Ulfrik shoved through the crowd and into the back rooms of the hall. Riches were strewn over Frodi’s quarters, as if the place had already been ransacked. He could have made himself wealthier than he ever imagined, but he was not searching for treasure. Where a bench had been pushed aside, a small door, which looked like part of the wall, hung open.
Ulfrik rushed through it, out to the back of the hall. He scanned from side to side. In the moonlight, he saw a gray horse with people bustling about it.
Ulfrik’s side ached and his temple throbbed, but he sprinted to it regardless. As he ran, he saw a shadow of a man hitching the horse to a sledge, and two other men hoisting a pregnant woman onto the sledge.
“Runa! Runa, jump off!”
The three men whirled around at his foolish announcement. Suddenly, Ulfrik realized he was alone.
“Kill him!”
Bard gave the order; Ulfrik recognized his voice and saw his red hair in a sudden beam of moonlight. The two other men drew their swords, silver blazes in the night, and stalked toward him. Bard mounted the driver’s seat and took up the reins.
“Ulfrik!” Runa shot to her feet, but Svala yanked her down. Runa pushed her away, but Svala was stronger.
Ulfrik had one chance. He dropped his shield and stuck his sword in the grass. Pulling a throwing ax from his belt, he ignored the two approaching enemies. He lined the ax-head up with Bard, who was flicking the reins, and let the ax fly.
Svala was still grabbing at Runa and they stumbled around like two drunken dancers. Runa wrenched her arm free and kicked Svala, just as the ax hurtled towards them.
Time stood still, the next moments stretched out before Ulfrik. Everyone moved as if the air was as thick as pinesap. The ax splintered Svala’s head and she fell backward onto her son, spilling her brains into his lap. Bard had just jerked the sledge into motion, and Runa, standing off balance, tumbled backwards onto the ground as the sledge lurched forward.
Ulfrik yanked Fate’s Needle out of the grass, then scooped up his shield with the other hand as his two attackers started their charge. He flung the shield at one, the metal rim crashing into the man’s teeth. Ulfrik parried the other man’s attack. Still hunched over, Ulfrik punched the man in the groin.
The attacker tumbled aside as the first man recovered from the shield bash, but Ulfrik was in control again. The sap that had slowed time evaporated. The second attacker roared forward and took a wild swing. Ulfrik skittered away and carved a deep slice into the back of the man’s thigh. He crumbled, with a howl that persuaded the other attacker to leap to his feet and flee.
Ulfrik whirled to see Bard’s sledge vanishing into the night. He did not care, as long as Runa was unhurt. She lay crumpled on her belly, and he ran to her, tears threatening his eyes. “Runa! Are you hurt?”
Gingerly, he flipped her over and put his head to her chest. When he heard the strong beating of her heart, he nearly cried for it. But she was unconscious and blood leaked from her mouth and nose. Ulfrik wrapped her in his cloak and took her into his arms. “My Runa,” he said, rocking her. “I will keep you safe. You will be all right.”
Buildings everywhere were ablaze, and the screams of the dying and wounded echoed in the uncaring night.
Thirty-one
Grim was practicing with his ax, not far from the main hall and barracks. Sweat streamed down his back and his massive muscles ached with the repetition of practice strikes. Months of constant warfare had beaten Grim into a warrior notorious for rabid ferocity and sheer strength, but now, following Harald’s long campaign in Gautland, Grim’s days were idle.
Jarl Guthorm had sent Grim with honor, which meant much to Harald and his closest men. After several battles, Grim had come to the direct notice of the king and was appointed to Harald’s guard, standing with him in the front ranks of the shield wall.
Harald soon rewarded Grim with gold and silver, far more than he could have obtained squatting in the farmlands of Grenner. Grim had picked the finest weapons and armor from the spoils of battle, and had no responsibility other than protecting the king and killing his enemies. It was a life more glorious than he could have imagined; the only blot upon it was Aud’s curse.
Being close to the king, Grim heard news from men who had visited distant places. He learned that Ulfrik had sworn himself to Kjotve the Rich and Thor Haklang, building ships and a hall of his own. But Grim also knew the curse was still upon him; he could feel it tugging at him while he slept. Fell shapes shambled through his dreams, ghosts that threatened and chastised him. He kept the bone amulet, but doubted its efficacy without Ulfrik’s bowstring. No one but his brother had so much as ever nicked him in a fight. Would the power of the curse guide Ulfrik’s blade to his heart? Grim regularly begged the gods to keep his brother at bay, desperate to ensure he never met Ulfrik in battle.
The king had settled his sizable army in Trondheim, and tended to his family. Grim cared nothing for children, but particularly disliked Harald’s twin sons. Both were named Halfdan, one the White and the other, the Black. Grim could not tell the difference between them, other than their clothing. All four of Harald’s children were brats, which Grim supposed was the case for all princes, but the king’s sudden desire to spend time with them left his troops bored and irritable.
Grim kept occupied by drilling the younger men, or sparring whenever he could find a reluctant opponent. He had nearly killed a spindly armed boy for failing to keep up his shield. Unfortunately, the boy had been a friend of Harald’s twins, and Grim had been forced to apologize and pay for the injuries.
“There you are.”
Grim set down his ax and drew his thick forearm across his brow as two men approached across a field of waving blue-green grass. The day was clear and cool, right at the meridian of spring and summer.
“The king is calling his men together,” the taller of the two men said. “You must return to the hall immediately.”
Grim gave a short nod and a grunt. “I’ll go right away.” Grabbing the ax high on the haft, he started to walk. “What’s it about?”
“He’s not calling us to chat about the weather,” said the other man. They turned back the way they had come, to walk with him. “But it’s big news. He’s calling for everyone.”
Grim didn’t fill in spaces in the conversation. He didn’t like to talk. He had discovered that keeping his mouth shut helped him avoid trouble. The other two traded jokes as they walked.
“So are you always practicing with that ax?” the tall one addressed Grim again. “Don’t you ever relax?”
“I like to be ready.”
“For what?”
“For cutting out the tongues of fools who ask too many questions.”
After that, the two men fell behind and let Grim walk alone to meet the king.
***
Harald’s men were arriving from all over, herded together by runners, slaves, or, as was Grim’s case, other hirdmen. Harald’s eldest son stood next to his father as they waited outside the hall doors. Where the sun touched Harald Finehair’s lustrous, well-groomed hair, it turned to blazing gold. His son had inherited something of it, but nothing as magnificent as Harald’s.
As Grim arrived, he recognized the grizzled, hardened faces of Harald’s best warriors. Sweat flowed down his face and into his mouth; he blew it away angrily.
Once the group had assembled, Harald raised his hand for silence and attention, both of which he received immediately. He scanned their faces, his gaze as sharp as a bird of prey’s. When he spoke, his voice was sonorous. “I have had news from the south. The false jarls of the coast have made an alliance against us. Of this news, I am completely certain. Even now, they gather their men and ships and sail for our lands.”