Adalwulf: The Two Swords (Tales of Germania Book 1)

by Alaric Longward

  A Roman fell under Raganthar’s attack, then the another. A tall Brethren was impaled by a pilum, and another got his face lopped off by a gladius, but then the Romans were nearly beaten. One was wrestling with a Brethren, a ragged, fur-cloaked attacker was pulling off another’s shield, and I charged at that one’s back. The hammer hummed in the air, and a man yelped as his shoulder was destroyed.

  Another turned to eye me, and I charged him, pushed him past Raganthar, and into the sword of the Centurion. The Centurion hesitated at the sight of me, and I thought there was something odd about him. He was a sturdy, middle-age man with wide chin and hard face, but his eyes were odd. They were the sort that belonged to a man who had lived for centuries, seen the evil of the worlds and suffered for it in the past.

  I parried an enemy charging with a spear, roaring, and the Roman punched his sword through the man’s side. I spun to fight next to him. The Brethren were coming for us now, ten of them, when some more Roman guards charged out of the tower. I didn’t see Leuthard anywhere, and I cursed him to Hel’s bosom. I yelled my hate at the enemy faces, and bowled over two of the Brethren, wounding one with a weak chop of the hammer, and searched for Raganthar.

  I heard a scream behind me.

  He was there. He had just pummeled the sword’s hilt on a face of the Centurion, and the man was on his knees, half-conscious. Raganthar’s huge shield was matted with blood.

  “Come, dog-humping, pig raping shit-eater,” I screamed at him. He gazed at me briefly, and danced mockingly before him, but he didn’t take the bait, and turned to slay the centurion.

  The Centurion rolled away, and Raganthar’s attack struck dirt.

  I rushed Raganthar, and he spun away with a curse, his murderous intentions thwarted. And arrow flew by his face, and he crouched behind his shield.

  I attacked him with wild abandon.

  His stolen sword was fast, much faster than my hammer. The blade was heavy, and still very fast and it made me nervous. It struck down, and sparks flew as I parried. My knees buckled. I pushed the weapon aside, and tried to turn Raganthar to have his back to the archers, whom I saw from the corner of my eyes. He danced back instead. I charged him, cursing his ever present shield, and decided I had no time for finesse. It was then, it was there.

  I jumped on his shield, and felt him chopping from the side. I knew the blade would hit, the dreaded blade of Hulderic. I felt there was indeed something sentient and evil about the ancient sword, and thought Bero didn’t fear it for nothing. I hit his shield with my body, my hammer missed his face, and the Head Taker banged on his shield’s rim, but some of the blade cleaved to my side.

  It was cold pain as he staggered back, and slammed me down. I fell on his side, grasped his leg, and pulled with all my might, but the man was as enraged as I was. He stood, staggering, his feral eyes going from the Roman Centurion to me. His blade came up, and I would have died there, had it not been for Gisil.

  “No,” she screamed. I felt more than saw her appear, and there was an ax on her petite hand. She struck it at Raganthar’s back, and while the blow was feeble, worth nothing, really, she managed to distract my enemy as he staggered off me. A Brethren died near, and Raganthar’s eyes flinched as his eyes scourged her.

  “Are you mad? You know what this will cost you?” he roared.

  Gisil was hovering near me. “I already hurt him once because of you! You promised me you’d bring him back!”

  “I will! There is no time for this!” he yelled, and turned back to me.

  I panted, got up, and pounded at Raganthar. He was ready. His sword cut at me savagely fast, but I dodged it. There was a stabbing, terrible pain on my side, but in the red haze, I saw him before me. Gisil was striking at him as well. He hesitated, I staggered to a stop before him. My hand grasped his face, feeling his beard, and I whipped the hammer into the red blur that was he.

  It connected with his chest, and he howled, falling back, and then I fell on my face.

  I heard Leuthard roar, saw men fall. There was a tall and wide, scruffy man with him, holding a hugely tall spear. I guessed that was Ear. That one rammed the spear in a throat of a Roman, and flinched as an arrow struck his chest. Leuthard pointed a finger, and Ear turned rapidly. I saw he was aiming for Gisil, who flinched with fear.

  The man cackled, speared a Brethren, and Leuthard rushed forward, kneeled before me, and lifted up my face. “My sword. For Gisil. My sword for her. And then, we’ll dance. Fuck your deals, you shit.” He got up, and pulled at Ear, who had grasped Gisil. The tall cousin of Leuthard lifted her and sprung to the night. All around me the Brethren hesitated. Two men were pulling at Raganthar, and the rest threw spears at the remaining Romans. The archers were firing sagitta at the scruffy men.

  I do not know where I got the strength. I panted, slipped in my own blood, staggered after them, and felt the blood flow to my legs and ankles. I pulled myself forward. Raganthar and the sword were being pulled away, past the gates to the night. I ignored him. I wanted to spot Ear and Leuthard. I grasped a pilum from the ground, and looked down hill.

  There they were. One, Ear, was struggling with Gisil. The other one, Leuthard, had butchered a Brethren.

  Below, some of the Romans the optio had led away were running up the hill, and I saw the two evil shadows look at them with surprise. Leuthard was pointing a finger at Ear, and Ear was nodding and heading for the river, while Leuthard hesitated and slinked to the shadows.

  I ran down hill, tottering, exhausted. I could still catch Raganthar, but Gisil was there; I could see her. I gazed at Ear’s tall shadow, the woman struggling on his shoulder, and I aimed, and threw the pilum. It left my hand with enough strength for it to plummet into the night.

  It went up, then down, and I prayed to Woden for luck, and finally had some. Ear screamed. He fell. There was a confused scramble, Gisil screaming with pain and Ear bellowing. I ran forward, until I fell and rolled, and ended up rolling on the girl. I saw Ear near, grimacing with pain and hate, pulling at the javelin in his back, and then the Romans arrived. The Centurion was there, leading them, and he kneeled next to me, looking from me to the girl.

  Ear disappeared.

  The Roman gave me a wry smile as his men rushed around him, and they were indeed his men, because he thumbed his chest. “Nero Claudius Tiberius,” he said dryly.

  I allowed myself to fall into murky depths of unconsciousness.

  BOOK 5: THE THREE FATES

  “He’ll ride to the ends of the lands to find her, you know. She’ll see you in a later, because you’ll go to Valholl first.”

  Leuthard to Adalwulf

  CHAPTER 25

  In my dreams, I saw Raganthar running through the night, and Leuthard stalking after a man on a horse, whom I thought was Iodocus. I was on my belly in snow, shivering, and I couldn’t warn Iodocus after they disappeared into the forest. All I could do was to croak with pain. Mani and Sunna traveled the sky, the morning lady and the dark brother taking their turns. Then, finally the cold took me, and I dreamt of death, of lying there breathless, not able to move, with an evil presence about. I was no longer inside, but in a dark room. I felt its baleful eyes on me, and thought it must be the spirit of Hati, the beast, god of Leuthard and Raganthar. It sniffled in the corners of the room, hissing wild, evil curses, and the awareness of the beast creeping closer was replaced by a drowning sensation that led to my abrupt awakening.

  I looked around, and groaned with a huge headache. I stared out of the doorway, where I glimpsed clouds and blue sky dotted with swooping birds. After I came to grips with the reality that I was still alive, I turned my head to look around. I noticed another doorway leading to a stairway, and I also realized my face was drenched. “By Tiw’s one hand, what’s this?” I murmured. I lifted my face to a figure standing over me. There was a grinning man above me, having just poured water on my face from a large goblet.

  “See, I told you he was still alive,” the stooping Gaul said to a frowning elder, who wore a s
hining white tunic and caligae. His hair was cropped short, he was clean shaven. He scrutinized the mess around the bed, the dripping water, and finally held my bewildered eyes, as if to validate the other one’s claim. Someone was shrieking angrily downstairs, apparently a victim to the water like I was, and that led me to believe I was in the tower.

  The older man snorted. “I see he is, but didn’t really need you to wake him up.”

  “The Patron asked for him, Marcus,” the Celt stated, his young face worried. “You said he wanted—”

  “But we don’t want to tear him out of bed when he is healing well. We don’t want to infect the wound, do we?” he murmured, finally deciding I could understand him. “How are you, Marcomanni?”

  “I’m—” I began, and then clamped my mouth shut, as he had baited me to admit I was no Vangione. “I’m alive,” I stated softly.

  “And a Marcomanni,” he added helpfully. “Now, your wound was deep, and you have been away from this world for some days. There’s an older one on your back. It was opened a bit when you fought in the yard. You’ve seen healthier days.”

  “Shit,” I cursed, trying to see my side. The sword had cut deep, though the shield had saved me. Raganthar and his shield. It always kept him alive as well. “Will I die?”

  He shook his head. “You might, if you were back home. In the legions, we try very hard to hold onto the men. They cost a lot to retrain.” He thumbed towards the door. “Which leads me to the issue. There are many dead Romans in Avenc. I hear many died in a village not that far from here. Sparrow something? Yes.” He leaned over me. “My patron, Tiberius Claudius Nero, is below, dealing with some local issues, as well as having heads chopped off for the gods awful mess the night you were wounded, and he’d like a quiet word with you as soon as you are able.”

  I stared at him, and he lifted an eyebrow. I scowled at him, and tried to sit up, feeling dizzy. “And he cannot come here?”

  “He can,” he said mirthfully, “again. He’s been here a few times. But you were asleep like a fox cub, and he grew bored staring at a snoring, sleeping barbarian, and so you shall go to him.”

  I turned to look at my side. There was a small red stain on a linen wrap around my body. “How will he react to me?”

  “He’ll cry from happiness. He’ll kiss your toes, and will sing in your honor,” the man said with subtle mockery.

  “Funny,” I muttered.

  “I’m not sure,” the man said tiredly. “He is Tiberius. Gods know what he will do. He’ll decide after your chat. Be grateful you are here, and not in a grave.”

  “I’m to thank Roman gods then, for my survival,” I muttered. “Might as well learn how to, if I’m a prisoner.”

  “Rome,” Marcus said while preparing to leave, “does thank her gods piously, but you should not. Forget Jupiter, forget Minerva, Janus. You thank Tiberius. He’ll thank you back in some way, even if he’ll not utter the actual words. He is a block of marble, young Germani, but I’ve not known a more honorable man. You did fight for him.” He gestured for the door and I nodded, feeling the strength returning to my limbs. “Mind you, he is still a politician, as well as a general. He is just, but sometimes his justice might leave a sour taste in your mouth.” He leaned near me. “You probably saved his life. And that of Marcus Lollius, the disgraced Governor of Gaul. It weighs in your favor.”

  “That pudgy one was Lollius?” I asked, gingerly trying to swing my legs to sit on the bed. I swiped some hay off my hair and back, and held on to my side gingerly.

  “That was him,” Marcus said with a dry smile. “He’s on a short leash, for now. I doubt he’ll stay in one for long. Old Augustus loves the fool. Perhaps they are lovers.” The man chortled and muttered something, embarrassed, as I barely gave him a smile. “Not one for humor, are you?”

  “I’ll smile when I’m happy and safe again. Why did Tiberius act like a Roman centurion?” I asked. “It was him?”

  He chuckled. “He was hoping to avoid this Treveri and Mediomactri nonsense,” Marcus said, “hoping to press on to Moganticum, making excuses for his presence, and Lollius would have stayed to deal with the tribal foolery, but here he is, trying to figure out why so many Roman soldiers have died here lately. And perhaps you can help him with that today?”

  I nodded and tried to get up. The young Gaul came forward to help me, and I swooned on my legs, towering over the two men. “I might be able to. In fact, I’d love to.” I took a hesitant step forward, and pushed the Gaul away at arm’s length. I remembered something important. “Gisil. Where is she?”

  Marcus stepped out of my way and nodded downstairs. “If you mean the girl, then she is safe.” He smiled lasciviously. “Thanks to you. You fought well for this beautiful woman and the legionnaires, coarse as they are, will tease you mercilessly for it. To be honest, it’s a worthy story, one of evil sprits and brave fools. This time, the story ends well. I like such stories. I get depressed when women die. The men will speak for a long time of your wounded battle to save her from that hulking pair of misfits. The archers especially, Greeks both, love a tale of love. They do. She lives. She hit her head, but she is alive.”

  “Thank Woden,” I whispered and rubbed my face. “I wish it was so simple, though.” She was mad, wasn’t she? She was Raganthar’s. Had been.

  He shrugged uncertainly as she saw my face. “Well, perhaps the story isn’t all happiness and smiles. I see she’s been through a lot. It’s a cruel world. Care like yours makes it a better one, though.”

  I looked hard at him. “You have an answer to everything, no?”

  Marcus lifted an eyebrow again, shrugged, turning to go, and I followed. I staggered down the stairs, passed a level where soldiers were busy in an armory. Some of them stopped to look at me, some were whispering, others grinning and I gave them a ghostly smile back. The younger Gaul had to push me on, though I fought him briefly. The room looked splendid. I spied racks of pila, fine bows, a hoard arrows, piles of fine shields, armor and even swords, and mysterious gear I didn’t know.

  And there, too, was the fine hammer, set on a table, cleaned. I searched frantically for the sword I was looking for, but it wasn’t there. Raganthar had likely escaped, and the Head Taker had left with him.

  “How long has it been since the battle?” I asked them.

  “Four days,” Marcus said.

  “Four days?”

  I nodded. Four days. All the bets were off. The Feud Settler should be gone. Iodocus, hopefully, would destroy it, and the next time I met Leuthard, we would only have one thing left to do. To kill each other.

  He’d win.

  And so would Raganthar. My hammer was slow when a man knew how to use his shield, didn’t he, I thought.

  Marcus didn’t look at me, but the guards in the room shuffled uncertainly as they noticed my covetous look. The younger Gaul placed a resolute hand on my back, guiding me off. I staggered down stairs, past fluttering torches and oil lamps on alcoves, and then, there was the bottom floor, the doors thick and reinforced. The door opened, and a burly legionnaire with a broken nose peeked at me and stepped aside, his hand on his sword hilt.

  I entered the room.

  There were a dozen men there, and Tiberius was sitting by a desk, his jaws clamped almost painfully. He was gesturing at a thin Celt to come forward, but then he noticed me, and the look of his relief was almost comical. He spoke in a passable Celtic dialect. “Enough. I’ll rule on the matter this evening. The morning session is over and I appreciate you bringing all these grievances to us.” His voice told a different story, he wasn’t happy at all, but the Treveri and Mediomactri scowled at each other, sure the other party had been cheating in some way.

  I didn’t see Lollius in the room. I sensed Marcus behind me, hesitating, and I took steps to stand before the high Roman. Tiberius looked up at me, his fingers tapping the desk, thinking. While Leuthard seemed like a spirit of the night, this man’s eyes betrayed other kinds of dangers. He might not rip off my face or eat
my children, but he could device many other tortures worth the imagination of the cruelest gods of our pantheon. Hati might be a simpering child in comparison to this Roman.

  He seemed to come out of his contemplations with reluctance, snapped a finger, and Marcus moved to the side, where a small mid-day meal was set up. The old Celt grabbed a goblet of something golden hued, poured it, and I smelled the distinct fragrance of mead, watching with desperate thirst as the drink was brought to the great man. I also cursed myself for not sleeping with my mouth open, as some of the water they threw in my face might have slackened my thirst.

  “Do you,” Tiberius began, “speak Celtic? I learnt it while waging war against Alps tribes, and Noricum. Also, I had tutors in my youth. Do you understand, prisoner?”

  I shrugged, understanding most of it. I contemplated on giving him a bow, but didn’t, and squared my shoulders instead. “I understand you, Roman. Though I know nothing of Alps or this Noricum.”

  He drank some of the mead. “You detest being called a prisoner?”

  “Any man would,” I stated.

  He smiled coldly. “You wouldn’t know of the Alps. You look young. And I know little of the lands beyond Rhenus River, but perhaps one day, I shall? I could take some legions, and see what’s out there, eh?”

  “Perhaps, lord,” I answered, bit my tongue, and a voice was screaming inside my head to shut up. It lost the struggle with my pride, which kept a firm hold on my tongue. “Though I’m not sure how much you will see. Slaves don’t travel far, and have to work very hard.”

  His eyes enlarged, and I despaired. I was an idiot. Pride gets you killed, I thought, and then scowled at him. Was I not anxious, tired, hurt, and had I not saved his life? Still, he called me a prisoner.