Approaching his men, he finally looked up. He did not understand what he saw. Only when he felt the spear point in his back, did it make sense.
Thor Haklang’s fierce men ringed Yngvar, Snorri, and all the others at spear point. Yngvar bore an expression equal parts exasperation and rage. The spear at Ulfrik’s back jabbed him, and the pain pushed him forward toward the others.
He still held Fate’s Needle, but someone behind him quickly grabbed it. Ulfrik released it, knowing to fight would be to die, and turned to see Thor himself gripping the sword.
“So you’re my take from this shitty adventure.” Thor’s deep-set, beady eyes flashed as he spoke. “None of your brother’s friends took anything good to battle. What do the men of Grenner fight with: twigs and rocks? What am I supposed to take for booty?”
“We are freemen,” Ulfrik said, surprising himself with the evenness of own voice. He could feel his knees trembling. “No one can award us as booty. Put up your spears and stop shaming yourselves.”
Thor’s thick hand clobbered him, sprawling him out before he understood what had happened. He hadn’t felt so dazed since Grim had cracked his head with the rock. The spear point followed him down, resting on his stomach.
“Shut your rotten mouth if you don’t want my man here to let the air out of your belly! You’re all outlaws here, landless and masterless. Your lice-ridden hides belong to me now-the lot of you. There wasn’t shit worth to pick over on the battlefield. Only that helmet you’re wearing looks fine. I think I’ll take that too.”
Another man hauled Ulfrik up and knocked off his helmet. Dazed as he was, Ulfrik realized Thor had hit him through his helmet. He shuddered to think what the bear-warrior could do with his ax.
Ulfrik was spun around and his hands tied behind his back. His men were being tied as well. He looked over his shoulder and spotted the silhouettes of Bard and Frodi watching in the distance. His heart burned, but he could do nothing but turn away.
“Get these mongrel bastards aboard ship and on an oar. At least we won’t have to row home ourselves.”
Ulfrik hung his head, unable to meet the eyes of the Grenner men who had just joined him. All of you would’ve been better under Vestfold, he thought. He could think of nothing else. He felt numb, senseless. His captor pulled on his bindings to test them, then shoved him forward.
“Let’s get going before Frodi tries keeping you for himself. Greedy bastard.” Thor turned and waved at Frodi, who raised his hand in reply. “Not even one day here and I’m ready to go. What about you, Jarl Ulfrik? I guess you can’t wait to leave, too!” Thor burst into laughter.
Ulfrik merely stumbled ahead, into a life of slavery.
Twenty-three
Grim sat at the high table, staring at the thin light the hearth threw out. Since he had hanged all his slaves, no one tended the hall. Candles leaked wax, the floor rushes were old, and the tables were stacked with debris from the last meal they had eaten before marching on Frodi’s lands. Many of the women who had cooked that meal were now grieving widows, crying alone in the cold night; Grim felt like joining them.
Several days had passed since the battle. Grim absently toyed with the charm that hung around his neck, a necklace of Aud’s hand bones hung on one of Ulfrik’s childhood bowstrings. Lini had presented it to him the day of the battle. The charm seemed to work, since Ulfrik never reached him. But that was all the good Grim could find for himself.
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.