Fate's Needle by Jerry Autieri

can’t stand axes. I want the big one’s sword.”
    Ulfrik realized for the second time that day that Fate’s Needle was still sitting in his room. He kicked the ground with a curse. Would Grim strip him of everything today?
    “I must get my sword,” he said. “I cannot allow Grim to have it.”
    “I don’t think Grim will be inclined to give it back.” Yngvar started up the drop-off to find the trail back. “Do you plan to ask nicely?”
    Rage snaked up Ulfrik’s neck and pounded in his temples. His muscles tensed, but he could not release the tension as his mind sought a way out of the trap, a plan to strike back. All of his thoughts focused on the problem of his sword. When he did speak, his voice was slow and measured. “My honor would be lost if Grim were to take the sword my father gave to me. I’m not going to debate that with anyone. It’s the plain truth. I’m going to get it tonight, and the two of you will help.”
    Yngvar and Runa stood before him, gray shades in the gloomy light. The air thickened with cold, and the scent of it promised rain. With no reply from either of them, Ulfrik continued. “Grim expects three warriors and one corpse to return. I intend to meet that expectation. There were three of them. We have two bodies from which to pick. It is cold and rainy, so the three of us will draw our hoods, pretending to be the returning men. A corpse wrapped in my cloak will serve as my body.
    “Yngvar will speak for us, since he’s expected to return. Once we’re past the guards, we’ll hide the body behind the blacksmith’s forge. You two make your escape while I sneak to the hall for my sword. Then we’ll meet by the northern track.” Ulfrik was smiling by the time he finished.
    The silence expanded, broken only by the fading squawks of birds and the occasional stirring of underbrush. Ulfrik regarded his two companions. They looked blankly at him, as if he had not spoken.
    Finally, Yngvar shook his head and looked to Runa. “You have a lot of faith in this slave. It’s a fair plan, and I like it. It has guts, surprise—like something out of a saga. But all this girl has to do is start screaming and our saga will end right there.”
    Ulfrik turned to Runa. Even as a slave, she preserved an air of sophistication. No amount of dirt or ragged clothing could hide it. Her jaw was boldly set for a woman, but it matched her bearing. Even her hair and eyes, with their mysterious dark tone, defied the ordinary. Only the rusted slave collar clutching her neck marred her beauty.
    “Runa, I am my father’s rightful heir, to his throne and to his property as well.” Ulfrik stepped toward her. “If you will do this for me, aid me in the recovery of my sword, I will grant your freedom.”
    Runa again collapsed to her knees, grabbing the hem of his mud- and blood-splattered cloak. “Lord Ulfrik, I swear to do as you say! I swear before the gods! Let them strike me dead if I fail you.”
    That was enough for Ulfrik, although Yngvar smiled mirthlessly and said, “I will be the sword of the gods, then, if needed.”
    Despite the storm-swift change in his life, Ulfrik laughed away Yngvar’s dig and pulled Runa to her feet, clutching her hand a little longer than was necessary. Once standing, Runa gently tugged her arm free and smiled demurely. Embarrassed by his ill-concealed intentions, Ulfrik turned his mind to other matters: Grim’s patricide must be avenged. Silently, he vowed to perform that task, even if Grim cowered behind a thousand men. For now, he had to satisfy himself with once more swiping his sword away from Grim—a symbolic action, and one that risked much for little reward. Yet, Father would agree, he thought, with sadness.
    A fitful rain pattered through the pines as they began the grizzly work of finding and stripping the corpses. The rain and the early evening gloom would either help or hinder them in escape, but Ulfrik was not bothered, rather filled with the vigor of a