“Yes, yes.” Grim waved her away as he turned to leave. “You killed my father. Your family is avenged now, right? And I will pay your gold.”
Looking back, he saw a tear hang in the old woman’s eye. Nodding, she hobbled to her chair in the corner. Grim rolled his eyes, not caring for the old shrew’s emotions-some nonsense between her husband and Grim’ grandfather that had ended in a child being hanged, unjustly she claimed. Whatever the case, Grim had profited from it. Now to eliminate any challenge to my claims on Grenner. He returned to the hall, where loyal men waited to help him achieve that end.
The men, seven of whom were awaiting his orders, rose from the benches when Grim entered. These were all his men-Vestfolders and other foreigners who came to his promises of wealth. He paused before them and presented the confident face he had practiced for this moment.
“Orm the Bellower is dead. You have all sworn your oaths to me, and I am Jarl of Grenner now. You know the plan. Vandrad will be here by tomorrow. I need three of you for special work.” Grim did not wait for volunteers but picked the three who looked most competent. He didn’t know their names, only the fierceness in their eyes. “You three, remain here. You others, spread the word of my father’s death. Summon the hirdmen to see the body and pay respects. He must be buried swiftly and with honor, or the old hirdmen will grumble.”
Nodding, all but the selected three left the hall. They didn’t move as fast as Grim would have liked; he remembered that for some future time. Then he turned to the three who remained. “Kill my brother while he is frolicking in the trees. You, with the bright teeth,” Grim said, pointing, “I’ll give you a foreign-made ax. Put it through his head. We’ll say raiders or outlaws got him.”
“Three men are necessary for this?” asked one.
Grim noticed he had a wide forehead, which made him look stupid. He wondered if he had chosen the wrong person.
“Yes,” Grim stated flatly. “He may have left his sword here, but Ulfrik is the luckiest brat I’ve ever met. Make sure he’s dead. Bring the body back, and by tonight we will only have one obstacle in the way.”
“What about the old hirdmen? Two deaths in one day would be suspicious even to a child,” the man with the white teeth said.
“They are sworn to Orm, so their oaths pass to me,” Grim explained. He did not add that Vandrad was bringing enough men to outnumber any dissenters. “Let me do the planning. You do the work. Now get moving, and try not to be too obvious. Make this good and there’s gold in it for all of you.”
The men departed to their black task. Leaving a lone slave girl cowering in the corner of the hall, Grim returned to his father’s room. It would be his now, and he wanted the corpse out before the stench of death took hold.
Four
Ulfrik meandered through the trees, his boots crunching on the debris of the forest floor. All day he had wandered without purpose, reflecting on his father’s impending death. He felt ready to assume leadership, had felt ready for some time, and yet somehow he imagined the transition would be more gradual, more joyous. Instead, he was inheriting strangers at a time when trouble appeared ready to split the seams of Vestfold and spill toward Grenner in force. With all this in his mind, the trees delivered none of the relief he desired. As twilight fell, he propped himself against a tree trunk, dampness seeping up from the ground to further chill his bones.
Something crashed through the brush, a rabbit perhaps. Ulfrik had not moved for a long time; something else had frightened the creature. Night and cold squeezed through the trees and everything became still, silent. Slowly, he pushed himself up against the tree and stood, his hand reaching for the sword that was missing from his hip. Ulfrik silently cursed himself. He could taste danger in the air, sour and gritty.
A branch cracked. He whirled in the direction of the sound but could see nothing in the muted light of dusk. Without a weapon, not even a knife, he folded himself into the shadow of a tree. His mind assembled a plan-it all hinged on remaining hidden.
The silhouettes of three men detached themselves from the darkness. They crept slowly, combing the shadows. That they were stalking him, Ulfrik did not doubt. He dared not breathe as the shadowed forms closed, fearing his heartbeat would betray him.
One of the men crossed a shaft of golden light to reveal an unfamiliar face. Ulfrik noticed the men were dressed for war: mail coats, helms, one man carrying an ax and the others bearing swords. The stranger’s face was taut and nervous, his eyes shining in the half-light. The other men’s faces were in shadow, but each dropped to a fighting crouch. Ulfrik held his breath. Cold sweat stung his eyes, each drip a crashing wave.
“There he is.” One of the men spotted him and pointed. “Let’s go!”
The man with the ax whirled, his iron blade flashing in the murky air. But the blow did not come for Ulfrik; instead, the ax buried itself above the knee of the pointing man, just beneath the hem of his mail coat. The man collapsed, screaming, his bulk crashing into the forest brush.
“Run, Ulfrik!” yelled the axman. “They mean to kill you!”
The other swordsman stood motionless, apparently in shock.
Ulfrik did not wait, turning he ran deeper into the woods. But fleeing prey brings the predator to chase, and the swordsman bounded after him.
Ulfrik was lighter, faster. Unencumbered by mail or helmet he outpaced his pursuer, who bellowed curses as he crashed through the trees behind. In his haste, Ulfrik caught his cloak on a branch; it yanked him around, and then tore. There was no time to consider what was happening. Behind him came screams and the clang of blades.
Ulfrik pitched forward, his foot caught on a root or rock, and tumbled off a drop into a muck of pine needles. He landed on his stomach, and a stone drove out his breath. A man’s roar and the swishing noise of a sword being pulled overhead brought him to his senses. Instinctively, he rolled into the feet of his attacker. The man bellowed and kicked at Ulfrik, too close to strike. Pushing into the attacker’s legs, Ulfrik forced him into the muddy embankment and staggered to his feet. His attacker scrambled to stand. Leaping on top of him, Ulfrik slammed his assailant back into the mud. The man was strong, but Ulfrik was fast, and speed controlled the fight. He locked one arm across the man’s throat while the other hand searched the man’s belt for a dagger. Every man worth the title of warrior carried one. Only Ulfrik, petulant as he had been that day, had left his behind. The warrior bucked beneath him, nearly throwing Ulfrik free. Spinning, Ulfrik stopped the man’s sword arm with one knee, and his free hand finally found the knife fastened at the man’s side. Ulfrik unsheathed it with a smile.
The blade flashed silver as Ulfrik plunged it into its owner. His assailant’s mail did not match the quality of his blade, and the chain links parted easily as the knife sank up to the hilt in soft belly. Black blood bubbled up with the man’s wail.
Ulfrik stood and yanked the dagger up with him. Beneath him, the man rolled over and wheezed. Ulfrik placed the blade to his throat. “Who are you and what is happening? Speak!”
The man made no sound. Ulfrik felt tension flow from the man’s body like the pool of blood that widened with every moment. With a shrug of disgust, he kicked the dead man’s leg. “Grim, you coward,” Ulfrik cursed. He did not need to think too hard to determine what was going on. “You couldn’t come for me yourself?”
Footfalls and the snapping of underbrush were followed by a man’s voice calling his name. “Ulfrik, I am with you. Hold on!”
Dissatisfied with his position on lower ground, Ulfrik wanted to get back over the ridge, but the axman burst through, following the trail he had left. They both stood motionless, neither knowing what to do. The axman broke the stare first. Glancing down at the dead man beneath him, he relaxed his stance. “That’s good work there. You were unarmed.”