Fate's Needle

Начало книги

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.”

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