Fate's Needle by Jerry Autieri Page A

spontaneous plan.
    When the work was done and the corpse wrapped in Ulfrik’s cloak, he donned the man’s mail and cloak, and took up the ax.
    Yngvar laughed. “It’s a fine weapon. Can’t we settle with that and be gone?”
    “You know it’s not the same,” Ulfrik chided. “Now, find me something to tie my hair back beneath the cloak’s hood. I don’t want to be given away.” Blonde hair was common enough among his people, but Ulfrik’s hair was paler than most and could be easily spotted in the dark.
    Runa, clumsily dressed in the mail and cloak of the other dead man, used a piece of cord to help him tie his hair back and push it into the hood of the cloak. The weight of the mail on her slight frame made her stagger.
    “She must play the man injured in the fight,” Yngvar wisely suggested, gesturing to the bloodstains on her cloak and armor. “That’s how I’ll explain her staggering, if asked.”
    As Ulfrik and Yngvar stooped to lift the corpse between them, a horn sounded in the distance. The two stopped and looked at each other. It blasted again.
    “You don’t know what that means,” Ulfrik said flatly. Yngvar shook his head.
    “Your brother must be impatient to discover what happened. We can still change our plan.”
    Ulfrik refused. Grabbing one end of the dead man’s cloak, he said, “This is the only chance I’ll have to get back in the hall. I’m not missing it. We don’t even know if that is Grim’s horn.”
    Yngvar grunted.
    “Remember, Runa,” Ulfrik told the slave, who resembled a frightened hare, ready to run, “you will have your freedom when we are safely away with my sword. Take heart in that!”
    Turning from her, he focused only on controlling his own fear as the horn sounded impatiently for the third time.

Six
    No one spoke as they lurched toward the hall. The cloak-wrapped corpse bounced and swayed between Ulfrik and Yngvar as they hauled it toward the torchlight. Fat, infrequent raindrops broke over their drawn hoods. Ulfrik had placed Yngvar in the lead and Runa alongside himself, guessing that her disguise would fail if anyone looked closely.
    Two men stood on the outskirts of the hall, searching the darkness. Yngvar called out to them, startling the guards, although they had made no effort to hide.
    “I recognize one of them,” Yngvar muttered. “Just let me talk to him.”
    “Grim’s waiting,” said one, a horn clutched in his free hand. “Said you were taking too long.” The man and his companion peered toward the bloodstained package Yngvar and Ulfrik held between them. Yngvar merely nodded and continued to pass.
    The other man held up his hand, stopping Yngvar, and pointed at their burden. “He told us you can’t take that into the hall. He’ll come out and see it.”
    Both guards, their torches guttering in the drizzle, flanked them. Ulfrik’s arms trembled. Runa was standing too close, more than was manly, and Ulfrik worried it would attract attention. A raindrop splashed the edge of his hood and rolled down his nose. It was as if the droplet were a beacon, drawing the guards’ eyes directly toward his hood.
    “Are we just going to stand in the rain and wait for him?” Yngvar snapped, diverting their attention.
    “Bring it behind the blacksmith’s then,” said the man with the horn.
    Ulfrik smiled; the gods favored his plan. Neither man seemed interested anymore and waved them on. Ulfrik drew a sharp breath, taking in the scents of smoke and pine—the smells of home. Only faded orange light spilling from the barracks provided any visibility. Ulfrik knew the paths well enough, so he was surprised when Yngvar led them in the other direction.
    Ulfrik hesitated. Then he understood. The plan needed revision, and Yngvar was in step with that need. Guiding them, he trudged behind the smokehouse to where a pine tree leaned almost to the ground. They laid the body beneath the tree.
    “Now I’ll go exchange this for my own sword,” Ulfrik said, pulling