Fate's Needle (26 page)

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 his 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.

Ulfrik dropped a bag of hack silver and leaped over the gunwale of his ship to wade out and hear Troke’s report. They had been ashore for only an hour, unloading and admiring the spoils. Now, Ulfrik cursed their slow pace. Half the treasure was laid on the beach and the rest remained in the hold. Troke and his son were already rowing away from him, heading for safety. “Two boats just rounded the rocks,” Troke called back as his son rowed. “Small, with no sails or shields, but they have dragonheads on the prow and look in good repair. They’re trouble.”

“How many men did you count,” Ulfrik yelled, discarding one plan after the next even as he listened.

“Five oars a side. Gods keep you!”

Ulfrik waded back to where Yngvar and his men had gathered in the surf. If the ships were fully crewed, Ulfrik would face twenty men or more to his twelve.

“They have pulled in shields and put out dragonheads. They come to fight,” Ulfrik explained to his men, attempting to keep the quaver from his voice.

Yngvar scowled and spat into the cold surf. “They’ve sniffed out our treasure. Could be the ship that followed us a few days ago.”

Ulfrik had no time to consider that. A plan cobbled together in his mind. Already regaining his confidence, Ulfrik said, “There’s no time to meet them at sea and we can’t get the treasure hidden or out of the ship. We must either retreat or make a stand here.”

The younger men without families growled at the mention of retreat, but Ulfrik sensed most would have preferred to run. “We worked too hard for this. The gods are with us, men. Believe that. You,” he said, pointing to one of the younger men, “go send the women and children to Thor’s hall. Then come back and join me on the beach. The rest of you listen to me.”

The man set off running while Ulfrik shared his plan. Yngvar and some of the men would hide beneath the leather tarpaulin that covered the treasure on the boat. The other nine, including Ulfrik, would line up at the edge of the shoreline, and surrender. Lastly, he turned to Snorri. “Prove to me you are still good with your hunting bow. Fetch it from the ship and take a position on the rocks nearby. We have to break their will to fight, and you must do it for me. When I call your name, send shaft after shaft into their leader until he is dead. If you cannot kill him, kill his second. Keep them confused, and join us when your arrows are done.”

The men nodded and Ulfrik grinned, relishing the cunning of his plan. Ulfrik would keep most of the raiders occupied in the surf, where footing was less certain. Yngvar would surprise any raiders who tried to steal the treasure. Ulfrik hoped to look just weak enough to be enticing, but not so weak he looked like bait.

The men took up their positions as black smudges of boats appeared through the fog. They resolved into the familiar, curved forms of longboats and came on quietly, slipping through the waves. Had Troke not spotted them, Ulfrik would have been taken unaware. When the ships closed on the shore, the oars banked and silhouettes appeared at the prows. One man, probably the leader, stood on the railing, gripping the neck of the dragon-headed prow. The ships seemed well cared for.
These raiders are not desperate
, Ulfrik thought.
I hoped as much. Desperate men are harder to dishearten.

The ships glided straight for Ulfrik and his line of nine men, who had pulled together their shields but had not had time to don mail or leather. The ships veered right, putting ashore down the beach. Ulfrik adjusted his line, keeping the shields facing the boats, and anchored his left side to the
Wave Spear
. The ship closest to them held twelve men, most of whom carried bows with arrows already strung. The second ship was obscured by the first as the men disembarked. Ulfrik’s heart hammered out its own doubts about his plan. Ten more men emerged, each bearing a shield and clad in leathers and furs for armor. The leader wore a mail coat and a leather helmet.

Snorri remained hidden; Ulfrik hoped he could get a clear shot. With a mail coat in the way, the arrow would have to be guided by Odin himself.

Both groups assembled. Ulfrik’s thin line faced a jumble of ten men, all backed by archers on the other boat.

When the time comes, we’ll fall back behind
Wave Spear
,
he mentally consoled himself, counting on the fact that he and his men fought for their homes while the raiders fought only for profit. His hope was to break the raiders’ will to fight.

The leader, a bronze-skinned man with a face weathered by life at sea, turned his dark eyes to Ulfrik and then to the sacks and boxes further up the beach. He drew his sword. “Who’s the leader of this sorry group?” he croaked, his voice hoarse.