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Two

The years passed quickly, and Ulfrik grew to manhood in Auden’s hall. He returned to Grenner often. On those visits, Orm would test him, setting him menial tasks. But he also taught him how to run the land and how to be a leader who made people feel confident.

“Raiding is for desperate men with nothing to lose at home,” Orm used to say-until one year when he returned with a boat full of treasure, making Ulfrik wonder if raiding was as bad as Orm described. The riches had been shared among the men and Orm buried his share in the hall. Orm also ensured Ulfrik mixed with the men, learning their names and getting to know their families. Even as Ulfrik grew taller and stronger, his father never appeared any older.

The years changed Grim little also. When he visited Grenner, Ulfrik still found him unimaginative, envious, angry and unsatisfied, traits that had now grown from childish drawbacks to man-sized defects. His temper was explosive; only Orm could keep him calm. Grim had not grown much taller, but his stout body rippled with ropy muscle. At nineteen years old, Grim was a physical match for any man. He seemed afraid of Ulfrik, yet avoided him all the same. Ulfrik did not mind.

In the seven years Ulfrik had fostered with Auden, raiders had come only once more to Auden’s lands. A band of ragged men from Vestfold-new faces, the same old threats. Unrest in the north produced roving bands of men who had lost their livelihoods and homes. Those men had met the same end as the first Vestfold raiders. Ulfrik had wielded Fate’s Needle for the first time in battle and sent three men to Valhalla, cementing his reputation as a war leader.

One sullen day in late autumn, a messenger from Grenner arrived at Auden’s hall.

“Your father has taken ill,” the man told him, his blue lips quivering in the cold. “Healing broths, magic-the wise woman attending him has tried everything. He is not expected to live.”

After rushed good-byes to his uncle and cousins, Ulfrik hurried home, deciding against the full day’s walk and riding one of Auden’s few horses instead.

Later that same night, he saw up ahead the beams of golden light shining from the hall’s shuttered windows, pulled taut against the night’s cold air.

“We thought you might come tonight,” said one of the guards.

“Gods keep your father,” said the other, as Ulfrik dismounted and gave Auden’s mount over to his care.

After a few strides, Ulfrik stopped and turned to the guards. “I don’t recognize either of you.”

“Your father is expanding his forces,” the other said, patting the horse’s neck as he spoke. “You know, the problems with the Vestfolders.”

“How did you know me?”

“A messenger was sent north to summon you.” He pointed to Ulfrik’s side. “That’s the green-gemmed sword we were told you’d be carrying. Who else would you be?”

Ulfrik nodded. The two new men smiled. It made sense, although he had not heard of Orm’s plan. He wondered why his father would enlist more men and not speak to Auden, since Vestfold always attacked through Auden’s lands. Giving it no more thought, Ulfrik threaded his way between the barracks to the hall.

He threw open the hall doors, and heat and light bathed him instantly. Tables were shoved to the sides, leaving a wide avenue to the back, where his father’s rooms were. Ulfrik did not bother to remove his weapons. The few men dozing in the hall stood at his approach.

“Your brother is keeping vigil,” a seasoned veteran of long service to Orm said as Ulfrik strode across the hall, passing two listless slaves who tended pots at the central hearth and looked away at his approach.

Ulfrik nodded, making for his father’s quarters. When Ulfrik reached the door, Grim stepped out.

Both men bristled. Pulling back, they assessed each other. Grim’s lip curled, kindling Ulfrik’s immediate agitation. Ulfrik flexed his fists and noticed Grim’s eyes drawn down to them. Neither spoke.

“How is Father? I want to see him.” Ulfrik decided their father was more important than their feud.

“He’s with the healer woman now.” Grim’s black eyes glittered in the low light and he folded his heavy arms across his chest. “You can see him in the morning. He is ill. He needs rest.”

“I did not ride all day to see him in the morning, Brother. Let me through.”

Grim did not waver. A smirk twisted his lips. “Relax for the night, Ulfrik. It’s not my orders you’re following. The healer woman threw me out, too. Father needs undisturbed rest.”

Ulfrik sighed and rubbed at his thin beard. “Then tell me what happened at least. How did he become so sick?”

Grim shrugged.

The gesture compounded Ulfrik’s irritation. This was their father-a man who commanded the respect of honorable warriors-such a dismissive gesture was an insult.

“How would I know?” Grim finally said. “Some whisper it is elf-shot.”

“Elf-shot? You think it is elf-shot? I want to know what happened.” Ulfrik’s voice rose in anger, drawing the eyes of the few men in the hall. He didn’t want a confrontation, but Grim’s answers stung him.

“It’s what’s whispered, Brother. I don’t know any more about these things than you. Why come home to start a fight? Do you think this will help our father, your yelling at his door?”

“I’m not yelling!” Ulfrik yelled. Then he felt his face redden.

Grim’s smile was smug and mirthless.

Ulfrik looked away, shamed by his easy provocation. “It has been a long ride.” He shook his head to clear it. “At least get me something to eat. I can see Father tomorrow.”

Grim stared at him. “You can stay in the front room. Why don’t you put your precious sword away there, since you shouldn’t have carried it this far anyway. There’s a stew on the fire; one of the slave girls can fetch you some.”

Ulfrik did not like his brother’s tone. Grim spoke as if it were his hall, but Ulfrik had long been away. Grim might well consider the hall more his own than Ulfrik’s. He turned aside, to the hearth, where the heat tightened his skin as he sat on the floor beside the fire.

Ulfrik unbuckled his sword, enabling him to sit better, but still kept it close to his leg. He wanted to remind Grim of his shame, though he guessed such subtleties would elude his brother’s intelligence. Standing over him, Grim barked at one of the slave girls to serve the stew.

“Since when does Father keep so many slaves? Wasn’t one enough?” Ulfrik asked his brother as the girl ladled the stew into a wooden bowl and held it out to him. He accepted it from her with mumbled thanks. The curly haired girl glided away, her smile genuine and out of place in the tense atmosphere. Grim continued talking.

“He’s a rich man now, Ulfrik, ever since he came back with all that treasure. Though you wouldn’t know; you don’t visit often. Not that I’ve minded your absence.”

Ulfrik wanted to fling the bowl at Grim, but instead placed it down and rubbed his eyes. “I’m not hungry, but tired. To bed; I will see Father tomorrow.” Rising to his feet, he then snatched up Fate’s Needle and strode to the small rooms at the front of the hall. He did not need to look back to know that Grim’s eyes followed him all the way to the door.

***

Orm’s face was pallid and slack on his deathbed and his breath rasped in his throat. Ulfrik would not have recognized him, this man dangling over the pit of death, had he not known it to be his father.

“How did this happen?” Ulfrik put his head in his hands.

“He fell one day and vomited in the hall, screaming of a pain in his guts worse than being stuck with a sword,” Grim elaborated. “Soon he could no longer move or speak. After that day’s end, he was mostly unconscious, feverish.”

The healer woman was typical for her sort: ancient, fat, and short of stature and of patience.

“Where did she come from?” Ulfrik asked.

Before Grim could answer, the old woman spoke. “I have lived in Grenner all my life. My husband was a friend of your grandfather. I live alone, away from irritating fools who get in the way of my work.”