“Few do. But Hulderic is special,” she said, and again looked like she was going to be sick. “I live in a village, days and days that way,” she said, and pointed a finger towards northeast, where Moenus ran for Rhenus, “and our lord is Hulderic the Goth indeed, a wily, strong lord who keeps the peace in the fringe of the gau. There, I found a good home. I lived in my mother’s hut, I had a husband, and lacked for nothing.” She hesitated, and couldn’t force out a word.
Husband, I cursed, but saw the look on her face and decided the sorrow in her was about him.
“Something terrible happened?” I coaxed her gently.
She nodded swiftly. “When I lost something dear, Hulderic made sure I survived.”
“What did you—” I began, but clamped my mouth shut, as she looked away, her eyes brimming with tears.
“I’ll not speak of that. I’m not married, suffice it to say. But with Hulderic, I have a good life, and I am grateful for the lord who gave me home and food when I had nothing left, and who cared for me enough to make sure I was not lonely.”
Her husband died. Mother as well?
She went on. “Such gratitude may have pleased the goddess, who gave me a vision, and didn’t foul the sight with lies, nor shades, but the sight was clear and loud. And I was not drunk when I received it.”
The blacksmith said nothing, but nodded his head empathetically as the beautiful creature that resembled a growing winter storm frowned at him. “Yes, mistress. Not drunk.”
She sighed so sorrowfully that I placed a hand on hers, and cringed in terror as I realized I had. But I kept it there, holding myself still, and she didn’t take it away, but actually thumbed my palm. “I can see how a goddess would grant you a warning, if you serve such a lord,” I said, and felt regret for approaching Leuthard at all. “I was looking for service, and didn’t want one near my homelands.”
She snickered. “A Chatti, yes. I see.” She winked. “And the much honored heroes live here in Hard Hill, and you dreamt of a shiny coat of Roman lorica hamata, a Roman sword, enough glory to drown in self-importance, and a fair wife who sets up a fine hall for you, preferably near the Red Hall?” she stated, and nodded up the hill. “You are vain, my young Chatti.”
I grunted with embarrassment. “Perhaps that is so, then. Perhaps it is. But it nearly got me killed, didn’t it?”
“It did,” she agreed gravely, and looked furiously at Bellows. “Though he no doubt poured honey in your ear, the bastard. He could sell fish bones to a starving man.”
“I said I’m sorry,” he rumbled. “But no, I didn’t pour honey in his ear. He was all ready, and chomping at the bit. I just pushed him. Come, let him tell us what they spoke of. That mercenary band is queer, to say the least.”
She leaned close to me, and I could picture her pouring honey in my ear indeed. “I think the goddess knew what she was doing, and so she guided your greedy Chatti feet to the right direction, and led you here. You survived, despite Bellows and his stupidity. She sent me there to save you. What I saw in my vision, my young friend, was a burning pyre, and the pyre was lit around the hall where Hulderic lives in our village. His grandsons were there, boys still, Gernot and Hraban. There will be a day when the Goth lord burns, I know this, but that day should be far from now. I felt the spirits whisper to me. They said the hall would burn soon, if I do not find Adalwulf. It will burn later, if I do. I found you. You can save Hulderic. There was a woman of fiery red hair,’ she said, and stroked her own with some badly hidden pride, “Freya, her spear held before me as I tried to approach the pyre, and she told me to hurry. I rode around, leaving word, and gods heard me. You are here.”
“I’m Adalwulf,’ I said softly. "That is I.”
“Good, he knows his name,” the blacksmith said softly and shrugged at me. “Head injuries. I didn’t mean you are an idiot by birth. I had a man serving me once who fell and split his skull on a bucket full of urine, and I swear he could never piss straight again.”
“Shut up, Bellows,” she told the man with exasperation. “Drunken grandmothers gossip less than you do! I think you have a duty to help Hulderic, though I am not sure how.” She cocked her head. “What did you hear in the hall?”
“Finally,” Bellows breathed.
“They intend to do a hall-burning,” I said softly. “Or at least a theft.”
“When?” she asked me sternly, and looked worried.
“Tonight,” I stated, while fighting a small part, stubborn I might still benefit from Bero’s sponsorship, but the beautiful woman before me made such selfish thoughts evaporate into fog, and I went on. “They will attack his hall this very night.”
“That makes no sense,” Bellows said in low tones.
“Who is he, after all?” I asked her, and nodded at the man.
“Bellows served Hulderic,” she said with a smile. ‘And still does. Hulderic has many eyes in the Hard Hill, Adalwulf, to spy on the harbor and Bero. I guess Bellows has to move back to Hulderic’s villages now. He built this place, not one year past, and now he has to let it go.” The man shrugged. It didn’t bother him at all, and she went on. “But as he said, this makes no sense. Hulderic is here for the great Thing, but the high lords will all be attending a sacrifice this night in the Flowery Meadows. There will be many men with him. It’s well known all the lords shall be there, not sitting in their halls.”
I snapped my fingers. “They are not after him. They want this thing. A sword?”
“The Head Taker?” she breathed. “It is a very famous weapon. Legendary, you might say. Old as time.”
“The Head Taker? They plan something evil with the blade, I think, and it will go ill for Hulderic. Or even the Marcomanni, though Leuthard didn’t care. There was more, something I didn’t understand. They killed some poor man days ago, and I think this Bero has even more plans for some other fool so as to distract Hulderic as to who stole the sword. They seek a man this very day. That’s what I heard, sort of—”
“Forget the men. What kind of plans they have for the sword?” Bellows asked brusquely. “Tell me!”
I scowled at his tone, but he didn’t relent, and kept scowling at me, and so I spoke. “There is that Raganthar, a mercenary of some band called the Brethren, and they will take the sword and use it for some purpose they didn’t mention. They said it might go ill for the Marcomanni. Where is Hulderic’s hall?”
“He doesn’t have a hall here, he stays with his friend Teutorigos the Celt,” Bellows said, “a Gaul lord who left the Mediomactri a decade ago. What—”
“His sword,” Gisil said softly, gazing at me strangely. “Nothing more? You know nothing else?”
“They said no names,” I said. “None. Except Raganthar. A queer man—”
“We have to go,“ she said, her face tight with worry. ”We must stop them. They are coming for the sword. They’ll frame some poor fool, and the sword will go and wreck havoc on all the Marcomanni. We have to hurry. Will you help us?” she asked me.
“Surely the lord has his sword with him?” Bellows asked.
“Not this night,” she said nervously. “They are not allowed to go armed.”
“That …Bark,” I said, stammering, hoping I got the name right, and I had since she was nodding. “They said he was paid to tell everyone to leave their weapons behind. He spun a lie that god Donor wants men unarmed in tonight’s ritual.”
“And Bark did indeed send that message to the lords this morning, Hulderic included,” she said breathlessly and pulled me up. “We must hurry.” Her eyes begged me.
I opened my mouth to question her. To commit or not? Was I already committed? My heart was, because she had a nice smile and her nipple had rested on my cheek, but Germain had always told me to be prudent in my alliances. Wyrd cannot be changed, once your orlog, your choices, are woven into the fabric the Norns master, he had said often. I opened my mouth to tell her I had no part in any of the issues of the Marcomanni, their Goth warlords, and nefarious mercenaries, and would
need time to think. My head swum, there was an ache in my head, and the voice that came out was a croak.
Germain had given other advice as well.
Kill those who threaten you, because they will not stop before they have what they want.
Someone had nearly killed me. That was true. They would try again. I could fight for Hulderic, save the sword. I gazed at Gisil, and found her face honest. She thought highly of Hulderic. And Hulderic, no matter his rustic, far away dominion, would be a great lord, nonetheless. And his sword, a mighty weapon in itself, was well-worth saving. Was that not Goddess Freya’s wish?
And then, most of all, I wanted to help the girl.
“Let’s go, then,” I told her, and she smiled with relief. She slapped her hands together so hard the hall echoed, three times. There were men running nearby, my horse neighed, but she didn’t care as she waited for the echoing noise to end. We stared at her with anxiety, and finally, she smiled.
“It was for good luck, and no spell,” she said, and got up. She opened the door, looked around, and nodded at Bellows. “Saddle the horses.”
Bellows grunted with agreement. He had a shield and an ax, and he looked far more dangerous than he had previously. He dropped my weapons at my feet, and I went to prepare Snake-Bite.
CHAPTER 4
The hall of Teutorigos was not on the hill. Few visiting nobles stayed in the Hard Hill during the great Things. Hundreds of chiefs travelled there, and while many families welcomed the high lords in their halls, it was uncomfortable when you had to share such limited space. And in Hulderic’s case, he didn’t wish to stay near Bero at all.
Gisil shrugged, when I asked where we were going. “It’s a small valley, an hour away,” she told me, as she rode a horse expertly, her hair flying behind. “A fine hall of his friend, the Celt, who is a bit of an enigma. He serves Balderich faithfully, and has many relatives over the river, though he is not welcome there. Not sure why. Teutorigos and others like him are uniquely useful when we go to war with a tribe there.” She glanced my way with amusement. ‘You don’t see many Celts in Mattium, do you?’
“Some,” I lied, and I had not truly seen many. Mattium was too far, hidden by hills and small mountains, ringed by lush valleys, and guarded by spears at the end of River Moenus. “We had two slaves in the household, and they taught us the language. I can speak the language some. We see their handiwork, occasionally. Great swords, spears, even well-bred horses. And there are crumbling hill-forts they once occupied in our lands, all over it in fact, but few live there now. I’d love a weapon they craft.”
“You would,” she said reverently. “Teutorigos has a metal shield, and a chain mail, golden belt. And a most incredible warhammer. It’s long as your arm, and crafted by some skillful smith, ages ago. He is an old lord, but tough as a pine.”
“Is Celt a tough warrior, though?” the blacksmith grunted. “Seems they fell to Romans so fast some didn’t even notice there was war taking place. Hesitating and plodding, their warlords squabble, and enjoy luxury overmuch.”
Gisil ignored him. “Hulderic saved Teutorigos’s son once,’ she said. “Hulderic has great many friends, and none because he pays them for it.”
“But not enough to keep this Bero at bay,” I stated, and the blacksmith grunted with agreement.
“No, not enough,” he said. “He has great many enemies as well, and not all are Matticati, bandits, or your people, Chatti. He has them, partly because he refuses to pay for friends. Too honorable for his own good. Has very little real power on the hill, because he doesn’t give gifts to those who dislike Bero.”
Gisil rolled her eyes at me. “Bellows is full of shit. Ignore him. Bero has taken over the daily management of the gau. He is Balderich’s second hand man, and while Balderich wages occasional war and deals with his chiefs, Bero makes sure everyone eats well. The trade rolls in, and that has made him prosperous and invaluable.”
“He knows,” Bellows murmured. “He’s not blind!”
Gisil leaned closer to me. “He has high champions bowing down to the dirt for him, and Balderich, while the leader of all the Marcomanni by the blood of Aristovistus, is still the highest man, near a king,’ she whispered. She raised her eyebrows at the scandalous words, as kings are not easily tolerated east of Rhenus River, because all Germani loved their individual rights. Kings were a temporary, if necessary, evil during war. “Bero is near equal in power and influence to him. But Sigilind, the daughter of Balderich, is married to Maroboodus, Hulderic’s exiled son. Hulderic is therefore the guardian of the blood of Aristovistus. Gunhild, the second daughter, had not conceived a child with the southern noble. Hulderic is always worried about his grandsons, Hraban and Gernot.”
“He doesn’t need this now,” Bellows despaired. “Let’s just hurry.”
“What are they like?” I asked, starting to think service to Hulderic might amount to riches and fame after all. If the boys were the true heirs to Balderich’s power, then they would need warriors one day, should Bero be unwilling to bow his head. And, of course, he would be unwilling.
She laughed. “They are stubborn as nasty pigs, wily as foxes. Hraban is quite powerfully built, with the temper to match. A leader, perhaps, in the making, and Gernot?” She shook her head so hard her braid opened. ”He has smarts, even more smart-ass, and there is something unresolvable about his nature. Hates deeply, hates easily, keeps bad company, but I see he’s not totally a lost cause. Doesn’t like his brother Hraban much. Or at all, to be honest.”
“And Maroboodus?’ I asked her. “He is likely the next ruler of Hulderic’s lands, if not more—“
“He is not,” she said acidly. “He is an exile in Rome, or somewhere far from here, Adalwulf. We don’t know where he causes his mischief, but its not here, and he shouldn’t come back. He disobeyed his father when he was your age, risked the whole lot of them, in fact, and he killed Maino, son of Bero.”
“No proof,” the blacksmith said. “But he did.”
She shrugged. “There is no doubt about that in anyone’s mind. They acquitted him in the Thing, but not in Bero’s mind. The two hated each other, Maroboodus and Maino. They left the north, travelled here after many adventures, and here, Hulderic finally sent Maroboodus away. The man disappeared with the family treasure, Draupnir’s Spawn, a ring of old, ancient, a miracle of golden glory. They say it is Woden’s own gift to the first men. It is famed enough to summon an army amongst the northern Suebi. It has influence with the Semnones, Goths, and other old Suebi tribes.
“Maroboodus took it from Hulderic after his last visit home, when he sired Gernot, having already had Hraban, and begged Hulderic to topple Bero, to burn his hall, to slay their foe. Hulderic refused, gods know for how many times. They are an old family, but their past is full of bad blood and chaos.” She glanced at me. “This sword is part of their feud. As old as the ring, Bero carried it once, and their family has a history of kinslaying. He fears the blade. It makes sense he’d try to steal and send it away. He can’t wear it after pinching it, and he is too afraid of it to hide it for himself, so he wants it gone. He’s been plotting to be rid of it for a long time.”
“I see, and so I should not mention Maroboodus,” I stated.
“You can, if you wish to meet a sour warlord,” she laughed.
We rode over rich barley fields, took small tracks through two small hills with a village on each, and I admired the land. It was a wonder Rome had not taken the place yet, but then, the Germani didn’t easily part with land, and few Roman men travelled over the river and saw the true riches nestled in valleys and hillsides. The Romans mostly thought the Germani lived in smoky halls and ate grass in midst of spirit-haunted woods. The Celts had to endure all of the Roman malice, losing millions of people, some poets sing, and even traitorous Germani tribes have taken their bits and pieces of Gaul with the blessings of the Romans.
Then, when Sunna was being dragged beyond the horizon by the celestial horses, chased by the feral day-wo
lf, Sköll, we saw the hall of Teutorigos. It was a peaceful looking abode in the edge of a forest, and many rich fields and corralled horse-pastures could be seen.
“The stables are open,” Bellows said, and probably the lords had left, since the day was nearly gone. No guards could be seen.
The grand hall was guarded, though, surely, I thought, and then I saw it was indeed. Men got up from benches in the shadowy side of the hall as they saw us approaching, and some had colorful bracae pants in the Celtic style, others wore simple pants and tunics of the Germani. All were suddenly armed, their drinks and dice forgotten, and there were but seven of them. Gisil waved her hand as some of the men recognized her, and walked to see what the rush was all about. Some servants peeked out from an open doorway.
“Is there trouble?’ a balding warrior asked, his moustaches drooping, and stepped aside as the wild woman vaulted down from her horse. A younger man with wild, golden hair and a long scar on his face scowled behind the man. He had a belt with golden hoops, rich as a fat king’s.
“They here? Are they? Or did they leave?” she panted.
“No, no, and yes,” the balding man chuckled. “And the holy völva would do better than rush around, her legs bared.” Indeed, the men stared at the woman whose dress had left her shapely legs visible, and blushing she fixed her attire.
“Is the sword home?” she asked abrasively.
“Sword?” asked the golden-haired man with the scar. “Why? Do you wish to bring her news? She might refuse to see you.” he asked, half serious, but saw she was in no mood for being made fun of. “All the swords are home,” he affirmed. “There are no weapons with the chiefs, only the guards and they’ll not get to go near Flowery Meadows. You heard them in the morning. They sent instructions—”
“That is terrible,’ Gisil said, pushing past the men. “Damn. We have to protect it. Hide it. Maybe get it to him.”
Adalwulf: The Two Swords (Tales of Germania Book 1) Page 6
