Grim enjoyed the work—free from complaining men, weeping wives, and restrictive obligations. His reputation for ferocity in combat gave him joy. Kill and move forward, that was it. It was beautiful. Grim soon forgot why it had been so important for him to rule. Even if he had thought it his birthright, it was certainly not his forte. Had he known life as a warrior would be so carefree, he would have left Grenner to join Harald’s army in the first place. After the winter campaigns finished, Grim pushed Grenner to the recesses of his mind. He still wore the amulet Lini had made for him, and it was a rare night when he did not dream of the old hag’s dying curse, but he rutted with any woman he could find to prove the amulet held off the curse. For now, it seemed Lini had done all that could be done. Still, Grim continued to give as much honor to the gods as possible, hoping they would strike down his brother. Grim learned Vandrad had razed Grenner, turning the place into a staging ground for attacks to the west. Hearing Vandrad’s name returned the sting of shame he had felt when Vandrad had stripped him of his rule. If I ever see that arrogant fool again, he thought. I will be sure to let him know Grim Ormsson has not stayed down.
The hall clamored with men boasting, laughing, and just as often arguing. Despite its enormous size, it was packed with men and Grim jostled for a space. The hall had been built when High King Harald lived here. He was now far away to the northwest, in Trondheim. All throughout the area, magnificent halls, the likes of which Grim had never imagined possible, were a reminder of King Harald’s former presence. At least now Grim understood why Vandrad had considered Grenner a petty country hall of no value. No carved dragons adorned the posts of Grenner’s hall. No graceful arcs softened Grenner’s roofs.
Guthorm appeared at the high table. He was clad in mail, which had been scoured to a brilliant finish, and wrapped in a cloak pinned with a gem-studded golden broach. With his powerfully muscled arms folded over his chest, he scowled until the men fell silent, group by group.
“Before winter ends, High King Harald has commanded we seize Ranrike.” Guthorm’s voice boomed in the expansive, smoke-hazed hall. Grim wondered whether he ever spoke like he wasn’t commanding an army. “I have already chosen the men for this attack. But I want a rearguard, especially with matters just settled in Grenner, across the fjord. You men gathered here tonight will be that rearguard. I don’t expect trouble, but we should be prepared. You will have three days to organize yourselves, then be ready to sail.”
Guthorm frowned out over the heads of the men. A few sycophants clapped for him, but otherwise no one made a sound. Grim gritted his teeth, angered by the prospect of being a guard dog. But he feared Guthorm more than any man he had ever met, and kept his silence. Guthorm unfolded his arms. “Good, I will divide up your duties with the hersir. But tonight, I would not call you to this hall if I did not plan to get you drunk.”
All of the men cheered at that. Grim had learned to play along. He knew that someone’s eyes were always watching in this great army. So he clapped and cheered, looking forward to the excellent mead Guthorm always ensured was in ample supply. By the end of the night, he knew, at least ten of the hundred men who filled the hall would be injured in a brawl and would be unable to travel. For the first time, Grim wished he could be among them, but the talk of Grenner had soured his mood, and tonight he would be the one causing the injuries.
***
Grim cursed the rowing. He had been assigned to one of three ships to patrol the waters near Grenner and while he never minded marching, rowing felt like something a slave should do. Yet, all along the benches, strong men rowed and sang to kill the monotony. The winds seemed to always blow contrary to where the pilot wanted to go; thus the rowing.
Grim shook his head as they rowed south, shaking from his head the visage of Aud, which had come to him again in a dream. He knew it was absurd to be frightened, but something about returning filled him with trepidation. He felt the amulet of bones, laced about his neck with Ulfrik’s bow string, swaying across his chest as he rowed, but even that provided him with less comfort than usual.
He was not among friends on this ship. Most of his companions had drawn duties on land. Guthorm’s army organized men into a felag that learned to fight together. And the men on the ship were such a group; Grim was an intruder on their camaraderie. Being sullen and preoccupied had not helped his welcome.
The hersir at the rudder was called Hrut the Hard. When Grim first met him, he had eyed Grim’s amulet with a skeptical frown, similar to the look he was giving Grim now. Grim spat to show his displeasure at being studied. Hrut smiled, and gazed back out to sea. The longship jumped and crashed over the choppy waves, foamed up by blustery winds. Grim returned to his worries.
By the end of the first day, the ships had rowed past Grenner and into Frodi’s territory. They pulled up on the beaches to camp for the night. Hrut shouted orders to his men, but when he came to Grim, he just looked at the amulet and then turned away. It suited Grim: he wanted to rest his aching shoulders anyway.
He sat apart from the others, eating his rations and listening to waves slam the beach. His arms trembled—with the effort of rowing he presumed, or was it just Aud’s curse chewing at him? Eventually, Grim found a spot close to the fire and lay down with a blanket to defend against the night air. He slept with his hand upon the amulet.
***
“Grim!”
Grim jerked up straight in the cold night. It was unnaturally silent; not even the sounds of the ocean, which should have been roaring over the beach, provided a distraction. All about him, men were gray, slumbering lumps in the silent dark. The fire burned as bright as when it had first been lit, but threw no warmth.
“Grim.”
His name came again, thin and shrill on the dead night air. It came from the black tree line, and Grim knew he would have to go to it.
His blanket slipped away as he stood, and sand dropped from his body as he started toward the woods. One hand clutched his amulet and the other was held out before him, as if he feared an invisible wall.
“Grim.”
The voice came again, closer and stronger this time. It raised the hackles of his neck in fear. No other sound penetrated the leaden dark, not even the creak of leather and mail that should have made enough noise to wake the other warriors. He stepped over the sleeping men until he came to the grass that led to the trees. He strained his eyes to see into the green-gray murk, but saw nothing.
“Come to me, Grim.”
The voice rushed all about him now, sibilant and low-pitched. A sensation of cold washed down his neck and spine, like icy water poured beneath his clothes. In the woods, a faint light shimmered. Grim’s feet carried him on, toward the light, although he did not want to go.
The trees seemed to close about him as he entered. Snow flaked the ground, but the branches were bare. Turning around, he saw nothing but trees and darkness. The voice that had lured him to this place broke into peals of laughter. Grim’s free hand dropped to his sword and pulled it from the scabbard. His other hand maintained a white-knuckled lock on the amulet. The yellow glow flared beyond the trees. His sword thrust forward, Grim padded toward the source.
As he entered a clearing, his heartbeat soared and cold sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision. In the center of the clearing was a tall, heavily muscled man. He wore rusted, rotting mail, and a tattered cloak danced from his shoulders. Both of the man’s heavy hands rested on the shaft of an ax held head-down before him. But it was the man’s head that arrested Grim’s attention. His wore a helmet exactly like the one Grim had lost to Ulfrik, and long gray hair streamed from beneath it. Behind the mask, two spots of yellow light wavered. A thin smile broke out on the man’s face when Grim met those baleful points.
“You have come to see me at last, my son,” the man said, his voice as thin and empty as air blown through a hollow trunk. “Come, embrace your father.”
Grim’s mouth worked in a wordless reply. The man remained in perfect stillness, tho
ugh his smile widened to reveal black and yellow teeth. Grim’s legs reflexively made to run, but he was rooted to the spot.
The revenant laughed, throwing his head back, and hefted the ax into both hands. He kicked out a foot, as if freeing it from an invisible restraint, and said, “You won’t come to me, will you boy? Always the baby, weren’t you?”
Grim shook his head, eyes wide in terror. He could not speak, move, or think. He was fixated on the ponderous approach of the thing that called itself his father. Its footfalls thudded on the ground as it neared. The ax came up to its shoulder, in position to fall once the thing got close enough.
“Poison? You poisoned me?” The thing lumbered closer, one foot slamming down before the other. The points of light became slits behind the face guard. “Only a weakling kills with poison. You can no longer hide from your cowardice!”
Orm’s ghost pulled up before him, and Grim felt himself shrink. The ax gleamed above the helmeted head as a wave of frosty air engulfed him, and his father leaned back to strike. The ax descended. Grim found his voice in a sudden rush, screaming in bare terror.
He did not know how or when, but he found he had put his sword hilt deep into his father’s chest, halting the ax in mid strike. Orm tilted to the side, and then fell to the snow. The points of light beneath the helm blazed, then went dark. Grim yanked back his sword. Dry, powdery snow gushed from the wound and his father’s body soundlessly disintegrated into snowflakes, falling away before him. Only the helmet remained upturned on the ground, an eddy of snow twirling inside it.
Grim was shaking all over, even his teeth chattered. Sweat poured in rivulets down his chest as he stood heaving over the helmet. Without understanding why, he gingerly lifted the empty helm and placed it on his head. It slid into place as if it were his own. When he stood up again and looked through the faceplate, he leaped back in shock.
He was in the old hall in Grenner, facing the high table from the entrance. The hearth fire was nothing more than embers, throwing only enough light to outline everything in red. A continual low hum filled the room and a gray smudge of a figure—small, hunched and still—was seated at the table. Grim shook his head in disbelief. It couldn’t be. I killed her. I killed Aud. That could not be her seated at the high table.
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 n
ot 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.
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