Ulfrik threw the blood-dabbled knife on the ground between them. “He lent me a weapon. Don’t think I can’t borrow that ax from you. Drop it.”
Unexpectedly, the man casually flung the ax into the mud next to Ulfrik. “It’s a good one, too. Your brother wanted me to put it through your head.”
“So it was Grim!” Ulfrik roared, his voice echoing through the trees. “He hired you to kill me, didn’t he?”
“Not so much hired as ordered,” the man said, gesturing that he wanted to jump down to Ulfrik’s level. Ulfrik nodded consent and the man leaped down before continuing. “We’re his hirdmen, according to what he thinks. So maybe we’ll be rewarded for good work. Of course, I won’t now.” A derisive smile lit his face. Then he straightened up and the smile dropped. “Your father is dead, Lord Ulfrik. I am sorry. He was a great warrior.”
Ulfrik knew it already. He had been preparing for it all day, but to hear it was another matter. He had planned to show no emotion, to be strong and unflinching. Yet now he felt himself sway, his breath and eyes burning. His father was dead. Grim and her. Orm had known what was happening. He died in the grip of his enemies, betrayed by his own son. And Ulfrik had failed to act.
He turned his head aside, not knowing what to do next, his vision filled with nothing but images of Grim standing over Orm’s wasted body. Blood from the corpse of the enemy wet his feet, and he danced away as if it were fire, shaking his thoughts back to the present.
“What is your name? Why did you betray your friends?” Ulfrik struggled to keep his voice steady; it wavered nonetheless.
The man stood with his hands clasped before him, relaxed but attentive. “I am Yngvar Bright-tooth,” he said, smiling to reveal the whitest, straightest teeth of any person Ulfrik knew. “These were no friends of mine. Fate put me with them to help you, I would guess. I gave my oath to your father only months ago. I don’t consider that it transfers to your brother. Besides, your brother is an ass and a fool.”
“And a murderer,” Ulfrik added. The words sounded false in his ears, despite the evidence written in blood at his feet. Is this really happening? he wondered.
“But for a fool,” Yngvar said slowly, drawing out his words, “Grim is canny. He has bought the men with your father’s gold. You won’t get close to your brother, not alive at least.”
“I am not concerned with the scum he has hired. My business is with Grim. I will challenge him to defend his name. The others will stand aside.”
Yngvar frowned, as if he smelled foul air. “You should be concerned, Ulfrik. All of those men are part of the plan, and more are coming-camped not far from here.”
Ulfrik rubbed his temple, closing his eyes to think. The matter was far more complicated than he wanted to admit. Reality dawned on him just as night pulled the shades of the forest down around him. Grim had grabbed everything for himself, and he intended to hold it. This was not like the scuffles of their childhood. This was war-real war, with land and men hanging in the balance. And of men, Ulfrik had none but for Yngvar. “Can I trust you?” he asked.
“Yes,” Yngvar answered immediately. “I will make my oath to you. Your father, for the short time I knew him, was good to me. I think you are your father’s son, more than Grim.” Yngvar knelt in the mud with his head bowed and his brown cloak covering him, resembling a dark boulder in the dim light.
Ulfrik did not know how to take a man’s oath, but he didn’t dwell on it long. More important was that he had an ally. Yngvar had already risked much to help him. Ulfrik found words he thought would bring dignity to the muddy, blood-smeared surroundings. “Do you swear to serve me, your lord and my father’s rightful heir, loyally?”
Yngvar replied, but Ulfrik did not hear the words. By chance, he had glanced up as he spoke. Framed against the gloom of the forest was a curly-haired boy in a tattered white shift. He was staring fixedly at Ulfrik. When their eyes met, the boy, startled, darted into the forest. Leaving Yngvar kneeling in the mud, Ulfrik tore after him.
Five
The boy dashed through the underbrush with Ulfrik on his heels. Branches crackled and snapped as the boy fled, and Ulfrik rushed through the still-quivering bushes after him, keeping on the boy’s tail.
The trail was erratic, and Ulfrik stumbled more than once. He guessed the boy was a slave, likely Grim’s. He could not let him return to Grim with news of the foiled plot, not when he first needed to devise his own plan.
He could hear Yngvar lumbering along and cursing behind him, slowed by his mail shirt. Ahead, he spotted a flash of the boy’s grubby rags through the trees. The boy was closer than he thought. Then a high-pitched screech was followed by the sound of the child rolling through the underbrush. Ulfrik smiled, and halted. As expected, the underbrush concealed a sharp drop a few steps ahead. The boy had pitched headlong. Ulfrik leaped down in two bounds and tackled him as he made to rise. Together, they crashed back to the ground, Ulfrik’s body slamming the boy flat, driving out his breath. Straddling him, Ulfrik flipped him onto his back.
Ulfrik immediately saw the slave collar affixed to the child’s neck, but the slave was a girl-one not much younger than himself. She gave him little time to appreciate any other aspect of her appearance. Her breath returned, and her dark eyes widened in terror. She screeched, flailed and kicked, ignoring the impediment of Ulfrik, who still pinned her arms.
Yngvar’s heavy footfalls and ragged breathing signaled his approach. “By the gods, you caught him. I thought he’d get away.” He stepped up to the slave’s head. “So now I know why you’re just sitting atop her.”
The jibe registered with Ulfrik too slowly for him to respond. The girl squirmed and kicked, spitting and swearing, wasting her strength. Ulfrik remained on top of her, allowing her to thrash until she subsided. “I can let you up if you’ll be good. You won’t run?”
“I’ll have your head, girl, faster than you can run.” Yngvar adjusted his grip on the ax. The girl quivered at the words but nodded in silent agreement.
When Ulfrik stood, the girl remained flat on the ground, as if waiting to be assisted to her feet. “Well, you can’t run off if you lie there.” Ulfrik smiled. “Now, tell me what you saw.”
The slave did not answer immediately. She collected herself delicately, as if embarrassed by her behavior. Her white shift had bunched up nearly to her hips, revealing shapely thighs. Ulfrik felt himself react to the sight. They were not the legs of a slave, at least not of a laboring slave. He immediately felt ashamed for noticing and shifted his gaze back to her scowling face.
“I know you,” he said. “You are the slave who served me the other night. Am I right?”
The girl dropped her head and pulled her shift back into place, ignoring the question.
“Maybe she can’t talk. Let’s just be certain.” Yngvar kicked the girl gently, and she recoiled in fear.
“Stop it!” Ulfrik shouted. “She can talk.”
The girl looked sheepishly at Ulfrik. For a slave, she obviously held herself in high regard; Ulfrik could sense it even before she spoke.
“Your father bought me this summer, at Kaupang. I have seen you, Lord, only recently, but I’ve heard your name many times,” she said gently, with a refinement not found in country girls.
She reminded him of his cousins back in Auden’s hall. Ulfrik glanced at Yngvar, who was watching him with a cocked eyebrow. He turned back to the girl. “Your accent is from the south. You are a Dane?”
“My name is Runa. My father is … was Svein Agnarson. Svear raiders kiled him in his hall. I was taken captive and sold at market.”
“This is a slave’s babbling,” Yngvar interrupted. “Grim will be impatient to know if you’re dead, Ulfrik. We must escape before he sends men to investigate.”