Fate's Needle

by Jerry Autieri

The Wave Spear turned and pulled alongside the Raven’s Talon. In a defensive battle, Ulfrik and Toki would each lash their ships to another to make a platform from which to fight. Although Ulfrik had seen it done before, he had never had to do it himself. The boats glided together, the oars drawing in like men pulling their arms into their shirtsleeves. Toki and his crew had already taken up their shields, and a few were slipping on their mail hauberks. They all looked over the starboard rails; Ulfrik followed their gaze.

  A fleet of splendid warships materialized like a fist before them. The beast-headed prows caught the sun, shadows filling their open maws. Several ships of the allied fleet had already been captured, and Ulfrik saw the distant shapes of men boarding the unlucky vessels. Those ships and crews were already lost, having been isolated from the main formation. At the center of the enemy fleet was a red-hulled, high-sided ship with a mass of oars. It streamed towards them, as graceful and predatory as a crane hunting in the water. Its sail filled, adding to its speed and revealing the great raven of High King Harald Finehair. The king himself had come to battle. Ulfrik swallowed hard at the sight.

  Shouted orders came weak and thin out of the distance. Ulfrik understood, even without hearing the words. Their fleet was already striking sails and beating oars to flee the approaching enemy. Ulfrik shouted for his men to raise the sail and start rowing. “We will form up and make a defensive line to receive the enemy. Now row, you dogs! Your lives depend on it.”

  The men had started the tasks before Ulfrik had finished commanding them. The wind grabbed the square sail and the Wave Spear shot forward. Ulfrik’s smaller, lighter boat would outpace the heavier ships, but the enemy also had their share of pursuit vessels. He looked over his shoulder, seeing Toki guiding his ship just behind. The blocky shapes of enemy sails were not much further away, and he could already hear the distant howls of the closing enemy.

  Runa stood in the rear of the ship, gazing over the back as if she were on a pleasure trip. Her thin voice floated up to Ulfrik. “They’ve pulled up their oars.”

  Ulfrik looked back again. The ships were even closer than they had been before. He saw a hint of movement, read it instinctively. “Arrows! Arrows!”

  The first gray-feathered shaft plunked into the boards between Ulfrik and Runa. He pushed her down against the gunwales. Then all around he heard the thump of arrows. Someone on Toki’s ship screamed, and one of his own men yelped as a shaft nicked his arm.

  “Keep rowing,” Ulfrik bellowed. “If anyone stops, I’ll stick him myself.” Ulfrik’s threat was unnecessary; the angry thwack of arrows drove them forward. Ulfrik chanced a look at Toki: he was urging his men on the same way.

  Ulfrik wished he could get down and row with the men. The energy of a fight in the offering was building in him, and he ached to take his blade into battle. At least rowing would release the tension. More horns blew and orders rushed from ship to ship. Ulfrik leaned into the rudder, turning the ship suddenly and shouting orders to take in the sail. Two men jumped to the work.

  The lighter vessels had shot too far ahead of the jarl’s larger ships. They were being ordered around to join a main line, forming a defensive barrier to those high-sided ships. Ulfrik planned to take his ships to one flank, where he could either lash to the line or seize an opportunity. The ships at the center would be protected from boarding, but they also surrendered their mobility. Ulfrik wanted to ensure his ships, and his men, were able to move—if not to seize an opportunity to attack, then at least to find an escape.

  The larger, older vessels of the allied jarls were clunky and not lining up fast enough. Jarl Sulke’s ships were already boarded. Across the sparkling indigo water, the shouts and clashes of battle came like a wave. Ulfrik urged his men on. Fate’s work would soon be done.

  Thirty-four

  “We’ve still got arrows,” Yngvar shouted, barely able to finish his words from the exertion of rowing. “We’ve got to get into this fight, Ulfrik, or we’re done for!”

  Both the Wave Spear and the Raven’s Talon had low sides—too low, leaving them vulnerable to arrows and to boarding action from the higher-sided ships of the enemy. Ulfrik kept the two ships close together, for support and to discourage boarding attempts. Harald’s forces were preventing them from joining the defensive line formed by King Eirik’s vessels, and already the Wave Spear had been swept off the flanks by a fast-moving ship and a storm of arrows. One of Toki’s crew was already dead and several others injured.

  Ulfrik looked out across the fjord. Ships were scattered like seedpods thrown on the water. Everywhere, fights raged on decks. Harald’s magnificent sail billowed as his ship circled the allied line, preparing to hit it at the center. Other vessels were already lashing to the flanks, aiming to board the floating battlefield. If Ulfrik did not commit to the fight now, Harald would pull apart their main force and then prey on the Wave Spear at leisure.

  “Toki,” Ulfrik called across the water. “Pull in to those ships on the flanks. Put up oars and pour arrows into them until we’ve nothing left.”

  The men rowed and the two ships shot toward the embattled flanks. When he judged the distance close enough, Ulfrik ordered the oars taken in. The boats glided forward, the detritus of battle bumping their hulls as they slowed. Enemy sailors leaped from their ships to mill on the decks of allied vessels, leaving Ulfrik a slim window to put arrows in them before they were lost in the pandemonium onboard. On the prow, men vied to position their shots.

  “Don’t make it pretty, just shoot! Fire as fast as you can!” Ulfrik yelled.

  Even Runa had found a bow, although she was struggling to draw it. Ulfrik had no time to stop her wasting their arrows. He shot furiously, arrows screaming overhead and disappearing into the water or into the chaos and confusion of the fight. The thrum and swish of constant bow fire was reassuring, but Ulfrik guessed their shooting was ineffective. Regardless, some enemies did fall under the missile fire, and some halted their boarding action, but within moments most of their foe had overrun the other ships, leaving their own lashed and unoccupied.

  “Stop!” Ulfrik ordered, setting his mind to capturing the enemy ship before him. Just as he yelled, Runa finally managed to draw back her bow and fire a lone arrow. It made a clumsy arc before splashing into the water, but Ulfrik’s eyes had followed the arrow’s path toward the stern in time to see a high-sided ship slicing for them, spearmen and axmen thronging the forecastle. He had no time to don his mail, or do any more than shout, “Boarders at the stern! Be ready!”

  The enemy ship slammed alongside, expertly enough to deliver an unsettling jolt. Long-hafted axes bit into the rails to pull Wave Spear close, and hooked ropes flew out to snare the ships together until one of the crews prevailed. Eager, bloodthirsty men jumped from the enemy ship onto the Wave Spear’s deck. Ulfrik, Yngvar, and the rest of the crew rushed to push them overboard, but the combatant ship’s high sides offered the attackers protection as they boarded.

  A wild-eyed man shoved Ulfrik with his shield, following up with a stab. Ulfrik stepped backward with the force, leaving the over-eager assailant exposed. Ulfrik’s blade found soft belly, and the man screamed as he fell. At least these men had also forgone their mail. Looking up, he saw that Yngvar had thrown his shield, instead chopping with his ax as though he were splitting firewood. He had already sent one attacker overboard, and the next took the full force of the ax blade in his leg.

  From behind, Toki and his crew roared as they joined the defense. Even without looking, Ulfrik knew that the Raven’s Talon was lashed to his ship and its crew had rushed to his aid. On either side of him, Toki and Snorri flashed their bloody weapons. Pain flowered up his thigh, and he turned to the front again. A foul-smelling, yellow-toothed man had jumped into his path and cut him above the knee. Battle lust deadened the sensation, and Ulfrik swatted at the man with his shield and then took him high in the throat in retaliation.

  Everywhere, bodies rolled on the blood-spattered deck, but the battle had turned
against the boarders, and Ulfrik knew his men would prevail. He prayed for time to reorganize before other enemies took advantage. The attackers sensed defeat as well, and the few men still aboard the opposing ship were cutting the lashings and using their spears to pry apart the ships. They called for their comrades to return, and some did. Others plunged into the sea to escape. Runa, finding a spear, took aim at the swimming men.

  “Forget them!” Ulfrik was already calling in his men, not wanting to waste time in pursuit of the crippled ship. “Don your mail, if you have it. Toss these bodies overboard.” Ulfrik scanned the waters all around. King Harald’s ship was gone, but the defensive line now resembled a straggled dead snake, a cluster of ants crawling all over it. All along the line, boats were lashed together and disgorged enemy troops onto the decks of allied ships. Ulfrik’s ships drifted alone, but for the fleeing attacker that had just pulled away. Corpses and body parts bobbed like jetsam on the waves, some men having hacked off limbs for the gold or silver bands that could be removed from them later. Amid the ruin, Runa sat on a bench, a small smile illuminating her face. Strangely, Ulfrik smiled back. Her calmness made him wonder if he wasn’t acting in haste. Snorri, seated close by, held his head and blood fell from his nose in fat drops. Toki was already overseeing his crew’s return, straddling both ships and waving his bloody sword to direct the men back to the oars. Abandoning the scene, Ulfrik turned to finding his mail hauberk. He feared drowning less than a sword in the guts, and the pain in his leg reminded him that his mail could have prevented the wound. Around him, other men struggled into their armor too, having understood the same thing.

  The calm did not last. From the west, aided by the bright sun, another large ship appeared. The dragon prow snarled down and Ulfrik stared at it in shock while his men scrambled and grabbed their bows. Yngvar ran to the rails, in front of the men, his hands outstretched. “It’s Haklang’s ship. Don’t fire!”

  Ulfrik recognized it now, the War Dragon. He blinked as sweat rolled into his eyes. Standing with one foot on the rail of the prow, Thor Haklang, clad in bear skin, glowered down at them. Even from a distance Ulfrik could read the frenzied battle madness in the men’s faces. Thor appeared to be trying to push his ship forward, unsatisfied with the speed. The dragon ship pulled alongside, and oars were shipped as it closed. Thor leaned down and growled, “What are you two doing out here? I need you to cover my ship. Keep these shit-eating flies off me so I can get to the real fight!”

  Ulfrik nodded acknowledgement to Thor, who was passing around the drink Ulfrik knew the berserkers used to enhance their battle craze. A man thrust the mug back into Thor’s hand, but he did not drink, using the opportunity as his ship slid past, to yell, “King Eirik and the others are all dead. Men are fleeing in every direction. This is my last chance of getting to Harald’s ship and gutting that whoreson in front of his men.”

  Ulfrik quailed at the news of the dead leaders. Without strong leaders, men did not hold together. “What about Jarl Kjotve?”

  “Haven’t seen him,” Thor shouted back, then gulped from the mug. He roared like a bear and threw the drained mug into the water. The oars hit the water with a splash, and he led the drive to find King Harald’s ship.

  As Thor’s ship pulled ahead, Ulfrik shouted orders to his crew. Next to him, Yngvar put a hand on his shoulder. “This has been a hard day, Ulfrik. We’ve handed Harald his kingdom.”

  Ulfrik did not acknowledge the words, simply slapped Yngvar on the back. He had a final duty to Thor—one last chance to destroy Harald’s power.

  ***

  Grim mopped sweat and blood from his brow. The clang of battle made his head ring. The sun was sinking in the west, and Harald’s ship had drifted such that the light struck his eyes, blinding him. Fighting aboard a ship was an unfamiliar experience to Grim, and one he did not like. He had prevailed thus far, taking only a small cut over his eye, which bled more than it hurt. But the footing was difficult and room in the forecastle was limited. He was accustomed to more space to vent his battle rage. Twice he had nearly toppled into the sea, which would mean death while wearing mail. Some men had stripped off their mail, but when Harald saw, he ordered them to wear it again.

  Harald was shouting and laughing in his mail coat, now bedewed with gore that sparkled like garnets. Word that Eirik and Sulke had fallen, and that the enemy were fleeing had made him giddy. All of Harald’s men were cheering, but Grim did not join them. Snorting away sweat that rolled down his nose, he looked to where Harald was pointing.

  Across the water, Grim saw men dancing on King Eirik’s ship. One twirled a head—which Grim assumed was Eirik’s—in the air. Spread out between that ship and Grim, the debris of battle bobbed and swirled. Shields clanked together on the waves, forming patterns like a sea serpent floating on the water. Small longboats slid through the crimson water, their decks empty but for the dead piled in the forecastles. Ships were scattering everywhere, with King Harald’s forces in pursuit. Harald roared his victory, and all around, men cheered. But one voice called an alarm.

  Harald’s head snapped around and he dashed to the starboard rails. Grim followed, joining the throng about the king. A large dragon-prowed ship rowed for their position, the two small boats rowing astride it forming a screen. The group approached at an oblique angle, presumably to counter bow fire. A banner was nailed to the mast of the larger ship and caught the wind—a yellow crown over a black bear.

  It meant nothing to Grim. King Harald, however, clapped his hands as if he had received an unexpected gift. “Men, get your bows. We’ll end this day with a fat prize. Thor Haklang has come to find his death. Fill his decks with arrows. Let no one escape!”

  Grim shivered at the words. Thor Haklang was Ulfrik’s lord. His brother would be leading one of the ships. Grim stood frozen in terror. Aud had cursed him to die at Ulfrik’s hand, and now that hand was reaching for his throat. Grim, hero of many battles and a personal guard of the High King, stood trembling like a boy in a dark wood.

  “Don’t stand here like you’re sightseeing.” Someone cuffed him, cursing him for a fool. “You heard the king: get your bow.”

  One of Harald’s slaves shoved a quiver of arrows into Grim’s hands before moving to the next man. Grim returned to the starboard rail, searching for an open spot from which to shoot. Finding a gap, he jostled his way into it and set his bowstring. As he felt for an arrow, he saw the vessels had shipped oars and were gliding the final distance. Men on the smaller boats crowded the forecastle, all drawing back to fire. Archers were poised on the prow of Thor Haklang’s ship as well.

  “Get down!” someone yelled as enemy bows thrummed and arrows hissed like rain among them, forcing Harald and his men to take cover. Men stumbled, and some died, but most of the enemy arrows did nothing more than buy the approaching ships time.

  Grim popped back up, an arrow already nocked on his string. His eyes sought the fair-haired head of his brother amid the boats. Lustful screams rang out, loud and near as Thor’s ship plowed on too fast. It would likely ram Harald’s ship, but all along the dragon-headed vessel men in animal skins howled from the rails, eager for blood. Grim swept his bow over the small boats. Ulfrik was not at the rudder of either ship. The distance shortened again. He would get only one shot.

  He thought he spotted Ulfrik in the front ship, but too many men blocked him. Then he saw Yngvar, recognizing the face before recalling the name. That was Ulfrik’s friend, and killing him would draw out Ulfrik. Without further thought, he drew back his arrow. His shoulders burned with the fatigue of the day’s fighting, his arm trembled, and sweat blurred his vision. Yngvar’s neck danced at the point of his arrow.

  Grim released.

  Then Thor Haklang’s ship collided, hurtling Grim back from the rails. Boarding ropes streamed from both ships and wild men began to dive into Harald’s ranks. Grim hurled his bow away and slung his shield from his back onto his arm. The amulet swayed on his chest. By the gods, let its magic be true.


  ***

  Yngvar’s head snapped back and he fell to the deck, one hand at his throat. Ulfrik, who had just released his second arrow and was turning to order the men to prepare for boarding, could not understand what he was seeing. Yngvar sprawled on the deck, his legs kicking as if he were trying to run, his back arching. A black-fledged arrow jutted from his neck, and blood flowed over his hand and puddled under his head.

  Ulfrik was next to him in a moment. Yngvar’s eyes, although wide, looked up into nothing. He gurgled and spluttered, his brilliant white teeth now coated in pure red. His other hand swiped at his side or spastically clutched at the deck.

  Ulfrik grabbed Yngvar’s shoulders, sweeping his friend’s body with his eyes, as if searching for a cure to his pain. But the arrow had taken Yngvar directly through the throat and protruded from the back of his neck. The only cure for such a wound was death—and that was all Ulfrik saw in his friend’s eyes.

  The clutching, empty hand found Ulfrik’s leg and tugged at it. Then he realized. Only gargled wheezes escaped Yngvar’s mouth, but Ulfrik understood them. He drew Fate’s Needle and placed it in Yngvar’s clutching hand. “Go on ahead, to the feasting hall,” Ulfrik said, closing Yngvar’s grip on the hilt. “I will meet you there, and we will drink and brawl and laugh. Forever. Go, my brother.”

  He wanted to say more: to tell him that he loved him like a brother, that he respected him like no other man. To thank him for saving his life. So much emotion gushed through his mind, seeking an outlet, but all he could do was choke back a sob as Yngvar’s eyes stopped searching and grew dull. A bubbly hiss escaped Yngvar’s perforated throat, and Ulfrik’s friend lay dead.

  “You better join the others, they need a strong leader.” Runa leaned over his shoulder, speaking as gently as she could above the din of the fight.

  Ulfrik looked up. Hair flew about Runa’s face and a sprinkling of blood spotted her cheek. She held a long dagger in one hand, and her other touched his shoulder. He pulled her hand down, nodded at the wisdom of her words.