Fate's Needle (24 page)

For days he thought of little else beyond his defeat and loss of leadership. Vandrad had yet to formally strip his titles from him, but Grim knew he had lost all authority with the men, knew it as soon as they regrouped. Their averted eyes and silence told him all he needed to know. His command had been weak to start with, but the outcome of the battle had destroyed it completely.

“The retreat was necessary!” Grim told anyone who would still listen. “We were wise to break off rather than continue at a disadvantage.” But even if anyone had grasped his logic, he had hobbled himself by later pointing out that few men had died. “Maybe only fifteen or so,” he had insisted. By now, Grim had stopped mentioning the death toll, had stopped talking at all.

Vandrad had allowed Grim to remain in his room and live as he had been, but no one visited the hall after the first night. On the first night, the families of the hirdmen came to the hall to reunite with their men. The seriously injured were tended to in the hall, and two of them died. One man had lost his eye to a spear. When his wife and children saw him, they screamed as if they shared his wound, and continued their dirge long into the night. Grim was silently relieved when the man died. At least then the screaming family was paid in silver and sent home to bury their dead, returning the hall to silence. The other man was from the levies. He died with only a few friends to mourn him. Grim was grateful for that dignity.

If anything could compete with his brooding over the defeat, it was his concern for his wealth. Vandrad would claim everything—that much Grim understood. He had hidden the gold and silver rings, which were small enough to keep on his person, but the rest of the treasures his father had accumulated would become Vandrad’s.
I will seek out Aud’s hut and find the gold I paid her
, he thought.
The old hag seemed to place no value on it anyway. She probably only took it because I valued it.

His stomach growled. No one would serve him, and he did not know how to cook. He feared the humiliation of asking someone to prepare a meal for him, and frowned at the thought.
Perhaps I should just order them to do it.
Why should I need to ask?

A door opened across the hall. Grim momentarily hoped it was a woman come to cook for him, and sat up to see, but then slumped down when he saw it was Vandrad with his three sycophants. They strode across the hall, wasting no time. Grim wished they would linger—let him enjoy sitting at his own high table one last time. He had worked so hard to get this seat, had held it such a short time.

“So, Grim, you understand why I am here?” Vandrad unclasped his fox fur cloak. A dusting of snow sprinkled the floor as he folded the cloak over his arm. Grim answered the question by first spitting on the floor, then speaking over Vandrad’s head, as if addressing an audience at the far end of the hall. “You have come to hold me to my promise. Of course I know why you’re here. I expected you earlier.”

Vandrad smiled and looked to his hirdmen, all of them dressed in mail, as if expecting a fight. “Now I am here, and you are right: I’ve come to hold you to your promise.”

“You called the retreat too fast,” Grim said. He could feel his temper twisting his chest. So what if he offended now? He could lose nothing more than he already had. “We could’ve broken their shield wall. I could have, if you had let me take the archers. I could’ve forced them to move first.”

“Keeping the archers back was the one thing that prevented a complete defeat.” Vandrad held up one finger in emphasis, as if Grim might otherwise miss his point. “Since you insisted on pushing ahead even after our scouts reported Frodi was prepared, I had to ensure a safe retreat.”

“You wanted me to fail!" Grim yelled, leaping to his feet.

The three hirdmen dropped their hands to their swords.

“
You
are the one who should be blamed, not me! You let the men go to a fight they couldn’t win,” Grim screamed.

Vandrad shook his head, and his eyes were nested in wrinkles as he smiled. “Grim Ormsson, I come to hold you to your oath. These men witnessed it, and will witness its fulfillment. So I ask if you will step down, or dishonor yourself?”

The hirdmen kept their hands ready. To break his oath would give Vandrad reason to kill him where he stood. Grim’s hand itched to grab his own blade, to put it through Vandrad’s smug face, and then die as he killed as many Vestfolders as he could take, but he had left his sword in his room. Even if it had been at his side, he would die before he could put it to good use. Dropping his head, he let his arms slacken. “I step down,” he mumbled. “Take what you want.”

Vandrad looked at Grim for several seconds, then nodded. His hirdmen relaxed, appearing disappointed. It gave Grim some measure of happiness to think they expected him to fight.
They could still kill me
, Grim thought.
There would be no witnesses, and no one would care. I would do it, were our positions reversed.

But Vandrad only beckoned him down from the high table. “You will remain unarmed from now on, and these men will protect you as you prepare for your journey.”

“Journey?” Grim’s black eyes glittered with surprise. “What do you mean?”

“There’s too much history here,” Vandrad explained, walking to a bench and sitting down. “Besides, do you want to stay?”

Grim had not thought so far ahead. He had spent more time mourning his treasure than considering practicalities like where he would live. It appeared Vandrad had planned that for him as well. “No, I don’t want to stay here. But where are you sending me?”

“You are still sworn to High King Harald. You will go north, to Vestfold, and accompany some men who are too injured for their duties here. You should present yourself to Guthorm, the King’s uncle. You are a fighting man, Grim. That much you’ve shown. They’ll have use for your sword arm, and you look the part of a warrior. Make up a good story for that scar on your face.”

Vandrad and the men laughed.

Grim was lost in thought. Vandrad was giving him another chance. If he distinguished himself in Harald’s service, he could be rewarded with land and title.
I might even get something better than this shithole my father so loved. The gods favor me after all.
“Very well, I will do as you say, Vandrad.” Grim tried to hide his excitement, but his voice quivered with the anticipation of glorious battles in the king’s service.

“Yes. You will do as I say,” Vandrad said, still laughing but ensuring that a threat was present in his eyes. “I’m glad my decision pleases you. But before we part tonight, we have to discuss payment. Your adventure was costly in both blood price and materials. You will have to provide compensation; your treasure will do nicely.”

Grim had a pinch of hope that Vandrad might overlook that detail. “I will need silver for my journey. I cannot give it all.”

Vandrad shifted on the bench, propping his elbows on both knees as he enunciated. “You
can
give it all, and you
will
. You will not need silver on your journey. Provisions and transports are prepared.”

Grim hesitated for effect, and then agreed. “I don’t like it, though.” His hand unconsciously pulled at his tunic, where he had concealed some of the rings.

Vandrad nodded approvingly. “And you will also need to give up what you’ve hidden on yourself,” he added.

“What? I have nothing hidden!” His words were a lie, but his shock was genuine.
How did he know I concealed the rings?

“Really, Grim! Do you think this is the first time I’ve had to do this?” Vandrad pointed to his three hirdmen. “They will hold you down and search you. If they find anything, I will force you to walk naked to Vestfold. Or you can shorten our unpleasant evening and give me what you’ve hidden.”

Grim stared at Vandrad as the hirdmen stepped forward to emphasize the threat. Grim recalled the gold he had planned to retrieve from Aud’s hut. With Vandrad forcing an escort on him, obtaining that gold would be impossible. In the silence that hung between them, Grim saw his wealth slipping from his hands into Vandrad’s. He was being forced to start over with nothing, no matter how he struggled. He looked away, staring at the near-dead fire. In its light, Vandrad looked as yellow as the gold he was sucking from Grenner.

Grim reached into his tunic and pulled out one of the gold rings. “All right. I will give you every scrap.”

Vandrad’s smile became a grin. “That’s a good start. Be sure to take them all out. Or you will lose your enthusiasm for your journey. I promise.”

“Aye,” he replied in a whisper.
Must the gods require all my wealth to grant their favors?
He took out the other rings and placed them on the table.

***

Grim sat on a sledge with two other injured men who both looked about to die. He hoped they would last the journey to Vestfold, since he probably would have to dig their graves otherwise. They were all heaped with furs, and Grim also had mail, a sword, and a few personal items.
All this worry and I ended up with a bag of old clothes and a free trip north
. He snorted a laugh as he reclined at the back of the sledge, waiting for the driver.

“Guthorm is harsh. But he is King Harald’s uncle and his closest man.” Vandrad came to see him off. “Do well by him and your fortunes may change.”

“No thanks to you.”

“All thanks to me. When you finally become a man, you will understand how generous I’ve been. Go now, and don’t let me see you here again.” Vandrad strolled off to find someone else to irritate.

“Go fuck a goat.” Grim called after him, then looked away. Vandrad merely chuckled.
Who is Vandrad to judge whether I am a man?

The driver mounted the sledge and drove them north. Grim watched Grenner slip by, passing his father’s burial mound as they took the track headed for Vestfold. A chill gripped him, and he reached for Lini’s amulet.

“Good riddance to you, Father. Stay in your grave and let me leave this place forever.”

He turned away, his home falling behind the stand of trees and disappearing from view.

Twenty-four

Runa had been imprisoned in the stables since the night she was dragged from Auden’s hall. Although barred in, she could have escaped had she felt inclined, but only death awaited if she fled. At least here, she had warmth and the companionship of the horses. She was comfortable around them. Horses, she believed, were better company than people. A groom came daily with food and water for her and the horses, and then rode the animals out for exercise, which was more than she got. The guard who accompanied the groom glared at Runa whenever she asked for news.

The first night had been horrible: the loss of her newfound freedom, the absence of Ulfrik’s embrace. Even with everything against them, she had felt so much joy and potential. Ulfrik would rebound. They would start a new life together in a new place.

Then Frodi had spoken, and her joy was obliterated. For a few short hours she had tasted liberation again, but now she wished she never had. The rusted collar about her neck abraded her skin; nothing had changed.

The morning after Jarl Frodi had made her his slave, Runa had heard the roar of colliding armies. Who had come to fight, or why, made no difference to her. All that day she had waited for the stable door to burst open and Ulfrik to rescue her, but even when the sounds of battle diffused, he still had not come. She had even hoped Magnus would come. By sunset, no one had.

By the third day, her confinement had grown too much. She wept constantly, huddled in a corner, thinking that Ulfrik and the others must have died in battle. Even the horses shied away from her as she cried.
If Frodi was defeated
, she thought,
the conquerors will come to claim the horses
. Yet no one came besides the silent groom and his angry guard.

In their absence, Runa reached the limits of her patience and began to pound the walls and kick the doors, which made the horses nervous. She would bring someone to her, or force the horses to kick down the stable walls. She was pounding so furiously that she did not hear the bar lift. When the door opened, her fist flew through the opening and slammed into Bard’s chest. It was nothing to a grown man, and Bard grabbed her arm and yanked it down. “Quiet, girl! You are going to drive the horses mad.”

“The horses? What about me? I’m no better than a horse to you!”

Bard’s face flushed, but he wore a stern expression as he pulled her out of the stable into the wan light of day. He was dressed as he had been on the first day Runa had met him. His fine clothes and golden pin in sharp contrast to her soiled dress. The air was crisp, and the breeze was like cool water on her face. She had become so used to the fetid air of the stables that she had forgotten the clean taste of the outdoors.

Bard ignored her question. “I’m sorry you had to be kept here alone for so long,” he said in a low voice. “It was the safest place for you.”

Runa stopped resisting, blowing her matted hair out of her eyes before she spoke. “I heard the sounds of battle. Where are Ulfrik and the others?”

Bard looked away, his face deepening red. “They have left.”

Runa’s shoulders slumped and her expression froze. She wanted to believe she had misheard, but she knew she had not. Her mouth formed a few words, but no speech came. Frodi had banished Ulfrik. She had been left behind.

“I would have come to you earlier, but I was recovering from my injuries,” Bard said.

If he has been in a battle
, Runa thought,
he looks well rested for it
.

He put his arms on her shoulders, as if to comfort her, but the coldness of his hands made her more anxious.

“Ulfrik’s brother came, and a terrible battle resulted. I led the men in the defense and drove them back to the woods. I took a serious blow to the head. Were it not for my helmet I might have died.” He paused, searching Runa’s face for sympathy or admiration.

He found neither.

“Ulfrik lived?” she asked. “What of the others? Magnus?”