Grim’s mouth worked in a wordless reply. The man remained in perfect stillness, though his smile widened to reveal black and yellow teeth. Grim’s legs reflexively made to run, but he was rooted to the spot.
The revenant laughed, throwing his head back, and hefted the ax into both hands. He kicked out a foot, as if freeing it from an invisible restraint, and said, “You won’t come to me, will you boy? Always the baby, weren’t you?”
Grim shook his head, eyes wide in terror. He could not speak, move, or think. He was fixated on the ponderous approach of the thing that called itself his father. Its footfalls thudded on the ground as it neared. The ax came up to its shoulder, in position to fall once the thing got close enough.
“Poison? You poisoned me?” The thing lumbered closer, one foot slamming down before the other. The points of light became slits behind the face guard. “Only a weakling kills with poison. You can no longer hide from your cowardice!”
Orm’s ghost pulled up before him, and Grim felt himself shrink. The ax gleamed above the helmeted head as a wave of frosty air engulfed him, and his father leaned back to strike. The ax descended. Grim found his voice in a sudden rush, screaming in bare terror.
He did not know how or when, but he found he had put his sword hilt deep into his father’s chest, halting the ax in mid strike. Orm tilted to the side, and then fell to the snow. The points of light beneath the helm blazed, then went dark. Grim yanked back his sword. Dry, powdery snow gushed from the wound and his father’s body soundlessly disintegrated into snowflakes, falling away before him. Only the helmet remained upturned on the ground, an eddy of snow twirling inside it.
Grim was shaking all over, even his teeth chattered. Sweat poured in rivulets down his chest as he stood heaving over the helmet. Without understanding why, he gingerly lifted the empty helm and placed it on his head. It slid into place as if it were his own. When he stood up again and looked through the faceplate, he leaped back in shock.
He was in the old hall in Grenner, facing the high table from the entrance. The hearth fire was nothing more than embers, throwing only enough light to outline everything in red. A continual low hum filled the room and a gray smudge of a figure-small, hunched and still-was seated at the table. Grim shook his head in disbelief. It couldn’t be.I killed her. I killed Aud. That could not be her seated at the high table.
But each time he shook his head in refusal, he found himself creeping closer to the quiet figure. He pressed his eyes shut, expecting to open them again and find her gone. But now he was closer than before and still the figure appeared, although only as a gray smudge, as if seen through murky water. “I killed you, Aud! I cut off your head and buried your ashes!”
He stood beneath her at the high table now. Aud was ashen and sat at a tilt, streams of bloody mud seeping from her eyes as she stared out across the hall. Her mouth was slack, and flakes of snow spun from her breath and melted before reaching the table. A continual hum filled Grim’s head, so loud that he couldn’t think or concentrate. It was as if a hive of bees swarmed in his skull. He pressed his hands to his ears.
“That’s my helmet,” a voice said from behind. Grim whirled, keeping his sword before him. Somehow it was in his hand again, and he was glad for it. Behind him was his brother, Ulfrik, carrying an ax and bearing a shield on his arm. “Take it off and let me see your face. Let me see if I can get it right this time.”
He lunged. Grim parried the strike, fumbling to the side. The hum droned in his ears, making him feel worn and distracted. Ulfrik recovered, spinning around with an evil, wolfish grin. He slammed his shield into Grim’s face then slid his foot behind Grim’s and tripped him, knocking him to the floor. For a moment, Grim could see nothing as the helmet dislodged and covered his eyes. When he knocked it away, Ulfrik leered down at him. “No amulet will keep me from you. Vengeance is mine, dog!”
The ax blade bit between the base of his neck and his shoulder. Grim lurched at the concussive force, hot blood shooting forth like a geyser. Ulfrik laughed, and Grim screamed, clutching at his shoulder where the ax had lodged. His flesh sucked the blade, making awful noises as he wrestled. When the ax finally released, spitting a trail of blood through the air, Grim howled. The last thing he saw was a twisted visage of Ulfrik smiling as he hacked down.
“If you don’t wake up, I’ll silence you for good!”
Grim heard himself screaming. He felt pain in his shoulder, but realized it was a hand dug into it-not an ax. Someone was shaking him. He stopped screaming and, in the dim light of the dying campfire, the angry face of Hrut the Hard came into focus. “By the gods, boy, if you don’t stop screaming I’ll cut your throat!”
Grim shoved himself upright, knocking Hrut away. The sound of breaking waves greeted him. Sleepy-eyed men were sitting up all around him, frowning. He had been screaming in his sleep, he realized, embarrassed.
“Awake now, are you?” Hrut sat back on his haunches and stared at Grim. “I swear you are worse than my girls. Are the monsters all gone?”
Still addled from the experience, Grim rubbed his face. Ignoring Hrut, he put his hand up to feel for his amulet. It was missing. Fire leaped in his gut. He shot to his feet, spinning around, frantically patting his body. Sometimes the amulet would get tangled in his hair or flipped to his back while he slept, but now it was not on him. He dropped to the sand and searched his blanket.
“Looking for your bone necklace? What is that for, anyway?”
“Protection,” Grim replied. It was not in his blanket, but he soon found the finger bones hidden in the sand. The bowstring was not attached. He began sifting the sand, throwing it everywhere.
“Be quiet and let the others sleep,” Hrut said as he stood up. “It doesn’t protect you from nightmares, I see. So stay awake.” Men grunted in concurrence, but Grim paid no attention. On his hands and knees, he scrabbled in the sand for the missing bowstring.
The men around him watched in amusement as he searched in the feeble light.
“Like a dog burying a bone,” one remarked, drawing some laughter from the others. But Grim wasn’t listening, and they soon grew bored and drifted back to sleep.
Eventually, he gave up. He rocked back in the sand, his head in his hands. The amulet had broken. In the dream, Ulfrik had cut his throat. In life, Ulfrik’s bowstring had snapped. Are the gods abandoning me? Is the amulet useless? He did not know, and there was no one to tell him. Had coming back to this foul land somehow given the curse more power? He held the bones, orange now in the firelight, in his left hand. Without the bowstring, would they be enough?
Grim decided to search the sand again in the daylight. Maybe it would be there in the morning. He sat up, pulling the blanket to him, huddling with the remains of his amulet to await the dawn.
***
In the morning, the bowstring was still missing. It never would be found. Grim saw how he had thrashed, how his frantic searches had scattered the sand. The men laughed at him, and Hrut ordered him back to the ship. He sailed out, lost in fearful thoughts.
The rearguard patrol lasted a week, and Grim hardly slept for any of it. He moved as if in a daze. Where men at first mocked him, they eventually shunned him. Grim was consumed with fear about being so close to Ulfrik. If the curse were pulling them together, he needed to escape.
When the ships returned home, Grim used a silver chain to restring the bones. Then he insisted on a meeting with Guthorm. The jarl often heard complaints and disputes, and Grim used his time to plead that he be sent as far away as possible. Guthorm questioned his motives at first, but found nothing suspicious. Several sledges were being sent through the mountainous passes to Trondheim, where King Harald lived.