Fate's Needle Page 19

  If anything could compete with his brooding over the defeat, it was his concern for his wealth. Vandrad would claim everything—that much Grim understood. He had hidden the gold and silver rings, which were small enough to keep on his person, but the rest of the treasures his father had accumulated would become Vandrad’s. I will seek out Aud’s hut and find the gold I paid her, he thought. The old hag seemed to place no value on it anyway. She probably only took it because I valued it.

  His stomach growled. No one would serve him, and he did not know how to cook. He feared the humiliation of asking someone to prepare a meal for him, and frowned at the thought. Perhaps I should just order them to do it. Why should I need to ask?

  A door opened across the hall. Grim momentarily hoped it was a woman come to cook for him, and sat up to see, but then slumped down when he saw it was Vandrad with his three sycophants. They strode across the hall, wasting no time. Grim wished they would linger—let him enjoy sitting at his own high table one last time. He had worked so hard to get this seat, had held it such a short time.

  “So, Grim, you understand why I am here?” Vandrad unclasped his fox fur cloak. A dusting of snow sprinkled the floor as he folded the cloak over his arm. Grim answered the question by first spitting on the floor, then speaking over Vandrad’s head, as if addressing an audience at the far end of the hall. “You have come to hold me to my promise. Of course I know why you’re here. I expected you earlier.”

  Vandrad smiled and looked to his hirdmen, all of them dressed in mail, as if expecting a fight. “Now I am here, and you are right: I’ve come to hold you to your promise.”

  “You called the retreat too fast,” Grim said. He could feel his temper twisting his chest. So what if he offended now? He could lose nothing more than he already had. “We could’ve broken their shield wall. I could have, if you had let me take the archers. I could’ve forced them to move first.”

  “Keeping the archers back was the one thing that prevented a complete defeat.” Vandrad held up one finger in emphasis, as if Grim might otherwise miss his point. “Since you insisted on pushing ahead even after our scouts reported Frodi was prepared, I had to ensure a safe retreat.”

  “You wanted me to fail!" Grim yelled, leaping to his feet.

  The three hirdmen dropped their hands to their swords.

  “You are the one who should be blamed, not me! You let the men go to a fight they couldn’t win,” Grim screamed.

  Vandrad shook his head, and his eyes were nested in wrinkles as he smiled. “Grim Ormsson, I come to hold you to your oath. These men witnessed it, and will witness its fulfillment. So I ask if you will step down, or dishonor yourself?”

  The hirdmen kept their hands ready. To break his oath would give Vandrad reason to kill him where he stood. Grim’s hand itched to grab his own blade, to put it through Vandrad’s smug face, and then die as he killed as many Vestfolders as he could take, but he had left his sword in his room. Even if it had been at his side, he would die before he could put it to good use. Dropping his head, he let his arms slacken. “I step down,” he mumbled. “Take what you want.”

  Vandrad looked at Grim for several seconds, then nodded. His hirdmen relaxed, appearing disappointed. It gave Grim some measure of happiness to think they expected him to fight. They could still kill me, Grim thought. There would be no witnesses, and no one would care. I would do it, were our positions reversed.

  But Vandrad only beckoned him down from the high table. “You will remain unarmed from now on, and these men will protect you as you prepare for your journey.”

  “Journey?” Grim’s black eyes glittered with surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s too much history here,” Vandrad explained, walking to a bench and sitting down. “Besides, do you want to stay?”

  Grim had not thought so far ahead. He had spent more time mourning his treasure than considering practicalities like where he would live. It appeared Vandrad had planned that for him as well. “No, I don’t want to stay here. But where are you sending me?”

  “You are still sworn to High King Harald. You will go north, to Vestfold, and accompany some men who are too injured for their duties here. You should present yourself to Guthorm, the King’s uncle. You are a fighting man, Grim. That much you’ve shown. They’ll have use for your sword arm, and you look the part of a warrior. Make up a good story for that scar on your face.”

  Vandrad and the men laughed.

  Grim was lost in thought. Vandrad was giving him another chance. If he distinguished himself in Harald’s service, he could be rewarded with land and title. I might even get something better than this shithole my father so loved. The gods favor me after all. “Very well, I will do as you say, Vandrad.” Grim tried to hide his excitement, but his voice quivered with the anticipation of glorious battles in the king’s service.

  “Yes. You will do as I say,” Vandrad said, still laughing but ensuring that a threat was present in his eyes. “I’m glad my decision pleases you. But before we part tonight, we have to discuss payment. Your adventure was costly in both blood price and materials. You will have to provide compensation; your treasure will do nicely.”

  Grim had a pinch of hope that Vandrad might overlook that detail. “I will need silver for my journey. I cannot give it all.”

  Vandrad shifted on the bench, propping his elbows on both knees as he enunciated. “You can give it all, and you will. You will not need silver on your journey. Provisions and transports are prepared.”

  Grim hesitated for effect, and then agreed. “I don’t like it, though.” His hand unconsciously pulled at his tunic, where he had concealed some of the rings.

  Vandrad nodded approvingly. “And you will also need to give up what you’ve hidden on yourself,” he added.

  “What? I have nothing hidden!” His words were a lie, but his shock was genuine. How did he know I concealed the rings?

  “Really, Grim! Do you think this is the first time I’ve had to do this?” Vandrad pointed to his three hirdmen. “They will hold you down and search you. If they find anything, I will force you to walk naked to Vestfold. Or you can shorten our unpleasant evening and give me what you’ve hidden.”

  Grim stared at Vandrad as the hirdmen stepped forward to emphasize the threat. Grim recalled the gold he had planned to retrieve from Aud’s hut. With Vandrad forcing an escort on him, obtaining that gold would be impossible. In the silence that hung between them, Grim saw his wealth slipping from his hands into Vandrad’s. He was being forced to start over with nothing, no matter how he struggled. He looked away, staring at the near-dead fire. In its light, Vandrad looked as yellow as the gold he was sucking from Grenner.

  Grim reached into his tunic and pulled out one of the gold rings. “All right. I will give you every scrap.”

  Vandrad’s smile became a grin. “That’s a good start. Be sure to take them all out. Or you will lose your enthusiasm for your journey. I promise.”

  “Aye,” he replied in a whisper. Must the gods require all my wealth to grant their favors? He took out the other rings and placed them on the table.

  ***

  Grim sat on a sledge with two other injured men who both looked about to die. He hoped they would last the journey to Vestfold, since he probably would have to dig their graves otherwise. They were all heaped with furs, and Grim also had mail, a sword, and a few personal items. All this worry and I ended up with a bag of old clothes and a free trip north. He snorted a laugh as he reclined at the back of the sledge, waiting for the driver.

  “Guthorm is harsh. But he is King Harald’s uncle and his closest man.” Vandrad came to see him off. “Do well by him and your fortunes may change.”

  “No thanks to you.”

  “All thanks to me. When you finally become a man, you will understand how generous I’ve been. Go now, and don’t let me see you here again.” Vandrad strolled off to find someone else to irritate.

  “Go fuck a goat.” Grim called after him, then looke
d away. Vandrad merely chuckled. Who is Vandrad to judge whether I am a man?

  The driver mounted the sledge and drove them north. Grim watched Grenner slip by, passing his father’s burial mound as they took the track headed for Vestfold. A chill gripped him, and he reached for Lini’s amulet.

  “Good riddance to you, Father. Stay in your grave and let me leave this place forever.”

  He turned away, his home falling behind the stand of trees and disappearing from view.

  Twenty-four

  Runa had been imprisoned in the stables since the night she was dragged from Auden’s hall. Although barred in, she could have escaped had she felt inclined, but only death awaited if she fled. At least here, she had warmth and the companionship of the horses. She was comfortable around them. Horses, she believed, were better company than people. A groom came daily with food and water for her and the horses, and then rode the animals out for exercise, which was more than she got. The guard who accompanied the groom glared at Runa whenever she asked for news.

  The first night had been horrible: the loss of her newfound freedom, the absence of Ulfrik’s embrace. Even with everything against them, she had felt so much joy and potential. Ulfrik would rebound. They would start a new life together in a new place.

  Then Frodi had spoken, and her joy was obliterated. For a few short hours she had tasted liberation again, but now she wished she never had. The rusted collar about her neck abraded her skin; nothing had changed.

  The morning after Jarl Frodi had made her his slave, Runa had heard the roar of colliding armies. Who had come to fight, or why, made no difference to her. All that day she had waited for the stable door to burst open and Ulfrik to rescue her, but even when the sounds of battle diffused, he still had not come. She had even hoped Magnus would come. By sunset, no one had.

  By the third day, her confinement had grown too much. She wept constantly, huddled in a corner, thinking that Ulfrik and the others must have died in battle. Even the horses shied away from her as she cried. If Frodi was defeated, she thought, the conquerors will come to claim the horses. Yet no one came besides the silent groom and his angry guard.

  In their absence, Runa reached the limits of her patience and began to pound the walls and kick the doors, which made the horses nervous. She would bring someone to her, or force the horses to kick down the stable walls. She was pounding so furiously that she did not hear the bar lift. When the door opened, her fist flew through the opening and slammed into Bard’s chest. It was nothing to a grown man, and Bard grabbed her arm and yanked it down. “Quiet, girl! You are going to drive the horses mad.”

  “The horses? What about me? I’m no better than a horse to you!”

  Bard’s face flushed, but he wore a stern expression as he pulled her out of the stable into the wan light of day. He was dressed as he had been on the first day Runa had met him. His fine clothes and golden pin in sharp contrast to her soiled dress. The air was crisp, and the breeze was like cool water on her face. She had become so used to the fetid air of the stables that she had forgotten the clean taste of the outdoors.

  Bard ignored her question. “I’m sorry you had to be kept here alone for so long,” he said in a low voice. “It was the safest place for you.”

  Runa stopped resisting, blowing her matted hair out of her eyes before she spoke. “I heard the sounds of battle. Where are Ulfrik and the others?”

  Bard looked away, his face deepening red. “They have left.”

  Runa’s shoulders slumped and her expression froze. She wanted to believe she had misheard, but she knew she had not. Her mouth formed a few words, but no speech came. Frodi had banished Ulfrik. She had been left behind.

  “I would have come to you earlier, but I was recovering from my injuries,” Bard said.

  If he has been in a battle, Runa thought, he looks well rested for it.

  He put his arms on her shoulders, as if to comfort her, but the coldness of his hands made her more anxious.

  “Ulfrik’s brother came, and a terrible battle resulted. I led the men in the defense and drove them back to the woods. I took a serious blow to the head. Were it not for my helmet I might have died.” He paused, searching Runa’s face for sympathy or admiration.

  He found neither.

  “Ulfrik lived?” she asked. “What of the others? Magnus?”

  Bard’s grip on her shoulders tightened for a moment. He looked at the ground and then attempted to pull her into a comforting hug as he told her of Magnus’s death. Runa remained stiff, her face slick with dirty tears. The news flashed hot anger through her joints. She shoved Bard back, not caring whether she offended a noble. “You imprisoned me in a stable while my friends fought and died! You wouldn’t even let them see me before you chased them off. How dare you try to comfort me!”

  “It’s not like that, Runa,” Bard said. “I was recovering from my wound. And there were still enemies about after the battle. They scattered everywhere. You had to be kept safe. I couldn’t come to you.”

  “Keep me safe? By putting me in a stable where any enemy would come to steal a horse?” Runa’s dark eyes glinted in the sunlight. “I am not an ignorant farm girl; I am the daughter of a lord ten times more noble than your father. You kept me here because you thought it a safe place to prevent me from going with them.”

  “You’re not thinking clearly. Everything is as I said. It was for your protection.”

  Runa snorted, folding her arms across her chest. “No one was attacking the night your guards threw me in here like a bale of hay. You wanted to keep Ulfrik away.”

  To Runa’s surprise, Bard had not struck her yet. She was ready for it, her cheek itching where she expected the blow, but he merely shook his head and laughed. “Do you think he cared one whit for you?”

  “He loved me, and he gave me my freedom.” Runa turned up her chin defiantly.

  “I was ashamed of my father’s actions that night,” Bard said, looking around as if to be certain no one listened. “I told Ulfrik that myself, and I presented a bargain. I offered your freedom in return for his sword. He wouldn’t do it; the weapon was too precious to him. So I offered him an opportunity to rescue you. He said he had already risked too much and could chance no more. You see? I tried to help, but Ulfrik was not willing.”

  Runa kept her arms folded as she listened to Bard’s ranting. When he finished, she glared at him, her face stony, before saying, “That was a lot for someone who barely survived a blow to the head.”

  Bard stepped back as if he had been struck, and Runa smiled in satisfaction. Slave or not, she would not tolerate being treated like a fool. Not only did the facts not align but neither did Ulfrik’s supposed actions; he would love a daring plan if offered one.

  Bard’s face glowed like a red-hot coal, and his hands flexed. Expecting violence, Runa unfolded her arms and stepped back, but Bard gave nothing beyond a prolonged sigh. “He feared my father, and he was right to,” Bard said. “He left and asked that I take care of you. I promised I would.”

  Tears began to bead at Runa’s eyes. Maybe Bard is telling the truth. Maybe Ulfrik toyed with me. He loves his sword beyond understanding, and Frodi is too powerful to challenge. She found herself shaking her head at the thought, and sniffed back a sob. It was an ugly sound to her, made more so by her desperation. “He gave me my freedom,” she croaked. “I am not a slave. I am not.”

  Bard again placed his hands on her shoulder, the redness receding from his face. “You will be well treated, Runa. But while my father’s mood is dark, it is best you remain out of sight. After a time, we can speak again of freedom.”

  She looked up into Bard’s eyes at those words; they were clear and blue, as Ulfrik’s had been the day he promised her the same thing. But her freedom had to wait then, as it had to wait now. Runa wiped her nose and face with her sleeve. No man would give her freedom. She knew Bard lied, even as he smiled and made empty promises.

  Enfolding her in his arms, Bard began to murmur words of comf
ort, but she did not return his embrace. She stood weeping as Bard’s hand slid up her back, finding the slave collar, then entwining her hair. His other hand slipped to her waist, then to her hips. Runa stilled, feeling him press against her. He was still whispering, although she did not listen. Slowly, he had led her back into the stable and shut the door with his foot. His hand had gathered up her tattered dress at the back and was working beneath it. Runa could find no strength to resist. What would be the point?

  Bard did not even look at her as he pulled her to the ground. Runa shuddered once before surrendering to him—surrendering hope of ever gaining her freedom.

  ***

  Ulfrik had not been on the open seas for more than a year. Under different circumstances, he would have been exuberant. This day, however, he frowned as he manned the oars of Thor Haklang’s longship, the War Dragon. It would take two days of good weather to reach Thor’s home. They hugged the coastline, Thor singing a coarse song as he steered. His men joined in, laughing. Ulfrik, his head held low, remained silent and rowed all the harder. Seated on a chest next to him, Yngvar also maintained a grim silence. Ulfrik could feel the accusations of his men at his back. Paying taxes to a foreign king paled beside actual slavery. Their lives had been destroyed for their loyalty to him.

  Night approached, and Thor guided his ship to the shore. Ulfrik heard the splash of men leaping overboard into the shallows to haul the boat onto the shingle. Once they beached the ship, their captors leveled spears and guided Ulfrik and his crew to Thor, who waited up where the beach met the dune grass. He stood with arms folded over his heavy belly, a black bulk in the dying sunlight. All around him, men started making camp.

  Ulfrik stood defiantly before Thor.

  “Now that we’ve left Frodi behind, we can talk clearly.” The berserker gave a thin smile then unfolded his arms as if to welcome him. “For starters, the lot of you can stop sulking. None of you are slaves any more than I am.”