace, peace.” He put up both hands. “I understand you, Bard. I will go now. Keep your protectors at bay. But I will return for her; and if you won’t sell her we will have to discuss other terms.”

  “Leave!” Bard commanded. “Another word will be your last. I was a fool to extend courtesy to a beast like you.”

  Ulfrik rankled at the accusation. But now warriors gathered, and one lowered his spear. He walked backwards, both hands up before him, until he was away. Bard stood watching as Ulfrik turned and started back to Yngvar and Snorri. From a safe distance, his rage bested his judgment.

  “You will regret this,” he called back to Bard, with as much iron in his voice as he could muster. “I am not as weak as you think. There are other ways to settle this, Bard. No one makes slaves of my people. No one!”

  ***

  Ulfrik stalked back to his men, visualizing the night raid he would lead to rescue Runa. They would loop back after Frodi’s men had escorted them to the border. No doubt Bard would be trying to bed her. He would catch him in the act, then hack him down before he could touch her. He envisioned it clearly in his mind, to the exclusion of everything else, so much so that he walked without seeing. Poor Runa, he thought. Free for just a few hours. This cannot stand. Better we all die frozen in winter as freemen, than one of us die a slave.

  Approaching his men, he finally looked up. He did not understand what he saw. Only when he felt the spear point in his back, did it make sense.

  Thor Haklang’s fierce men ringed Yngvar, Snorri, and all the others at spear point. Yngvar bore an expression equal parts exasperation and rage. The spear at Ulfrik’s back jabbed him, and the pain pushed him forward toward the others.

  He still held Fate’s Needle, but someone behind him quickly grabbed it. Ulfrik released it, knowing to fight would be to die, and turned to see Thor himself gripping the sword.

  “So you’re my take from this shitty adventure.” Thor’s deep-set, beady eyes flashed as he spoke. “None of your brother’s friends took anything good to battle. What do the men of Grenner fight with: twigs and rocks? What am I supposed to take for booty?”

  “We are freemen,” Ulfrik said, surprising himself with the evenness of own voice. He could feel his knees trembling. “No one can award us as booty. Put up your spears and stop shaming yourselves.”

  Thor’s thick hand clobbered him, sprawling him out before he understood what had happened. He hadn’t felt so dazed since Grim had cracked his head with the rock. The spear point followed him down, resting on his stomach.

  “Shut your rotten mouth if you don’t want my man here to let the air out of your belly! You’re all outlaws here, landless and masterless. Your lice-ridden hides belong to me now—the lot of you. There wasn’t shit worth to pick over on the battlefield. Only that helmet you’re wearing looks fine. I think I’ll take that too.”

  Another man hauled Ulfrik up and knocked off his helmet. Dazed as he was, Ulfrik realized Thor had hit him through his helmet. He shuddered to think what the bear-warrior could do with his ax.

  Ulfrik was spun around and his hands tied behind his back. His men were being tied as well. He looked over his shoulder and spotted the silhouettes of Bard and Frodi watching in the distance. His heart burned, but he could do nothing but turn away.

  “Get these mongrel bastards aboard ship and on an oar. At least we won’t have to row home ourselves.”

  Ulfrik hung his head, unable to meet the eyes of the Grenner men who had just joined him. All of you would’ve been better under Vestfold, he thought. He could think of nothing else. He felt numb, senseless. His captor pulled on his bindings to test them, then shoved him forward.

  “Let’s get going before Frodi tries keeping you for himself. Greedy bastard.” Thor turned and waved at Frodi, who raised his hand in reply. “Not even one day here and I’m ready to go. What about you, Jarl Ulfrik? I guess you can’t wait to leave, too!” Thor burst into laughter.

  Ulfrik merely stumbled ahead, into a life of slavery.

  Twenty-three

  Grim sat at the high table, stari
ng at the thin light the hearth threw out. Since he had hanged all his slaves, no one tended the hall. Candles leaked wax, the floor rushes were old, and the tables were stacked with debris from the last meal they had eaten before marching on Frodi’s lands. Many of the women who had cooked that meal were now grieving widows, crying alone in the cold night; Grim felt like joining them.

  Several days had passed since the battle. Grim absently toyed with the charm that hung around his neck, a necklace of Aud’s hand bones hung on one of Ulfrik’s childhood bowstrings. Lini had presented it to him the day of the battle. The charm seemed to work, since Ulfrik never reached him. But that was all the good Grim could find for himself.

  For days he thought of little else beyond his defeat and loss of leadership. Vandrad had yet to formally strip his titles from him, but Grim knew he had lost all authority with the men, knew it as soon as they regrouped. Their averted eyes and silence told him all he needed to know. His command had been weak to start with, but the outcome of the battle had destroyed it completely.

  “The retreat was necessary!” Grim told anyone who would still listen. “We were wise to break off rather than continue at a disadvantage.” But even if anyone had grasped his logic, he had hobbled himself by later pointing out that few men had died. “Maybe only fifteen or so,” he had insisted. By now, Grim had stopped mentioning the death toll, had stopped talking at all.

  Vandrad had allowed Grim to remain in his room and live as he had been, but no one visited the hall after the first night. On the first night, the families of the hirdmen came to the hall to reunite with their men. The seriously injured were tended to in the hall, and two of them died. One man had lost his eye to a spear. When his wife and children saw him, they screamed as if they shared his wound, and continued their dirge long into the night. Grim was silently relieved when the man died. At least then the screaming family was paid in silver and sent home to bury their dead, returning the hall to silence. The other man was from the levies. He died with only a few friends to mourn him. Grim was grateful for that dignity.