Fate's Needle (5 page)

Nodding, all but the selected three left the hall. They didn’t move as fast as Grim would have liked; he remembered that for some future time. Then he turned to the three who remained. “Kill my brother while he is frolicking in the trees. You, with the bright teeth,” Grim said, pointing, “I’ll give you a foreign-made ax. Put it through his head. We’ll say raiders or outlaws got him.”

“Three men are necessary for this?” asked one.

Grim noticed he had a wide forehead, which made him look stupid. He wondered if he had chosen the wrong person.

“Yes,” Grim stated flatly. “He may have left his sword here, but Ulfrik is the luckiest brat I’ve ever met. Make sure he’s dead. Bring the body back, and by tonight we will only have one obstacle in the way.”

“What about the old hirdmen? Two deaths in one day would be suspicious even to a child,” the man with the white teeth said.

“They are sworn to Orm, so their oaths pass to me,” Grim explained. He did not add that Vandrad was bringing enough men to outnumber any dissenters. “Let me do the planning. You do the work. Now get moving, and try not to be too obvious. Make this good and there’s gold in it for all of you.”

The men departed to their black task. Leaving a lone slave girl cowering in the corner of the hall, Grim returned to his father’s room. It would be his now, and he wanted the corpse out before the stench of death took hold.

Four

Ulfrik meandered through the trees, his boots crunching on the debris of the forest floor. All day he had wandered without purpose, reflecting on his father’s impending death. He felt ready to assume leadership, had felt ready for some time, and yet somehow he imagined the transition would be more gradual, more joyous. Instead, he was inheriting strangers at a time when trouble appeared ready to split the seams of Vestfold and spill toward Grenner in force. With all this in his mind, the trees delivered none of the relief he desired. As twilight fell, he propped himself against a tree trunk, dampness seeping up from the ground to further chill his bones.

Something crashed through the brush, a rabbit perhaps. Ulfrik had not moved for a long time; something else had frightened the creature. Night and cold squeezed through the trees and everything became still, silent. Slowly, he pushed himself up against the tree and stood, his hand reaching for the sword that was missing from his hip. Ulfrik silently cursed himself. He could taste danger in the air, sour and gritty.

A branch cracked. He whirled in the direction of the sound but could see nothing in the muted light of dusk. Without a weapon, not even a knife, he folded himself into the shadow of a tree. His mind assembled a plan—it all hinged on remaining hidden.

The silhouettes of three men detached themselves from the darkness. They crept slowly, combing the shadows. That they were stalking him, Ulfrik did not doubt. He dared not breathe as the shadowed forms closed, fearing his heartbeat would betray him.

One of the men crossed a shaft of golden light to reveal an unfamiliar face. Ulfrik noticed the men were dressed for war: mail coats, helms, one man carrying an ax and the others bearing swords. The stranger’s face was taut and nervous, his eyes shining in the half-light. The other men’s faces were in shadow, but each dropped to a fighting crouch. Ulfrik held his breath. Cold sweat stung his eyes, each drip a crashing wave.

“There he is.” One of the men spotted him and pointed. “Let’s go!”

The man with the ax whirled, his iron blade flashing in the murky air. But the blow did not come for Ulfrik; instead, the ax buried itself above the knee of the pointing man, just beneath the hem of his mail coat. The man collapsed, screaming, his bulk crashing into the forest brush.

“Run, Ulfrik!” yelled the axman. “They mean to kill you!”

The other swordsman stood motionless, apparently in shock.

Ulfrik did not wait, turning he ran deeper into the woods. But fleeing prey brings the predator to chase, and the swordsman bounded after him.

Ulfrik was lighter, faster. Unencumbered by mail or helmet he outpaced his pursuer, who bellowed curses as he crashed through the trees behind. In his haste, Ulfrik caught his cloak on a branch; it yanked him around, and then tore. There was no time to consider what was happening. Behind him came screams and the clang of blades.

Ulfrik pitched forward, his foot caught on a root or rock, and tumbled off a drop into a muck of pine needles. He landed on his stomach, and a stone drove out his breath. A man’s roar and the swishing noise of a sword being pulled overhead brought him to his senses. Instinctively, he rolled into the feet of his attacker. The man bellowed and kicked at Ulfrik, too close to strike. Pushing into the attacker’s legs, Ulfrik forced him into the muddy embankment and staggered to his feet. His attacker scrambled to stand. Leaping on top of him, Ulfrik slammed his assailant back into the mud. The man was strong, but Ulfrik was fast, and speed controlled the fight. He locked one arm across the man’s throat while the other hand searched the man’s belt for a dagger. Every man worth the title of warrior carried one. Only Ulfrik, petulant as he had been that day, had left his behind. The warrior bucked beneath him, nearly throwing Ulfrik free. Spinning, Ulfrik stopped the man’s sword arm with one knee, and his free hand finally found the knife fastened at the man’s side. Ulfrik unsheathed it with a smile.

The blade flashed silver as Ulfrik plunged it into its owner. His assailant’s mail did not match the quality of his blade, and the chain links parted easily as the knife sank up to the hilt in soft belly. Black blood bubbled up with the man’s wail.

Ulfrik stood and yanked the dagger up with him. Beneath him, the man rolled over and wheezed. Ulfrik placed the blade to his throat. “Who are you and what is happening? Speak!”

The man made no sound. Ulfrik felt tension flow from the man’s body like the pool of blood that widened with every moment. With a shrug of disgust, he kicked the dead man’s leg. “Grim, you coward,” Ulfrik cursed. He did not need to think too hard to determine what was going on. “You couldn’t come for me yourself?”

Footfalls and the snapping of underbrush were followed by a man’s voice calling his name. “Ulfrik, I am with you. Hold on!”

Dissatisfied with his position on lower ground, Ulfrik wanted to get back over the ridge, but the axman burst through, following the trail he had left. They both stood motionless, neither knowing what to do. The axman broke the stare first. Glancing down at the dead man beneath him, he relaxed his stance. “That’s good work there. You were unarmed.”

Ulfrik threw the blood-dabbled knife on the ground between them. “He lent me a weapon. Don’t think I can’t borrow that ax from you. Drop it.”

Unexpectedly, the man casually flung the ax into the mud next to Ulfrik. “It’s a good one, too. Your brother wanted me to put it through your head.”

“So it was Grim!” Ulfrik roared, his voice echoing through the trees. “He hired you to kill me, didn’t he?”

“Not so much hired as ordered,” the man said, gesturing that he wanted to jump down to Ulfrik’s level. Ulfrik nodded consent and the man leaped down before continuing. “We’re his hirdmen, according to what he thinks. So maybe we’ll be rewarded for good work. Of course, I won’t now.” A derisive smile lit his face. Then he straightened up and the smile dropped. “Your father is dead, Lord Ulfrik. I am sorry. He was a great warrior.”

Ulfrik knew it already. He had been preparing for it all day, but to hear it was another matter. He had planned to show no emotion, to be strong and unflinching. Yet now he felt himself sway, his breath and eyes burning. His father was dead.
Grim and her.
Orm had known what was happening. He died in the grip of his enemies, betrayed by his own son. And Ulfrik had failed to act.

He turned his head aside, not knowing what to do next, his vision filled with nothing but images of Grim standing over Orm’s wasted body. Blood from the corpse of the enemy wet his feet, and he danced away as if it were fire, shaking his thoughts back to the present.

“What is your name? Why did you betray your friends?” Ulfrik struggled to keep his voice steady; it wavered nonetheless.

The man stood with his hands clasped before him, relaxed but attentive. “I am Yngvar Bright-tooth,” he said, smiling to reveal the whitest, straightest teeth of any person Ulfrik knew. “These were no friends of mine. Fate put me with them to help you, I would guess. I gave my oath to your father only months ago. I don’t consider that it transfers to your brother. Besides, your brother is an ass and a fool.”

“And a murderer,” Ulfrik added. The words sounded false in his ears, despite the evidence written in blood at his feet.
Is this really happening?
he wondered.

“But for a fool,” Yngvar said slowly, drawing out his words, “Grim is canny. He has bought the men with your father’s gold. You won’t get close to your brother, not alive at least.”

“I am not concerned with the scum he has hired. My business is with Grim. I will challenge him to defend his name. The others will stand aside.”

Yngvar frowned, as if he smelled foul air. “You should be concerned, Ulfrik. All of those men are part of the plan, and more are coming—camped not far from here.”

Ulfrik rubbed his temple, closing his eyes to think. The matter was far more complicated than he wanted to admit. Reality dawned on him just as night pulled the shades of the forest down around him. Grim had grabbed everything for himself, and he intended to hold it. This was not like the scuffles of their childhood. This was war—real war, with land and men hanging in the balance. And of men, Ulfrik had none but for Yngvar. “Can I trust you?” he asked.

“Yes,” Yngvar answered immediately. “I will make my oath to you. Your father, for the short time I knew him, was good to me. I think you are your father’s son, more than Grim.” Yngvar knelt in the mud with his head bowed and his brown cloak covering him, resembling a dark boulder in the dim light.

Ulfrik did not know how to take a man’s oath, but he didn’t dwell on it long. More important was that he had an ally. Yngvar had already risked much to help him. Ulfrik found words he thought would bring dignity to the muddy, blood-smeared surroundings. “Do you swear to serve me, your lord and my father’s rightful heir, loyally?”

Yngvar replied, but Ulfrik did not hear the words. By chance, he had glanced up as he spoke. Framed against the gloom of the forest was a curly-haired boy in a tattered white shift. He was staring fixedly at Ulfrik. When their eyes met, the boy, startled, darted into the forest. Leaving Yngvar kneeling in the mud, Ulfrik tore after him.

Five

The boy dashed through the underbrush with Ulfrik on his heels. Branches crackled and snapped as the boy fled, and Ulfrik rushed through the still-quivering bushes after him, keeping on the boy’s tail.

The trail was erratic, and Ulfrik stumbled more than once. He guessed the boy was a slave, likely Grim’s. He could not let him return to Grim with news of the foiled plot, not when he first needed to devise his own plan.

He could hear Yngvar lumbering along and cursing behind him, slowed by his mail shirt. Ahead, he spotted a flash of the boy’s grubby rags through the trees. The boy was closer than he thought. Then a high-pitched screech was followed by the sound of the child rolling through the underbrush. Ulfrik smiled, and halted. As expected, the underbrush concealed a sharp drop a few steps ahead. The boy had pitched headlong. Ulfrik leaped down in two bounds and tackled him as he made to rise. Together, they crashed back to the ground, Ulfrik’s body slamming the boy flat, driving out his breath. Straddling him, Ulfrik flipped him onto his back.

Ulfrik immediately saw the slave collar affixed to the child’s neck, but the slave was a girl—one not much younger than himself. She gave him little time to appreciate any other aspect of her appearance. Her breath returned, and her dark eyes widened in terror. She screeched, flailed and kicked, ignoring the impediment of Ulfrik, who still pinned her arms.

Yngvar’s heavy footfalls and ragged breathing signaled his approach. “By the gods, you caught him. I thought he’d get away.” He stepped up to the slave’s head. “So now I know why you’re just sitting atop her.”

The jibe registered with Ulfrik too slowly for him to respond. The girl squirmed and kicked, spitting and swearing, wasting her strength. Ulfrik remained on top of her, allowing her to thrash until she subsided. “I can let you up if you’ll be good. You won’t run?”

“I’ll have your head, girl, faster than you can run.” Yngvar adjusted his grip on the ax. The girl quivered at the words but nodded in silent agreement.

When Ulfrik stood, the girl remained flat on the ground, as if waiting to be assisted to her feet. “Well, you can’t run off if you lie there.” Ulfrik smiled. “Now, tell me what you saw.”

The slave did not answer immediately. She collected herself delicately, as if embarrassed by her behavior. Her white shift had bunched up nearly to her hips, revealing shapely thighs. Ulfrik felt himself react to the sight. They were not the legs of a slave, at least not of a laboring slave. He immediately felt ashamed for noticing and shifted his gaze back to her scowling face.

“I know you,” he said. “You are the slave who served me the other night. Am I right?”

The girl dropped her head and pulled her shift back into place, ignoring the question.

“Maybe she can’t talk. Let’s just be certain.” Yngvar kicked the girl gently, and she recoiled in fear.

“Stop it!” Ulfrik shouted. “She can talk.”

The girl looked sheepishly at Ulfrik. For a slave, she obviously held herself in high regard; Ulfrik could sense it even before she spoke.

“Your father bought me this summer, at Kaupang. I have seen you, Lord, only recently, but I’ve heard your name many times,” she said gently, with a refinement not found in country girls.

She reminded him of his cousins back in Auden’s hall. Ulfrik glanced at Yngvar, who was watching him with a cocked eyebrow. He turned back to the girl. “Your accent is from the south. You are a Dane?”

“My name is Runa. My father is …
was
Svein Agnarson. Svear raiders kiled him in his hall. I was taken captive and sold at market.”