Fate's Needle (14 page)

Yngvar remained silent, still rubbing his chin. They both looked at Magnus, snoring beneath a heap of forest debris and leaves. To ask him to suffer more was wrong, but Ulfrik could see no alternative.

He made to crouch down beside him when Yngvar put a hand on his shoulder. “Let me talk to him. I know you think it’s your duty to ask. But you’re out of form this morning.” Yngvar guided Ulfrik back, stepping in front of him and flashing his full smile. “It’d be better if you go to find the other one. When you return with her, I’ll have this hibernating bear persuaded. Go on. You’ll just be in the way here.”

Ulfrik started to protest, but Yngvar put up his hand, silencing him.

Perhaps he is right. Perhaps I do need to apologize to Runa
. Ulfrik tightened his sword belt, ate a nut and took a handful of others, and went in search of Runa.

***

More flakes fluttered down between the trees, melting on Ulfrik’s face and shoulders. The first were frail and tentative, hesitant to leave the clouds so soon, but soon they would fall in droves, blanketing the ground. The first snowfall of winter was at hand. All across the land, men were bringing livestock into their halls, shoring up walls, and piling up furs. In happier times, Orm had met the first snowfall with a feast of hot fish soup. Ulfrik wished for that now as his tongue eagerly prodded his teeth for any hazelnut trapped between them. Those morsels were all he would likely eat until tomorrow, which would see the last of the hazelnuts as well.

Runa had not made it difficult to follow her; her trail was obvious. From what he could see, she had walked at first, and then started to run. She did not know the land, and she seemed to have little woodlands sense. He half expected her to be lost and feared she may have tripped and twisted an ankle.
It would be typical of recent luck
, Ulfrik thought. But she had not.

Her dirty white shift contrasted with the blacks, browns, and wet grays of the winter woods, making her easily spotted atop a tall stone covered in milky green lichen. Its flat top was made for sitting and brooding, but the ground beneath was spongy, and Ulfrik’s footfalls made enough noise to alert the forest. Still Runa sat oblivious, swinging one leg and gazing into the distance.

Only when Ulfrik was close did she startle enough to pull her leg up with a gasp. Then, recognizing him, she let it fall again and returned to her study of the horizon. Ulfrik said nothing. He hadn’t planned what to say, and his awkwardness and silence embarrassed him. A man falling in love with a slave was not uncommon, he knew, especially not with one made from a high-born woman. But the men who took slaves to their beds were jarls or lords. They had legitimate wives and they could free their slaves and have that freedom recognized by the world.

Ulfrik failed on all accounts. His mouth opened, and all he could do was hope the right words would come out. “Yngvar is going to ask Magnus to let us weather the storm at his farm.”

Runa shifted at the words and it seemed as if she would speak, but she just continued looking away. Ulfrik kicked at the soggy earth, folding his arms against the cold air. “We should probably go now, before the storm hits. No telling how bad it will be.”

Still no reaction beyond a sniff.

Ulfrik felt his patience slipping. Why couldn’t the girl understand what he was doing? Why couldn’t she see he was apologizing?
And a master never has to apologize to a slave
.
Doesn’t she realize she is the least important member of this group
? Ulfrik gave no voice to these last thoughts. Instead, he tried to consider what she felt.
She must be cold, wearing only tattered rags
. He removed his own cloak and draped it over her shoulders. He smiled, anticipating Runa’s gratitude for this thoughtfulness.

“Hmph! Wouldn’t want one of your household possessions to get sick from the cold? Maybe you’d have to gather your own nuts then?”

The smile dropped from his face. “Well, you seemed cold. Now you will be warmer, and I will be colder. Sounds fair, right? I mean, you’re better off now that I’m here, so you could feel a little grateful for that,” he said, aware he was not speaking the words he intended. His mind screamed for him to halt this march to confrontation, but his mouth produced only high-handed garbage.

Runa did not react as poorly as he expected. She pulled the cloak tighter and at least looked at him before nodding in agreement. Such a simple thing, but it encouraged him.

“Well, then, that’s all I wanted,” he said. “Now we can return together. Magnus’s farm will be a safe place to weather the storm.”

“His family was murdered there,” Runa whispered. “We can’t ask him to go back there.”

“There’s nowhere else to shelter from this storm, nowhere close enough.”

“They were slaughtered like pigs. It was his home, but now it is a place of terror and death, of blood and sadness. I know what that is like. No one can go back there. For him to see it like that, dead and dark, would be too much. Too much to see again.” She shook her head.

Ulfrik opened his mouth to speak into the silence Runa had left, but paused as a tear stretched down her cheek. Words failed him; anything he said now would be like defiling a grave. He had not said what he had come to say. But speech was not necessary now, and perhaps not helpful. He put his hand gently on her shoulder.

Runa did not move away but leaned in to it a little. Neither looked at the other, but Ulfrik could see loss etched on her face. The snow became heavier, the air colder. The woods were silent with the exception of branches dueling overhead. Winter’s first storm would hit hard, and hit soon. Ulfrik guided Runa off her stone perch, held her close against the cold, and led her back toward the camp. A dark, dead hall would have to serve as shelter, no matter how many ghosts dwelled within.

Sixteen

The storm arrived that afternoon. Disorganized flakes soon gathered in formation and enshrouded the woods. The air tasted sharp and wet, and the wind lashed them with icy gusts. Ulfrik and the others sheltered in Magnus’s hall. Grim had not burned it, having done his murder outside, and the snowfall soon covered the grisly evidence of his crimes.

It was a mistake to call it a hall, although Ulfrik felt it honored Magnus to call it such. The farm building was only large enough for the family and some livestock, yet they were all grateful for it, and for Magnus’s sacrifices. It was sturdy, and it kept the wind out and the weak fire alive.

They passed the time in silence at first, everyone stealing furtive glances at Magnus, waiting for him to break down or rage. He did not. He had agreed to the plan and while his home had been plundered—and his iron cooking pot taken, along with his tools and supplies—a pot of ale, a wheel of cheese and a single fur had been overlooked. Magnus grabbed the fur for himself, holding it close.
No doubt it has value for him beyond its warmth
, Ulfrik thought.

Runa began to divide the cheese into portions, and as she did so, Yngvar began a tale. No one acknowledged him at first, preferring their own thoughts, but he continued telling tale after tale, each more improbable than the last. Soon everyone had at least something to say, to laugh at, or to question. The winds beat at the door and window battens, but inside warmth flourished.

***

“Thor has provided us with an escape?” Ulfrik shook his head in wonder when he opened the door the next morning and glanced outside. The snow had stopped early in the evening and barely covered the ground. He laughed, not realizing he had spoken aloud until Yngvar encouraged the thought.

“The weather has lifted enough for us to move again,” Yngvar agreed. “Thor has seen us and holds the winds back to make our way easier.”

Ulfrik suspected everyone knew Thor’s involvement was sheer optimism. The gods, thus far, seemed to let them live just long enough to encounter their next disaster. But he also understood the importance of morale. So everyone nodded, stepped out into winter’s first snow, and raised their eyes to the sky. The fearsome clouds still pressed down, blue and gray whales swimming in the sky.

Ulfrik put his hands skyward, but felt no precipitation. “It’s dry enough, even if there’s no sun. We’ll have a few days of good weather, and this storm is moving toward the sea. We will be fine.”

“A sacrifice to Thor,” Magnus suggested, standing in the doorframe, almost as if he were seeing off guests. “That’s what we need. That’ll guarantee good weather.”

“A fine idea, but for the lack of anything to sacrifice,” Ulfrik said.

Yngvar looked at him, and Ulfrik immediately read his thoughts. A slave could be sacrificed, and human blood was the most potent sacrifice known. Yngvar’s eyes remained on him as the unspoken thought flashed through all of them in an instant. Runa stepped back, a confused, twisted smile forming on her lips.

“Not the girl! It’s not what I meant.” Magnus leaped, growling, from the doorway. Grabbing Runa’s arm, he yanked her toward him. She seemed weightless in his grip, flying over the snow to him. Magnus stepped in front of Yngvar, his beard waggling as he yelled, “No more killing on my lands. Do you hear me?”

Ulfrik stepped between them. “Runa belongs to me, Magnus. She returned with my sword, and at great risk. I would offend the gods if I repaid loyalty with death.”

Runa, shaking and ready to cry, hid behind Magnus’s bulk until Ulfrik extended his hand and smiled. Magnus did not move, but Runa came forward and Ulfrik felt her small hand trembling and cold in his own. He guided her to his side and released her hand.

“Still, a sacrifice to the gods would be a good idea,” Yngvar continued. He remained unmoved, as if nothing had happened. “But we will have to take our chances without one.”

“Our need is shelter.” Ulfrik, anxious to change the topic, began to outline their next move. “Grim will have declared us outlaws, but the news could not have traveled far. The inland kings won’t have heard yet. They will not yet kill us on sight.”

The group listened as Ulfrik explained. All the while, he paced before them, reminiscent of his father lecturing the men before a battle drill. “If the weather holds, Grim will send men straight here, but if we leave now we can make a fast march to the southwest, to the lands of King Frodi. He visited my father once, years ago. He might even remember me. We could ask hospitality from him.”

Both Magnus and Runa nodded their agreement. But Yngvar’s expression was flat—a look Ulfrik was coming to understand meant he was wrong in some detail. Pausing, he waited to hear the flaw.

“We could ask hospitality,” Yngvar began, “but what is our explanation for wandering the lands during a winter storm? And we don’t look prepared for a winter journey, do we? We look like outlaws.”

“Curse it, Yngvar! What choice do we have? However we look, Frodi would have to declare us liars to say so. His honor would prevent that. Even if he has heard Grim’s declaration, on his own land he is the judge. I’m trusting Frodi to be evenhanded enough to consider what really happened. We would be bringing him news of trouble at his borders. He should be grateful for that.”

His outburst over, Ulfrik finally looked to his companions. Surprise registered on their faces. Yngvar was smiling, his impossibly white teeth a match for the freshly fallen snow. Magnus folded his burly arms, but seemed to be signaling his approval. Runa wore a small smile.

“So, then, I assume you all agree? Let’s collect what we can and make haste.”

Not much remained to be gathered from the farm. A striking steel in the shape of a coiled dragon was by the hearth. They also gathered a few drinking skins and a whetstone. Yngvar hacked a table to kindling wood. Everything else had been pillaged or broken when Grim raided the place. Ulfrik searched the woods for the dead, hoping to find a cloak or useful item such as a bow or spear, but could not. He found a few bodies of Auden’s men, their flesh now blackened and frozen, but they yielded nothing beyond scraps of cloth, which he cut away.

Before they departed, Magnus visited the hasty grave he had dug for his family. Snow had caved in the unpacked earth, leaving a wide depression. The three watched him from a distance as he stood over it and said his farewell.

Not wanting to rush Magnus in his private moment, Ulfrik fidgeted as he waited. Grim would arrive soon, he was certain, and their tracks in the snow would be impossible to conceal. He wanted to have a good lead.

Eventually, Runa went to Magnus and stretched a thin arm around his shoulder. She stood with him a moment before guiding him back, and they struck out for the southwest.

Strong men in good condition could expect to make the journey in several days. But the tired, hungry group had expended their energy before starting. Ulfrik estimated it could take as long as a week to make the trip, but he shared his calculations with no one. With no forage and no time to hunt or fish properly, a week would be too long. He had to drive them and pray the weather held off.

They remained vigilant as they stumbled toward the far border with Frodi’s lands. By the middle of the first day, they were on the outskirts of Grenner, where Grim likely squatted around the hearth of his hall, with hot food in his bowl and his hand up a slave girl’s dress. Ulfrik resisted the desire to march straight back to the hall and demand justice. He and his pack moved on, like starved wolves, in search of food. If Grim had men out, no sign revealed them.

The following days were hard. The weather had remained gray and sulky, with the scents of pine and damp in the air. They all wore deerskin boots, rather than better-insulated sealskin, and the snow numbed their feet. Ulfrik reinforced their boots with the cloth he had scavenged from the dead. It helped, but soon became wet with melted snow. Runa and Magnus wore the only two furs: Runa because she was the frailest, Magnus because no one dared ask him for it. The men all wore mail hauberks, but they offered no insulation. Once safely away from Grenner, they dried their feet before pitiful fires lit with the remains of Magnus’s table.

Each night they made a rough camp with a lean-to of pine for shelter, and the men took shifts at watch. Ulfrik let Runa sleep; her constant tripping proved how exhausted she had become. On the third night, Ulfrik thought he heard movement in the woods and glimpsed a ragged gray shape skitter away on four legs. The next morning, he and the group found wolf tracks in the snow. No one spoke, but Ulfrik spat on the tracks as they continued.