Jerry Autieri - Fate's Needle

When the work was done and the corpse wrapped in Ulfrik’s cloak, he donned the man’s mail and cloak, and took up the ax.

Yngvar laughed. “It’s a fine weapon. Can’t we settle with that and be gone?”

“You know it’s not the same,” Ulfrik chided. “Now, find me something to tie my hair back beneath the cloak’s hood. I don’t want to be given away.” Blonde hair was common enough among his people, but Ulfrik’s hair was paler than most and could be easily spotted in the dark.

Runa, clumsily dressed in the mail and cloak of the other dead man, used a piece of cord to help him tie his hair back and push it into the hood of the cloak. The weight of the mail on her slight frame made her stagger.

“She must play the man injured in the fight,” Yngvar wisely suggested, gesturing to the bloodstains on her cloak and armor. “That’s how I’ll explain her staggering, if asked.”

As Ulfrik and Yngvar stooped to lift the corpse between them, a horn sounded in the distance. The two stopped and looked at each other. It blasted again.

“You don’t know what that means,” Ulfrik said flatly. Yngvar shook his head.

“Your brother must be impatient to discover what happened. We can still change our plan.”

Ulfrik refused. Grabbing one end of the dead man’s cloak, he said, “This is the only chance I’ll have to get back in the hall. I’m not missing it. We don’t even know if that is Grim’s horn.”

Yngvar grunted.

“Remember, Runa,” Ulfrik told the slave, who resembled a frightened hare, ready to run, “you will have your freedom when we are safely away with my sword. Take heart in that!”

Turning from her, he focused only on controlling his own fear as the horn sounded impatiently for the third time.

No one spoke as they lurched toward the hall. The cloak-wrapped corpse bounced and swayed between Ulfrik and Yngvar as they hauled it toward the torchlight. Fat, infrequent raindrops broke over their drawn hoods. Ulfrik had placed Yngvar in the lead and Runa alongside himself, guessing that her disguise would fail if anyone looked closely.

Two men stood on the outskirts of the hall, searching the darkness. Yngvar called out to them, startling the guards, although they had made no effort to hide.

“I recognize one of them,” Yngvar muttered. “Just let me talk to him.”

“Grim’s waiting,” said one, a horn clutched in his free hand. “Said you were taking too long.” The man and his companion peered toward the bloodstained package Yngvar and Ulfrik held between them. Yngvar merely nodded and continued to pass.

The other man held up his hand, stopping Yngvar, and pointed at their burden. “He told us you can’t take that into the hall. He’ll come out and see it.”

Both guards, their torches guttering in the drizzle, flanked them. Ulfrik’s arms trembled. Runa was standing too close, more than was manly, and Ulfrik worried it would attract attention. A raindrop splashed the edge of his hood and rolled down his nose. It was as if the droplet were a beacon, drawing the guards’ eyes directly toward his hood.

“Are we just going to stand in the rain and wait for him?” Yngvar snapped, diverting their attention.

“Bring it behind the blacksmith’s then,” said the man with the horn.

Ulfrik smiled; the gods favored his plan. Neither man seemed interested anymore and waved them on. Ulfrik drew a sharp breath, taking in the scents of smoke and pine-the smells of home. Only faded orange light spilling from the barracks provided any visibility. Ulfrik knew the paths well enough, so he was surprised when Yngvar led them in the other direction.

Ulfrik hesitated. Then he understood. The plan needed revision, and Yngvar was in step with that need. Guiding them, he trudged behind the smokehouse to where a pine tree leaned almost to the ground. They laid the body beneath the tree.

“Now I’ll go exchange this for my own sword,” Ulfrik said, pulling the ax from his belt. Knowing they had little time, Ulfrik addressed Runa and Yngvar in low, clipped tones. “Yngvar you look out for Grim, and try to stall him. I only need a moment to get to the hall. I’ll make noise and draw attention my way. Use that to make your own get away. Runa, you will be my look-out.”

The two nodded and he waved them to action. Yngvar stepped into the light and headed toward the main hall. Ulfrik and Runa joined him, but kept to the shadows thrown by the thatched eaves of surrounding buildings.

Grim, flanked by two mail-clad hirdmen, stepped into Ulfrik’s path. Grim carried a horn in his left hand. Torches held aloft destroyed the shadows, washing the blackness of Ulfrik’s hood with flickering light.

The moment tightened, becoming a frozen instant in which Grim’s stout body directly opposed his own, as if the Fates themselves compared the two. No sign of recognition or comprehension flickered in Grim’s coal-black eyes. He seems happy-even elated , Ulfrik thought, involuntarily weighing the ax in his hands. It would have been easy to hurl it straight into Grim’s chest, yet he delayed. No matter what had happened, Grim was still his brother. Looking at him now, Ulfrik couldn’t see Grim as the mastermind of two murders, his own included.

Runa broke the moment, darting from Ulfrik’s vision as everyone turned to Yngvar, who charged from the left, his sword raised. The blade took the hirdman to Grim’s right straight in the neck. Yngvar crashed against the man, ramming Grim and his other hirdman aside.

Grim reacted faster than Ulfrik expected. Recovering from the jostle of the melee, he put the horn to his lips and let it blare. His other guard, equally collected, tossed aside his torch and drew his sword, placing himself directly in front of his lord.

The rain became fiercer, mirroring the violence as the standing guard screamed and leaped at Ulfrik. With rain in his eyes, he barely sidestepped the plunging blade. An ax was the wrong weapon for this fight; there were no shield walls to crack, no supporting spear or sword to help him. Even a knife would have been better than an ungainly ax. Ulfrik stepped through the guard’s thrust and raised the ax for Grim’s head.

“Traitor,” Grim screamed. Throwing aside his horn, he then reached for his scabbard.

“Murderer! You poisoned our father! You’ll answer for that, dog!” Ulfrik’s strike quailed as his thoughts flew away from the fight, to Orm’s death.

Grim ripped out his own sword to deflect his brother’s blow, but his defense was inept. Ulfrik’s ax clanged off the inside of his younger brother’s blade and swiped Grim’s broad face, where it caught in his mouth, wedged in his teeth as blood gushed from Grim’s jaw.

Partly from the tangled confusion and partly from the force of Grim’s deflection, Ulfrik lost his grip on the ax. Grim took the ax with him as he splashed facedown into a puddle, blood pouring from between his fingers as both hands clasped his face.

With a bellow, Yngvar yanked Ulfrik aside, nearly tripping him as he pulled him away from a strike by Grim’s recovered hirdman. The hiss of a sword sounded an inch behind his neck. “Run, Ulfrik, or we’re trapped!”

Ulfrik swung about and saw the truth of it: men with spears and shields tumbled out of the barracks, their heads turning in the direction of the danger. Several were already slogging toward the fight. Ulfrik heard men shouting that raiders were attacking. Yngvar intercepted the remaining hirdman as Grim began to scream, as if only now realizing his pain.

The hirdman pressed Yngvar so furiously that he could not disengage. Ulfrik dove at the guard’s legs, tackling him, hearing the crack of bone as the force of Yngvar’s blade struck the guard’s trunk. Then Ulfrik flipped over and bounded to his feet.