The Summer Sword

by Alaric Longward

  The day dawned surprisingly crisp and bright. A wind from the north was whipping through the land. Donor and Gochan had chosen our battlefield well. They had found an old river’s bed, dry and overgrown with weeds in the wooded hillside. It was perfect for hiding people. It faced the woods, and Segestes, if he came, would likely pass it. It would be a disaster if his men would use the dry river’s bed to attack Armin, but Ourbazo had his scouts out, and apparently, we were doing well.

  The valley was quiet, save for a pair of deer that were lazily making their way through it.

  Our ranks sat still on our horse in that dry bed. It was filled with men.

  Alde sat near me, apparently guarding me.

  I looked at her and caught her eyes. They had been on me, and she gave me an uncertain smile. She wiped hair off her eyes and looked down.

  Time with her was strange.

  There was no love. There was passion and mutual respect. There was companionship. She was with me constantly and I had grown to like her dry humor. I was living, but not loving. I sometimes smiled.

  I feared her gods. They seemed to solve all her issues.

  I nodded and saw Gervas amid Adalwulf’s men, and the bastard seemed so happy. He had been meeting with Borena. He had left with the servant quite often.

  Ourbazo was riding on top, in the woods, and where his own band of vermin was, I knew not. He was with Sarmatians alone.

  They came, they went, and they saw everything.

  And then, near the middle of the day, the two lazy deer lifted their heads and sprinted away in panic.

  Birds took flight.

  Horses neighed. A group of riders appeared, and I saw Donor’s figure from afar, leading five hundred men onto the valley and the meadow.

  I knew the man in the middle.

  Armin was there, his golden hair bright in the light of Sunna, the standard of a Roman legate’s skull and Roman legate’s red cape high behind him. He had adopted it after the battle, and men ever watched and marveled at it. It was Vala’s skull, the man who had shamed Rome.

  I had none. The Sarmatians had none. No standards for deceitful shits.

  Armin was leading a tall lady, cowled and wrapped in rich skins, and was speaking with Segimundus and his tall, gaunt war-chief Donor amicably. Many knew that Armin would be there. Armin was to hunt and to speak with the Chauci war-chief while he did, a man who was riding next to him. Ernust, the old man, was wearing brown tunic and cloak and looked quite ordinary and unimpressive.

  And yet, the man commanded the most numerous of nations in the north.

  Around them rose hills filled with beech and oak, the leaves rustling in the wind.

  “Do you see defeat?” I asked Alde.

  She looked at her brother.

  Gochan laughed. “Answer my brother. We share the men now. He shares more than the men, though.”

  He knew.

  She didn’t say anything for a while. She lifted her cowl and looked around the valley. “There will be a battle.”

  Gochan laughed again. “She is a seer, is she not? She sees a battle. What nonsense. They are out there. The scouts speak of it.”

  She blushed and cursed and spoke softly, but with a sting. “Brother, brother. Always nervous before battle. Ever ready to shit his saddle, when I speak of battles. Yes, of course there will be a battle. But…”

  “Spit it out, sister,” he said. “Ourbazo knows their number, and we have no more time for seers and omens, no matter how valuable.”

  “Many men shall die,” she said. “But will the high one?” She looked down at Armin. “I know not.” She looked odd. “Their leader will cause much trouble in the years to come.”

  We looked at her dubiously.

  Gochan grunted. “He won’t be trouble. Unless he is too fat to bury in a normal grave.”

  She shook her head. “I saw it. Trouble.”

  “As long as it is not Armin who dies,” I told her. “How many men does Segestes have?”

  “He left his burg,” Gochan said while settling better in his saddle, trying to find a comfortable position, “with two thousand. Three war-chiefs, high as shit. They sneaked out this night and are streaming through paths on the hills. Segimundus is ready, we are ready, and we’ll do well. Don’t ask the seer for her sight. What if she tells you will lose your cock? That would make you shit yourself.”

  “Two thousand men,” I said.

  “Getting cold feet?” he asked. “It is not so hard. They are all infantry. They will run like hares. Have you seen a Sarmatian fight?”

  Sasas. I had. He had died a coward.

  Ourbazo appeared from the woods, leading a dozen men. He nodded at his brother and stopped before us, letting his horse drink deep from the remains of a stream. He waved his hand to the top. “Segestes is there, looking down on his nephew,” he whispered. “They are riding and walking down calmly, and he has one of his war-lords with a few hundred men on the other side of the valley to surround this Armin. There will be one thousand and four hundred going past soon. We must stay still for a while.”

  “We shall have to wait, then,” Gochan agreed. “Take a piss. Shit. Silently.”

  The young man was grinning as he spoke of the enemy. His leather gleamed from sweat, and he had no doubt done the scouting personally. We all watched the hill side on top. We could hear the noise, the occasional crack of branch, the sound of a rolling stone, and even murmurs and curses of men.

  “Three war-chiefs,” Gochan said softly. “Tell it to the men. They can be found under their banners. And Segestes. Find him.”

  “Alfin the Ugly,” I said. “Baggi, under a red banner,” I added.

  “And Chlodulf,” added Alde. “You have told us.”

  I had.

  We waited.

  Below, Armin’s men were riding calmly, enjoying the late summer day. He was discussing with the Chauci envoy, both now holding hunting spears, and his men marched in ranks around them, chain and spear glittering. Five hundred strong, they were a formidable party. Donor’s hunters and Armin’s best men were there.

  Then my eyes shot up hill.

  There, I saw flashes of metal, and armor was jingling. I saw shadows, lines of them descending just above us for the valley below, and I saw scouts on the edges of the ranks.

  “Stay still,” hissed the Sarmatian chief. “They will not matter.”

  Our rank, hidden by bushes and trees and the dry bed, rustled gently, but the horses, well accustomed to war, didn’t budge or snort.

  Adalwulf grinned at me, and I nodded, eyeing Gervas.

  I cursed. The boy was about to fight a real battle. He should have been with me. He was with Wulf and would be in the third rank, but men die of thrown stones, and it would not be a battle of shield walls. It would have to shock the shit out of the enemy, break them, or we would die.

  I tried to see the enemy.

  The ranks were made up of regular Germani warriors.

  Tall, most strong, skilled and armed with spears and shields, they held javelins in the shield hand, most lovingly named. They were a bearded, long-haired army of wild men who had fought against Varus. Many carried chain of Roman make or bits of foreign gear here and there, like helmets, not usual for Germani, and other gear from sandals to straps. The army that moved across the hillside on advice from Segimundus was a strong one.

  “What if Segimundus truly changes sides?” Gochan asked. “He might actually kill Armin. Then we are fucked.”

  “Father will be happy to hear how we died,” I whispered, and he grinned. “See, they come close.”

  Some scouts were approaching. They were riding the edge of the hill and the troops, their eyes on the valley below, where their quarry walked amid his men, letting the scouts on the sides worry about ambushes. The scouts did a bad job. Armin’s death was a dream for all of them, for Segestes had no doubt promised great reward for anyone who would bring him Armin’s head, or his daughter alive. That was the rumor. Two or three scouts were walki
ng closer to our small depression, and then, they walked no more.

  Shadows appeared, and hands grasped their mouths. Daggers stabbed, silently, efficiently, deadly, quick, and corpses were hauled into bushes of blueberries to rot.

  We waited, we held our breaths, and the ranks passed.

  None missed the scouts. None had seen it.

  Ahead, I saw a red standard, a long bit of clothing hung from a silvery cross pole, much like Armin’s.

  Baggi.

  We waited still.

  Stragglers rushed from the top. One looked our way, frowned, fell on his face, and didn’t get up. A Sarmatian dodged out of sight, his bow well used.

  Then we saw some Sarmatians riding through the woods, waving at us, bows out.

  All of Segestes’s men were down there.

  Gochan grinned. “Let’s go, then. Hundred with you, brother, hundred with me. You come in from the woods, we swing to the right. You, Adalwulf, strike from the left. I take my brother, and you keep my sister alive. Fire God knows you have made it impossible for her to sit well in her saddle.”

  “I shall guard his life,” she said coldly, and rode before me. “I can ride just fine.”

  Gochan rolled his eyes, grinned, and moved off. Hundreds of his men followed him, and a hundred seemed to look at Alde.

  She smiled, and I followed her, cursing.

  The troop moved like an army of ghosts. We rode up the dry bank to the woods and watched below, where the enemy army was surging through undergrowth and for the valley.

  They tried no longer to hide their presence.

  We could hear calls of surprise from Armin’s men, challenges, and crude laughter and mockery from Segestes’s troops below. There, in the middle, I saw Segestes and his men. Twenty bodyguards were walking around the armored lord, who had lost weight to worries and wounds. He looked like half-empty sack of lies. His face was pale and his cheeks ruddy.

  We turned and spread into lines and began riding after the enemy. Adalwulf’s men were to our left, trying to keep up. I saw Gervas there, in the third rank of riders.

  Armin’s men were spreading too and then rushing to surround their lord in a bristling fortress of shields and spears. A thick wall of shields was soon gathered around the lord of the Cherusci, the Bane of Varus, whom the men called the Summer Sword. The lady was close to him, and I saw Segimundus riding for his father, wildly and laughing, waving his hand.

  Segestes had his hand in the air as if he had already conquered.

  We rode down fast. The Sarmatians knew what to do. I was just an ornament amongst them, and we went down through the churned-up wood, dodging trees and mossy boulders, and reached the land below. There, ahead, Segestes’s army had surrounded Armin’s small troop.

  I heard him speaking, not too far from us, though just barely.

  “Let Thusnelda go, Armin,” he called out. “Let her go, and I shall be merciful. I will watch you die, but I shall spare her the horror and sorrow.”

  “Segimundus!” Armin called out. “You betrayed your lord? The land will hear of it!”

  Segestes intercepted Segimundus’s retort. “I am his lord! I! Let my son be. He has repented, and I shall show you similar mercy as I show him when you kneel before me. You, Chauci, step aside, for I wish no harm to you. I shall settle my scores with my nephew here. Speak to nobody of this, and we shall never be enemies.”

  Indeed, the Chauci left the shieldwall, on blessings from Armin. He rode away and didn’t look back, and he was smiling.

  Segestes didn’t notice.

  Baggi, under his red standard to the left of Segestes and right before me, was staring after the man, pondering the odd mood of the Chauci.

  One lord, Alfin the Ugly, was to the right of Segestes, his men guarding the fat lord and his bodyguards. Chlodulf was on the other side, and his men were chanting softly as the surrounding shield wall was completed.

  I looked to the right. Alde did as well. I saw nothing but ranks of Sarmatians. I looked left and saw Adalwulf waving. She looked at me and leaned close. “Gochan is ready. We go in, silently, fast and brutal.”

  I nodded and pulled a spear over my shoulder, grasping my reins tight.

  I kicked my horse gently, and it moved forward.

  Then I saw waves of men around me, lances gleaming with deadly light, moving forward without fanfare and prayers, and I spurred my mount forward just in time.

  The enemy wasn’t far.

  The enemy facing us on the other side of Armin’s wall of shields seemed to stare at the sea of riders with dull shock. Chlodulf was screaming, but I heard nothing.

  Every face turned our way.

  I saw Baggi’s face, and it was screwed up with shock. I saw Alfin, his face a huge scar split in the middle for a wound he has suffered as a child in his first battle.

  Both screamed, “Tuuuuuurn!”

  Segestes was yanking his horse around, and that’s when Segimundus struck his horse down with his sword.

  The beast fell, so did Segestes.

  Then the enemy was before us, and we spurred our horses into the mass of shocked enemy.

  Few horses are willing to charge into a group of men. They fear and avoid masses of agitated men, they fear the gleaming spearheads, they flinch from the shouts and the yells, and they fight only reluctantly, biting and kicking.

  Not the Sarmatian horses.

  Almost happy, the beasts rode straight at the masses of men. Like a knife slicing into fat, the lances claimed lives. Men were trampled and crushed, as the riders rode in knee to knee, the tall lances pushing men down in rows, and sometimes two at a time.

  My spear went to a man’s throat. The man was young; then he was dead. The spear tore out of him, and the man fell under my horse, after which I rode over another young fool and a war-chief with leather mail, throwing him down under Alde’s horse. Blood was spattered, mud as well, and I saw ranks and ranks of the enemy falling like young trees in storm.

  The black armor and spear and lance flashing, the horses penetrated the enemy ranks, and I saw Armin ahead, Donor’s men tearing into Segestes’s men, their rear ranks backing off from the shocked men of Chlodulf who were standing and staring.

  I also saw dozens of them turning and slipping to the woods.

  And then, before me, Baggi was fighting furiously.

  His men were dying. His standard was falling, as Alde was hacking at a young man next to Baggi with her sword, blood spattering her face and thighs. She was smiling and howling happily. I saw Adalwulf’s men pushing to the enemy ranks, axes and clubs swinging. I saw Wulf, but not Gervas. Many were jumping down to form lines.

  Not so the Sarmatians.

  They discarded lances and pulled swords and died and killed like savage wolves.

  I went for Baggi.

  He pushed a Sarmatian sword from his shoulder and cut down a horse and then man with his ax, and roared orders to the men on the flanks to come and aid them.

  The flanks were busy.

  I threw the spear.

  It missed his face, but struck him in the chest, and howling, he bent over, clawing at the shaft that broke. He was holding the wound, and I got near. I pulled out Nightbright. I leaned down and pushed the blade to his throat. He gasped, fell, and I thundered past him, only to crash into a sudden shieldwall of the foe. I fell over the horse to the shield. The horse buried men, I smashed over two, and stabbing and snarling, I got up, breathless. Alde was near, calling for me, and Adalwulf was hacking down men like wheat nearby.

  A man got up behind me and howled as he fell, spear in his back.

  I saw Gervas, pulling out an ax, his chain spattered with blood.

  Men closed around me.

  I let the Woden’s anger take me. It was thundering through my blood, the savage dance of the war god driving me to ferocious speed and savagery you could only be proud of in a battle, in a place where murder was the goal and consciousness had no place. I heaved around with Woden’s anger, shields smashing faces and othe
r shields, some those of Adalwulf’s men. I put down a man, left him screaming, and ripped my sword into a rich warrior’s mouth. I pulled it out and sawed the edge to another man’s neck, a wolf warrior’s, naked berserker like I was, who had been smashing a Sarmatian skull with a rock. I pushed him down, twisted my sword, and when it was stuck, I abandoned the sword.

  There was a terrible press around me. Someone hacked an ax into my helmet, though weakly, and I pried a club from a man’s hand. I swung it around and killed an old warrior who was trying to push his spear into my belly. His spear missed, and I didn’t, and he was gone. I saw one man, half delirious with horror, trying to rip Alde out of the saddle, and I swam in pressing bodies to slam the club on his head. His neck broken, and he crashed into Alde’s sword. Adalwulf was roaring to my side with some of Armin’s men, and far across the valley, horn rang as thousand men of Armin’s were swooping in to kill Segestes’s running men, and those who still fought.

  Alfrid the Ugly still did.

  His standard, a shield of bronze, waved above him, and to my horror, I saw him aiding Segestes on a horse.

  Gervas sped past me. He was still seated, and I saw him looking terrified.

  He held a sword, something he had picked up in the battle, a fine blade of silver hilt and gleaming long blade, and the terror I saw was not fear of death.

  He feared what he was experiencing.

  He, too, saw Woden’s dance. He, too, felt the terrible need to slay, to fight until you died.

  And he did. He crashed into a group of Aflrid’s men, fell with his horse, and got up, hacking around, spears trying to claim him. Wulf was there, cursing and running after him.

  I roared, pushed past Alde’s horse, toppling her from the saddle, and vaulted on it.

  I pulled and pushed it, and grasped a lance from one of the Sarmatians, who was grinning like a devil as he was butchering a war-chief under his hooves. The victim and the killer were left shocked as I rode through the thronging men, took hits from weapons and shafts swinging all around me, a javelin narrowly missed my face, and then I crashed straight to the thick battle, where Segimundus and Gochan were leading men to a milling mass of hundreds of warriors under Aflrid’s banner. I crashed the horse in shields, took a wound to my side from a spear, another from a dagger, and went through, yelling in anger. I passed Gervas, who was panting, trying to get up and to find his sword, and Wulf, guarding him, and rammed the club to a mass of men.