When he looked back up, Vandrad had knocked away Magnus’s shield as easily as one would from a child. Magnus hurtled forward with a ridiculous swipe at Grim-so wild and ineffectual that Ulfrik wondered if Magnus had given up. Grim’s laughter carried as he struck forward with a flick of his muscled arm and sliced Magnus’s throat with his sword. A jet of blood arced over Magnus’s toppling body. The other men jabbed him with spears as he fell. As a final insult, Vandrad hammered down with his sword, cleaving Magnus’s skull with a wet crack.
Ulfrik slowed, screaming Magnus’s name. Another arrow skipped across the ground before him, but where the bowmen had advanced before, now they retreated. The rest of the pursuers were arriving, Ulfrik realized. Their fattest game was escaping.
Grim and Vandrad eyed each other, both standing over Magnus’s ruined body like black-garbed devils. With his bloodied sword, Grim pointed to Ulfrik and held up a string of bones that hung about his neck. Ulfrik did not understand the significance, but he understood the challenge.
He did not bother to pursue it, only howled impotently; there would be no justice today.
Grim kicked away Magnus’s sword before turning to run. All around, fleeing men passed him, slipping into the safety of the woods. The pursuers slowed, fearing the arrows that came screaming at them from the shield of trees. It had been a glorious victory for Frodi, but to Ulfrik it was the most bitter loss imaginable.
“Magnus,” Ulfrik whispered to himself. “Your revenge is mine, my friend. Your name will be sung in my hall for all my days. I swear it on my life.”
Birds fled the commotion in the woods, their wings a rain of shadows over Ulfrik’s head. He might have considered it a good omen, had he not already decided the gods’ portents were unreliable. Only when Grim was dead at his feet would he place any more trust in omens.
Twenty-two
Ulfrik made a litter out of Magnus’s cloak and rolled his friend’s corpse into it. Yngvar, who arrived with the rest of the pursuers, still splattered with sweat and gore, said nothing as he helped Ulfrik prepare the body. Ill-aimed arrows sailed past the two while they worked in quiet dignity to place a sword on Magnus’s chest and fold his hands across the hilt. Together, they carried him through the stream of men who were either fleeing or pursuing in the opposite direction. Somewhere, a horn blew, presumably to call the men back to Frodi’s hall before they became overextended.
The trip back was long, slow drudgery. When they came to the place where Grim’s abandoned helm glinted on the ground, Ulfrik grunted to Yngvar to stop while he retrieved it. He looked at it long moments before scooping it up and placing it on his head. It fit well enough. I will wear it as a reminder of this day, he decided.
The morning air smelled of salt and blood when they finally returned to the hall. Where the shield walls had collided, bodies were littered, strewn about like flotsam washed ashore on the tide. A few of Frodi’s men prowled the fallen enemy with knives, slitting throats for good measure. The injured gurgled a final protest. The dead just stared with the accusatory gaze only corpses can manage. All in all, the dead were less numerous than the chaos had warranted.
Finding a place away from the carnage, Ulfrik and Yngvar placed Magnus’s body on the ground. His face was unrecognizable, cleft in two and caked with gore. Yngvar covered it with the cloak. “He was a good man,” he said.
“He has gone on to the feasting hall,” Ulfrik said, looking at nothing but seeing Grim’s face taunting him, over and over, in his mind’s eye. “He died a warrior’s death, and we’ll see him again.”
They bowed their heads, unable to say more.
“Ulfrik!”
The call came from further up the hill. Turning, he saw Snorri waving to him. Three of Frodi’s spearmen guarded Snorri and the seven other men who had betrayed Grim. All were seated, with their weapons stacked outside the triangle of spearmen. Some were simple farmers who had drilled with Orm; others, like Snorri, were hirdmen. All of them were now without a lord or a home.
Ulfrik clasped Snorri about the shoulders in greeting. “I heard I have you to thank for the return of my sword,” he said as they parted again.
“The girl was true to her word, then. I had my doubts. There came no word from you until Grim learned you were here. When he mustered us for battle, I knew it would be our only chance to join with you.”
The other men stood, and Snorri turned to introduce them. Ulfrik missed the first few names. In battle, all thoughts of Runa had faded, but her mention renewed the pain of her loss. Snorri stopped talking, alerting Ulfrik to his rudeness. He shook his head and apologized. “You all know Magnus. Grim killed him today.”
The men dropped their heads, murmuring their anger. Snorri nodded toward the covered corpse. “I suspected that was your burden. He was a fine man, and he died a brave death. He will be avenged.”
The other men echoed their agreement, but when their words faded they stood in awkward silence. Ulfrik felt his eyes mist again. He did not want to shame himself before men who had braved so much to come to his aid. He should be glad for their loyalty, but losing Magnus and Runa seemed a poor trade. Wrong as it was to think so, he could not shake the feeling. He needed time to think, or to forget; for now, he did not know which would lead to a clearer mind.
“Grim has no honor,” a broad-faced man wearing a dull expression said.
Ulfrik recognized him as Dan the Stone Thrower, who won the rock-throwing contests every autumn without fail. “He turned on the families who served his father. Killed them or burned them out of their homes.”
“He burned Auden in his own hall,” added another. Ulfrik could not recall the man’s name, but knew him nonetheless. “He invited the men from Vestfold to the job, gave our land to some far-off king who wants to collect taxes on top of what we already pay to Grim.”
Complaints rumbled through the group. Grim had disenfranchised the men of Grenner and while many more were unhappy, they feared switching allegiances.
“Grim can call on reinforcements from Vestfold,” Snorri explained. “Their power is fearful and far-reaching. Only us hard-headed fools, too dumb to understand the danger, risked making the move. Some of us have already paid in blood.” He pointed to a few corpses, throwing spears jutting from their backs.
Ulfrik forced himself to look. Although already tired of seeing corpses on his behalf, to avert his eyes would dishonor their sacrifices.
“Lord Ulfrik,” Snorri said, dropping to one knee, “We came to you because you are your father’s heir-the noble blood of Orm and Auden. You can lead us against Grim and his foreign king. Accept my oath and the oaths of these men.”
The others followed Snorri to their knees, bowing before Ulfrik.
He was surprised to find himself shaking his head. He needed the men, it was true, but he felt incapable of doing them the honor they deserved. “I can only offer you the life of a homeless wanderer. Pain, poverty, and suffering are all I own now.”
“I would offer you my blade, were it not being withheld from me.” Snorri cast a glance at a spearman, who looked on as one might watch children at play. “But I swear, and my companions swear with me, to serve you as the inheritor of the oaths we gave your father. My blade is yours, Lord Ulfrik.”
“Put your hand upon my blade, Snorri Sigurdarson.” Ulfrik drew his sword and Snorri laid his hand upon it. “I am your lord from this day forward,” Ulfrik said. “I take your oath and in return swear to protect you and your kin. Now stand, all of you, and be welcomed.”
As the men stood, Ulfrik sheathed his sword and smiled. The men appeared pleased. In better circumstances, their oaths would be greeted with cheers and feasting, but the mood was soured by the dead still bleeding into the earth around them, and by their weapons still under guard. Ulfrik embraced each man with a strong clap on the back and a word of thanks; it was all that could be done for the moment.