Fate's Needle (29 page)

Runa darted from the hall, not wanting to hear any more threats. The few months of peace had calmed her, but it took only one such comment to loose the worry in her. Outside, the bracing air slapped her stinging cheeks. The woodshed was not far, but she planned to take extra time on the task. An empty wood box, fitted to a sled and attached to a rope, stood beside the hall. Runa wound the rope around her arm and pulled the sled to the woodshed.

Snow covered the ground a few hands deep. Snow was common enough in Denmark, but here on the southern coast the locals were unused to so much snow. Many cursed the year as the worst winter in memory. As Runa trundled across the snow, her breath cloudy, she felt fortunate that she was not homeless this winter. She would be dead by now. Her continued enslavement had at least guaranteed her life a little longer.

She dragged open the shed door, fighting the piled snow. Once inside, Runa tossed a split log into the cart and then sat down on a pile. Out of the wind, the cold was bearable and it was still more desirable than the hot aggression Svala poured into the hall.

Again she rubbed her belly. The night before she felt the baby kick for the first time—a strange sensation, like a tic that lacked conscious thought. Yet the movement had excited her. She wondered whether the child would resemble her family. Perhaps it would have her curly hair. Her entire family, her mother and all her brothers and sister, had curls.

Runa suddenly felt the sharp pang of their absence.
All dead, and a brother lost forever
, she thought.
What would mother say about me now
? She stood and pitched another log into the cart. It landed with a hollow thud.
Maybe the boy will look like Ulfrik. Damn what Svala says! I hope the baby looks just like him.

Her child would come in summer, and along with it, a new chance to escape.
If a chance to flee arrives earlier, I will take it,
she told herself. But now she had to focus on having the baby. She entertained the vague notion of convincing someone to travel to Thor Haklang’s land to deliver word to Ulfrik.
Surely he will return once he knows he has a child to save.

She stood, about to start her work in earnest, when she heard a horn sound. A single blast put the fighting men on alert, but it was not a call for battle. Runa stepped out of the shed. Two of Frodi’s mounted scouts were leading a line of men dressed for war. Ten men, she estimated, more then enough to overtake Frodi’s two scouts if they wanted to. She sighed and leaned against the doorway. For her, armed strangers normally led to disaster.

As they neared, Runa caught a glimpse of the man leading the line. She clenched her teeth, and automatically ducked into the shed. She recognized the man. The real power behind the downfall of Grenner, the man they called Vandrad.

Twenty-seven

“What’s this all about?” Grim asked the hirdman next to him, who shrugged without replying. Jarl Guthorm had summoned all the hirdmen and hersir to him at the mead hall. Grim had followed Vandrad’s orders and reported to Guthorm, who had taken Grim’s oath and put him to work as a spearmen in the shield walls. It was less than Grim had expected, but Guthorm was grizzled, gray-haired, gigantic, and ill-tempered, so he dared not complain. There was immediate work for him as the armies pushed east toward Varmland. Grim did his work and distinguished himself in the fights, getting the highest reward a recruit could expect in Guthorm’s command: a grunt of thanks. More tangible rewards—pieces of silver—soon followed as Grim earned his way to the front rank, and then the center of it.

Grim enjoyed the work—free from complaining men, weeping wives, and restrictive obligations. His reputation for ferocity in combat gave him joy. Kill and move forward, that was it. It was beautiful. Grim soon forgot why it had been so important for him to rule. Even if he had thought it his birthright, it was certainly not his forte. Had he known life as a warrior would be so carefree, he would have left Grenner to join Harald’s army in the first place. After the winter campaigns finished, Grim pushed Grenner to the recesses of his mind. He still wore the amulet Lini had made for him, and it was a rare night when he did not dream of the old hag’s dying curse, but he rutted with any woman he could find to prove the amulet held off the curse. For now, it seemed Lini had done all that could be done. Still, Grim continued to give as much honor to the gods as possible, hoping they would strike down his brother. Grim learned Vandrad had razed Grenner, turning the place into a staging ground for attacks to the west. Hearing Vandrad’s name returned the sting of shame he had felt when Vandrad had stripped him of his rule.
If I ever see that arrogant fool again,
he thought.
I will be sure to let him know Grim Ormsson has not stayed down.

The hall clamored with men boasting, laughing, and just as often arguing. Despite its enormous size, it was packed with men and Grim jostled for a space. The hall had been built when High King Harald lived here. He was now far away to the northwest, in Trondheim. All throughout the area, magnificent halls, the likes of which Grim had never imagined possible, were a reminder of King Harald’s former presence. At least now Grim understood why Vandrad had considered Grenner a petty country hall of no value. No carved dragons adorned the posts of Grenner’s hall. No graceful arcs softened Grenner’s roofs.

Guthorm appeared at the high table. He was clad in mail, which had been scoured to a brilliant finish, and wrapped in a cloak pinned with a gem-studded golden broach. With his powerfully muscled arms folded over his chest, he scowled until the men fell silent, group by group.

“Before winter ends, High King Harald has commanded we seize Ranrike.” Guthorm’s voice boomed in the expansive, smoke-hazed hall. Grim wondered whether he ever spoke like he wasn’t commanding an army. “I have already chosen the men for this attack. But I want a rearguard, especially with matters just settled in Grenner, across the fjord. You men gathered here tonight will be that rearguard. I don’t expect trouble, but we should be prepared. You will have three days to organize yourselves, then be ready to sail.”

Guthorm frowned out over the heads of the men. A few sycophants clapped for him, but otherwise no one made a sound. Grim gritted his teeth, angered by the prospect of being a guard dog. But he feared Guthorm more than any man he had ever met, and kept his silence. Guthorm unfolded his arms. “Good, I will divide up your duties with the hersir. But tonight, I would not call you to this hall if I did not plan to get you drunk.”

All of the men cheered at that. Grim had learned to play along. He knew that someone’s eyes were always watching in this great army. So he clapped and cheered, looking forward to the excellent mead Guthorm always ensured was in ample supply. By the end of the night, he knew, at least ten of the hundred men who filled the hall would be injured in a brawl and would be unable to travel. For the first time, Grim wished he could be among them, but the talk of Grenner had soured his mood, and tonight he would be the one causing the injuries.

***

Grim cursed the rowing. He had been assigned to one of three ships to patrol the waters near Grenner and while he never minded marching, rowing felt like something a slave should do. Yet, all along the benches, strong men rowed and sang to kill the monotony. The winds seemed to always blow contrary to where the pilot wanted to go; thus the rowing.

Grim shook his head as they rowed south, shaking from his head the visage of Aud, which had come to him again in a dream. He knew it was absurd to be frightened, but something about returning filled him with trepidation. He felt the amulet of bones, laced about his neck with Ulfrik’s bow string, swaying across his chest as he rowed, but even that provided him with less comfort than usual.

He was not among friends on this ship. Most of his companions had drawn duties on land. Guthorm’s army organized men into a felag that learned to fight together. And the men on the ship were such a group; Grim was an intruder on their camaraderie. Being sullen and preoccupied had not helped his welcome.

The hersir at the rudder was called Hrut the Hard. When Grim first met him, he had eyed Grim’s amulet with a skeptical frown, similar to the look he was giving Grim now. Grim spat to show his displeasure at being studied. Hrut smiled, and gazed back out to sea. The longship jumped and crashed over the choppy waves, foamed up by blustery winds. Grim returned to his worries.

By the end of the first day, the ships had rowed past Grenner and into Frodi’s territory. They pulled up on the beaches to camp for the night. Hrut shouted orders to his men, but when he came to Grim, he just looked at the amulet and then turned away. It suited Grim: he wanted to rest his aching shoulders anyway.

He sat apart from the others, eating his rations and listening to waves slam the beach. His arms trembled—with the effort of rowing he presumed, or was it just Aud’s curse chewing at him? Eventually, Grim found a spot close to the fire and lay down with a blanket to defend against the night air. He slept with his hand upon the amulet.

***

“Grim!”

Grim jerked up straight in the cold night. It was unnaturally silent; not even the sounds of the ocean, which should have been roaring over the beach, provided a distraction. All about him, men were gray, slumbering lumps in the silent dark. The fire burned as bright as when it had first been lit, but threw no warmth.

“Grim.”

His name came again, thin and shrill on the dead night air. It came from the black tree line, and Grim knew he would have to go to it.

His blanket slipped away as he stood, and sand dropped from his body as he started toward the woods. One hand clutched his amulet and the other was held out before him, as if he feared an invisible wall.

“Grim.”

The voice came again, closer and stronger this time. It raised the hackles of his neck in fear. No other sound penetrated the leaden dark, not even the creak of leather and mail that should have made enough noise to wake the other warriors. He stepped over the sleeping men until he came to the grass that led to the trees. He strained his eyes to see into the green-gray murk, but saw nothing.

“Come to me, Grim.”

The voice rushed all about him now, sibilant and low-pitched. A sensation of cold washed down his neck and spine, like icy water poured beneath his clothes. In the woods, a faint light shimmered. Grim’s feet carried him on, toward the light, although he did not want to go.

The trees seemed to close about him as he entered. Snow flaked the ground, but the branches were bare. Turning around, he saw nothing but trees and darkness. The voice that had lured him to this place broke into peals of laughter. Grim’s free hand dropped to his sword and pulled it from the scabbard. His other hand maintained a white-knuckled lock on the amulet. The yellow glow flared beyond the trees. His sword thrust forward, Grim padded toward the source.

As he entered a clearing, his heartbeat soared and cold sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision. In the center of the clearing was a tall, heavily muscled man. He wore rusted, rotting mail, and a tattered cloak danced from his shoulders. Both of the man’s heavy hands rested on the shaft of an ax held head-down before him. But it was the man’s head that arrested Grim’s attention. His wore a helmet exactly like the one Grim had lost to Ulfrik, and long gray hair streamed from beneath it. Behind the mask, two spots of yellow light wavered. A thin smile broke out on the man’s face when Grim met those baleful points.

“You have come to see me at last, my son,” the man said, his voice as thin and empty as air blown through a hollow trunk. “Come, embrace your father.”

Grim’s mouth worked in a wordless reply. The man remained in perfect stillness, though his smile widened to reveal black and yellow teeth. Grim’s legs reflexively made to run, but he was rooted to the spot.

The revenant laughed, throwing his head back, and hefted the ax into both hands. He kicked out a foot, as if freeing it from an invisible restraint, and said, “You won’t come to me, will you boy? Always the baby, weren’t you?”

Grim shook his head, eyes wide in terror. He could not speak, move, or think. He was fixated on the ponderous approach of the thing that called itself his father. Its footfalls thudded on the ground as it neared. The ax came up to its shoulder, in position to fall once the thing got close enough.

“Poison? You poisoned me?” The thing lumbered closer, one foot slamming down before the other. The points of light became slits behind the face guard. “Only a weakling kills with poison. You can no longer hide from your cowardice!”

Orm’s ghost pulled up before him, and Grim felt himself shrink. The ax gleamed above the helmeted head as a wave of frosty air engulfed him, and his father leaned back to strike. The ax descended. Grim found his voice in a sudden rush, screaming in bare terror.

He did not know how or when, but he found he had put his sword hilt deep into his father’s chest, halting the ax in mid strike. Orm tilted to the side, and then fell to the snow. The points of light beneath the helm blazed, then went dark. Grim yanked back his sword. Dry, powdery snow gushed from the wound and his father’s body soundlessly disintegrated into snowflakes, falling away before him. Only the helmet remained upturned on the ground, an eddy of snow twirling inside it.

Grim was shaking all over, even his teeth chattered. Sweat poured in rivulets down his chest as he stood heaving over the helmet. Without understanding why, he gingerly lifted the empty helm and placed it on his head. It slid into place as if it were his own. When he stood up again and looked through the faceplate, he leaped back in shock.

He was in the old hall in Grenner, facing the high table from the entrance. The hearth fire was nothing more than embers, throwing only enough light to outline everything in red. A continual low hum filled the room and a gray smudge of a figure—small, hunched and still—was seated at the table. Grim shook his head in disbelief.
It couldn’t be.
I killed her. I killed Aud
. That could not be her seated at the high table.