Fate's Needle

by Jerry Autieri

  Looking up, Ulfrik saw his men fighting to board Harald’s ship. Thor and his berserkers were in front, and Toki was leading Ulfrik’s men. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Then, unable to bring himself to remove Fate’s Needle from Yngvar’s grasp, he took up his friend’s ax. He looked at Runa. “Stay here, and pray we win.”

  “We will not win, only escape. Lead your men in glory, and come back to me here. I love you, Ulfrik.”

  Ulfrik could not find the words, just brushed her cheek before standing. Then he turned to the fight. Shoving his way to the front, he roared, “With me, men! With me to glory and riches! We eat from Harald’s table tonight”

  ***

  Heedless of death, the wild berserkers threw themselves on Harald’s men, screaming for blood. Grim saw one tattooed man lose his left arm and respond merely by shoving the bloody stump into his attacker’s face. Fortunately, Grim faced only warriors attempting to board from the rails, and was protected by the ship’s higher sides. He had only to keep up his shield and slash beneath it, but with three boatloads of men to their single ship, enough berserkers soon found their way on deck.

  “Fall back! Fall back to the forecastle,” Harald called. Grim put up his shield, felt a weak blow glance off it, and backed away to join his king.

  He was going through the familiar motions of battle. The ebb and flow, the repositioning and maneuvering, all calmed his jangled nerves. He had done this dozens of times, each time following Harald’s directions to victory. He told himself this battle would be no different.

  The attackers flowed over the undefended rails, jostling to be the first to fight the king and his best warriors. Grim searched the faces—some wild, others desperate, all splattered with the bile of battle. Bear pelts, wolf pelts, mail coats, bare chests, plain wooden shields, brilliant silver helmets, blood-caked blades—all rushed forward in an undisciplined throng. Grim stood by the rails at the far end of Harald’s line, waiting to receive the charge. The men who held the line with him seemed patient, certain of victory, but Grim’s certainty vanished as his eyes settled on a man in a mail coat who leaped over the rail behind the others.

  Ulfrik landed as easily as a cat. A green shield hung from one arm and he held aloft an ax in the other. An ember burned in Grim’s guts as his brother’s eyes met his from across the forecastle. Time froze; the two brothers locked in one gaze. Ulfrik’s eyes had grown colder, harder than when Grim had last seen them. A blue flame flickered there, and Grim thought he heard distant, hollow laughter. For a moment, Grim saw his father tramping across the deck—a ragged black shape filled with worms and rot—but then the vision vanished and Ulfrik leaped from it instead, crashing through the intervening men to reach him.

  Grim threw up his shield but felt his jaw slacken. The ax head caught the sun and Ulfrik’s face contorted with the force of his strike.

  The curse had come for him.

  ***

  “You murdered our father,” Ulfrik screamed, as he threw his first wild blow at Grim. The ax slammed on his metal-rimmed shield, cleaving into it. Grim cowered behind the shield like a child as Ulfrik pulled out the ax.

  “You poisoned him, gave him a dog’s death! For what?” The anger Ulfrik thought time had buried poured out of him. At last Grim was backed against a wall, literally trapped in the forecastle. One of them would die; Ulfrik was determined it would be Grim.

  Grim seemed bewildered, hiding behind his shield and not returning the strike. As Grim threw his shield up, Ulfrik noticed his brother’s amulet, the human bones that swung around Grim’s neck—further proof of the monster his brother had become. Ulfrik slammed his shield into Grim and swept the ax beneath it, at his legs.

  Anticipating that blow, Grim stepped back. Ulfrik’s injured leg seeped blood and pain, but he ignored it. “I will avenge all you have murdered. You face justice today!”

  Grim shoved back at that, and sliced out with his sword. Over their shields, their eyes met. Ulfrik read fear, determination, and strength. Faster than he thought Grim could move, the blade came back at him, ripping over his arm; only his mail sleeve saved a grievous wound.

  For long moments they traded blows, neither gaining an advantage. Grim was strong, and he did not move once he set his feet. Ulfrik had hoped to drive him over the rails, but instead Grim was pushing him back. Only the chaotic fighting behind them kept Ulfrik from being hurled out of the forecastle. He chanced a glimpse around, noticing Thor Haklang clutching a blood-smeared ax and carving a swath of death toward Harald. Then Grim came at him again.

  “You killed Magnus,” Ulfrik shouted. “I avenge him, too. You are a murderer. A gutless poisoner!”

  But Ulfrik’s posturing did not serve him in the fight. Grim remained silent, his eyes wide and his teeth set. He was working a fighting plan, and Ulfrik saw it too late. Grim’s sword looped up under Ulfrik’s shield. The blade deflected off his mail, but came up under his chin, slicing the flesh and carving up his face, splitting his left nostril and eyebrow. Had he not pulled back, the blade would have pierced his throat.

  Pain bloomed across his face and blood hazed his eyes. Ulfrik staggered, blinded, and Grim kicked his shield forcefully, knocking him to the deck. Ulfrik rolled away instinctively, and Grim’s sword thumped the deck where his head had been. Other men continued to fight around them, and someone fell heavily across Ulfrik. The man screamed, and Ulfrik felt a waterfall of hot blood wet his back. A man on the ground was as good as dead, Ulfrik knew. He thrashed to free himself, gripped by an icy panic. The body on him suddenly lifted away. And Grim screamed.

  Ulfrik rolled forward into Grim, sending him tumbling. He stood, bumped by other men engaged in their own personal battles, and looked for his ax and shield. He could find neither amid the shoving, flailing men who surrounded him.

  Ulfrik’s face throbbed. He could barely keep his eyes open through the stream of blood, but he could tell that Grim had fallen on his face, probably on top of his ax and shield. Ulfrik could not lose the advantage. He leaped on Grim’s back, driving his knee into the small of it. With a scream, Grim flattened out onto the deck. Ulfrik locked his arms about Grim’s thick neck and pulled back on his head, driving his knee further into Grim’s spine.

  Grim’s neck would have snapped were it not for his incredible strength. He gagged and struggled, bucking while Ulfrik held fast. Then Grim put his powerful arms beneath him and shoved the two of them up.

  Ulfrik hung on as Grim wobbled to his feet, his breath rasping in painful bursts. Then, with surprising energy, he launched them both back, hurling them toward the forecastle. Ulfrik felt himself crash into other warriors as, using all his power, Grim twisted to face his older brother and broke the hold.

  Both were weaponless now. Grim smiled, his white scar rippling like a snake. He landed a punch even before Ulfrik could put up his fists. The blow crunched into Ulfrik’s wounded chin, tearing the flesh back and spraying blood down his chest. Ulfrik screamed, his vision a sheet of white-hot agony. He reeled back, and Grim’s thick fingers seized his throat and slammed him against the ship’s rails.

  Ulfrik’s vision blurred until only his brother’s black hair and wicked sneer were visible. Grim was grunting with the effort, but Ulfrik could not breathe. Terror wormed its way into his heart. His hands searched for a weapon, but found none. Grim would deny him the feasting hall as well. He closed his eyes, blood and sweat now making vision impossible.

  Grim laughed, a cackle like a crazed man. Thinking of nothing, ruled only by panic, Ulfrik clawed and pawed at his brother, his lungs afire as he thrashed. One hand landed on Grim’s face, shoving it weakly, but as it fell away it caught on the silver chain that held Aud’s bones. Through the fog of blood, the necklace of bones danced before him. In a final act of defiance, Ulfrik ripped it away and threw it to the deck.

  Grim screamed, and his grip relaxed for an instant. Ulfrik reflexively took a draught of cold air and his vision cleared momentarily. Grim still held him, but his brother’s eyes
were focused on the deck, where he searched for the scattered bones.

  In that moment, Ulfrik hooked his leg behind Grim’s and swept him off his feet. His brother’s grip faltered and he tumbled to the deck. Desperate power, given by the gods for men to make their last stand, propelled Ulfrik back to his feet. As his brother scrabbled to stand, Ulfrik noticed the dagger at Grim’s belt.

  He snatched it out of the sheath and swung the cold iron edge under Grim’s throat. All around men jostled in combat, blood and sweat fogging the air, but as Ulfrik hunched across Grim’s back, the dagger promising death, their world became a cold, quiet bubble.

  Snorri had broken through, and was running for Ulfrik with sword ready, though he seemed to not move at all. Grim struggled beneath Ulfrik like a calf about to be slaughtered. Ulfrik felt his own hand trembling.

  Grim let out a cry—a sniveling, familiar cry. A cry Ulfrik had heard so often in their youth. Grim had cried like that whenever he knew he had misbehaved. It was a more powerful stroke than any blow Grim had just given him.

  My brother. A baby once: innocent and deserving of love. Ulfrik knew Grim never got that, not from Orm, or from anyone. He has done so much evil for it, but now he weeps. At the edge of death he understands the wrongs he has done. Knows the guilt. Surely that is justice enough. If he understands, then he suffers.

  “I am no coward,” Ulfrik said, his voice oddly normal and almost lost in the thunderous chaos of battle. “And I am no murderer. You were my brother once. I will not kill you.”

  He removed the dagger from Grim’s neck. The world started to move again, and his brother whipped around and sprang to his feet.

  Grim’s eyes flashed, and his lip drew into a snarl. Yet another familiar reaction; Grim never gracefully accepted mercy. He held up a fistful of the bones that Ulfrik had pulled from around his neck and opened his mouth, as if to proclaim something.

  Then he screamed, and the bones clattered to the deck before him. Ulfrik did not understand at first. Then he saw the blade protruding from his brother’s chest.

  Grim fell forward, and Ulfrik skittered away.

  “My lord is avenged!” Snorri placed his boot on Grim’s back and yanked out his sword. “Justice is done today!”

  Ulfrik faced Snorri, both men smeared with gore, but only one still wild with rage. Ulfrik had never considered the depth of Snorri’s need for revenge. Hirdmen were sworn to avenge their lords, and Snorri had carried that duty with him.

  A feeble battle continued in the forecastle. To Ulfrik’s left, Thor Haklang knelt before King Harald. Despite the ax embedded in Thor’s forehead, he still appeared alive. King Harald raised his blade and struck down twice on the giant berserker’s neck, severing Thor’s head with the second strike. With a howl of victory, Harald held the head aloft.

  The day is lost. Ulfrik knew it then. Thor’s men would die with him, but Ulfrik saw no need to waste his men on this cause. He screamed for a retreat, gathering any of his men who still lived. Toki guarded them as they leaped down to the boat.

  “Give me your arm.” Ulfrik reached out for one of his men who was crawling on the deck, his hand clutched to his stomach. As he raised his arm to Ulfrik, a coil of guts slid out. The man was lost, but Ulfrik refused to leave anyone behind. Toki grabbed the man’s feet and helped Ulfrik get him aboard the Raven’s Talon.

  Harald’s men were distracted by their celebration of Thor’s death. On deck, the remaining berserkers continued to fight, which gave Ulfrik time to escape.

  They dropped the crewman onto the deck, and he screamed as he landed. The ropes were already cut and the men piled in, Runa tumbling in with them. The Wave Spear would have to be abandoned; Ulfrik no longer had crew enough to pilot it, but he said nothing as he pushed the ship—the first he had built with his bare hands—away.

  Some men took to rowing; others helped aboard men who had jumped into the sea. Ulfrik walked among his crew, counting them. Seventeen of his men were dead or lost. Turning back, he put a hand to his brow, staring at Harald’s fleet.

  The deck of Harald’s ship was still alive with warriors, but the battle there was over. Beneath the dead, Harald would find Grim and throw his corpse into the sea.

  No land. No father. No brother. No son. Ulfrik thought. There is nothing left for me in this place. Nothing at all. Ulfrik turned away again, catching a glimpse of Runa, who stood unsullied amid the bloodied men. At least she remains with me. On the deck beside her lay Yngvar’s corpse.

  The men rowed as fast as their war-weary bodies allowed, enemy ships falling away like a wake as they fled. Toki took the rudder as Ulfrik moved to the two men—one living, one dead—who lay on the deck.

  ***

  Ulfrik wept for Yngvar, his tears turning red as they bit through his fresh wounds. Runa’s small, warm hand massaged his shoulder.

  There was no time for a proper sea burial; instead, Ulfrik motioned for men to help him commit the corpse to the sea. As they lifted, a gleam of green flashed from Yngvar’s chest. In death, Fate’s Needle lay firmly in Yngvar’s grip.

  My sword. Ulfrik considered keeping it, but Yngvar deserved to be sent to the sea grave with riches and a weapon in hand; the blade served both purposes. Their friendship had been sealed with that blade, it was right for Yngvar to take it to the feasting hall. Yngvar would put it to good use in Valhalla, and stand proud among Odin’s heroes with a fine weapon of his own.

  No land. No father. No brother. No son. No sword.

  The sword and the body fell overboard with a splash, and Ulfrik turned away. Beside him, Runa gave a small sigh and her expression eased. She seemed about to speak, until interrupted by Ari coming to Ulfrik’s side.

  The wizened old man was splattered with blood and sporting a gashed cheek. “Jarl Kjotve lives. He is making a stand on that island.” Ari pointed to a blur on the horizon. “Should we join him?”

  What is an oath to Jarl Kjotve now? Ulfrik thought. What is left, now that Harald has defeated his opposition? The island was not too distant, but men were scattering in every direction, and Ulfrik knew Harald would pursue the remaining jarls first.

  “Ari, do you still serve Jarl Kjotve?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “Then I can drop you off on the island.”

  “Where would you be going, then?”

  “To a place where men and women are free to rule themselves. Where no greedy or vengeful hand can reach.”

  Ari was silent. Ulfrik listened to the distant cheers of Harald’s men proclaiming their victory. All around ships scuttled away like roaches from a lit candle. Runa had joined her brother at the prow, and her hair bounced behind her in the wind. She looked back at Ulfrik, her eyes brimming with tears and hope.

  “Do you know such a place?” Ari asked.

  “No. But I will make one.”

  Author’s Note

  Ulfrik and his family, as well as most of his friends and traveling companions, are fictional characters, but their adventures are set against the backdrop of history. In the late ninth century, the petty kingdoms of Norway were under pressure. Harald Finehair, sometimes known as Harald Fairhair, inherited the Vestfold lands from his father, Halfdan the Black. Harald was young but had a strong guide in his uncle, Guthorm. Through conquest and political maneuvers, Harald would eventually unify Norway under his kingship.

  The best accounts we have of Harald’s life come from the Heimskringla, a collection of sagas that chronicle the lives of Norwegian kings. They make for lively, vivid poetry, but are not exactly historical documents. The story of Harald refusing to cut his hair until he ruled all of Norway is little more than literary flourish—a great tale for the people of the day. Regardless, we know that Harald forcibly brought the coastal kingdoms of Norway under his control, however tenuous his reign may have been. This consolidation culminated in the Battle of Hafrsfjord, where Harald’s main opposition was shattered.

  This story is set in the final years of Harald’s encroaching power. Grenner and th
e surrounding lands are all fictitious, although some names have been lifted from history. Orm and Auden, and their vainglorious neighbors Frodi and Bard, never existed; however, Kjotve the Rich and Thor Haklang were real participants in the battle of Hafrsfjord. Thor’s death is credited with being the final blow to Harald’s opposition.

  While Harald’s military exploits conquered most of his territory, it is not unthinkable that he used other means to grab land. Harald gained control of the remote northwestern territory of Halogaland by marrying into its ruling family, suggesting he was also amenable to non-military ploys. As such, I have imagined that lesser men, such as Vandrad, might have been charged with securing lesser places, such as Grenner, using whatever means to achieve success.

  After the battle at Hafrsfjord, men scattered in every direction. Harald assumed kingship and introduced unpopular taxes and policies that alienated many of his new subjects. His reign is credited with creating an exodus to the Orkney Islands, Shetland Islands, Faroe Islands, and eventually, Iceland. In fact, settlement of these lands had begun before Harald’s reign, but his tyrannical rule motivated many to leave.

  It is said that Harald continued to harass his opponents, who fled to neighboring islands. After Hafrsfjord, Harald was uncontested on the mainland, although he certainly had many threats to his kingdom from the world beyond. The ninth century was an active time in Viking history throughout Western Europe. As such, the period lends itself to plenty more adventures for Ulfrik and his companions, and they will certainly be sailing once more in search of it.

  In the writing of this book, several people deserve a heap of thanks. First, I want to thank Peter Ratcliffe for the excellent cover art. His work is incredible, and this cover blew me away the moment I saw it. Karin Cox provided a thorough and patient edit of the manuscript. Without her guidance, this story wouldn’t have been possible. Finally, I must thank my wife, Grace, for supporting me in this crazy adventure to publish a book. I couldn’t do anything at all without her.