Orm slammed the table, and everyone jumped, including Auden. “There’s no such thing as sorry for murder, boy! Your own brother, by the Gods!” Orm fell into a dark silence, folding his arms across his chest. He shared a glance with Auden, who nodded.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. The two of you need to be separated. Ulfrik is a man now, and you, Grim, are a child with a jealous mind. I had hoped you would learn from your brother, become like him. I was wrong.
“Grim, you will foster with your uncle. Perhaps he can do better with you than I have.”
Auden snapped around to face Orm. “No, that is not what I meant, Orm. I cannot take this one. With all my daughters? Grim is too much trouble, not fit for my hall.”
Orm’s expression clouded, but he nodded. “Very well. He is my responsibility. My burden to bear. Ulfrik you shall stay here.”
Both men looked down at them. Ulfrik did not know whether to thank them, or say anything at all. He didn’t dare ignore his father’s order to remain silent.
But Grim did. “Uncle Auden is better. Everyone says so. I want to stay here instead,” Grim said.
Ulfrik fought his impulse to cringe. But the explosion from Orm didn’t come. Instead, Auden simply smiled, and Orm shook his head. “There’s no more to be said.”
***
Orm and Grim prepared to leave Auden’s hall, along with the men who had traveled with them. Gathered outside, they were met by Auden and his hirdmen. Grim stood dutifully behind his father. Ulfrik noticed he looked changed, harder and colder somehow. His black eyes registered nothing when they met Ulfrik’s. Somehow, Ulfrik thought, Grim has become a man on this trip too. But what measure of a man?
Orm’s and Auden’s men exchanged kind words and farewells.
“Keep practicing,” Snorri said with a wink, and gently punched Ulfrik’s shoulder. “And maybe you’ll beat me at the ax-throwing contest one day. Though I doubt it.”
“Don’t let your daughters soften him up. Keep him strong for me,” Orm told Auden, not taking his eyes off Ulfrik. Then a hirdman guided Orm’s gray Fjord horse to him, and he prepared to mount.
“Wait.” Auden ushered Ulfrik forward to where Auden’s blacksmith stood waiting. The smith passed a sheathed sword to Auden, a brilliant green gem glinting in the sword’s pommel. “It’s a finer blade than the original.” Auden transferred the blade to him.
“It’s my best work,” the smith added.
A smile split Ulfrik’s face as he stepped backward to draw the blade. It hissed gently, and then sang as it left the sheath. The sword felt weightless in his hands, and its newly polished edge gleamed in the sun. Ulfrik waved it carefully in the air, thrilling at the balance. “This is wonderful. I can’t thank you enough.”
Orm looked impressed too, and gestured that he might test it. He weighed it in his palm and stroked the air several times. “Sure enough, it’s a good blade. Your smith needs to work for me, Auden.” He returned the sword to Ulfrik as the assembled men laughed. “Something this fine deserves a name. What will you call it?”
Ulfrik peered down the brilliant blue length of the sword, its blade thin and sharp as a needle. “Fate’s Needle,” he said. “That’s its name.”
Approving nods bobbed around the crowd. “Use it to sew a strong destiny,” Orm said. Then he turned and mounted his Fjord horse. Ulfrik looked again to Grim, his smile fading. Grim’s face was blank. Saying nothing, his brother blinked and turned away.
Two
The years passed quickly, and Ulfrik grew to manhood in Auden’s hall. He returned to Grenner often. On those visits, Orm would test him, setting him menial tasks. But he also taught him how to run the land and how to be a leader who made people feel confident.
“Raiding is for desperate men with nothing to lose at home,” Orm used to say—until one year when he returned with a boat full of treasure, making Ulfrik wonder if raiding was as bad as Orm described. The riches had been shared among the men and Orm buried his share in the hall. Orm also ensured Ulfrik mixed with the men, learning their names and getting to know their families. Even as Ulfrik grew taller and stronger, his father never appeared any older.
The years changed Grim little also. When he visited Grenner, Ulfrik still found him unimaginative, envious, angry and unsatisfied, traits that had now grown from childish drawbacks to man-sized defects. His temper was explosive; only Orm could keep him calm. Grim had not grown much taller, but his stout body rippled with ropy muscle. At nineteen years old, Grim was a physical match for any man. He seemed afraid of Ulfrik, yet avoided him all the same. Ulfrik did not mind.
In the seven years Ulfrik had fostered with Auden, raiders had come only once more to Auden’s lands. A band of ragged men from Vestfold—new faces, the same old threats. Unrest in the north produced roving bands of men who had lost their livelihoods and homes. Those men had met the same end as the first Vestfold raiders. Ulfrik had wielded Fate’s Needle for the first time in battle and sent three men to Valhalla, cementing his reputation as a war leader.
One sullen day in late autumn, a messenger from Grenner arrived at Auden’s hall.
“Your father has taken ill,” the man told him, his blue lips quivering in the cold. “Healing broths, magic—the wise woman attending him has tried everything. He is not expected to live.”
After rushed good-byes to his uncle and cousins, Ulfrik hurried home, deciding against the full day’s walk and riding one of Auden’s few horses instead.
Later that same night, he saw up ahead the beams of golden light shining from the hall’s shuttered windows, pulled taut against the night’s cold air.
“We thought you might come tonight,” said one of the guards.
“Gods keep your father,” said the other, as Ulfrik dismounted and gave Auden’s mount over to his care.
After a few strides, Ulfrik stopped and turned to the guards. “I don’t recognize either of you.”
“Your father is expanding his forces,” the other said, patting the horse’s neck as he spoke. “You know, the problems with the Vestfolders.”
“How did you know me?”
“A messenger was sent north to summon you.” He pointed to Ulfrik’s side. “That’s the green-gemmed sword we were told you’d be carrying. Who else would you be?”
Ulfrik nodded. The two new men smiled. It made sense, although he had not heard of Orm’s plan. He wondered why his father would enlist more men and not speak to Auden, since Vestfold always attacked through Auden’s lands. Giving it no more thought, Ulfrik threaded his way between the barracks to the hall.
He threw open the hall doors, and heat and light bathed him instantly. Tables were shoved to the sides, leaving a wide avenue to the back, where his father’s rooms were. Ulfrik did not bother to remove his weapons. The few men dozing in the hall stood at his approach.
“Your brother is keeping vigil,” a seasoned veteran of long service to Orm said as Ulfrik strode across the hall, passing two listless slaves who tended pots at the central hearth and looked away at his approach.
Ulfrik nodded, making for his father’s quarters. When Ulfrik reached the door, Grim stepped out.
Both men bristled. Pulling back, they assessed each other. Grim’s lip curled, kindling Ulfrik’s immediate agitation. Ulfrik flexed his fists and noticed Grim’s eyes drawn down to them. Neither spoke.
“How is Father? I want to see him.” Ulfrik decided their father was more important than their feud.
“He’s with the healer woman now.” Grim’s black eyes glittered in the low light and he folded his heavy arms across his chest. “You can see him in the morning. He is ill. He needs rest.”
“I did not ride all day to see him in the morning, Brother. Let me through.”
Grim did not waver. A smirk twisted his lips. “Relax for the night, Ulfrik. It’s not my orders you’re following. The healer woman threw me out, too. Father needs undisturbed rest.”
Ulfrik sighed and rubbed at his thin beard. “T
hen tell me what happened at least. How did he become so sick?”
Grim shrugged.
The gesture compounded Ulfrik’s irritation. This was their father—a man who commanded the respect of honorable warriors—such a dismissive gesture was an insult.
“How would I know?” Grim finally said. “Some whisper it is elf-shot.”
“Elf-shot? You think it is elf-shot? I want to know what happened.” Ulfrik’s voice rose in anger, drawing the eyes of the few men in the hall. He didn’t want a confrontation, but Grim’s answers stung him.
“It’s what’s whispered, Brother. I don’t know any more about these things than you. Why come home to start a fight? Do you think this will help our father, your yelling at his door?”
“I’m not yelling!” Ulfrik yelled. Then he felt his face redden.
Grim’s smile was smug and mirthless.
Ulfrik looked away, shamed by his easy provocation. “It has been a long ride.” He shook his head to clear it. “At least get me something to eat. I can see Father tomorrow.”
Grim stared at him. “You can stay in the front room. Why don’t you put your precious sword away there, since you shouldn’t have carried it this far anyway. There’s a stew on the fire; one of the slave girls can fetch you some.”
Ulfrik did not like his brother’s tone. Grim spoke as if it were his hall, but Ulfrik had long been away. Grim might well consider the hall more his own than Ulfrik’s. He turned aside, to the hearth, where the heat tightened his skin as he sat on the floor beside the fire.
Ulfrik unbuckled his sword, enabling him to sit better, but still kept it close to his leg. He wanted to remind Grim of his shame, though he guessed such subtleties would elude his brother’s intelligence. Standing over him, Grim barked at one of the slave girls to serve the stew.
“Since when does Father keep so many slaves? Wasn’t one enough?” Ulfrik asked his brother as the girl ladled the stew into a wooden bowl and held it out to him. He accepted it from her with mumbled thanks. The curly haired girl glided away, her smile genuine and out of place in the tense atmosphere. Grim continued talking.
“He’s a rich man now, Ulfrik, ever since he came back with all that treasure. Though you wouldn’t know; you don’t visit often. Not that I’ve minded your absence.”
Ulfrik wanted to fling the bowl at Grim, but instead placed it down and rubbed his eyes. “I’m not hungry, but tired. To bed; I will see Father tomorrow.” Rising to his feet, he then snatched up Fate’s Needle and strode to the small rooms at the front of the hall. He did not need to look back to know that Grim’s eyes followed him all the way to the door.
***
Orm’s face was pallid and slack on his deathbed and his breath rasped in his throat. Ulfrik would not have recognized him, this man dangling over the pit of death, had he not known it to be his father.
“How did this happen?” Ulfrik put his head in his hands.
“He fell one day and vomited in the hall, screaming of a pain in his guts worse than being stuck with a sword,” Grim elaborated. “Soon he could no longer move or speak. After that day’s end, he was mostly unconscious, feverish.”
The healer woman was typical for her sort: ancient, fat, and short of stature and of patience.
“Where did she come from?” Ulfrik asked.
Before Grim could answer, the old woman spoke. “I have lived in Grenner all my life. My husband was a friend of your grandfather. I live alone, away from irritating fools who get in the way of my work.”
Ulfrik had never heard of her, or her husband, but he didn’t assume to know everyone. Glancing at Grim, he shrugged.
“Halfdan suggested her. Said she knows healing magic.”
“Is it working? He seems in poor condition.”
The old woman clucked, and stood. “He’s alive, isn’t he? Better than if you had not called me. He’d be dead by now. And your constant questioning will kill him if you hang over him much longer. Go away.” She waved them off. “I will tell you when you may return.”
Ulfrik bristled at her order, but the rheumy-eyed crone held his gaze, her splotched face trembling. Ulfrik shook his head and turned to leave, but before he did, he leaned down to his father’s ear. “Rest, Father. I am here now. I will see to things.” He did not expect Orm to have heard him, but the Jarl’s eyes flicked open and his lips cracked apart. His voice gurgled to the surface, fighting to be heard. Only “Guh … guh … guh,” issued forth. Ulfrik stepped back in surprise, realizing his father was trying to focus on him.
“Be gone now, before you cause him more harm!” the old woman shouted, ambling around the bed to chase Ulfrik away.
Orm’s eyes focused momentarily as he looked as his eldest son. “Gruh … grig ngh hhur,” escaped his lips. But Ulfrik swore he heard his father’s true voice cry, “Grim and her!” Then the old woman was on him, swatting him like a fly and Grim grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door. “Let’s not get him excited. He is weak.”
As Ulfrik was led away, he kept his eyes on his father. The gurgling sound died in Orm’s limp throat, and the labored breathing resumed. The last thing Ulfrik saw was the hag’s pale eyes as she slammed the door in his face.
***
The next day was no improvement. Orm fell into a sleep from which he could not be roused. Leaden skies spat rain in fitful bursts, the land reflecting the slow death of its lord. Ulfrik sat with his father whenever the hag allowed it. She had placed a block of ash wood beneath Orm’s head to draw away evil; otherwise, she spent her time preparing odoriferous brews that forced Ulfrik leave the room. But no one else knew how to care for the sick, so Ulfrik had to settle for her work.
Grim followed Ulfrik like a hound at heel. It was irritating, but at least he said little. It was as if his brother were expecting something, watching him, waiting. His father’s words from the day before rang in his head. Grim and her. Did he truly say those words? Ulfrik considered accusing his brother, but thought better of it; fighting would not heal his father. Instead, he placed a sword in Orm’s hand to be sure he would go to Valhalla if he passed.
Orm’s breath was shallower and fainter again when he next visited. Ulfrik could stand no more. When the healer shooed him once more, he felt ready to strike her. “Touch me, hag, and I’ll break your arm!” he growled.
The old woman’s crinkled eyelids drooped. Her smile revealed a graveyard of gappy teeth as she smiled, as if in challenge. Grim stifled a laugh.
Ulfrik felt the blood rush to his face. Ignoring the itch in his hand, which yearned to slap her, he stood and stalked from the room. This time, Grim did not follow.
In his room, Ulfrik pinned on his green cloak and grabbed Fate’s Needle. Then, knowing the sword would only hinder him in the woods, he laid it down again. He had to escape. To be in any place free from the pall of death.
Outside, the air was frigid and the land a mushy gray-green bog beneath his feet. Warriors gathered in groups, kitted for war. Ulfrik recognized few of them; however, they all seemed to know him. When he reached the barracks, he met several men he knew. All said the same things: they were glad he had returned and that the new men had arrived recently. They all believed Orm was preparing for war in the north, or at least preparing a defense against Vestfold incursions. Surely my father would have planned a defense with Auden? Ulfrik thought. None of this made sense. Orm, barely alive, could not answer for his decisions. Perhaps soon he would inherit the remnants of his father’s plan; Ulfrik’s guts knotted at the thought. Had Father shared some of this plan with Grim? Ulfrik wondered. But he had no stomach for talking to Grim either. In fact, he had no stomach for the hall, or for Grenner itself. It was like an alien land to him, filled with strangers who smiled, and placated, and moved him along as fast as they could.
In his youth, Ulfrik would escape to the wood to avoid Grim, or to seek peace. As he marched toward the trees, already anticipating the secret realms of childhood, he realized that today he needed their refuge more than ever.
>
Three
So predictable, Grim thought, as soon as his men reported Ulfrik had retreated into the forest. And he says I have no imagination. Today, Ulfrik would learn the measure of his brother’s mind. The hall was empty, but for Grim’s sworn men and the two slave girls.
“Contact Vandrad and his troops camping in the north.” Grim called a warrior aside. “The rest of you, wait for my word,” he ordered. Then he hurried to his father’s room. Aud, the ancient “healer” he had met by chance almost a year ago, stood poised over his father’s shriveled body. She raised a single brow, and Grim nodded. No need to discuss a plan they had reviewed so often.
Aud removed the sword Orm clasped upon his chest, but Grim batted her away and replaced his father’s hands on the blade. She was only doing as he had instructed, but Grim now felt it was too much. As despicably as he had treated Grim, Orm had been a great warrior and had earned his place in the feasting hall of Valhalla.
Grim felt his knees weaken. He began to fear he couldn’t follow through on the plans he had set in motion. But when Aud stared at him, he gestured her on. Shutting Orm’s mouth with one hand, she pinched his nose with the other. The Jarl’s breath was already feeble; it was hard to know the exact moment when he finally suffocated. He didn’t even flinch.
Aud poked a needle into Orm’s big toe, deep into the quick of the nail. He did not move. “Lord Grim, he is dead.”
Grim found himself suddenly sitting down. It is done, he thought. I can’t step back now. I couldn’t have stepped back before—not without risking High King Harald’s wrath.
Then Grim smiled. Lord Grim. It would be true soon enough, once Ulfrik was removed. Grim’s mind raced over the plan again. The poisons Aud had slowly fed Orm made him easily manipulated. Grim only had to suggest he build up fighting strength and the word was given. Now those men owed their allegiance to Grim. It was time for Grenner to submit to a new power—the power of High King Harald, who ruled from Vestfold. Grim would hold Grenner in the name of that power, making him more powerful than either his father or uncle.
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