The hall clamored with men boasting, laughing, and just as often arguing. Despite its enormous size, it was packed with men and Grim jostled for a space. The hall had been built when High King Harald lived here. He was now far away to the northwest, in Trondheim. All throughout the area, magnificent halls, the likes of which Grim had never imagined possible, were a reminder of King Harald’s former presence. At least now Grim understood why Vandrad had considered Grenner a petty country hall of no value. No carved dragons adorned the posts of Grenner’s hall. No graceful arcs softened Grenner’s roofs.
Guthorm appeared at the high table. He was clad in mail, which had been scoured to a brilliant finish, and wrapped in a cloak pinned with a gem-studded golden broach. With his powerfully muscled arms folded over his chest, he scowled until the men fell silent, group by group.
“Before winter ends, High King Harald has commanded we seize Ranrike.” Guthorm’s voice boomed in the expansive, smoke-hazed hall. Grim wondered whether he ever spoke like he wasn’t commanding an army. “I have already chosen the men for this attack. But I want a rearguard, especially with matters just settled in Grenner, across the fjord. You men gathered here tonight will be that rearguard. I don’t expect trouble, but we should be prepared. You will have three days to organize yourselves, then be ready to sail.”
Guthorm frowned out over the heads of the men. A few sycophants clapped for him, but otherwise no one made a sound. Grim gritted his teeth, angered by the prospect of being a guard dog. But he feared Guthorm more than any man he had ever met, and kept his silence. Guthorm unfolded his arms. “Good, I will divide up your duties with the hersir. But tonight, I would not call you to this hall if I did not plan to get you drunk.”
All of the men cheered at that. Grim had learned to play along. He knew that someone’s eyes were always watching in this great army. So he clapped and cheered, looking forward to the excellent mead Guthorm always ensured was in ample supply. By the end of the night, he knew, at least ten of the hundred men who filled the hall would be injured in a brawl and would be unable to travel. For the first time, Grim wished he could be among them, but the talk of Grenner had soured his mood, and tonight he would be the one causing the injuries.
***
Grim cursed the rowing. He had been assigned to one of three ships to patrol the waters near Grenner and while he never minded marching, rowing felt like something a slave should do. Yet, all along the benches, strong men rowed and sang to kill the monotony. The winds seemed to always blow contrary to where the pilot wanted to go; thus the rowing.
Grim shook his head as they rowed south, shaking from his head the visage of Aud, which had come to him again in a dream. He knew it was absurd to be frightened, but something about returning filled him with trepidation. He felt the amulet of bones, laced about his neck with Ulfrik’s bow string, swaying across his chest as he rowed, but even that provided him with less comfort than usual.
He was not among friends on this ship. Most of his companions had drawn duties on land. Guthorm’s army organized men into a felag that learned to fight together. And the men on the ship were such a group; Grim was an intruder on their camaraderie. Being sullen and preoccupied had not helped his welcome.
The hersir at the rudder was called Hrut the Hard. When Grim first met him, he had eyed Grim’s amulet with a skeptical frown, similar to the look he was giving Grim now. Grim spat to show his displeasure at being studied. Hrut smiled, and gazed back out to sea. The longship jumped and crashed over the choppy waves, foamed up by blustery winds. Grim returned to his worries.
By the end of the first day, the ships had rowed past Grenner and into Frodi’s territory. They pulled up on the beaches to camp for the night. Hrut shouted orders to his men, but when he came to Grim, he just looked at the amulet and then turned away. It suited Grim: he wanted to rest his aching shoulders anyway.
He sat apart from the others, eating his rations and listening to waves slam the beach. His arms trembled-with the effort of rowing he presumed, or was it just Aud’s curse chewing at him? Eventually, Grim found a spot close to the fire and lay down with a blanket to defend against the night air. He slept with his hand upon the amulet.
***
“Grim!”
Grim jerked up straight in the cold night. It was unnaturally silent; not even the sounds of the ocean, which should have been roaring over the beach, provided a distraction. All about him, men were gray, slumbering lumps in the silent dark. The fire burned as bright as when it had first been lit, but threw no warmth.
“Grim.”
His name came again, thin and shrill on the dead night air. It came from the black tree line, and Grim knew he would have to go to it.
His blanket slipped away as he stood, and sand dropped from his body as he started toward the woods. One hand clutched his amulet and the other was held out before him, as if he feared an invisible wall.
“Grim.”
The voice came again, closer and stronger this time. It raised the hackles of his neck in fear. No other sound penetrated the leaden dark, not even the creak of leather and mail that should have made enough noise to wake the other warriors. He stepped over the sleeping men until he came to the grass that led to the trees. He strained his eyes to see into the green-gray murk, but saw nothing.
“Come to me, Grim.”
The voice rushed all about him now, sibilant and low-pitched. A sensation of cold washed down his neck and spine, like icy water poured beneath his clothes. In the woods, a faint light shimmered. Grim’s feet carried him on, toward the light, although he did not want to go.
The trees seemed to close about him as he entered. Snow flaked the ground, but the branches were bare. Turning around, he saw nothing but trees and darkness. The voice that had lured him to this place broke into peals of laughter. Grim’s free hand dropped to his sword and pulled it from the scabbard. His other hand maintained a white-knuckled lock on the amulet. The yellow glow flared beyond the trees. His sword thrust forward, Grim padded toward the source.
As he entered a clearing, his heartbeat soared and cold sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision. In the center of the clearing was a tall, heavily muscled man. He wore rusted, rotting mail, and a tattered cloak danced from his shoulders. Both of the man’s heavy hands rested on the shaft of an ax held head-down before him. But it was the man’s head that arrested Grim’s attention. His wore a helmet exactly like the one Grim had lost to Ulfrik, and long gray hair streamed from beneath it. Behind the mask, two spots of yellow light wavered. A thin smile broke out on the man’s face when Grim met those baleful points.
“You have come to see me at last, my son,” the man said, his voice as thin and empty as air blown through a hollow trunk. “Come, embrace your father.”