Ulfrik quailed at the news of the dead leaders. Without strong leaders, men did not hold together. “What about Jarl Kjotve?”
“Haven’t seen him,” Thor shouted back, then gulped from the mug. He roared like a bear and threw the drained mug into the water. The oars hit the water with a splash, and he led the drive to find King Harald’s ship.
As Thor’s ship pulled ahead, Ulfrik shouted orders to his crew. Next to him, Yngvar put a hand on his shoulder. “This has been a hard day, Ulfrik. We’ve handed Harald his kingdom.”
Ulfrik did not acknowledge the words, simply slapped Yngvar on the back. He had a final duty to Thor-one last chance to destroy Harald’s power.
***
Grim mopped sweat and blood from his brow. The clang of battle made his head ring. The sun was sinking in the west, and Harald’s ship had drifted such that the light struck his eyes, blinding him. Fighting aboard a ship was an unfamiliar experience to Grim, and one he did not like. He had prevailed thus far, taking only a small cut over his eye, which bled more than it hurt. But the footing was difficult and room in the forecastle was limited. He was accustomed to more space to vent his battle rage. Twice he had nearly toppled into the sea, which would mean death while wearing mail. Some men had stripped off their mail, but when Harald saw, he ordered them to wear it again.
Harald was shouting and laughing in his mail coat, now bedewed with gore that sparkled like garnets. Word that Eirik and Sulke had fallen, and that the enemy were fleeing had made him giddy. All of Harald’s men were cheering, but Grim did not join them. Snorting away sweat that rolled down his nose, he looked to where Harald was pointing.
Across the water, Grim saw men dancing on King Eirik’s ship. One twirled a head-which Grim assumed was Eirik’s-in the air. Spread out between that ship and Grim, the debris of battle bobbed and swirled. Shields clanked together on the waves, forming patterns like a sea serpent floating on the water. Small longboats slid through the crimson water, their decks empty but for the dead piled in the forecastles. Ships were scattering everywhere, with King Harald’s forces in pursuit. Harald roared his victory, and all around, men cheered. But one voice called an alarm.
Harald’s head snapped around and he dashed to the starboard rails. Grim followed, joining the throng about the king. A large dragon-prowed ship rowed for their position, the two small boats rowing astride it forming a screen. The group approached at an oblique angle, presumably to counter bow fire. A banner was nailed to the mast of the larger ship and caught the wind-a yellow crown over a black bear.
It meant nothing to Grim. King Harald, however, clapped his hands as if he had received an unexpected gift. “Men, get your bows. We’ll end this day with a fat prize. Thor Haklang has come to find his death. Fill his decks with arrows. Let no one escape!”
Grim shivered at the words. Thor Haklang was Ulfrik’s lord. His brother would be leading one of the ships. Grim stood frozen in terror. Aud had cursed him to die at Ulfrik’s hand, and now that hand was reaching for his throat. Grim, hero of many battles and a personal guard of the High King, stood trembling like a boy in a dark wood.
“Don’t stand here like you’re sightseeing.” Someone cuffed him, cursing him for a fool. “You heard the king: get your bow.”
One of Harald’s slaves shoved a quiver of arrows into Grim’s hands before moving to the next man. Grim returned to the starboard rail, searching for an open spot from which to shoot. Finding a gap, he jostled his way into it and set his bowstring. As he felt for an arrow, he saw the vessels had shipped oars and were gliding the final distance. Men on the smaller boats crowded the forecastle, all drawing back to fire. Archers were poised on the prow of Thor Haklang’s ship as well.
“Get down!” someone yelled as enemy bows thrummed and arrows hissed like rain among them, forcing Harald and his men to take cover. Men stumbled, and some died, but most of the enemy arrows did nothing more than buy the approaching ships time.
Grim popped back up, an arrow already nocked on his string. His eyes sought the fair-haired head of his brother amid the boats. Lustful screams rang out, loud and near as Thor’s ship plowed on too fast. It would likely ram Harald’s ship, but all along the dragon-headed vessel men in animal skins howled from the rails, eager for blood. Grim swept his bow over the small boats. Ulfrik was not at the rudder of either ship. The distance shortened again. He would get only one shot.
He thought he spotted Ulfrik in the front ship, but too many men blocked him. Then he saw Yngvar, recognizing the face before recalling the name. That was Ulfrik’s friend, and killing him would draw out Ulfrik. Without further thought, he drew back his arrow. His shoulders burned with the fatigue of the day’s fighting, his arm trembled, and sweat blurred his vision. Yngvar’s neck danced at the point of his arrow.
Grim released.
Then Thor Haklang’s ship collided, hurtling Grim back from the rails. Boarding ropes streamed from both ships and wild men began to dive into Harald’s ranks. Grim hurled his bow away and slung his shield from his back onto his arm. The amulet swayed on his chest. By the gods, let its magic be true.
***
Yngvar’s head snapped back and he fell to the deck, one hand at his throat. Ulfrik, who had just released his second arrow and was turning to order the men to prepare for boarding, could not understand what he was seeing. Yngvar sprawled on the deck, his legs kicking as if he were trying to run, his back arching. A black-fledged arrow jutted from his neck, and blood flowed over his hand and puddled under his head.
Ulfrik was next to him in a moment. Yngvar’s eyes, although wide, looked up into nothing. He gurgled and spluttered, his brilliant white teeth now coated in pure red. His other hand swiped at his side or spastically clutched at the deck.
Ulfrik grabbed Yngvar’s shoulders, sweeping his friend’s body with his eyes, as if searching for a cure to his pain. But the arrow had taken Yngvar directly through the throat and protruded from the back of his neck. The only cure for such a wound was death-and that was all Ulfrik saw in his friend’s eyes.
The clutching, empty hand found Ulfrik’s leg and tugged at it. Then he realized. Only gargled wheezes escaped Yngvar’s mouth, but Ulfrik understood them. He drew Fate’s Needle and placed it in Yngvar’s clutching hand. “Go on ahead, to the feasting hall,” Ulfrik said, closing Yngvar’s grip on the hilt. “I will meet you there, and we will drink and brawl and laugh. Forever. Go, my brother.”
He wanted to say more: to tell him that he loved him like a brother, that he respected him like no other man. To thank him for saving his life. So much emotion gushed through his mind, seeking an outlet, but all he could do was choke back a sob as Yngvar’s eyes stopped searching and grew dull. A bubbly hiss escaped Yngvar’s perforated throat, and Ulfrik’s friend lay dead.
“You better join the others, they need a strong leader.” Runa leaned over his shoulder, speaking as gently as she could above the din of the fight.
Ulfrik looked up. Hair flew about Runa’s face and a sprinkling of blood spotted her cheek. She held a long dagger in one hand, and her other touched his shoulder. He pulled her hand down, nodded at the wisdom of her words.
Looking up, Ulfrik saw his men fighting to board Harald’s ship. Thor and his berserkers were in front, and Toki was leading Ulfrik’s men. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Then, unable to bring himself to remove Fate’s Needle from Yngvar’s grasp, he took up his friend’s ax. He looked at Runa. “Stay here, and pray we win.”
“We will not win, only escape. Lead your men in glory, and come back to me here. I love you, Ulfrik.”