Fate's Needle (16 page)

“Nonsense!” he protested, knowing he was over-acting his part, but enjoying it still. “You must join us in a drink. Just one gulp, woman. I’ll get your cup.”

He leaped from the high table down to the floor. One woman rolled a small cask of ale to the hearth while another brought mugs, bowls, horns, anything that could hold the drink. The men were smiling and laughing; who would not enjoy starting the day with a round of drinks? Grim waded through the animals and grabbed a bowl. Placing it beneath the cask, he filled it with ale until it brimmed. “Hurry up, boys! Get here while I’m pouring!”

Eager for a taste of the lord’s reserve, the men crowded around and Grim pretended to enjoy serving them. But he got what he counted on. The women were handing out bowls and horns, the men were gathering around, the ewes bleated and wove in and out of the press. In the confusion, Grim dropped the poison into a bowl of ale. He jerked his head up to see Aud watching.
Did she see? Did she hear?
It was impossible to know what a witch might be able to do.

Grim pocketed the empty pouch and took up Aud’s bowl along with a horn for himself. The bowl splashed as he carried it to Aud, his hands cold and trembling. His heart was pounding, but Aud seemed to suspect nothing. He placed the bowl before her. She looked at it like she had never seen ale before.

“Everyone has a horn now? Good! Let us drink to honor the one who healed me.”

Grim raised his horn, and the men of the hall needed no more encouragement. Some praised Grim’s health; others praised Aud’s skill. Grim held his toast until the last. He could feel his arm shaking, as though he held a boulder over his head, and his voice quavered too, before he got command of it. “Thank you, Aud. Your healing magic is a great blessing for Grenner. To Aud!”

The others echoed him and stamped their feet on the wooden floor or banged the tables. Then Grim and his men guzzled their ale. Grim watched Aud down the side of his horn as he drank. She just stared at her ale, her ancient hands on either side of the bowl.
Did she know?

“Come on, Aud,” he coaxed. “Just swallow it down fast. We’re waiting on you.”

She nodded, to the bowl rather than to him. At first, she seemed to pause, and Grim expected her to fling the bowl away. Then she snatched it up and gulped down the ale as he had insisted. It poured over the side and down her chin until she put the bowl down empty.

Nothing happened. Aud wiped her mouth with the back of her arm. Still nothing. Grim expected a poison so lethal that she would die immediately. He felt the heat return to his hands.
Did I not use enough?

With a sudden jerk, Aud bolted upright and her eyes widened. She opened her mouth and made a gurgling sound as bloody tears sprang to her eyes. Grim watched in horror as she staggered from the high table to the floor beneath it, clawing at her throat.

He swung his head in the direction of the men, but they were more concerned with refilling their drinks than with Aud. Only the idiotic slave girl was watching, her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide with fear.

Aud vomited, shooting forth a pool of brown ale along with the rest of her stomach contents. She gasped. Ropes of spittle hung from her jaw and her hair straggled in the vomit. Then she howled.

Grim looked around again. The men were beginning to notice.

Turning back, he saw Aud sitting on her wide rump, staring at him with bloody eyes and wiping her spittle-flecked mouth. “You think
that
can kill me?” she screeched. “After my years spent handling poison you’d have to do better than that.”

“What happened?” Grim affected concern. “Why, you’ve fallen, have you? How unfortunate.” He had to get to her before the men crowded around to hear her. She had to die, even if he had to strangle her.

She stood much faster than Grim thought she could, and coughed up blood. Seeing her bloody face, the men gasped and recoiled and the women screamed.

“My own poison.” Aud spat. “You surprise me, Grim.”

Grim leaped towards her and reached out to clamp a hand over her mouth, but she was not as frail as she seemed. Knocking his hand away with one hand, she reached into the folds of her blanket with the other.

She screeched as a plume of black smoke puffed around her. Grim fell back, dissuaded by the horrid stench. The hall was in panic now, and most of its inhabitants were running for the door; only a few reached for their spears. Witchcraft was not something men could fight with weapons.

“You want to kill me, do you?” Aud appeared from the smoke. It had stained her face gray and formed muddy streaks where the blood and drool covered her face.

Grim toppled involuntarily at her approach. As her quivering fingers stretched for him, he kicked back across the cold earthen floor, his heart a fury and his breathing short.

Aud fell before him, and more blood gushed from her mouth. Facing him, her eyes level with his across the floor, she said in a wet croak, “You are cursed, Grim Ormsson. Your life is cursed.” She dropped her head and wheezed. “You will know no peace, no woman. You will have no children. Your brother will return to dance in your guts. You will die by his hands. I make this your doom.”

Grim backed away to the wall benches. A spear fell over his shoulder and he snatched it up.
This has to end.
By Odin’s one eye, this will end now.
Finding his courage, he sprang to his feet and loomed over Aud, who crumpled in a puddle of bile and blood.

“You are doomed,” Aud whimpered into the dirt.

Grim slammed his spear down with such force that it impaled her to the floor. With a rattle of breath, the old hag was no more.

Releasing the spear, Grim skipped away from the expanding pool of black blood. His trembling hands reached for the silver hammer of Thor that hung about his neck and his knuckles turned white around the amulet as he clutched it
. A curse. A curse of death made with the blood and ash of a dying witch.
As the thought rolled through his mind, he staggered back to the benches that lined the wall.

Moments ago, men were toasting and smiling; now, they cowered at the far end of the hall. A ewe bleated as the stench of sulfur filled the room, turning every face to disgust.

Did they hear Aud’s final words? Did they understand what had happened?

Vandrad appeared from the room he occupied at the front of the hall, his hair wild and his furs haphazard as if he had just roused from sleep. He grimaced at the smell, fanning his face as he approached. Men and sheep parted for him, but when he saw Aud’s corpse, framed in the morning light from the windows, he stopped. “Thor preserve us.” He searched himself, finding his own silver amulet. “You killed the witch.”

Grim nodded, breathing as though he had run up a mountainside. And he kept nodding, unable to think of anything else to do. He wanted to scream, or to weep. The poison had failed. The curse had been laid. Now his doom was certain—and Ulfrik would bring it. Grim stopped nodding and dropped his head to his hands. Then he wept.

Eighteen

The wolves did not return, and Runa thanked every god she could name. The attack—snarls and fangs, screams and blood, all swirling amid yellow firelight—had been nearly as terrifying as the day Svear raiders enslaved her.

She watched as Yngvar used a bone needle and gut thread to pull together the ragged tear in Ulfrik’s leg. When the work was finished, Ulfrik staggered to his feet, leaning on Yngvar. But when he tried to stand unaided, wrestling with Yngvar to break free, he stumbled. After that, he accepted the support without fuss.

Later, when they resettled for the night, Ulfrik checked on her, patting her shoulder with his bandaged hand.

“I’m glad you were not hurt,” he told her, smiling.

“Thank you, Lord Ulfrik. I only wish you had not been.”

She worried for him. If he died they would be lost. She did not trust Yngvar not to burn her along with Ulfrik’s body, and thoughts of funeral pyres and savage wolves kept her eyes wide all night. The others, exhausted from the tension, had no trouble sleeping.

The next morning, the stitches in Ulfrik’s leg looked taut in the flesh, but so much dried blood caked the wound that Runa couldn’t tell if it was festering. When she put her hand to it, she could feel heat. Many of her father’s men had lost limbs from wounds gone septic. She knew of some salves that would help, but none of the plants needed could be found in winter. Frowning, she packed more snow on the wound. Ulfrik did not stir.

Everyone still slept, so she sat beside Ulfrik and waited. She placed her hand on his and studied him. Though asleep, his brows were drawn in worry. She could only guess at his nightmares. She had lost her home and family at the hands of invaders. Ulfrik had his world stripped away from the inside.
You and I are not so different
, she thought.
Only I wear a slave collar. Will you free me as promised? I can’t fall in love with a man keeping me prisoner, can I?
She chuckled at her thoughts.
Perhaps they must be spoken or else remain forever in my head.
She decided to press him for an answer. Maybe when they reached Frodi’s hall Ulfrik would have the means to remove the collar. For now, she waited patiently for him to awake.

Eventually, everyone awakened, although none seemed to have benefited from the sleep. Magnus sat up wrapped in his fur, looking like a bear pondering the forest. He gave her a gentle smile, which she returned. He was a good man and Runa admired his dedication to his oath. She also understood his loss. The feeling of being adrift, alone, was probably what drew them together. He stood, snow and sticks clinging to the fur, and stretched, which made him seem even more like a bear. Runa laughed.

It would be a long time before she could laugh again.

Two mounted men emerged between trees in the distance. To Runa, they resembled gray hulks heaped with grizzly fur and leather. Long sealskin cloaks flowed over the flanks of their horses. She could not see their faces, but she imagined they were lined, scarred, and evil—just like the Svear. Each had one hand wrapped in the mane of his horse and the other clutching a spear.

Yngvar cursed, and Magnus sprang to his feet. Ulfrik, unable to see them, struggled to stand but was unable to. Runa felt ready to run, but forced herself to be still; there was no point to it. She reached for the sword Ulfrik had given her. The horsemen approached, their spears lowered as they guided their steeds carefully through the snowy ground. She could see the steaming breath of the men and their mounts in the flat morning air.

Runa pulled at the sword in its sheath, but it would not free. Glancing up, she saw Yngvar had the same struggle. Rust and cold had made the blades hitch on the sheaths. Yngvar flung his blade behind him, missing Runa by a hand’s breadth.

The horsemen advanced to the edge of a small clearing.

“So here are our visitors,” said one.

Besides his cloaks, he wore a fur hat, and looked warm and comfortable atop his horse. His spear was straight, blazing in the light. No rust or cold for these men. Runa moved behind Magnus, who clutched his crude spear. She doubted it could pierce furs and leather; maybe he was going to use it like a club. Whoever the horsemen were, they looked too well outfitted and too well fed to be outlaws. Their eyes were not kind, but not malevolent either. Still, Runa felt better cowering behind Magnus’s bulk.

“Thanks for lighting that beacon last night. We were able to get a good night’s rest after we marked your position,” the first man said.

The other rider laughed. Their spears remained leveled, but they made no other threatening moves. The speaker’s horse started to prance and sidestep, and he tugged the animal back into line.

“Glad to be of service,” Ulfrik said condescendingly. “Now, who are you?”

“One of Jarl Frodi’s men,” the leader said, stroking his horse’s neck. “Here to clear the woods of vagrants and spies. You four will fit one of those two descriptions, I bet.”

Ulfrik gestured to Yngvar, who helped him to his feet. The horsemen watched, their only movement the wind lifting their cloaks. Runa heard Magnus grumble under his breath, and he widened his stance. The riders noticed the shift immediately, and their blades flashed to the ready.

Leaning on Yngvar, his injured foot raised off the ground, Ulfrik was defenseless. Runa tugged at Magnus’s arm, hoping to alert him. There would be no fight, only slaughter. She hoped Magnus had enough sense to understand that. But he did not yield.

“I am Ulfrik Ormsson.”

He speaks like he is addressing a feasting hall
, Runa thought,
not men two spear lengths distant.

“The rightful Lord of Grenner and the lands surrounding.”

The riders’ expressions turned from impassive to amused. They looked at each other and laughed.

“So, Lord Ulfrik,” the leader said, twisting the title mockingly and gesturing to their ragged band. “You and your hirdmen are touring the lands, are you?” He paused, but Ulfrik did not rise to the taunt. “Took a slave girl to keep the men happy, I see.”

Magnus lost his patience and stormed forward. Runa squealed, stumbling back from what she thought would mean his swift death.

The riders stopped laughing but did no more. Magnus checked himself, standing just out of striking distance. “Enough with this horseshit! He is Ulfrik, Lord of Grenner, and we are his hirdmen! You two are piss pot cleaners on ponies. Take us to your jarl. He will recognize us.”

The riders let the wind fill the silence as they considered his words. Runa, trembling, feared they would all be killed, but instead the leader straightened his back, raised his spear, and guided his horse forward. “As you say, then. If you are the Lord of Grenner, you would know that you are still in his territory. We riders watch the borders for trouble, which is what this group looks like to me.”

“It has been a hard journey.” Ulfrik nodded to Magnus that he should back down. Then he scowled at the riders before stepping back and continuing, “We’ve lost much and suffered much along the way.”