Fate's Needle Page 20

  “What does that mean?” Ulfrik asked. One of Thor’s men approached with a bundle of weapons taken from the ship, dumping them in the grass before returning for another load. Ulfrik recognized his men’s gear.

  “Just a bit of acting to save your lives. I like you, Jarl Ulfrik. You’ve got guts.” Thor laughed before continuing. “That conniving brat of Frodi’s planned to have you all killed when you reached the border.”

  Ulfrik stood amazed. Why would Bard plot my death? Then he realized the extent of Bard’s grasping lust. “He wanted Runa, and didn’t want me returning for her.”

  “Something like that,” Thor said airily. “I knew about the plan even before the battle started. Figured if you looked a good fighter I’d take in you and your followers. Too bad about the big one. He seemed to have a touch of the bear god in him.”

  “And Frodi agreed to this?”

  “You might’ve noticed he didn’t like you. He had no trouble seeing you go as slaves. I suppose even his brat was fine with the idea. After all, he just wanted your woman.”

  Ulfrik turned to Yngvar, who shrugged. “If it’s not a man’s time, something will save him.”

  “Why not just invite us to join you?” As Ulfrik spoke, a man knelt beside him to cut the ropes tied to his ankles.

  “Because I have plans for you, Ulfrik. It’s better that Frodi and Bard put you out of their minds for a while. For now, let’s get you and your men out of those bonds.”

  Morale immediately lifted and the men began to chatter excitedly. Ulfrik’s ankle came free and the man crab-walked to Yngvar to cut his bindings as well. Thor unhitched Fate’s Needle and presented it to Ulfrik. The emerald in the pommel reflected the last rays of light as Ulfrik took the sword into his hands, its weight reassuring him. His mail and helmet were also in the pile with all the other gear. Ulfrik was about to smile when he realized.

  “The families of my men have fled Grenner and are heading for the southern coast. We have to fetch them before Grim does. He will be merciless.”

  His men ceased talking, each turning an expectant face toward Thor. The berserker’s expression flattened, the night pooling shadow into the sockets of his eyes. He stroked his beard. “My plans did not include old women and runny-nosed kids.”

  “This is not something to negotiate. Their families will be saved.” Ulfrik folded his arms, mirroring Thor’s reaction. The two stared at each other while their men stilled, awaiting Thor’s decision. He grumbled to himself a moment.

  “I understand you, Ulfrik. We will see what can be done to save them.”

  “You have my gratitude, Lord Thor.” Ulfrik bowed low, feeling the tension drain as he did.

  “I’ll have that and a bit more before the night is done.” Thor laughed again and his men returned to their duties. Ulfrik smiled wanly, wondering what terms Thor would press on him in response. No one does good for the sake of good anymore, he thought. Ulfrik had learned that much. Maybe no ever has.

  ***

  Several campfires had been lit and men gathered around them to eat and drink. Ulfrik huddled with his men around their own fire. They had spoken excitedly about the turn of events. Only the more experienced Yngvar and Snorri maintained a cooler attitude.

  Across the dark beach, Thor beckoned. Nodding, Ulfrik rose and tapped Yngvar on the shoulder. Together they approached the giant man, who was perched by the fireside on a log dragged from the forest. The night was mild, and Thor had tossed off his heavy furs, revealing arms glinting with coils of gold. His enormous hands glistened with grease as he gestured for Ulfrik to sit on the sand next to him and proffered a skin. Ulfrik accepted it more from courtesy than any desire to drink. He wanted to be clear-headed when dealing with Thor, who was proving more intelligent than Ulfrik had first thought.

  “Now it is time to talk about our deal.” Thor took back the skin and held it out to Yngvar, who guzzled the last of the mead. “You’re going to like my plan, Ulfrik. But you’re going to have to swallow that pride of yours.”

  “I’m ready to hear it,” Ulfrik said, sitting up straight and ignoring the reference to his pride; ironic, since he had felt nothing but shame for weeks.

  “It’s a simple plan. I’m going to let you and your men live on my lands. You will build a ship, fill out your crew, and take them raiding. You can raid anywhere except where I have allies. I’d wager you’ll want to prick at your brother’s lands. There’s plenty of men who will help you with shipbuilding, and many young men who crave adventure. As long as you earn silver and treasure, you’ll attract plenty of followers.”

  Thor illustrated his points with elaborate gestures, and Ulfrik learned forward, knowing the catch had yet to be revealed.

  “You will have a full raiding crew, and as you are building up men on my lands, you will swear an oath to me and to my father—a binding, lifelong oath, as all oaths are. That oath will require your men to serve in my army if I call them. I will be happy to see you prosper, Ulfrik, because I will own your boat, and one third of all treasure you take with it will belong to me. Eventually, you’ll be able to buy the boat from me for a price we’ll agree upon later. I want there to be no misunderstanding. So what do you say?”

  “What about Frodi? You said it’s best he forgets us. Why?”

  “Because then he won’t know I’ve added strength to my army. He was just in my lands, counting my spears. Frodi and I are allies of convenience; we’re not family. If I ever need someone to keep him from growing too strong, you would be ready for that work. Am I right? So, I’ll ask you again: what do you say to my offer?”

  Ulfrik leaned back on his elbows, his hands in the sand, his eyes focused on the fire. This was the most he had heard Thor say at once, and given how thoroughly Thor had laid out the plan, he suspected Thor had made this offer before. He felt Yngvar nudge him, and realized Thor and others were awaiting his response.

  “A generous offer,” Ulfrik said slowly. “I would be a fool not to accept.”

  “Yes, a fool,” Thor rumbled. “So, it’s settled. Tomorrow we’ll reach my father’s hall and you will kneel before us. Then you will have a busy winter ahead of you.” Thor gestured for another skin, which his tattooed men passed around the fire to his waiting hand. He took a drink and pressed the skin to Ulfrik.

  “To your generosity,” Ulfrik said, raising the skin but speaking as if proclaiming his own death. Thor’s offer was better than anything he could have hoped for, but a sense of loss—of Orm and Auden, of Runa and Magnus—hung over him like a pall. He sipped from the skin and passed it to Yngvar.

  “Give up this idea of being a king,” Thor said, misreading his expression. “Look at your friend there. He’s smiling ear to ear, and so should you.”

  Yngvar drank deeply and returned the skin to Thor. “I am happy for my lord,” Yngvar explained.

  Ulfrik smiled at the comment; never had Yngvar referred to him so respectfully.

  “But we have lost friends on the road here,” Yngvar added.

  Thor grunted in agreement, gazing thoughtfully into the fire for a moment. Then he shifted on his log and continued. “The girl was a pretty one, too. But too thin to bear good children. There is always another one out there. Geitir has a comely sister—big and strong.” Thor chortled and his men followed.

  Geitir glowered at Ulfrik, which only made Thor laugh harder. With a forced smile, Ulfrik concentrated on the shadows dancing on the sand before him. He found nothing funny about losing Runa; a deep guilt washed over him.

  Thor and his men carried on, oblivious. “But remember, no raiding our allies, like Frodi,” Thor cautioned. “We need that old fool to keep Harald’s dogs off Agder’s borders.”

  “You are not fond of Frodi?” Yngvar asked. “You fought for him, after all.”

  “I fought because there was an easy fight to win.” Thor’s pitch lifted in excitement, his expression animated at the mention of a fight. He belched, then continued, “But most importantly, I got the measure of Frodi’s stren
gth, and he got to see how the men of Agder rule the battlefield.” Thor looked to his men, who thumped the sand and growled their approval. Thor beamed at their affirmation. “Frodi is still a good war leader. He organized the defense well, kept the high ground. His archers drove the enemy onto our spears. But he failed to control the battle. When the enemy fled, his men took up the chase and would not heed him. They ran into a trap of archers. If the enemy had more strength, more discipline, they could have turned on Frodi and torn him apart. He won because the enemy was weak and afraid—and they should have been, for the Bear of Agder was among them!”

  The men hollered, startling Ulfrik and drawing curious stares from the other campfires. He was surprised how much Thor knew about the battle, given that the big man had appeared delirious throughout. “How did you fight so ferociously but keep such a careful eye on the battle?”

  “Do it enough and you learn how,” Thor answered with a chuckle. “When the bear god is in me, I am full of his power. It makes me crazed, but my men know what to do. We drill and train, drill and train. No one so much as breathes out of step with what we have trained. So in battle, I only have to consider myself. After the bear god leaves me, I am spent, but the men tell me what happened.” He passed around another skin.

  This time, the mead began to improve Ulfrik’s mood and he forgot his worries, or at least put them aside. Laughter erupted again as they were joined by more men from the other campfires.

  “This man has the whitest teeth of any man I have ever seen,” one of them said, gesturing to Yngvar. “Did you paint them?” He guffawed, spraying spittle that glistened as it arced through the firelight.

  “They call me Yngvar Bright Tooth.” As much as Ulfrik knew he hated the name, Yngvar displayed his smile for all to see.

  “You could blind an enemy in combat with those teeth,” Thor agreed, laughing. “Always fight facing the sun, Yngvar. And what of your lord here?” He gestured to Ulfrik. “Should we call him Ulfrik Long Face?”

  “Please no,” Ulfrik said, holding up his hands but realizing he had earned the name. “Call me anything but that!”

  “I’ll have to come up with something better,” Thor said. He leaned forward. “Now here’s something, do you know what they call Frodi’s son, Bard?” He looked at them expectantly, stalled laughter puffing out his cheeks. “Bard the Blue Face. He gets seasick just looking at a boat.”

  Thor rollicked back on his log, clapping his hands. Everyone else snorted and shook their heads. But the mention of Bard’s name ruined Ulfrik’s rising mood. “How did Bard fare in combat?”

  “Like a boy. Always in the way,” Thor said. “Bard is Frodi’s weakest and his youngest. I swear he still sucks his mother’s tit. He hid behind his shield and his father’s strong arm. Honestly, Frodi should just give up trying to make a warrior of the whelp. But he must think Bard is capable of becoming what he wants him to be. He’ll have to succeed, because Frodi’s other sons are dead. He just doesn’t know about the second one yet.”

  Ulfrik and Yngvar shared a look.

  “Frodi doesn’t know one of his sons is dead, but you do?” Ulfrik asked.

  Thor nodded as he reached for more mead, which seemed to be in endless supply. Upending the skin, Thor let the sweet drink stream down his beard before swallowing and answered, “Yes, but I won’t be the bearer of that news. With Harald making noise on the border, I need a strong, focused man to deal with him. If Frodi learns his heir is dead, his spirit might break. Can’t have that now.”

  “How do you know he’s dead?” Yngvar asked.

  Thor wiped his mouth on his arm and belched several times, blowing foul air over them. “It’s my business to hear things. Travelers are welcome in my hall. Frodi keeps his doors shut to everyone, thinking they come only to steal, so he doesn’t hear what I hear. The boy was wintering in Anglia until the next raiding season. But he won’t be coming home after all. Thrown from a horse, I heard. Broke his neck. That’s why I’ll never ride a horse to battle.” Thor jammed a finger into his mouth to pick food from his teeth. Flicking his findings into the fire, he called an end to the night. “We set out at dawn. I want to be sleeping in my hall tomorrow. Ulfrik, you look like you’re not going to sleep anyway, so take the watch. Someone will relieve you later.”

  The groups separated and drifted off to their duties. Men pulled blankets up to the fires and prepared for sleep. Ulfrik stood, and Yngvar rose after him. “It is a great offer, Ulfrik. Many men make their fortunes this way, and you already have a core of loyal men. Be glad for that, at least.”

  Ulfrik gazed out at the black, moonless sea. Waves purred in the background, and the sea breeze lifted his hair. Where Fate had taken, it had also given. His thread had not yet been spun to the finish.

  “I do have much to be glad for,” he said, speaking as much to himself as to Yngvar. “But I just don’t feel it yet. Maybe I will tomorrow.”

  He left Yngvar to his rest and went to stand by the ships. Even if someone came to relieve him, he would not sleep that night.

  Twenty-five

  Ulfrik leaned on Wave Spear’s rudder, guiding it through the waters, toward home. A dense fog obscured the sea, but local crewmembers helped him navigate the rocks and currents. The ship skipped over the waves as the men rowed, a bracing wind at their backs. Their daring first raid in winter had been a great success.

  Yngvar had broken into song and the crew followed along. Snorri, rowing next to him, sang louder and stronger than anyone else. Ulfrik usually joined them, but today his mind was on threading the fjord safely.

  The harsh winter was nearly over, and four months had passed since Ulfrik had given Thor his oath. The Wave Spear had been completed and Thor had awarded it to Ulfrik, and after feverishly constructing homes, a hall, and a storage house, Ulfrik and his men left to test themselves on a raid. Their first target had been Grenner, but finding the route full of ships carrying spearmen and bowmen to escort the knarr merchant vessels, Ulfrik had turned away, pressing further east. There, they fell upon Svear lands, raiding farms but finding little more than livestock and common items. By trading his spoils, Ulfrik learned where the local jarls made their halls.

  Striking at night on a hall that hardly knew danger, Ulfrik and his men made away with silver, iron, weapons, and a mail coat, and received few injuries in the bargain. He had refused to take slaves, his mind on Runa.

  “Victors should have women,” Johan—barely fifteen summers old but stubborn as unworked iron—had grumbled. Although the youngest man on the crew, he had been brave, often foolhardy, in their skirmishes. “What are these Svear to us? We should take some of these barbarian women for ourselves.”

  “I expected barbarians,” Ulfrik admitted, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “But these are not them. Are they so different from us? They even speak the same language.”

  Johan grunted. “With that accent? Can’t understand a word of it. If they came to our lands, you would see barbarians.”

  “Maybe. But I will not make slaves of their people, no matter what they would do to us.”

  He continued to press his attacks along the coast until the local leaders united against him. By then the men had already filled the hold with treasure and could return home satisfied. The entire raid took just weeks. And even the journey home had been fortuitous; however, days ago he’d had to outpace another dragon-headed longship that had pursued the Wave Spear for a time.

  A viridian tree line emerged from the fog on the right, and Ulfrik could make out a fishing boat bobbing on the fjord waters. It was Troke, Ulfrik recognized—a fisherman who had lived here since long before Thor had even been born. The fisherman waved and Ulfrik lifted a hand in reply. Further inland, long houses squatted in the field he and his men had cleared of trees. Fog clung low to the ground, and Ulfrik imagined he saw smoke curling from the hearths. He guided the ship to the shallow waters and some of the men jumped off to tug it ashore. Ulfrik pulled up the rudder and gave a shout of triumph to hi
s crew. Smiling and laughing, they dragged the ship up the sand, but it was heavy with spoils and hard to beach.

  Yngvar slapped Ulfrik’s back as he watched families hurry to the beach to embrace the men. “It was a good raid,” he said. “After Thor gets his share we should have enough for armor and livestock. And now that you have a name for yourself more men will come in spring.”

  “The gods have been kind,” Ulfrik agreed, watching Dan, who had followed Ulfrik into Frodi’s lands and beyond, scoop up his young lad into his arms. “But there is one kindness I need more than any other.”

  “Revenge,” Yngvar finished for him. “We all want it. But we want to enjoy it when we find it. Can’t do that with this small crew—not if all those spearmen are making a base in Grenner.”

  Ulfrik smiled, but Yngvar had mistaken his meaning. He looked eastward again, thinking of Runa trapped in Frodi’s hall. He had to find a way to her. Without Runa at his side, any victory was diminished. “True words.” He decided not to correct his friend. “Let’s get the treasure ashore and put aside Thor’s share. Then we can drink and get fat for the rest of winter. Come springtime, we will be prepared for true raiding.”

  Both men shared a smile.

  “Dan,” Ulfrik said, ruffling the blond hair of the boy Dan carried, “take your boy and tell Thor we have returned.”

  The boy, who shared his father’s ever-serious demeanor, was visibly excited at Ulfrik’s request. Thor’s rich hall impressed all of them. As they left, the boy leading his father by the hand, Ulfrik climbed back on Wave Spear and surveyed his hoard. Treasure bulged beneath the leather covering, but it was nothing compared to what he would need to fulfill his revenge. Yngvar jumped in to untie the ropes that held the leather tarpaulin down, and Ulfrik stepped down to begin the work with a sigh.

  ***

  “Longboats! Longboats!” Troke pulled his fishing vessel close enough to yell the warning. The spindly old man and his son were windmilling their arms, pointing and waving frantically, nearly falling overboard to get the attention of Ulfrik and the men ashore.