“I agree. We will surrender all other weapons, but I will not surrender my sword-not until I reach Frodi’s hall.” His tone declared he would not negotiate. The sword he so loved, and for which Runa had risked and suffered so much, was not to be lightly held.
The man nodded wordlessly and Runa, Yngvar and Magnus moved forward and stacked their weapons on the ground, Runa placing hers last. The older man grinned as she dropped her weapon on the pile. But Runa was surprised to feel relief at surrendering it. She prayed there would be no more need for fighting.
“Here.” The older man threw Ulfrik his sealskin cloak as the other man dismounted to collect the weapons. Without hesitation, Ulfrik swept the cloak over Yngvar. Runa respected his selflessness; her brother would have done the same. Ulfrik’s small gestures gave her hope that he would honor his promise to her, and that she had not misplaced her feelings for him.
One of Frodi’s men gave up his horse for Ulfrik; no one wanted to move at an injured man’s pace. Runa felt her stomach rumble as they set off for Frodi’s hall, eager for any food, even slave slop. Anything would be better than stale hazelnuts.
***
They were closer to the hall than she thought. Incredibly, Ulfrik had guided them accurately. To Runa, every tree, rock, or frozen stream looked similar. She had no skills for surviving in the wilderness, unlike Ulfrik, and she only now understood that had she not met up with Ulfrik and Yngvar, her escape would have meant death.
Her misgivings about Jarl Frodi increased as the journey progressed. Skulls and bones dangled from branches, dancing in the frigid air and clacking a warning to trespassers. A severed arm nailed to a tree held her attention momentarily. It was rotten and black, but birds had not yet picked it clean, which she took to mean it was somewhat fresh. Is this what awaits us? She lingered to gawk while the others forged ahead in silence. Then she ran after them, glancing back as if the arm might seize her as she fled.
Eventually, they came to a muddy track that led to the main settlement, an odd collection of houses and barracks, similar to Grenner but on the coast. Jarl Frodi’s people took their livelihood from the sea, and Runa knew boats would be housed nearby. No place in this land was ever far from water or a fjord.
The long, gray-timbered hall, with its snow-covered thatch, leaned over the surrounding buildings from the top of a hill. Plumes of chimney smoke spun up from its center as the small group trudged toward the hall, stumbling through mud created by the melting snow. It was the largest hall Runa had ever seen, but if any of the others were impressed, they gave no sign.
Their captors led them along a track guarded by a watchman, who raised his hand in recognition. As they passed, his look was of disgust. Ulfrik had been sagging on his horse during the journey, but Runa saw him straighten now.
Some children with a dog rushed forward to see them.
“Run ahead,” the gray-haired man told them, “and let Rolf Roundhead at the hall know that we are escorting visitors.”
Runa laughed under her breath at that as the children ran off giggling and yelling. If children can be happy here, she thought, maybe Jarl Frodi is not the monster I imagined.
Yet Runa still felt they were being paraded like captured enemies. People stopped their work and lined the road to watch as they passed. Being a slave, she drew no attention, but the onlookers appraised Ulfrik, Yngvar and Magnus carefully, probably considering them a sign of trouble to come. She did not like the looks they received, but could understand the reasons. But she didn’t want any more trouble, even if it was woven into her fate; she was still a slave, after all.
Finally, mud-spattered and weary from a long march through the snow, they came to the hall. Their two captors herded Runa, Magnus and Yngvar between them. Another man awaited them outside the hall doors, who Runa assumed was Rolf. He helped Ulfrik dismount. Now standing again, with Yngvar for support, Ulfrik thanked Rolf and surrendered his sword. Runa saw the green stone in the pommel glint as the weapon passed from his hand. That sword represented her freedom-if only freedom could be as easily granted as passing over a sword.
“I’ll see these weapons are cared for,” Rolf said. “If you want, I can have them scoured and shined. Looks like they need it. Thorvald can put an edge back to them, if you don’t mind him doing so.”
They shrugged their consent. Their captors were soon joined by other men-hirdmen, judging by their physique and gear. There was mumbled conversation and indecision. Rolf ducked back into the hall while the others gathered the surrendered weapons.
Runa pulled her fur tighter, feeling colder now that she had stopped moving. As she watched Ulfrik shiver, she was ashamed for not having done more, for having held on to the only fur even when Ulfrik needed it. Now he was about to be introduced as the Lord of Grenner, and his slave would be better outfitted. Pulling the fur from her shoulders, she draped it over him. Both he and Yngvar looked startled, but Ulfrik gave an appreciative nod and smiled. Runa wished he hadn’t; he had to appear commanding and fearsome to Frodi’s men, even with a ruined leg and a gaunt face.
The hall doors swept open, and cold air blew across the men who came to greet them. A thin man, no older than Runa, stood flanked by the hirdmen who had fetched him. His golden-red hair was long and plaited, and his beard carefully groomed. He wore expensive clothing in shades of brown and gray trimmed with fox fur, and a gold broach pinned his cloak at the shoulder. His smile was immediate, his face unsullied by hardship.
“I am honored to have the Lord of Grenner as a guest.” He threw his arms wide in welcome and his tone was sincere, although he was addressing Yngvar in error.
Ulfrik cleared his throat. “Thank you, Jarl Frodi. Your welcome warms me greatly.”
“Oh, you are Ulfrik of Grenner?” His fair skin flushed red. “I am sorry, but I am Bard Frodason. My father is visiting with a neighboring jarl. Let’s not stand in the cold. Please, come inside.” He stood aside to let their small troupe enter.
Runa’s face tingled as she entered the warm hall. The hearth at the center of the hall filled the room with the welcome scent of firewood. Women in green and russet dresses fussed about the hearth. Jarl Frodi must be a wealthy man, Runa thought. He either had many wives, slaves, or daughters, or all three. There were more women at work in the hall than there were men to serve, and all were well dressed. Runa tugged at her slave collar and smoothed down her ragged clothing, wishing she had kept the fur, if only to hide her shameful appearance. Once, she had dressed in greater finery than these women, but now her filthy garments looked as if they had been dug from a grave.
“Lord Ulfrik, you are wounded,” Bard said. He knelt beside Ulfrik’s leg, examining the injury. “This needs immediate attention. Place your lord over by the hearth. I will have a healer fetched.”
Yngvar led Ulfrik to the fire, leaving Runa and Magnus among Bard’s hirdmen, who followed at respectable distance. She noticed Magnus nodding with approval as he studied the hall. The floor covered with fresh rushes. The hall posts carved with dragons and serpents. The well-made wooden furniture set with ceramic mugs and plate-something Runa hadn’t seen since leaving Denmark.
“It’s a fine hall, girl. Is it like your father’s?” Magnus asked.
“Better. Are those slaves or wives, do you think?” Runa nodded to the women at the hearth.
Magnus shrugged and sat down at a bench, unwrapping the fur and folding it into his lap.
“You all look weary from your travels.”