Ulfrik clasped Yngvar’s shoulder. “Then we can be away by dawn. Even the long way around should still leave us time to get ahead of Grim.”
Their course now decided, they ate the gathered nuts and Yngvar cleaned his face at the creek, as Ulfrik had done earlier. They both took a deep drink before seeking out Magnus.
It took longer to find their way back in the twilight, but Yngvar was a sure-footed woodsman, navigating the trees without stumbling. Ulfrik let him lead, and his thoughts wandered to Runa. He hoped the girl had not been caught. If she had, she’d probably be raped until her mind was broken and then thrown on his father’s funeral pyre. His father’s pyre-he had not even thought of that! If Grim intended to act the victim, he’d have to give their father a proper funeral. Ulfrik felt his chest tighten at the thought that he would not be there to witness it.
Distracted, he tripped, bucking Yngvar as he did.
“Odin’s balls!” Yngvar cursed in a low voice. “Keep your mind on your footing. You’re like a man walking through a dream.”
Ulfrik apologized, feeling his face grow warm with shame. He shook his head to refocus. Motioning for Ulfrik to stay, Yngvar crawled forward and gave a convincing owl hoot. In reply, a large shadow rose up and began to move toward them. It was Magnus, carrying a cloak full of supplies over his shoulder.
He was older than Ulfrik remembered, his curly black beard now shot with gray. But at nearly a head taller than Ulfrik, and with heavy shoulders and a face full of furrows, he still resembled a bear. His eyes glittered in the dark, and he smiled.
“Yngvar and Lord Ulfrik,” Magnus whispered. “There wasn’t enough mead to get them all drunk, but I took the first watch and they’re sleeping now. Here’s everything we will need.”
Ulfrik thought he misheard. “You are coming with us?”
“I can think of no reason to stay with these two fools. Besides, I don’t like Vestfolders. Your brother brought Vestfolders in and then Lord Orm dies conveniently, I won’t be part of that evil.”
“But your family,” Ulfrik put in. “What are you going to do with them?”
“My son is good with a sword and a bow.” His smile revealed his few remaining teeth. “They are out east. Grim won’t look for them so soon, not now that his face is wrecked. Besides, he’s looking for you two, not me.”
“We are headed north, to Auden,” Ulfrik said, glad of Magnus’s help. “We cannot go directly, so the trip will take longer.”
Magnus shrugged. “I’ve already done this much. My family will hold up until I can send for them.”
Ulfrik nodded. As they slipped back into the trees, Magnus glanced back just once. Then he handed them two swords and two skins of water from his makeshift sack.
Ulfrik smiled. All they needed to do now was get to Auden. With Magnus’s help they could make the journey without delay. Maybe, he thought, the Fates have spun me a better strand than I imagined.
Somewhere an owl called in reply.
Eight
Runa shivered, remembering the clang of metal as Yngvar had drawn his sword. Every time she heard that sound, it meant disaster. It meant: run. So she had run-first to the shadows between the buildings, and then onward as the rain became fiercer. As she ran, she heard a horn blast and the shouting of men, and then Yngvar’s roar and the collision of swords. She did not look back, instead fleeing to a storage shed that was close enough to allow her to see. Through the rain and wind, a shriek reached her. Her stomach boiled with shame, hoping it was not Ulfrik. Her disguise now useless, Runa wriggled out of the bulky mail and sloughed off the sodden cloak. She fingered the slave collar that chaffed at her neck and a rusty tang filled her nostrils. So close to having it removed, she thought wistfully.
Pressed up against the shed wall, Runa closed her eyes to the rain that streamed into her face, having half a mind to add to it with tears. She had nearly escaped, and now she was back. She cursed herself for trusting such a foolish plan. Why did I let Ulfrik dazzle me?He probably never intended to honor his promise.No doubt he would have just raped me and given me to Yngvar as a reward. That’s all I am now: property to be handed out. Booty.
Horns blasted again and Runa saw torches blooming in clusters around the barracks. She folded herself against the wall and begged the gods to keep her hidden. Men fanned out in all directions, some toward her.
Her heart thumped and her breath was short, but she knew running would only expose her. The torchlight jogged closer. Two men were approaching.
“Search that shed,” one called to the other.
“A waste of time,” the other shouted over the rain. “It’s locked.”
They hurried to the corner of the shed, the light from their torches casting a yellow ring that almost illuminated her feet. She heard one of them try the door. Locked. Runa held her breath.
“So is Lord Grim dead? Will we still get paid?” one of them asked.
“I didn’t see if he died. They dragged him into the barracks too fast. But he was screaming and cursing. So-”
“Hey, there they go!” the other voice interrupted.
Runa heard them splash off through the rain, calling to other men. She smiled. Ulfrik had escaped, and Yngvar was still with him. It seemed that Grim might even be dying. The gods are certainly involved, she thought.
Runa knew where Ulfrik’s room was in the hall. She merely had to grab the sword and escape to the northern track. From there, she could meet up with them and travel to Ulfrik’s uncle’s hall, where he would restore her freedom. If she recovered his precious sword, Ulfrik would have to honor his promise. After all, warriors valued their oaths, even if made to slaves. And Runa was certain Ulfrik was better than most. He reminded her of her brother-the same proud gait, the same stubborn resolve. He had even thanked her when she served him stew a few nights ago. He would grant her freedom, as he had promised.
Yet still Runa stood rooted to the spot, listening to the men shout through the darkness. A blind run would end in her crashing into one of them. Tentative steps led her away from the shed, toward a lone pine. She shivered as she scuttled beneath it. The main hall was ten paces away, bathed in pale light from behind shuttered windows. Thin smoke fought the gusts as it rose from the smoke hole.
Crouching as low as she could manage, Runa hurried toward the hall. She pitched against the darkest shadow of its walls, slumped, and caught her breath. The slave pen squatted in the darkness opposite. It was a low, windowless building, huddled against the night like the slaves within it. The door bore a heavy lock and the key always remained with the guard who herded the slaves in at the end of the night. Just last night, she had been locked in with them.
When Runa had fled earlier, she had simply seized an opportunity-every girl for herself. But now, she could remedy that. She could free them. The hall was in confusion. Even without the key, there had to be a way to free the slaves.
Runa’s family had owned but one slave. Her father had treated him well, so well that at times Runa thought he was her father’s friend. Only when she became a slave had she realized the horror of slavery. The Svear raped her, barely kept her alive, and sold her like an animal. Orm had found her at market and treated her marginally better than his livestock. None of Orm’s slaves would be mistaken for his friends.
She shook her head, scattering the memories. First, she had to get inside the hall. Slipping her fingers beneath the unfastened shutters, she cracked one open enough to see within. She saw no movement. Trusting that Ulfrik’s commotion had drained the hall of occupants, she opened the shutters and hauled herself through the window.
Runa had always been small, but in slavery she had withered further. She flopped through the window easily, if not gracefully, landing on her rump. The thud of her descent was like a peal of thunder to her, but there was no one to hear it. The hall was empty, but for curling smoke, quavering shadows, and the dead jarl’s corpse. Orm lay stretched out on a table in the center of the hall, lit by amber light from a low fire in the hearth. Runa stood and studied his corpse. He was dressed in mail, with a sword over his chest. She half feared he might rise up as she walked around his body, until her nostrils were met with the rank scent of death and she drew a hand to her face to block it.