Jerry Autieri - Fate's Needle

“It’s my best work,” the smith added.

A smile split Ulfrik’s face as he stepped backward to draw the blade. It hissed gently, and then sang as it left the sheath. The sword felt weightless in his hands, and its newly polished edge gleamed in the sun. Ulfrik waved it carefully in the air, thrilling at the balance. “This is wonderful. I can’t thank you enough.”

Orm looked impressed too, and gestured that he might test it. He weighed it in his palm and stroked the air several times. “Sure enough, it’s a good blade. Your smith needs to work for me, Auden.” He returned the sword to Ulfrik as the assembled men laughed. “Something this fine deserves a name. What will you call it?”

Ulfrik peered down the brilliant blue length of the sword, its blade thin and sharp as a needle. “Fate’s Needle,” he said. “That’s its name.”

Approving nods bobbed around the crowd. “Use it to sew a strong destiny,” Orm said. Then he turned and mounted his Fjord horse. Ulfrik looked again to Grim, his smile fading. Grim’s face was blank. Saying nothing, his brother blinked and turned away.

The years passed quickly, and Ulfrik grew to manhood in Auden’s hall. He returned to Grenner often. On those visits, Orm would test him, setting him menial tasks. But he also taught him how to run the land and how to be a leader who made people feel confident.

“Raiding is for desperate men with nothing to lose at home,” Orm used to say-until one year when he returned with a boat full of treasure, making Ulfrik wonder if raiding was as bad as Orm described. The riches had been shared among the men and Orm buried his share in the hall. Orm also ensured Ulfrik mixed with the men, learning their names and getting to know their families. Even as Ulfrik grew taller and stronger, his father never appeared any older.

The years changed Grim little also. When he visited Grenner, Ulfrik still found him unimaginative, envious, angry and unsatisfied, traits that had now grown from childish drawbacks to man-sized defects. His temper was explosive; only Orm could keep him calm. Grim had not grown much taller, but his stout body rippled with ropy muscle. At nineteen years old, Grim was a physical match for any man. He seemed afraid of Ulfrik, yet avoided him all the same. Ulfrik did not mind.

In the seven years Ulfrik had fostered with Auden, raiders had come only once more to Auden’s lands. A band of ragged men from Vestfold-new faces, the same old threats. Unrest in the north produced roving bands of men who had lost their livelihoods and homes. Those men had met the same end as the first Vestfold raiders. Ulfrik had wielded Fate’s Needle for the first time in battle and sent three men to Valhalla, cementing his reputation as a war leader.

One sullen day in late autumn, a messenger from Grenner arrived at Auden’s hall.

“Your father has taken ill,” the man told him, his blue lips quivering in the cold. “Healing broths, magic-the wise woman attending him has tried everything. He is not expected to live.”

After rushed good-byes to his uncle and cousins, Ulfrik hurried home, deciding against the full day’s walk and riding one of Auden’s few horses instead.

Later that same night, he saw up ahead the beams of golden light shining from the hall’s shuttered windows, pulled taut against the night’s cold air.

“We thought you might come tonight,” said one of the guards.

“Gods keep your father,” said the other, as Ulfrik dismounted and gave Auden’s mount over to his care.

After a few strides, Ulfrik stopped and turned to the guards. “I don’t recognize either of you.”

“Your father is expanding his forces,” the other said, patting the horse’s neck as he spoke. “You know, the problems with the Vestfolders.”

“How did you know me?”

“A messenger was sent north to summon you.” He pointed to Ulfrik’s side. “That’s the green-gemmed sword we were told you’d be carrying. Who else would you be?”

Ulfrik nodded. The two new men smiled. It made sense, although he had not heard of Orm’s plan. He wondered why his father would enlist more men and not speak to Auden, since Vestfold always attacked through Auden’s lands. Giving it no more thought, Ulfrik threaded his way between the barracks to the hall.

He threw open the hall doors, and heat and light bathed him instantly. Tables were shoved to the sides, leaving a wide avenue to the back, where his father’s rooms were. Ulfrik did not bother to remove his weapons. The few men dozing in the hall stood at his approach.

“Your brother is keeping vigil,” a seasoned veteran of long service to Orm said as Ulfrik strode across the hall, passing two listless slaves who tended pots at the central hearth and looked away at his approach.

Ulfrik nodded, making for his father’s quarters. When Ulfrik reached the door, Grim stepped out.

Both men bristled. Pulling back, they assessed each other. Grim’s lip curled, kindling Ulfrik’s immediate agitation. Ulfrik flexed his fists and noticed Grim’s eyes drawn down to them. Neither spoke.

“How is Father? I want to see him.” Ulfrik decided their father was more important than their feud.

“He’s with the healer woman now.” Grim’s black eyes glittered in the low light and he folded his heavy arms across his chest. “You can see him in the morning. He is ill. He needs rest.”

“I did not ride all day to see him in the morning, Brother. Let me through.”

Grim did not waver. A smirk twisted his lips. “Relax for the night, Ulfrik. It’s not my orders you’re following. The healer woman threw me out, too. Father needs undisturbed rest.”

Ulfrik sighed and rubbed at his thin beard. “Then tell me what happened at least. How did he become so sick?”

Grim shrugged.

The gesture compounded Ulfrik’s irritation. This was their father-a man who commanded the respect of honorable warriors-such a dismissive gesture was an insult.

“How would I know?” Grim finally said. “Some whisper it is elf-shot.”

“Elf-shot? You think it is elf-shot? I want to know what happened.” Ulfrik’s voice rose in anger, drawing the eyes of the few men in the hall. He didn’t want a confrontation, but Grim’s answers stung him.

“It’s what’s whispered, Brother. I don’t know any more about these things than you. Why come home to start a fight? Do you think this will help our father, your yelling at his door?”

“I’m not yelling!” Ulfrik yelled. Then he felt his face redden.

Grim’s smile was smug and mirthless.

Ulfrik looked away, shamed by his easy provocation. “It has been a long ride.” He shook his head to clear it. “At least get me something to eat. I can see Father tomorrow.”

Grim stared at him. “You can stay in the front room. Why don’t you put your precious sword away there, since you shouldn’t have carried it this far anyway. There’s a stew on the fire; one of the slave girls can fetch you some.”

Ulfrik did not like his brother’s tone. Grim spoke as if it were his hall, but Ulfrik had long been away. Grim might well consider the hall more his own than Ulfrik’s. He turned aside, to the hearth, where the heat tightened his skin as he sat on the floor beside the fire.

Ulfrik unbuckled his sword, enabling him to sit better, but still kept it close to his leg. He wanted to remind Grim of his shame, though he guessed such subtleties would elude his brother’s intelligence. Standing over him, Grim barked at one of the slave girls to serve the stew.

“Since when does Father keep so many slaves? Wasn’t one enough?” Ulfrik asked his brother as the girl ladled the stew into a wooden bowl and held it out to him. He accepted it from her with mumbled thanks. The curly haired girl glided away, her smile genuine and out of place in the tense atmosphere. Grim continued talking.