“She will come with us,” Ulfrik said, returning his gaze to Yngvar. “Fate has tied us together. This cannot be anything other than the work of the gods.”
Yngvar shook his head and let his ax slide to the ground.
“Thank you, my lord!” Runa collapsed at his feet, crying. “My life is yours!”
Ulfrik ignored them both. “We will go to my Uncle Auden,” he said. “He will want justice for his sister’s husband. He has a large household, at least as strong as Grim’s. He will provide protection and a means to bring Grim to justice.”
“Your brother has contacted the Vestfolders. They’re bringing a strong army to join with his.” Yngvar let the words hang, his eyes searching Ulfrik’s.
“Then you think Auden’s men will not be a match?”
“Not an even match,” Yngvar said, hefting his ax to his other shoulder as he spoke. “But if he is warned, he can prepare.”
Runa remained kneeling at Ulfrik’s feet. He extended his hand to her, and she took it as if it were made of gold. Ulfrik helped her up, again amazed he could have seen a boy in such a beautiful woman. He wondered how Grim could have overlooked her.
“And if we do not get away from here soon,” Yngvar said as he frowned at Runa. “Grim will be welcoming us back to his hearth, something I think no one wants. So let’s take what we can from the dead and get moving. I can’t stand axes. I want the big one’s sword.”
Ulfrik realized for the second time that day that Fate’s Needle was still sitting in his room. He kicked the ground with a curse. Would Grim strip him of everything today?
“I must get my sword,” he said. “I cannot allow Grim to have it.”
“I don’t think Grim will be inclined to give it back.” Yngvar started up the drop-off to find the trail back. “Do you plan to ask nicely?”
Rage snaked up Ulfrik’s neck and pounded in his temples. His muscles tensed, but he could not release the tension as his mind sought a way out of the trap, a plan to strike back. All of his thoughts focused on the problem of his sword. When he did speak, his voice was slow and measured. “My honor would be lost if Grim were to take the sword my father gave to me. I’m not going to debate that with anyone. It’s the plain truth. I’m going to get it tonight, and the two of you will help.”
Yngvar and Runa stood before him, gray shades in the gloomy light. The air thickened with cold, and the scent of it promised rain. With no reply from either of them, Ulfrik continued. “Grim expects three warriors and one corpse to return. I intend to meet that expectation. There were three of them. We have two bodies from which to pick. It is cold and rainy, so the three of us will draw our hoods, pretending to be the returning men. A corpse wrapped in my cloak will serve as my body.
“Yngvar will speak for us, since he’s expected to return. Once we’re past the guards, we’ll hide the body behind the blacksmith’s forge. You two make your escape while I sneak to the hall for my sword. Then we’ll meet by the northern track.” Ulfrik was smiling by the time he finished.
The silence expanded, broken only by the fading squawks of birds and the occasional stirring of underbrush. Ulfrik regarded his two companions. They looked blankly at him, as if he had not spoken.
Finally, Yngvar shook his head and looked to Runa. “You have a lot of faith in this slave. It’s a fair plan, and I like it. It has guts, surprise—like something out of a saga. But all this girl has to do is start screaming and our saga will end right there.”
Ulfrik turned to Runa. Even as a slave, she preserved an air of sophistication. No amount of dirt or ragged clothing could hide it. Her jaw was boldly set for a woman, but it matched her bearing. Even her hair and eyes, with their mysterious dark tone, defied the ordinary. Only the rusted slave collar clutching her neck marred her beauty.
“Runa, I am my father’s rightful heir, to his throne and to his property as well.” Ulfrik stepped toward her. “If you will do this for me, aid me in the recovery of my sword, I will grant your freedom.”
Runa again collapsed to her knees, grabbing the hem of his mud- and blood-splattered cloak. “Lord Ulfrik, I swear to do as you say! I swear before the gods! Let them strike me dead if I fail you.”
That was enough for Ulfrik, although Yngvar smiled mirthlessly and said, “I will be the sword of the gods, then, if needed.”
Despite the storm-swift change in his life, Ulfrik laughed away Yngvar’s dig and pulled Runa to her feet, clutching her hand a little longer than was necessary. Once standing, Runa gently tugged her arm free and smiled demurely. Embarrassed by his ill-concealed intentions, Ulfrik turned his mind to other matters: Grim’s patricide must be avenged. Silently, he vowed to perform that task, even if Grim cowered behind a thousand men. For now, he had to satisfy himself with once more swiping his sword away from Grim—a symbolic action, and one that risked much for little reward. Yet, Father would agree, he thought, with sadness.
A fitful rain pattered through the pines as they began the grizzly work of finding and stripping the corpses. The rain and the early evening gloom would either help or hinder them in escape, but Ulfrik was not bothered, rather filled with the vigor of a spontaneous plan.
When the work was done and the corpse wrapped in Ulfrik’s cloak, he donned the man’s mail and cloak, and took up the ax.
Yngvar laughed. “It’s a fine weapon. Can’t we settle with that and be gone?”
“You know it’s not the same,” Ulfrik chided. “Now, find me something to tie my hair back beneath the cloak’s hood. I don’t want to be given away.” Blonde hair was common enough among his people, but Ulfrik’s hair was paler than most and could be easily spotted in the dark.
Runa, clumsily dressed in the mail and cloak of the other dead man, used a piece of cord to help him tie his hair back and push it into the hood of the cloak. The weight of the mail on her slight frame made her stagger.
“She must play the man injured in the fight,” Yngvar wisely suggested, gesturing to the bloodstains on her cloak and armor. “That’s how I’ll explain her staggering, if asked.”
As Ulfrik and Yngvar stooped to lift the corpse between them, a horn sounded in the distance. The two stopped and looked at each other. It blasted again.
“You don’t know what that means,” Ulfrik said flatly. Yngvar shook his head.
“Your brother must be impatient to discover what happened. We can still change our plan.”
Ulfrik refused. Grabbing one end of the dead man’s cloak, he said, “This is the only chance I’ll have to get back in the hall. I’m not missing it. We don’t even know if that is Grim’s horn.”
Yngvar grunted.
“Remember, Runa,” Ulfrik told the slave, who resembled a frightened hare, ready to run, “you will have your freedom when we are safely away with my sword. Take heart in that!”
Turning from her, he focused only on controlling his own fear as the horn sounded impatiently for the third time.
Six
No one spoke as they lurched toward the hall. The cloak-wrapped corpse bounced and swayed between Ulfrik and Yngvar as they hauled it toward the torchlight. Fat, infrequent raindrops broke over their drawn hoods. Ulfrik had placed Yngvar in the lead and Runa alongside himself, guessing that her disguise would fail if anyone looked closely.
Two men stood on the outskirts of the hall, searching the darkness. Yngvar called out to them, startling the guards, although they had made no effort to hide.
“I recognize one of them,” Yngvar muttered. “Just let me talk to him.”
“Grim’s waiting,” said one, a horn clutched in his free hand. “Said you were taking too long.” The man and his companion peered toward the bloodstained package Yngvar and Ulfrik held between them. Yngvar merely nodded and continued to pass.
The other man held up his hand, stopping Yngvar, and pointed at their burden. “He told us you can’t take that into the hall. He’ll come out and see it.”
Both guards, their torches guttering in the drizzle, flanked them. Ulfri
k’s arms trembled. Runa was standing too close, more than was manly, and Ulfrik worried it would attract attention. A raindrop splashed the edge of his hood and rolled down his nose. It was as if the droplet were a beacon, drawing the guards’ eyes directly toward his hood.
“Are we just going to stand in the rain and wait for him?” Yngvar snapped, diverting their attention.
“Bring it behind the blacksmith’s then,” said the man with the horn.
Ulfrik smiled; the gods favored his plan. Neither man seemed interested anymore and waved them on. Ulfrik drew a sharp breath, taking in the scents of smoke and pine—the smells of home. Only faded orange light spilling from the barracks provided any visibility. Ulfrik knew the paths well enough, so he was surprised when Yngvar led them in the other direction.
Ulfrik hesitated. Then he understood. The plan needed revision, and Yngvar was in step with that need. Guiding them, he trudged behind the smokehouse to where a pine tree leaned almost to the ground. They laid the body beneath the tree.
“Now I’ll go exchange this for my own sword,” Ulfrik said, pulling the ax from his belt. Knowing they had little time, Ulfrik addressed Runa and Yngvar in low, clipped tones. “Yngvar you look out for Grim, and try to stall him. I only need a moment to get to the hall. I’ll make noise and draw attention my way. Use that to make your own get away. Runa, you will be my look-out.”
The two nodded and he waved them to action. Yngvar stepped into the light and headed toward the main hall. Ulfrik and Runa joined him, but kept to the shadows thrown by the thatched eaves of surrounding buildings.
Grim, flanked by two mail-clad hirdmen, stepped into Ulfrik’s path. Grim carried a horn in his left hand. Torches held aloft destroyed the shadows, washing the blackness of Ulfrik’s hood with flickering light.
The moment tightened, becoming a frozen instant in which Grim’s stout body directly opposed his own, as if the Fates themselves compared the two. No sign of recognition or comprehension flickered in Grim’s coal-black eyes. He seems happy—even elated, Ulfrik thought, involuntarily weighing the ax in his hands. It would have been easy to hurl it straight into Grim’s chest, yet he delayed. No matter what had happened, Grim was still his brother. Looking at him now, Ulfrik couldn’t see Grim as the mastermind of two murders, his own included.
Runa broke the moment, darting from Ulfrik’s vision as everyone turned to Yngvar, who charged from the left, his sword raised. The blade took the hirdman to Grim’s right straight in the neck. Yngvar crashed against the man, ramming Grim and his other hirdman aside.
Grim reacted faster than Ulfrik expected. Recovering from the jostle of the melee, he put the horn to his lips and let it blare. His other guard, equally collected, tossed aside his torch and drew his sword, placing himself directly in front of his lord.
The rain became fiercer, mirroring the violence as the standing guard screamed and leaped at Ulfrik. With rain in his eyes, he barely sidestepped the plunging blade. An ax was the wrong weapon for this fight; there were no shield walls to crack, no supporting spear or sword to help him. Even a knife would have been better than an ungainly ax. Ulfrik stepped through the guard’s thrust and raised the ax for Grim’s head.
“Traitor,” Grim screamed. Throwing aside his horn, he then reached for his scabbard.
“Murderer! You poisoned our father! You’ll answer for that, dog!” Ulfrik’s strike quailed as his thoughts flew away from the fight, to Orm’s death.
Grim ripped out his own sword to deflect his brother’s blow, but his defense was inept. Ulfrik’s ax clanged off the inside of his younger brother’s blade and swiped Grim’s broad face, where it caught in his mouth, wedged in his teeth as blood gushed from Grim’s jaw.
Partly from the tangled confusion and partly from the force of Grim’s deflection, Ulfrik lost his grip on the ax. Grim took the ax with him as he splashed facedown into a puddle, blood pouring from between his fingers as both hands clasped his face.
With a bellow, Yngvar yanked Ulfrik aside, nearly tripping him as he pulled him away from a strike by Grim’s recovered hirdman. The hiss of a sword sounded an inch behind his neck. “Run, Ulfrik, or we’re trapped!”
Ulfrik swung about and saw the truth of it: men with spears and shields tumbled out of the barracks, their heads turning in the direction of the danger. Several were already slogging toward the fight. Ulfrik heard men shouting that raiders were attacking. Yngvar intercepted the remaining hirdman as Grim began to scream, as if only now realizing his pain.
The hirdman pressed Yngvar so furiously that he could not disengage. Ulfrik dove at the guard’s legs, tackling him, hearing the crack of bone as the force of Yngvar’s blade struck the guard’s trunk. Then Ulfrik flipped over and bounded to his feet.
More men closed on them. Ulfrik and Yngvar fell back, between the buildings, into the dark. It was the wrong direction, heading toward the open farmland, but it was their only path.
As they fled, a spear hissed between them, but the blackness enfolded them. Within moments, they were away. Grim’s screaming must have delayed some of the arriving warriors. Through the thumping rain, Ulfrik could hear horns blasting and men shouting. They ran on, through the dark and the rain.
Seven
As fast as was safe, they sprinted on through the night until, after what seemed like hours, a breathless Yngvar suggested they circle back toward the woods. Ulfrik huffed his agreement. Behind them, yellow points of light bobbed and gathered, coming together then separating. Some clustered and began to weave toward them.
The woods were black as pitch against the night sky and Ulfrik’s side ached as they ran into the forest. At least the rain struck them with less intensity beneath the trees, but the darkness was absolute and tree roots tripped them, forcing them to slow. Ulfrik, soaked with equal parts rain and sweat, slumped against a tree. Beside him, Yngvar wheezed and fell against a log.
“A bloody business,” Yngvar moaned. “Five men dead, four by our hand. All for your damn brother’s ambition.”
Ulfrik did not reply; he was too winded. He knew it was true, and yet he could muster little concern. The men they had killed had all been given a warrior’s death—a place at Odin’s table in Valhalla. It was more than they had planned for him.
“I don’t think I killed him,” Ulfrik said as he rolled over in the mud, his chest heaving. “He’ll have a scar. Maybe lose some teeth. It’s not enough.”
They saw the bobbing torches before they heard the men. The enemy must have guessed their hiding place. Silently, they hunkered into the underbrush. Their few pursuers likely feared forest spirits, elves in particular. Had necessity not overwhelmed his hesitation, Ulfrik might also have worried. Instead, he and Yngvar remained where they were. No one approached, neither elf nor man. All Ulfrik could see was an errant gleam from Yngvar’s mail-covered shoulder. Soon, the rain ceased, lingering only in the drips that plopped from branch to branch. The mud and leaves beneath him warmed, even began to feel comfortable. Ulfrik nodded, and then, eventually, slept. He did not dream.
***
He woke to birdcalls in the trees above him. Light slipped between the pines, touching him with vague warmth. The scent of moist earth against his face made him wonder what had happened to his bed, but when he stirred and the leaves above spilled their load of rainwater on him, he remembered.
Fighting the instinct to leap up, Ulfrik lay still, listening to the woods: the erratic drips falling from high branches, the rustle of underbrush in the breeze, the birdsong all around. No sound of men, he thought. But that did not mean men were not watching.
Yngvar still lay where he had the night before. Ulfrik prodded him, generating a snort as Yngvar rolled over onto to his other side. Assured, Ulfrik extracted himself from the muck and underbrush. He was wet, chilled, and sore, but he ignored it. One of Grim’s men could be within arm’s length, waiting for him to make a mistake.
He scouted the surrounding area. Since his youth, he was seldom without a weapon, even if only
a knife. He had the ridiculous sensation that being unarmed would make him easily spotted. But his scouting revealed no one, only boot prints that led away from his hiding spot. The men had come close, but not close enough.
“They’ve probably caught the girl by now.”
Ulfrik jumped at Yngvar’s whisper, and stumbled among the branches.
Yngvar laughed. “Calm yourself, Ulfrik. We’re probably not far from a lookout.”
The thought quickly sobered him. Ulfrik brushed down his legs to divert attention from the heat that flushed his face. “They probably know we’re in the forest. We must’ve left good tracks in the mud last night.” He pointed to the tracks he had just found.
The woods in autumn were stitched with empty branches and littered with leaves and fallen hazelnuts. Farmers would soon be driving pigs in to graze on them. Coupled with the likelihood that the woods were being searched, Ulfrik knew they had to find a better hideout.
“Let’s follow them,” he said. They stalked the trail of footprints, which was easy to follow: whoever left them had been blundering in the night. It seemed an aimless path until other trails converged, and then one large trail plowed to where Ulfrik was ambushed. As they approached, Ulfrik waved Yngvar to a stop. A man was guarding the area—Grim’s man, Ulfrik noted. The two fell to a crouch. Already covered with mud and forest debris, they blended into the brush. The man was dressed for war and carried a spear and shield. He was posted where Ulfrik had killed the second ambusher last night, but appeared bored, scratching his nose and wandering in a circle among the sunbeams. Ulfrik saw a second man propped against a tree nearby, and then Yngvar pointed to a third man beyond.
Quietly, they retraced their path, doubly on guard for their pursuers. Grim, or whoever was in charge now, had evidently concluded they were hiding in the forest. They picked their way into the heart of the trees and up the main hill until there was no evidence of human trespass. Only then did Ulfrik feel at ease to speak.
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