Fate's Needle Read Online Free PDF Page B

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