Fate's Needle

by Jerry Autieri

  Grim backed away to the wall benches. A spear fell over his shoulder and he snatched it up. This has to end. By Odin’s one eye, this will end now. Finding his courage, he sprang to his feet and loomed over Aud, who crumpled in a puddle of bile and blood.

  “You are doomed,” Aud whimpered into the dirt.

  Grim slammed his spear down with such force that it impaled her to the floor. With a rattle of breath, the old hag was no more.

  Releasing the spear, Grim skipped away from the expanding pool of black blood. His trembling hands reached for the silver hammer of Thor that hung about his neck and his knuckles turned white around the amulet as he clutched it. A curse. A curse of death made with the blood and ash of a dying witch. As the thought rolled through his mind, he staggered back to the benches that lined the wall.

  Moments ago, men were toasting and smiling; now, they cowered at the far end of the hall. A ewe bleated as the stench of sulfur filled the room, turning every face to disgust.

  Did they hear Aud’s final words? Did they understand what had happened?

  Vandrad appeared from the room he occupied at the front of the hall, his hair wild and his furs haphazard as if he had just roused from sleep. He grimaced at the smell, fanning his face as he approached. Men and sheep parted for him, but when he saw Aud’s corpse, framed in the morning light from the windows, he stopped. “Thor preserve us.” He searched himself, finding his own silver amulet. “You killed the witch.”

  Grim nodded, breathing as though he had run up a mountainside. And he kept nodding, unable to think of anything else to do. He wanted to scream, or to weep. The poison had failed. The curse had been laid. Now his doom was certain—and Ulfrik would bring it. Grim stopped nodding and dropped his head to his hands. Then he wept.

  Eighteen

  The wolves did not return, and Runa thanked every god she could name. The attack—snarls and fangs, screams and blood, all swirling amid yellow firelight—had been nearly as terrifying as the day Svear raiders enslaved her.

  She watched as Yngvar used a bone needle and gut thread to pull together the ragged tear in Ulfrik’s leg. When the work was finished, Ulfrik staggered to his feet, leaning on Yngvar. But when he tried to stand unaided, wrestling with Yngvar to break free, he stumbled. After that, he accepted the support without fuss.

  Later, when they resettled for the night, Ulfrik checked on her, patting her shoulder with his bandaged hand.

  “I’m glad you were not hurt,” he told her, smiling.

  “Thank you, Lord Ulfrik. I only wish you had not been.”

  She worried for him. If he died they would be lost. She did not trust Yngvar not to burn her along with Ulfrik’s body, and thoughts of funeral pyres and savage wolves kept her eyes wide all night. The others, exhausted from the tension, had no trouble sleeping.

  The next morning, the stitches in Ulfrik’s leg looked taut in the flesh, but so much dried blood caked the wound that Runa couldn’t tell if it was festering. When she put her hand to it, she could feel heat. Many of her father’s men had lost limbs from wounds gone septic. She knew of some salves that would help, but none of the plants needed could be found in winter. Frowning, she packed more snow on the wound. Ulfrik did not stir.

  Everyone still slept, so she sat beside Ulfrik and waited. She placed her hand on his and studied him. Though asleep, his brows were drawn in worry. She could only guess at his nightmares. She had lost her home and family at the hands of invaders. Ulfrik had his world stripped away from the inside. You and I are not so different, she thought. Only I wear a slave collar. Will you free me as promised? I can’t fall in love with a man keeping me prisoner, can I? She chuckled at her thoughts. Perhaps they must be spoken or else remain forever in my head. She decided to press him for an answer. Maybe when they reached Frodi’s hall Ulfrik would have the means to remove the collar. For now, she waited patiently for him to awake.

  Eventually, everyone awakened, although none seemed to have benefited from the sleep. Magnus sat up wrapped in his fur, looking like a bear pondering the forest. He gave her a gentle smile, which she returned. He was a good man and Runa admired his dedication to his oath. She also understood his loss. The feeling of being adrift, alone, was probably what drew them together. He stood, snow and sticks clinging to the fur, and stretched, which made him seem even more like a bear. Runa laughed.

  It would be a long time before she could laugh again.

  Two mounted men emerged between trees in the distance. To Runa, they resembled gray hulks heaped with grizzly fur and leather. Long sealskin cloaks flowed over the flanks of their horses. She could not see their faces, but she imagined they were lined, scarred, and evil—just like the Svear. Each had one hand wrapped in the mane of his horse and the other clutching a spear.

  Yngvar cursed, and Magnus sprang to his feet. Ulfrik, unable to see them, struggled to stand but was unable to. Runa felt ready to run, but forced herself to be still; there was no point to it. She reached for the sword Ulfrik had given her. The horsemen approached, their spears lowered as they guided their steeds carefully through the snowy ground. She could see the steaming breath of the men and their mounts in the flat morning air.

  Runa pulled at the sword in its sheath, but it would not free. Glancing up, she saw Yngvar had the same struggle. Rust and cold had made the blades hitch on the sheaths. Yngvar flung his blade behind him, missing Runa by a hand’s breadth.

  The horsemen advanced to the edge of a small clearing.

  “So here are our visitors,” said one.

  Besides his cloaks, he wore a fur hat, and looked warm and comfortable atop his horse. His spear was straight, blazing in the light. No rust or cold for these men. Runa moved behind Magnus, who clutched his crude spear. She doubted it could pierce furs and leather; maybe he was going to use it like a club. Whoever the horsemen were, they looked too well outfitted and too well fed to be outlaws. Their eyes were not kind, but not malevolent either. Still, Runa felt better cowering behind Magnus’s bulk.

  “Thanks for lighting that beacon last night. We were able to get a good night’s rest after we marked your position,” the first man said.

  The other rider laughed. Their spears remained leveled, but they made no other threatening moves. The speaker’s horse started to prance and sidestep, and he tugged the animal back into line.

  “Glad to be of service,” Ulfrik said condescendingly. “Now, who are you?”

  “One of Jarl Frodi’s men,” the leader said, stroking his horse’s neck. “Here to clear the woods of vagrants and spies. You four will fit one of those two descriptions, I bet.”

  Ulfrik gestured to Yngvar, who helped him to his feet. The horsemen watched, their only movement the wind lifting their cloaks. Runa heard Magnus grumble under his breath, and he widened his stance. The riders noticed the shift immediately, and their blades flashed to the ready.

  Leaning on Yngvar, his injured foot raised off the ground, Ulfrik was defenseless. Runa tugged at Magnus’s arm, hoping to alert him. There would be no fight, only slaughter. She hoped Magnus had enough sense to understand that. But he did not yield.

  “I am Ulfrik Ormsson.”

  He speaks like he is addressing a feasting hall, Runa thought, not men two spear lengths distant.

  “The rightful Lord of Grenner and the lands surrounding.”

  The riders’ expressions turned from impassive to amused. They looked at each other and laughed.

  “So, Lord Ulfrik,” the leader said, twisting the title mockingly and gesturing to their ragged band. “You and your hirdmen are touring the lands, are you?” He paused, but Ulfrik did not rise to the taunt. “Took a slave girl to keep the men happy, I see.”

  Magnus lost his patience and stormed forward. Runa squealed, stumbling back from what she thought would mean his swift death.

  The riders stopped laughing but did no more. Magnus checked himself, standing just out of striking distance. “Enough with this horseshit! He is Ulfrik, Lord of Grenner, and we are his
hirdmen! You two are piss pot cleaners on ponies. Take us to your jarl. He will recognize us.”

  The riders let the wind fill the silence as they considered his words. Runa, trembling, feared they would all be killed, but instead the leader straightened his back, raised his spear, and guided his horse forward. “As you say, then. If you are the Lord of Grenner, you would know that you are still in his territory. We riders watch the borders for trouble, which is what this group looks like to me.”

  “It has been a hard journey.” Ulfrik nodded to Magnus that he should back down. Then he scowled at the riders before stepping back and continuing, “We’ve lost much and suffered much along the way.”

  “And why journey now, at the start of winter?” The other rider spoke at last.

  Runa saw that he was older: the furrows of his round face were deeper and streaks of gray marred his blonde hair. He threw the sealskin cloak off his shoulder to reveal a gold armband.

  “We bring urgent news to Jarl Frodi.”

  “Urgent enough to come personally, with two men and a slave girl, through a storm, abandoning your hall, and carrying nothing to protect yourself from the winter. I will overlook all of that as something too difficult for a piss pot cleaner to understand. You must have good reason to travel so.”

  “That we do,” Ulfrik said.

  A smile twitched at Runa’s lips at the understatement. The older man must realize that Ulfrik left much unsaid.

  “Surrender your weapons and we will take you to Jarl Frodi’s hall,” the older man said, pointing to the slushy ground between them. Runa caught herself stepping back. The riders are taking us prisoners, she thought. If I run now, I might still have a chance on my own. She stopped upon hearing Ulfrik agree.

  “I agree. We will surrender all other weapons, but I will not surrender my sword—not until I reach Frodi’s hall.” His tone declared he would not negotiate. The sword he so loved, and for which Runa had risked and suffered so much, was not to be lightly held.

  The man nodded wordlessly and Runa, Yngvar and Magnus moved forward and stacked their weapons on the ground, Runa placing hers last. The older man grinned as she dropped her weapon on the pile. But Runa was surprised to feel relief at surrendering it. She prayed there would be no more need for fighting.

  “Here.” The older man threw Ulfrik his sealskin cloak as the other man dismounted to collect the weapons. Without hesitation, Ulfrik swept the cloak over Yngvar. Runa respected his selflessness; her brother would have done the same. Ulfrik’s small gestures gave her hope that he would honor his promise to her, and that she had not misplaced her feelings for him.

  One of Frodi’s men gave up his horse for Ulfrik; no one wanted to move at an injured man’s pace. Runa felt her stomach rumble as they set off for Frodi’s hall, eager for any food, even slave slop. Anything would be better than stale hazelnuts.

  ***

  They were closer to the hall than she thought. Incredibly, Ulfrik had guided them accurately. To Runa, every tree, rock, or frozen stream looked similar. She had no skills for surviving in the wilderness, unlike Ulfrik, and she only now understood that had she not met up with Ulfrik and Yngvar, her escape would have meant death.

  Her misgivings about Jarl Frodi increased as the journey progressed. Skulls and bones dangled from branches, dancing in the frigid air and clacking a warning to trespassers. A severed arm nailed to a tree held her attention momentarily. It was rotten and black, but birds had not yet picked it clean, which she took to mean it was somewhat fresh. Is this what awaits us? She lingered to gawk while the others forged ahead in silence. Then she ran after them, glancing back as if the arm might seize her as she fled.

  Eventually, they came to a muddy track that led to the main settlement, an odd collection of houses and barracks, similar to Grenner but on the coast. Jarl Frodi’s people took their livelihood from the sea, and Runa knew boats would be housed nearby. No place in this land was ever far from water or a fjord.

  The long, gray-timbered hall, with its snow-covered thatch, leaned over the surrounding buildings from the top of a hill. Plumes of chimney smoke spun up from its center as the small group trudged toward the hall, stumbling through mud created by the melting snow. It was the largest hall Runa had ever seen, but if any of the others were impressed, they gave no sign.

  Their captors led them along a track guarded by a watchman, who raised his hand in recognition. As they passed, his look was of disgust. Ulfrik had been sagging on his horse during the journey, but Runa saw him straighten now.

  Some children with a dog rushed forward to see them.

  “Run ahead,” the gray-haired man told them, “and let Rolf Roundhead at the hall know that we are escorting visitors.”

  Runa laughed under her breath at that as the children ran off giggling and yelling. If children can be happy here, she thought, maybe Jarl Frodi is not the monster I imagined.

  Yet Runa still felt they were being paraded like captured enemies. People stopped their work and lined the road to watch as they passed. Being a slave, she drew no attention, but the onlookers appraised Ulfrik, Yngvar and Magnus carefully, probably considering them a sign of trouble to come. She did not like the looks they received, but could understand the reasons. But she didn’t want any more trouble, even if it was woven into her fate; she was still a slave, after all.

  Finally, mud-spattered and weary from a long march through the snow, they came to the hall. Their two captors herded Runa, Magnus and Yngvar between them. Another man awaited them outside the hall doors, who Runa assumed was Rolf. He helped Ulfrik dismount. Now standing again, with Yngvar for support, Ulfrik thanked Rolf and surrendered his sword. Runa saw the green stone in the pommel glint as the weapon passed from his hand. That sword represented her freedom—if only freedom could be as easily granted as passing over a sword.

  “I’ll see these weapons are cared for,” Rolf said. “If you want, I can have them scoured and shined. Looks like they need it. Thorvald can put an edge back to them, if you don’t mind him doing so.”

  They shrugged their consent. Their captors were soon joined by other men—hirdmen, judging by their physique and gear. There was mumbled conversation and indecision. Rolf ducked back into the hall while the others gathered the surrendered weapons.

  Runa pulled her fur tighter, feeling colder now that she had stopped moving. As she watched Ulfrik shiver, she was ashamed for not having done more, for having held on to the only fur even when Ulfrik needed it. Now he was about to be introduced as the Lord of Grenner, and his slave would be better outfitted. Pulling the fur from her shoulders, she draped it over him. Both he and Yngvar looked startled, but Ulfrik gave an appreciative nod and smiled. Runa wished he hadn’t; he had to appear commanding and fearsome to Frodi’s men, even with a ruined leg and a gaunt face.

  The hall doors swept open, and cold air blew across the men who came to greet them. A thin man, no older than Runa, stood flanked by the hirdmen who had fetched him. His golden-red hair was long and plaited, and his beard carefully groomed. He wore expensive clothing in shades of brown and gray trimmed with fox fur, and a gold broach pinned his cloak at the shoulder. His smile was immediate, his face unsullied by hardship.

  “I am honored to have the Lord of Grenner as a guest.” He threw his arms wide in welcome and his tone was sincere, although he was addressing Yngvar in error.

  Ulfrik cleared his throat. “Thank you, Jarl Frodi. Your welcome warms me greatly.”

  “Oh, you are Ulfrik of Grenner?” His fair skin flushed red. “I am sorry, but I am Bard Frodason. My father is visiting with a neighboring jarl. Let’s not stand in the cold. Please, come inside.” He stood aside to let their small troupe enter.

  Runa’s face tingled as she entered the warm hall. The hearth at the center of the hall filled the room with the welcome scent of firewood. Women in green and russet dresses fussed about the hearth. Jarl Frodi must be a wealthy man, Runa thought. He either had many wives, slaves, or daughters, or all three. There were
more women at work in the hall than there were men to serve, and all were well dressed. Runa tugged at her slave collar and smoothed down her ragged clothing, wishing she had kept the fur, if only to hide her shameful appearance. Once, she had dressed in greater finery than these women, but now her filthy garments looked as if they had been dug from a grave.

  “Lord Ulfrik, you are wounded,” Bard said. He knelt beside Ulfrik’s leg, examining the injury. “This needs immediate attention. Place your lord over by the hearth. I will have a healer fetched.”

  Yngvar led Ulfrik to the fire, leaving Runa and Magnus among Bard’s hirdmen, who followed at respectable distance. She noticed Magnus nodding with approval as he studied the hall. The floor covered with fresh rushes. The hall posts carved with dragons and serpents. The well-made wooden furniture set with ceramic mugs and plate—something Runa hadn’t seen since leaving Denmark.

  “It’s a fine hall, girl. Is it like your father’s?” Magnus asked.

  “Better. Are those slaves or wives, do you think?” Runa nodded to the women at the hearth.

  Magnus shrugged and sat down at a bench, unwrapping the fur and folding it into his lap.

  “You all look weary from your travels.”

  Runa jumped at Bard’s sudden appearance behind her. Intent on studying the women, she had not heard him approach.

  “Would you like some time to wash, and perhaps a change of clothes?”

  “Don’t need no new clothes,” Magnus grunted. “I’d like to scrub my face and comb my beard. But honestly, I’m hungry.”

  “Ah, yes!” Bard laughed at Magnus’s artless statement and gestured toward the fire. “A stew is boiling as we speak.” Then he returned his attention to Runa. “Yet I am sure you would welcome a change of clothes. It will cheer your master to see you freshly attired.” He let his eyes wander the curves of her body beneath the grubby shift.

  Runa understood Bard’s look all too well—the look of a man eager to plow her field. Even in her disgraceful condition, she could attract a man. In better times, Runa had prided herself on it, but now she regarded her looks as a curse that led to rape and slavery. Runa took a cautious step back and nodded in agreement.