Jerry Autieri - Fate's Needle

Ulfrik stood in the front rank, on his father’s shield side. He pushed up his leather cap, which constantly slid over his eyes. Once I’m a blooded warrior, I’ll have my own helmet. On Ulfrik’s shield side stood his father’s hirdmen. Behind them, a crowd of about thirty men-all from the nearby farms or standing troops-formed ranks. Looking over at his eldest son, Orm reached out, removed the ill-fitting leather cap, and tossed it away. He said nothing. Ulfrik could feel his heart hammering in his chest, even though no enemy was in sight.

“Grim, go back to the hall,” Orm ordered, pointing at his youngest son.

Grim, wearing one of Ulfrik’s tunics that hung loosely on his young frame, had been fluttering about the front rank, brandishing a small knife and boasting about killing the enemy. His face crumpled at his father’s command. “If Ulfrik can fight in the shield wall, so can I!”

“Fool child, nothing but trouble from the day you were born. Your brother is fifteen, and smarter than you’ll ever be. Now go, before I crack your head.”

Grim appeared about to speak, but kept silent. He dared to glower at his father, then faced Ulfrik and spat at his feet before running back across the dew-laden grass toward the hall.

“Better keep your brother in check,” Orm said, peering over Ulfrik’s head to the tree line beyond. “I’ve no patience for his complaints.”

Ulfrik nodded, wondering when his father had ever had patience for Grim. He watched his brother’s form dissolve into the gray and green background. Ever since they had received news of the raiding ships, Grim had not stopped trying to join the defense. Ulfrik had told him to stay away, if only to keep their father from beating him senseless, but his brother never took his advice.

The chill morning was quiet but for wind rushing over the cleared fields around his uncle Auden’s hall. When the wind lulled, the rasp of weapons and hushed talk of the warriors could be heard. Ulfrik continued scanning the distance. He felt his pulse throb in his neck, and was self-conscious for it. The older warriors seemed unconcerned about facing savage Vestfold raiders.

Eventually, two figures approached from the woods: scouts, now returning.

“The raiders have pulled up their ship as far as the inlets could take them. They’re on foot now, moving with purpose,” the older scout reported.

Orm grunted and smiled. Ulfrik swallowed hard at the news. His father nodded to Auden, who commanded one of his men to raise Grenner’s standard, a green flag with elk antlers in black. Orm cheered as his standard fluttered, and the others joined in.

“Cheer with us, lad.” The hirdman at Ulfrik’s shield side, Snorri, elbowed him. “Let those whoreson raiders know the land is protected.”

Smiling, Ulfrik joined in the hollering; it felt like a celebration. These fierce men would drive back the scum from Vestfold. The invaders had no chance.

Then, the enemy emerged-at first just muted smudges in the distance with sporadic white flashes as the thin sun glanced off their weapons. Orm and the men bellowed in challenge.

“Form up the line to prevent flanking. Make them come to us.” Orm gestured toward the center of the field, and the men formed two straight lines as Orm had commanded.

Undaunted by the challenge, the enemy marched toward them.

“The line’s too thin.” Auden worried. “What it if breaks? They’ll split us up.”

Orm didn’t seem concerned, which Ulfrik admired. He had never seen his father command men in battle, but he knew by heart the stories of his father’s bravery and cunning. Now, Ulfrik would make a new story at his father’s side. Unlike Auden, Ulfrik was certain of victory.

“Keep your shield on me, lad,” Snorri said, nodding toward the loose group of about thirty approaching raiders. “I’m trusting you to guard my life.”

“I am ready, Snorri,” Ulfrik said, but he felt his knees buckle and his breath grow ragged. He regretted refusing the mead and ale the men had been passing around earlier to steady their nerves. Watching the solemn march of the enemy, he whispered a prayer to Thor to keep his sword true in battle.

The raiders halted in the middle of the field, out of bow range. Two men strode forward, hulking figures in furs and mail hauberks. The one at the back shouldered a two-handed ax. Orm tapped Ulfrik with his shield. “Come with us to the parley and learn how it’s done. There are many ways to tell a man to go fuck a goat. I’ll show you a few now.”

Orm and Auden peeled out of the shield wall to confront their enemies. Ulfrik, trying to keep his face devoid of expression, followed, but his head felt hot and his eyes wanted to close. As they approached the men, Ulfrik realized the shorter man was the leader. He was stout and thick-necked, and his eyes glinted with what Ulfrik recognized as conceit. Grim might look like him when he comes of age , he thought. Two gold arm rings encircled his biceps beneath the cuff of the hauberk and his black hair blew forward over his face as he waited. Ulfrik noticed the dazzling green gem set in the pommel of the man’s sword.

“I am Orm the Bellower, Jarl of Grenner,” his father said as they approached. Ulfrik said nothing, merely turned up his chin defiantly. “You are trespassing on my lands, dogface. I’ll allow you and your band of swineherds to leave now without punishment.”

The leader did not flinch.

Ulfrik watched the exchange with fascination. He would have to do this one day, when his father passed Grenner on to him. Orm’s warning, however, seemed bland. Ulfrik had seen his father angered more readily by a spilled mug of ale. Perhaps it’s all part of the act .

“I am Aki Geirson, and my men and I will leave. But the price is twenty pounds of silver.”

Orm and Auden laughed. The man named Aki remained impassive, his hair blowing across his face. The other raider with him hitched his ax up his shoulder and appeared bored.

Orm looked Aki up and down. “Listen to me, Aki Geirson. I’ve seen your type before; their skulls now watch over my coast from the tops of poles. I will add you and your men to that guard duty. Now leave here and never return, or I will feed your guts to the birds, you turd-eating pig.”

“Twenty pounds of silver,” Aki repeated. “And we leave without burning your hall and taking your little boy as a slave.”

Ulfrik startled at Aki’s acknowledgement, and his gaze flew to his father.

A brief smile alighted on Aki’s thin lips.

“You choose death, Aki Geirson.” Orm turned, and Auden followed. For a moment, Ulfrik worried the axman would chop them down from behind, but Aki and his guard also turned away.

Ulfrik hurried behind his father and uncle, the wind filling his ears as they crossed the field back to their lines.

“He looks like a good brawler,” Orm told Auden, but his eyes remained on his own men. “What did you see in his men? Bows?”

Auden, also looking ahead, replied, “No bows that I saw, but spears. I counted twenty-eight. Their weapons are not well maintained. They’ll run off when the fighting gets tough.”

Orm grunted again as they returned to the line. He looked down at Ulfrik with the barest of smiles on his face. “The parley is a chance to get a better look at the enemy. Take someone you trust to it; let him count enemy spears and give you advice.”

Ulfrik nodded, turning back to Aki, who had disappeared into the crowd of raiders. “What now? Do we wait here?”

Orm did not acknowledge Ulfrik, instead stepping in front of the men. “Listen, they are weak and we are strong. They are desperate and we are calm. We have some numbers over them, and bows. Fire on them as they close, but hold this line. They’ll try to put a swinehead through us. We’ll fold up on their flanks and cut them to bits. No prisoners. Understood?”