Jerry Autieri - Fate's Needle

“So are you always practicing with that ax?” the tall one addressed Grim again. “Don’t you ever relax?”

“I like to be ready.”

“For what?”

“For cutting out the tongues of fools who ask too many questions.”

After that, the two men fell behind and let Grim walk alone to meet the king.

***

Harald’s men were arriving from all over, herded together by runners, slaves, or, as was Grim’s case, other hirdmen. Harald’s eldest son stood next to his father as they waited outside the hall doors. Where the sun touched Harald Finehair’s lustrous, well-groomed hair, it turned to blazing gold. His son had inherited something of it, but nothing as magnificent as Harald’s.

As Grim arrived, he recognized the grizzled, hardened faces of Harald’s best warriors. Sweat flowed down his face and into his mouth; he blew it away angrily.

Once the group had assembled, Harald raised his hand for silence and attention, both of which he received immediately. He scanned their faces, his gaze as sharp as a bird of prey’s. When he spoke, his voice was sonorous. “I have had news from the south. The false jarls of the coast have made an alliance against us. Of this news, I am completely certain. Even now, they gather their men and ships and sail for our lands.”

Growls rippled through the men. Grim ignored them, concentrating on Harald. He felt his chest tighten at the news.

Harald nodded, acknowledging the group’s anger, and continued. “They expect to catch us unaware, dozing in the summer sun like old men. But we will be ready; we are always ready! Prepare yourselves to sail at dawn. We will move first, and move fast, gathering up the levies as we sail down the coast. We will spring upon them and destroy them before they ever reach our homes.”

The men roared their approval and Harald pumped his fist in the air, roaring back at them. Grim joined in, although hesitant. The jarls of the southern coasts would include Agder’s Kjotve the Rich; Ulfrik could be among the enemy sailing to Trondheim.

Clusters of men drifted away, boastful and animated. Harald remained, speaking to his son and a few of his hersir. Catching his eye, Grim approached and bowed. “King Harald, may I ask if the Kjotve the Rich is among the men we will destroy?”

The hersir with Harald gave Grim a cool look, but Harald always made time to speak with his men, particularly those who guarded his flanks in battle. Harald raised his brow at the question. “He still calls himself King of Agder, so I believe he is.”

“Who is strong among his men, Your Majesty?” Grim had to know for sure.

“His son, Thor Haklang, is as much a leader as his father. He is a berserker, and a great warrior. Is that who you are asking for?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Grim said, bowing as he backed away. “I will not bother you any longer. It will be a pleasure to kill them both.”

King Harald nodded and turned back to his son and the hersir. Grim walked until he rounded the far side of the hall. Then, when no one looked, he threw himself back against the wall, clutching the amulet in his left hand and bracing himself with the right. He felt dizzy. The curse was coming for him. There was no escape. To flee would turn him into an outlaw-a short life. To sail with Harald would bring Grim to the only man who could stand against him. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that when he opened them, the curse would be gone.

But nothing felt changed. He imagined he heard Aud chuckle. Sinking to the ground, his back to the wall, Grim knew that tomorrow would sail him to his doom.

When Runa was a child, she had fallen into a pond while stretching to catch a dragonfly. She remembered the cold slap of the water embracing her, the muffled bubbling of air rushing from her mouth, and the stark terror of death enveloping her. Then her brother had snatched her from the water’s frigid embrace, and she had lived. She felt the same way now.

The fall from the sledge evoked the same horror, the same muffled struggle to breathe, the same coldness surrounded her as she floated in blackness. But this time, it was Ulfrik pulling her back to the world.

She had landed on her stomach and passed out. When she came to, it was to deliver her baby. It had been a boy after all, but he was dead. The delivery was a jumbled mess of memories and unfamiliar faces hovering over her. Only Ulfrik’s worried face appeared once. He had spoken soothing words to her, although she couldn’t recall what he had said. She felt it best that she didn’t remember too much. She had been delusional, sure she had seen the faces of family members, and of Toki.

Runa lay on a timber bed that was thick with furs and blankets. She couldn’t remember the last time she had experienced such luxury. It was Ulfrik’s bed-she remembered that much. The room was small, unadorned, and still smelled of fresh timber, which creaked and popped as the structure settled. An older woman named Gerdie cared for her and insisted that Runa remain in bed for at least a week and eat only special broths. Runa did not protest. She had spent the past few days in comfortable silence, mostly asleep, weary with grief.

The sun began to peep through the window and roosters announced the new day. Within moments, the door opened. She had expected Gerdie to deliver her soup. Instead, Ulfrik carried the bowl inside.

He held the bowl of steaming soup carefully in both hands, and closed the door with his foot. Before the door shut fully, Runa glimpsed men gathering at the tables in the main hall. Ulfrik’s hall was modest enough to not even have rooms separating the main hall.

“Gerdie says you are now strong enough to talk to me.”

“That’s true.” The words sounded foolish to her. She had been well enough since yesterday, and had been dreaming up the right things to say. Runa did not want to gush, nor to sound ungrateful. She sat up to receive the bowl, smiling dumbly at him and taking comfort in the knowledge that he didn’t know what to say either.

Ulfrik handed the bowl to her, sat on Gerdie’s stool, and smiled. To break the awkward moment, Runa sipped the bland broth.

“Runa, there’s so much to say, but I don’t know how to begin. I’ve never found the right words when it comes to you.”

“I’ll agree to that.” She refrained from jabbing him a little harder. Part of her wanted to punish him for all she had suffered, for the nightmare of the past nine months. But one look at his pained expressions stopped her. “But my tongue has grown wooden too. I’ve had no practice with fine words these days.”

Ulfrik lowered his head. More silence passed as Runa continued to sip from the bowl. Finally, he looked her in the eye. “I am sorry about the baby. I wish I could have saved both of you. I know he might have been my son.”

“I doubt that,” she lied. “Bard raped me so many times in those first days. Your seed never had a chance. Do not worry for me. I was not attached to the thought of that child, especially if it was his.”

“But it was half of you. And that is still precious to me.”

Runa suddenly felt the surge of emotion she had been keeping at bay. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Well, you’re beginning to find some right words.”

Ulfrik removed the bowl and embraced her. How long had it been since she was last held with love and tenderness? How long since anyone wanted her as a person? She stiffened, not remembering how to respond, and then softened and began to weep. Tears for the pain of losing her son, the joy of reunion with her lover, and the glorious satisfaction of being freed from slavery.

Her hand reflexively searched for her slave collar but felt only bare flesh. Pulling away, she looked into Ulfrik’s eyes, astonished. She had not even realized the collar had been removed.