Fate's Needle (30 page)

But each time he shook his head in refusal, he found himself creeping closer to the quiet figure. He pressed his eyes shut, expecting to open them again and find her gone. But now he was closer than before and still the figure appeared, although only as a gray smudge, as if seen through murky water. “I killed you, Aud! I cut off your head and buried your ashes!”

He stood beneath her at the high table now. Aud was ashen and sat at a tilt, streams of bloody mud seeping from her eyes as she stared out across the hall. Her mouth was slack, and flakes of snow spun from her breath and melted before reaching the table. A continual hum filled Grim’s head, so loud that he couldn’t think or concentrate. It was as if a hive of bees swarmed in his skull. He pressed his hands to his ears.

“That’s my helmet,” a voice said from behind. Grim whirled, keeping his sword before him. Somehow it was in his hand again, and he was glad for it. Behind him was his brother, Ulfrik, carrying an ax and bearing a shield on his arm. “Take it off and let me see your face. Let me see if I can get it right this time.”

He lunged. Grim parried the strike, fumbling to the side. The hum droned in his ears, making him feel worn and distracted. Ulfrik recovered, spinning around with an evil, wolfish grin. He slammed his shield into Grim’s face then slid his foot behind Grim’s and tripped him, knocking him to the floor. For a moment, Grim could see nothing as the helmet dislodged and covered his eyes. When he knocked it away, Ulfrik leered down at him. “No amulet will keep me from you. Vengeance is mine, dog!”

The ax blade bit between the base of his neck and his shoulder. Grim lurched at the concussive force, hot blood shooting forth like a geyser. Ulfrik laughed, and Grim screamed, clutching at his shoulder where the ax had lodged. His flesh sucked the blade, making awful noises as he wrestled. When the ax finally released, spitting a trail of blood through the air, Grim howled. The last thing he saw was a twisted visage of Ulfrik smiling as he hacked down.

“If you don’t wake up, I’ll silence you for good!”

Grim heard himself screaming. He felt pain in his shoulder, but realized it was a hand dug into it—not an ax. Someone was shaking him. He stopped screaming and, in the dim light of the dying campfire, the angry face of Hrut the Hard came into focus. “By the gods, boy, if you don’t stop screaming I’ll cut your throat!”

Grim shoved himself upright, knocking Hrut away. The sound of breaking waves greeted him. Sleepy-eyed men were sitting up all around him, frowning. He had been screaming in his sleep, he realized, embarrassed.

“Awake now, are you?” Hrut sat back on his haunches and stared at Grim. “I swear you are worse than my girls. Are the monsters all gone?”

Still addled from the experience, Grim rubbed his face. Ignoring Hrut, he put his hand up to feel for his amulet. It was missing. Fire leaped in his gut. He shot to his feet, spinning around, frantically patting his body. Sometimes the amulet would get tangled in his hair or flipped to his back while he slept, but now it was not on him. He dropped to the sand and searched his blanket.

“Looking for your bone necklace? What is that for, anyway?”

“Protection,” Grim replied. It was not in his blanket, but he soon found the finger bones hidden in the sand. The bowstring was not attached. He began sifting the sand, throwing it everywhere.

“Be quiet and let the others sleep,” Hrut said as he stood up. “It doesn’t protect you from nightmares, I see. So stay awake.” Men grunted in concurrence, but Grim paid no attention. On his hands and knees, he scrabbled in the sand for the missing bowstring.

The men around him watched in amusement as he searched in the feeble light.

“Like a dog burying a bone,” one remarked, drawing some laughter from the others. But Grim wasn’t listening, and they soon grew bored and drifted back to sleep.

Eventually, he gave up. He rocked back in the sand, his head in his hands. The amulet had broken. In the dream, Ulfrik had cut his throat. In life, Ulfrik’s bowstring had snapped.
Are the gods abandoning me? Is the amulet useless?
He did not know, and there was no one to tell him. Had coming back to this foul land somehow given the curse more power? He held the bones, orange now in the firelight, in his left hand. Without the bowstring, would they be enough?

Grim decided to search the sand again in the daylight. Maybe it would be there in the morning. He sat up, pulling the blanket to him, huddling with the remains of his amulet to await the dawn.

***

In the morning, the bowstring was still missing. It never would be found. Grim saw how he had thrashed, how his frantic searches had scattered the sand. The men laughed at him, and Hrut ordered him back to the ship. He sailed out, lost in fearful thoughts.

The rearguard patrol lasted a week, and Grim hardly slept for any of it. He moved as if in a daze. Where men at first mocked him, they eventually shunned him. Grim was consumed with fear about being so close to Ulfrik. If the curse were pulling them together, he needed to escape.

When the ships returned home, Grim used a silver chain to restring the bones. Then he insisted on a meeting with Guthorm. The jarl often heard complaints and disputes, and Grim used his time to plead that he be sent as far away as possible. Guthorm questioned his motives at first, but found nothing suspicious. Several sledges were being sent through the mountainous passes to Trondheim, where King Harald lived.

“Go as one of the caravan guards,” Guthorm told him. “And ask for a position in Harald’s standing army. Here, this will show him my approval.” He handed Grim a piece of elk antler with his mark on it.

Grim thanked Guthorm until he was ejected from the hall. Then he put his hand on the amulet, and sighed. Trondheim was high up the northwest coast, too far for Ulfrik to travel alone. The gods had not abandoned him after all.

Twenty-eight

Runa watched from the woodshed as the women were ushered out of the hall and Frodi’s hirdmen filled it. For all of Frodi’s grand posturing, his household was in disarray, fumbling like apprentice jugglers trying to deal with Vandrad’s arrival. Runa relished that. Hirdmen who should have been present had to be summoned. Bard and Frodi were away and runners had to be dispatched to fetch them. And Svala had to deal with Vandrad and his men, who needed to be disarmed. They handed over their weapons willingly, but only the two scouts remained with them as guards. No one even came for their horses.

Outside, the group of women idled in the cold until Svala led her slave girls away to find work in another building. Runa hung back in the woodshed, forgotten. After a long wait, during which Vandrad and his men grew obviously anxious, Frodi and Bard trotted up the road. Dressed in plain winter clothing, they looked significantly less grand than usual. Runa giggled, knowing it would be an affront to Frodi’s ego.

Everyone filed inside and a single guard remained at the door. Runa chose that moment to leave the shed, dragging the fresh firewood behind. At the door, the guard stopped her. “No one goes inside.”

“Nonsense,” Runa snapped. “I was sent to get firewood and attend Frodi. Do you want to go ask him if I can enter?”

The guard’s face slackened. “Well, no. I don’t think I have to do that, do I?”

Runa shook her head and took up the cart’s rope. “Of course you don’t.”

The guard even held the door and helped her drag the firewood-laden cart into the front room. “Thank you,” Runa said. “You better not leave your post. I’m used to hauling the wood alone.”

The guard closed the door behind him and Runa left the firewood beside it and slipped into the main room. No one noticed her pressed against the back wall and she wore the shadows like a cloak, hardly even daring to breathe. Frodi, Bard, and several important-looking men sat at the high table. Vandrad and his ten bodyguards stood before them, maintaining a stony silence. Frodi’s hirdmen, dressed variously in winter cloaks and lighter clothing, lined the walls and muttered.
Much less imposing without mail and leathers to bulk them up
, Runa thought.

At last, Frodi addressed his guests. “So you come to my hall now under the sign of peace. Only months ago you came under the banner of war. I should take you prisoner and execute your men.”

“What you
should
do and what you
will do
are two different matters.” Vandrad, his hair and beard combed and oiled, gold armbands glittering beneath a fine woolen cape, looked more like a jarl than Frodi.

“Bold words from a man who ran for his life.” Frodi’s men laughed, and Vandrad even smiled.

“That was not a good day for me, I freely admit. But I think Fate has better plans for us. That is why I am here today, and why you are listening to me rather than killing my men and binding my hands. Am I right?”

Frodi’s face crumpled into a scowl, but he didn’t answer. Vandrad did not wait on the silence for long. “Let us come to the point. I traveled here because our personal agents have arranged this. I’m surprised you were unprepared for my arrival.”

“Notice of it would have demonstrated some courtesy. Or is courtesy another dead tradition under the High King’s rule?”

Vandrad dropped his head in mock disappointment. “You are every bit as ill-tempered as men claim. Let me begin anew. I am here to conclude in person what we have started through intermediaries. As High King Harald’s representative in these lands, I am here to take your oath of loyalty.”

The room exploded into shouts. Runa’s suppressed gasp passed unheard in the riot of protests. She looked at Bard, whose face remained impassive and uninterested.
He’s known all along
, she thought.
But even his father’s closest men are shocked
.

Frodi stood and slammed on the table, demanding silence and attention. He got it only after he had banged his hand red. “Silence! We have to be realistic. Times are changing and we can’t be on the wrong side. I’ve considered this all winter, and I don’t see another way.”

“Fighting is another way,” countered one of the hirdmen at the table. Runa recognized him as Rolf Roundhead, from when she had first arrived here. “Why surrender to a beaten foe?”

Nods and cheers met the Rolf’s words, but Vandrad waved his hands dismissively. “That was a different army, one I cared little for. I came to test your strength and found it lacking.”

More men roared and Rolf stood to the insult. Frodi shoved him down as Vandrad fought to be heard over the din. “Grim Ormsson is banished from Grenner; any traitors were hung and their families enslaved. Grenner is now fully under Vestfold’s power and, as Frodi knows, veteran troops now garrison those lands—troops that claimed Vingulmark, Varmland, and even now pummel Ranrike into submission.”

The hall fell silent and Vandrad let his words simmer in the minds of his audience. Runa peered at Bard, who shifted uncomfortably. She thought he glanced at her, and she fought the reflex to jerk away, but his eyes glided past and settled on Vandrad, who resumed his speech.

“I like the lay of this land, the position of this hall. I like Frodi and his leadership. High King Harald asks only that you accept him as your lord. He has no desire to fight where words will suffice. That has been my mission since I arrived here.”

“You made sure all the heirs of Grenner were dead or scattered.” Frodi’s words lacked their usual iron. Bard stirred at his father’s comments, finally taking an interest in the ongoing drama.

“Expediency was all,” Vandrad said with a shrug. “They are a stubborn lot, and less sensible than you. But that is of no account, the place once known as Grenner no longer exists.”

The silence resumed and men studied their feet or the ceiling. Eventually, Frodi made his decision. “We will make formal oaths to the High King. Anyone not willing to follow me in this will be an oath-breaker.”

Runa saw the men sharing glances, some amazed, most searching for support. Her heart fluttered at the news. Ulfrik, if he really were sheltering in Agder with Thor Haklang, would want to know this. Surely, Thor, that bear of a man, would never bend a knee to Harald. War would spark at the borders, and Ulfrik might be on the other side.

The men continued to talk, but Runa turned and slipped out of the hall. The guard at the door asked what was happening inside.

“I don’t know,” she said, and meant it.

***

By spring, Runa had grown large with child. Svala had shown no mercy for her, always assigning the hardest tasks, and Runa dared not cross her. She bore every hardship in silence, smart enough to know when to bend and when to hold firm.
Better to appear beaten until it comes time to reveal otherwise
, she thought.

Life was no different, despite the land now being a holding of King Harald’s. Frodi’s lands had at least been spared war and destruction, which rumor said was the fate of any jarl who resisted. Runa’s main concern was the arrival of new troops from far away. A unit of twenty-five warriors had arrived only weeks ago. These men frightened Runa. Their faces were scarred by battle, and they were closed and distant. It was clear they would think no more of killing a person than of killing a squirrel.

Where winter once barred her escape with snow, spring’s burden was the increasing weight of her baby, which made running difficult. In spite of that, Runa knew she must do it. Soon, war would come; the new troops could be here for no other purpose. All she needed was the chance of a headstart.

Guards no longer followed Runa; everyone considered that her pregnancy made flight impossible. But other slaves often accompanied her in her tasks. One girl, several years older than Runa, was friendlier than most, but most of the slaves still kept their distance.

“Your baby grows big,” the friendliest girl told her, gesturing to her belly as they hauled laundry to a stream for washing. “I had many babies, but they all died in their first year. I don’t make strong children.”

“You poor thing,” Runa said, her eyes on the stream.

“I was carrying a child when I was taken into slavery. But the raiders knocked me to the ground, and the baby was killed,” the woman said without emotion, as if the horrid event had happened to another woman.