Jerry Autieri - Fate's Needle

“He’s a rich man now, Ulfrik, ever since he came back with all that treasure. Though you wouldn’t know; you don’t visit often. Not that I’ve minded your absence.”

Ulfrik wanted to fling the bowl at Grim, but instead placed it down and rubbed his eyes. “I’m not hungry, but tired. To bed; I will see Father tomorrow.” Rising to his feet, he then snatched up Fate’s Needle and strode to the small rooms at the front of the hall. He did not need to look back to know that Grim’s eyes followed him all the way to the door.

***

Orm’s face was pallid and slack on his deathbed and his breath rasped in his throat. Ulfrik would not have recognized him, this man dangling over the pit of death, had he not known it to be his father.

“How did this happen?” Ulfrik put his head in his hands.

“He fell one day and vomited in the hall, screaming of a pain in his guts worse than being stuck with a sword,” Grim elaborated. “Soon he could no longer move or speak. After that day’s end, he was mostly unconscious, feverish.”

The healer woman was typical for her sort: ancient, fat, and short of stature and of patience.

“Where did she come from?” Ulfrik asked.

Before Grim could answer, the old woman spoke. “I have lived in Grenner all my life. My husband was a friend of your grandfather. I live alone, away from irritating fools who get in the way of my work.”

Ulfrik had never heard of her, or her husband, but he didn’t assume to know everyone. Glancing at Grim, he shrugged.

“Halfdan suggested her. Said she knows healing magic.”

“Is it working? He seems in poor condition.”

The old woman clucked, and stood. “He’s alive, isn’t he? Better than if you had not called me. He’d be dead by now. And your constant questioning will kill him if you hang over him much longer. Go away.” She waved them off. “I will tell you when you may return.”

Ulfrik bristled at her order, but the rheumy-eyed crone held his gaze, her splotched face trembling. Ulfrik shook his head and turned to leave, but before he did, he leaned down to his father’s ear. “Rest, Father. I am here now. I will see to things.” He did not expect Orm to have heard him, but the Jarl’s eyes flicked open and his lips cracked apart. His voice gurgled to the surface, fighting to be heard. Only “Guh … guh … guh,” issued forth. Ulfrik stepped back in surprise, realizing his father was trying to focus on him.

“Be gone now, before you cause him more harm!” the old woman shouted, ambling around the bed to chase Ulfrik away.

Orm’s eyes focused momentarily as he looked as his eldest son. “Gruh … grig ngh hhur,” escaped his lips. But Ulfrik swore he heard his father’s true voice cry, “Grim and her!” Then the old woman was on him, swatting him like a fly and Grim grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door. “Let’s not get him excited. He is weak.”

As Ulfrik was led away, he kept his eyes on his father. The gurgling sound died in Orm’s limp throat, and the labored breathing resumed. The last thing Ulfrik saw was the hag’s pale eyes as she slammed the door in his face.

***

The next day was no improvement. Orm fell into a sleep from which he could not be roused. Leaden skies spat rain in fitful bursts, the land reflecting the slow death of its lord. Ulfrik sat with his father whenever the hag allowed it. She had placed a block of ash wood beneath Orm’s head to draw away evil; otherwise, she spent her time preparing odoriferous brews that forced Ulfrik leave the room. But no one else knew how to care for the sick, so Ulfrik had to settle for her work.

Grim followed Ulfrik like a hound at heel. It was irritating, but at least he said little. It was as if his brother were expecting something, watching him, waiting. His father’s words from the day before rang in his head. Grim and her.Did he truly say those words? Ulfrik considered accusing his brother, but thought better of it; fighting would not heal his father. Instead, he placed a sword in Orm’s hand to be sure he would go to Valhalla if he passed.

Orm’s breath was shallower and fainter again when he next visited. Ulfrik could stand no more. When the healer shooed him once more, he felt ready to strike her. “Touch me, hag, and I’ll break your arm!” he growled.

The old woman’s crinkled eyelids drooped. Her smile revealed a graveyard of gappy teeth as she smiled, as if in challenge. Grim stifled a laugh.

Ulfrik felt the blood rush to his face. Ignoring the itch in his hand, which yearned to slap her, he stood and stalked from the room. This time, Grim did not follow.

In his room, Ulfrik pinned on his green cloak and grabbed Fate’s Needle. Then, knowing the sword would only hinder him in the woods, he laid it down again. He had to escape. To be in any place free from the pall of death.

Outside, the air was frigid and the land a mushy gray-green bog beneath his feet. Warriors gathered in groups, kitted for war. Ulfrik recognized few of them; however, they all seemed to know him. When he reached the barracks, he met several men he knew. All said the same things: they were glad he had returned and that the new men had arrived recently. They all believed Orm was preparing for war in the north, or at least preparing a defense against Vestfold incursions. Surely my father would have planned a defense with Auden? Ulfrik thought. None of this made sense. Orm, barely alive, could not answer for his decisions. Perhaps soon he would inherit the remnants of his father’s plan; Ulfrik’s guts knotted at the thought. Had Father shared some of this plan with Grim? Ulfrik wondered. But he had no stomach for talking to Grim either. In fact, he had no stomach for the hall, or for Grenner itself. It was like an alien land to him, filled with strangers who smiled, and placated, and moved him along as fast as they could.

In his youth, Ulfrik would escape to the wood to avoid Grim, or to seek peace. As he marched toward the trees, already anticipating the secret realms of childhood, he realized that today he needed their refuge more than ever.

So predictable, Grim thought, as soon as his men reported Ulfrik had retreated into the forest. And he says I have no imagination . Today, Ulfrik would learn the measure of his brother’s mind. The hall was empty, but for Grim’s sworn men and the two slave girls.

“Contact Vandrad and his troops camping in the north.” Grim called a warrior aside. “The rest of you, wait for my word,” he ordered. Then he hurried to his father’s room. Aud, the ancient “healer” he had met by chance almost a year ago, stood poised over his father’s shriveled body. She raised a single brow, and Grim nodded. No need to discuss a plan they had reviewed so often.

Aud removed the sword Orm clasped upon his chest, but Grim batted her away and replaced his father’s hands on the blade. She was only doing as he had instructed, but Grim now felt it was too much. As despicably as he had treated Grim, Orm had been a great warrior and had earned his place in the feasting hall of Valhalla.

Grim felt his knees weaken. He began to fear he couldn’t follow through on the plans he had set in motion. But when Aud stared at him, he gestured her on. Shutting Orm’s mouth with one hand, she pinched his nose with the other. The Jarl’s breath was already feeble; it was hard to know the exact moment when he finally suffocated. He didn’t even flinch.

Aud poked a needle into Orm’s big toe, deep into the quick of the nail. He did not move. “Lord Grim, he is dead.”

Grim found himself suddenly sitting down. It is done, he thought. I can’t step back now. I couldn’t have stepped back before-not without risking High King Harald’s wrath .