Eighteen
The wolves did not return, and Runa thanked every god she could name. The attack-snarls and fangs, screams and blood, all swirling amid yellow firelight-had been nearly as terrifying as the day Svear raiders enslaved her.
She watched as Yngvar used a bone needle and gut thread to pull together the ragged tear in Ulfrik’s leg. When the work was finished, Ulfrik staggered to his feet, leaning on Yngvar. But when he tried to stand unaided, wrestling with Yngvar to break free, he stumbled. After that, he accepted the support without fuss.
Later, when they resettled for the night, Ulfrik checked on her, patting her shoulder with his bandaged hand.
“I’m glad you were not hurt,” he told her, smiling.
“Thank you, Lord Ulfrik. I only wish you had not been.”
She worried for him. If he died they would be lost. She did not trust Yngvar not to burn her along with Ulfrik’s body, and thoughts of funeral pyres and savage wolves kept her eyes wide all night. The others, exhausted from the tension, had no trouble sleeping.
The next morning, the stitches in Ulfrik’s leg looked taut in the flesh, but so much dried blood caked the wound that Runa couldn’t tell if it was festering. When she put her hand to it, she could feel heat. Many of her father’s men had lost limbs from wounds gone septic. She knew of some salves that would help, but none of the plants needed could be found in winter. Frowning, she packed more snow on the wound. Ulfrik did not stir.
Everyone still slept, so she sat beside Ulfrik and waited. She placed her hand on his and studied him. Though asleep, his brows were drawn in worry. She could only guess at his nightmares. She had lost her home and family at the hands of invaders. Ulfrik had his world stripped away from the inside. You and I are not so different, she thought. Only I wear a slave collar. Will you free me as promised? I can’t fall in love with a man keeping me prisoner, can I? She chuckled at her thoughts. Perhaps they must be spoken or else remain forever in my head. She decided to press him for an answer. Maybe when they reached Frodi’s hall Ulfrik would have the means to remove the collar. For now, she waited patiently for him to awake.
Eventually, everyone awakened, although none seemed to have benefited from the sleep. Magnus sat up wrapped in his fur, looking like a bear pondering the forest. He gave her a gentle smile, which she returned. He was a good man and Runa admired his dedication to his oath. She also understood his loss. The feeling of being adrift, alone, was probably what drew them together. He stood, snow and sticks clinging to the fur, and stretched, which made him seem even more like a bear. Runa laughed.
It would be a long time before she could laugh again.
Two mounted men emerged between trees in the distance. To Runa, they resembled gray hulks heaped with grizzly fur and leather. Long sealskin cloaks flowed over the flanks of their horses. She could not see their faces, but she imagined they were lined, scarred, and evil-just like the Svear. Each had one hand wrapped in the mane of his horse and the other clutching a spear.
Yngvar cursed, and Magnus sprang to his feet. Ulfrik, unable to see them, struggled to stand but was unable to. Runa felt ready to run, but forced herself to be still; there was no point to it. She reached for the sword Ulfrik had given her. The horsemen approached, their spears lowered as they guided their steeds carefully through the snowy ground. She could see the steaming breath of the men and their mounts in the flat morning air.
Runa pulled at the sword in its sheath, but it would not free. Glancing up, she saw Yngvar had the same struggle. Rust and cold had made the blades hitch on the sheaths. Yngvar flung his blade behind him, missing Runa by a hand’s breadth.
The horsemen advanced to the edge of a small clearing.
“So here are our visitors,” said one.
Besides his cloaks, he wore a fur hat, and looked warm and comfortable atop his horse. His spear was straight, blazing in the light. No rust or cold for these men. Runa moved behind Magnus, who clutched his crude spear. She doubted it could pierce furs and leather; maybe he was going to use it like a club. Whoever the horsemen were, they looked too well outfitted and too well fed to be outlaws. Their eyes were not kind, but not malevolent either. Still, Runa felt better cowering behind Magnus’s bulk.
“Thanks for lighting that beacon last night. We were able to get a good night’s rest after we marked your position,” the first man said.
The other rider laughed. Their spears remained leveled, but they made no other threatening moves. The speaker’s horse started to prance and sidestep, and he tugged the animal back into line.
“Glad to be of service,” Ulfrik said condescendingly. “Now, who are you?”
“One of Jarl Frodi’s men,” the leader said, stroking his horse’s neck. “Here to clear the woods of vagrants and spies. You four will fit one of those two descriptions, I bet.”
Ulfrik gestured to Yngvar, who helped him to his feet. The horsemen watched, their only movement the wind lifting their cloaks. Runa heard Magnus grumble under his breath, and he widened his stance. The riders noticed the shift immediately, and their blades flashed to the ready.
Leaning on Yngvar, his injured foot raised off the ground, Ulfrik was defenseless. Runa tugged at Magnus’s arm, hoping to alert him. There would be no fight, only slaughter. She hoped Magnus had enough sense to understand that. But he did not yield.
“I am Ulfrik Ormsson.”
He speaks like he is addressing a feasting hall, Runa thought, not men two spear lengths distant.
“The rightful Lord of Grenner and the lands surrounding.”
The riders’ expressions turned from impassive to amused. They looked at each other and laughed.
“So, Lord Ulfrik,” the leader said, twisting the title mockingly and gesturing to their ragged band. “You and your hirdmen are touring the lands, are you?” He paused, but Ulfrik did not rise to the taunt. “Took a slave girl to keep the men happy, I see.”
Magnus lost his patience and stormed forward. Runa squealed, stumbling back from what she thought would mean his swift death.
The riders stopped laughing but did no more. Magnus checked himself, standing just out of striking distance. “Enough with this horseshit! He is Ulfrik, Lord of Grenner, and we are his hirdmen! You two are piss pot cleaners on ponies. Take us to your jarl. He will recognize us.”
The riders let the wind fill the silence as they considered his words. Runa, trembling, feared they would all be killed, but instead the leader straightened his back, raised his spear, and guided his horse forward. “As you say, then. If you are the Lord of Grenner, you would know that you are still in his territory. We riders watch the borders for trouble, which is what this group looks like to me.”
“It has been a hard journey.” Ulfrik nodded to Magnus that he should back down. Then he scowled at the riders before stepping back and continuing, “We’ve lost much and suffered much along the way.”
“And why journey now, at the start of winter?” The other rider spoke at last.
Runa saw that he was older: the furrows of his round face were deeper and streaks of gray marred his blonde hair. He threw the sealskin cloak off his shoulder to reveal a gold armband.
“We bring urgent news to Jarl Frodi.”
“Urgent enough to come personally, with two men and a slave girl, through a storm, abandoning your hall, and carrying nothing to protect yourself from the winter. I will overlook all of that as something too difficult for a piss pot cleaner to understand. You must have good reason to travel so.”
“That we do,” Ulfrik said.
A smile twitched at Runa’s lips at the understatement. The older man must realize that Ulfrik left much unsaid.
“Surrender your weapons and we will take you to Jarl Frodi’s hall,” the older man said, pointing to the slushy ground between them. Runa caught herself stepping back. The riders are taking us prisoners, she thought. If I run now, I might still have a chance on my own. She stopped upon hearing Ulfrik agree.