And then I did.
It was half-hidden by long reeds but it was there. It was round, moist and I edged closer to it. ‘Come little raven, it will hurt, and I promise it will hurt much more than the girl will be hurt when I get back. I’ll kick the baby out of her, should there be one,’ he growled at me, Wulstan gingerly walking after him. ‘I’ll clip your wings, I will.’ I reached the trunk, put my hand in the hole, groping around it, and the hilt was there. It was. I grabbed it, turned to hide the blade as I pulled myself up, staring at the approaching monster. The rope was still around my neck, still too tight. He grinned as he came, lifted the nasty cudgel with wicked points, reached out and grabbed me by my tunic, and swung.
I screamed all the anger and frustration of the past year at his face as I hacked the seax at his descending arm, Woden’s song making me incredibly fast and strong.
I was faster than he was.
Dark liquid splashed on my face, the spinning hand with the cudgel hit me in the face, and I yelped as a spike tore a wound on my scalp. Then I laughed like a wicked spirit.
For Helmut was screaming in horror.
He was tottering around in front of me, holding his stump of a hand and Wulstan was trying to see what had happened. I grunted and stepped forward, the seax flashing as I whacked it on to Helmut’s massive knee, making him hiss and sob as he fell on his side like a carcass of a deer. I stepped over the writhing body, leaped forward like an animal and grabbed Wulstan by the throat. He swatted at me weakly, and I laughed it off. ‘Wulstan, you little bird,’ I told him and held him with one hand and took the rope off my throat. ‘Your dog is free.’ He was whimpering as he looked at his father writhing on the ground. ‘I was your dog? Don’t you know me now? Do I look different? Like a bad dream? Let’s play some toothy, bloody games. Helmut? How do you want to see him die?’ I asked the man.
‘Let him go! Bastard, just let him go!’ he hissed desperately, his madness a thing of past, having been replaced by the unexpected fear for his son.
‘Are you begging me? Asking nicely?’ I asked Helmut and placed the seax on Wulstan’s neck.
‘I ask, I beg, spare him, by Woden!’ he whimpered and tried to crawl towards me.
‘His nose? Your master wanted to cut away my nose? If I cut him ...’ I said and slashed Wulstan’s nose open from the tip. ‘There, pretty,’ I told the boy, whose legs gave out as he fell on the ground in shock.
I stared at Wulstan in surprise and kicked him for a good measure. He really had fainted. I laughed like a fiend of Hel, kneeled next to Helmut and looked at his ugly face. ‘I will let him live. Such a weak boy will not threaten me. He will live if you kill yourself with this blade.’ I showed him the seax and grinned. I felt no mercy in my heart for the murdering, rapist filth and Woden was laughing in my head as I tortured the savage minion of Segestes. He cried, he spat in terror, and he shrieked for mercy, but I only remembered the terror I had felt for the man, and the terror his many victims must have felt, right there in that glade.
‘Mercy,’ he begged.
‘No mercy here this evening, Helmut. Dogs, pig herders and shit pickers are short in mercy. Here,’ I said and left the seax on his side, took up the spiked club and walked over to Wulstan, and rested the spiked thing on his cheek. I had done something like that with Hunfried, son of Vago the Vangione once and enjoyed the despair of Helmut as much as I had that of Vago.
He stared at me, then took the seax with a shaking hand and put it on his throat.
‘It is sharp. Just think of all your evil deeds, Helmut while you do it. Wulstan will stay here in Midgard and shall meet you in the plains of cold Niflheim and Hel’s rotten land one day. I doubt you are welcome in the Sessrúmnir of Freya or the golden tables of Woden. This little piece of gristle will die a coward. But you get to kill yourself fast. It s more than you deserve,’ I told him bitterly.
‘You will suffer at Odo’s hands. Segestes will capture you again, Ragwald will mutilate your face …’ he babbled in pain and fear, and I scowled at him. He went quiet.
‘Do it,’ I told him. ‘I know about Lothar in Castra Flamma. I won’t let them take me again. And you will not see me in the afterlife, not for a long time. I’ll spit on your bones, Helmut. Do it.’
He whimpered and fell on the blade, jerking it crudely across his throat. It took time for him to die, but die he did, joining his victims, and I hoped they would give him a welcome he deserved. I crouched next to him and spat in his face. Then I looked at Wulstan as I took the seax off Helmut’s hands. Wulstan’s nose was split and bleeding, and I could just tie him up and leave him there. Perhaps someone would find him.
Then, he would be the head of his family, and his sister would suffer his wrath, I thought.
I pressed the tip of the seax on his throat, thinking how I could have killed Gernot and Ansigar once, but had failed to do so, and how many suffered for that? Too many.
Woden’s dance was fading in my head. The god was sated.
I took the seax away.
Wulstan was a fool. Perhaps a dangerous fool, but a fool still. Yet, he should not speak of the deeds of the night and perhaps that would save Mathildis as well. And I was the Oath Breaker, after all. He had humiliated me, called me his dog and beaten me. I had a reputation to upkeep. I sighed and placed my knee on his face and jaw, forcing his tongue out with my hand. He was mumbling something strange, unconscious, oddly happy. I sighed and thrust the seax to his mouth, drawing blood from his lip. I positioned it as well as I could, hoped it would suffice and sawed. I cut off his tongue crudely. His eyes shot open, he shuddered, spat blood and the fleshy bit of tongue and shrieked strangely. I had to dart after him as he was up in a second, trying to run off. I wrestled him to a tree, punched him in the belly to calm him down, took the rope they had used to hold me, and tied him up. His feet were thrashing the ground; his eyes open as two moons, and he was panting in pain, blood spurting from the cut membrane and lip. I clapped his cheek with my hand. ‘I let you live, boy, but you had to pay something for the insults, no? Now you can bark like a dog, eh? None will hear you speak, and I doubt anyone cares to. So suffer like I suffered, and if you wish to find me, come to find me in the lands of Rome.’ I started to walk away towards the north, holding the seax, and as I went, I saw the boy in thickets, the same who had left the seax there for me. He squinted at me from behind a tree, and I winked at him. He did not follow me, and whether he went to mock Helmut’s corpse or torture Wulstan the Cruel, I do not know.
I was not sure if I should have cut Wulstan’s throat after all.
I struggled through the thickets and saw light as Segestes’s hall came to sight. The house was silent as I sneaked back to skirt the huts. The harbor held some men, talking calmly, and a boat that had a sleek red bow had a tall bearded man just sitting and drinking next to it, waiting around. It was Thusnelda’s slave. I contemplated going that way right away. I could escape.
Then I hesitated.
The blood I had spilled made me fey. I shuddered in anger and hate as I stood there, holding the seax. I put it down and held my face. ‘I promised Thusnelda. I did. I should leave and not risk dying,’ I whispered. But I could not leave. I picked up the blade and heard a clanging sound in Vulcan’s smithy. I trotted that way, dodging from shed to shed and peeked in. The man was hammering a fine cup with a small, decorated fringe, and I sneaked in from the back door.
‘Vulcan,’ I hissed at him, and he jumped around, hammer at the ready, his eyes round.
‘What the Hel do you think you are doing?’ he asked, then calmed, his eyes examining me. I was covered in blood. ‘I take it Helmut won’t be talking with Segestes tomorrow about changing the smith?’ he inquired.
‘Nor will Wulstan,’ I said, and he smirked at me, happily.
‘So, you should go then?’ he asked, looking around.
‘Ragwald took my helmet and my mail shirt, and I want them back. And I want my sword.’
He rolled his eyes and rummaged arou
nd in his quarters. He came out with a fur tunic, new pants, and footwear, and a deep leather hood. ‘Ragwald has a hall far from here. Too far for you to go there and escape after, but as it would happen, he gave the items you speak about to Segestes. I know for I took the rust out of them. He holds them in his armory. Your sword is there, as well.’
‘Where is his armory, Vulcan?’ I started to pull off the bloody clothes, which he threw to the forge.
‘The seax worked well?’ he asked as he rummaged through his gear.
‘It did, but why won't you tell me where the armory is?’ I asked.
‘Because you get killed you fool, and I will likely go with you to die for a few pieces of metal,’ he said insipidly. ‘I should have kept my mouth shut.’
I shrugged. ‘It is my helmet, my chainmail. I have fought with them and for them. I cannot leave them behind. Perhaps you really should come with me?’
His eyes rounded. ‘Where? To Gaul?’
I nodded. ‘Eventually. But before that, the armory.’
He sighed. ‘It is beyond his central hall. He will be sitting in that hall, entertaining his guests and you would have to pass through it, you moronic child!’ he said, shaking his head in doubt.
‘He will not notice if he is drunk. He is surely content on the bounty of his table. Too much so to move. I will sneak by and—’
He nodded and waved me down, his face ashen. He went to his back room and came out with a thing I had seen before. It was the shield of Segestes, round, large enough to cover one's upper body, complete with embossed animals and a leering woman, snakes for hair. The Medusa, I learned later. It was made entirely of metal. It was the pride of Segestes, even if it looked ridiculously martial on the least martial of men.
He looked embarrassed. ‘Segestes got this as a gift from Rome years past, and I have been asked to shine it every month. He holds it in the middle of his armory, topping his other trophies. He takes it out to show off. Sometimes he takes it to war with him. It is ...’
‘Beautiful,’ I said, running my hand across its surface.
He looked sour. ‘I was going to say gaudy and fit for a Roman whore god.’ I squinted at its surface. ‘I doubt it has never seen a battle,’ he told me.
‘We should take it to the armory, then,’ I said. ‘Then we shall go.’
He nodded and clasped my shoulder. ‘I didn’t tell you this, Hraban, but I am dying. I’m old as shit. I am sick, and I spit blood. That is partially why Helmut was going to have me replaced. I will help you, and you will go after if you can. No! It is what I wish. I have no more left in me to start a life elsewhere. And I miss my wife.’
We looked each other in the eyes, and finally I nodded. ‘I thank you Vulcan.’
He grunted. ‘Segestes wants to call me Vulcan, after a Roman god, but I am Heimrich.’
‘Heimrich, I thank you,’ I said.
He nodded, grunted, and wiped a tear out of his eye. ‘Now, dolt, do not touch the shield, it has to be spotless. Draw the cowl deep to cover your face.’ I grinned and did as he covered the bright thing with lambskin cover. I pulled on a hood, tucked the seax on my thin belt and followed him, carrying the shield. At the door of the mansion, the guards stopped us. Vulcan rapped his fingers on the lamb skinned shield and the guards nodded. We pushed through a heavy curtain of wool into a hall drowsy with an old party, as Segestes, Ragwald, and many chiefs lounged on their seats, drunk. All were bedecked in gold and silver, lords of debauchery rather than war. Some were asleep on the tables and floors; a poet was collecting silver from the floor, his last performance over. Women were already cleaning the room. Odo’s envoys were lounging far from Segestes, apparently too filthy for the high lord to stomach them closer than that. The walls held shields, banners, weapons, and many a Roman bust and silver plates adorned the tables as we ventured in.
I nearly toppled on a thick rug. A curious Roman table, half a circle, screeched as it was dragged along the wall. The fat lord frowned and gazed at us.
Segestes was sitting on one stone chair, filled with fluffy pillows, his beard wine sodden. He pointed at Vulcan who had frozen as I had stumbled. The lord was drunk and cross-eyed as he addressed Vulcan. ‘What is it, old Smith? Come to carry us to bed?’ Ragwald snorted, none laughed.
‘The shield, Lord,’ Vulcan told him softly.
Segestes smiled like he had seen the sun. ‘He brings my shield, indeed! There it is. Something ailing you, old one?’ Segestes asked.
‘My leg, and hip, Lord. Ill, sore. It is the coming winter, and I feel the time is getting shorter for me,’ Vulcan complained, and he did look sick. He had not lied.
Segestes laughed. ‘Perhaps we should have kept Hraban to take over your job?’
Vulcan nodded. ‘No, he is clumsy, weak as old man's piss, and couldn’t stand straight after a few swings of a hammer. Drinks too much, I hear.’ I grinned under my hood.
Segestes snorted. ‘I have not offered him ale nor mead, so it is on you, old man. Come, show it. Who is the man?’ He nodded at me, half curiously, his eyes fixed on the lambskin cover.
‘He is a man who makes charcoal for me. Half simpleton. I asked him to help, my back you see, Lord,‘ Vulcan whined.
‘Yes, yes, show it to me,’ he said and I, my hands shaking, took out the round thing and turned it towards him while Vulcan ripped off the lambskin.
‘There it is! No chief has owned the like in Germania. All shiny again, eh? Nothing wrong with it?’ Segestes panted, clearly struggling with the desire to come and take it but too lazy to do so. I saw he had the ring of the dead centurion on his forefinger, the huge ruby prominently flashing in the firelight.
‘I will take it, Lord, to the armory if it pleases you,’ Vulcan said while scowling at me. He was terrified I should make a mistake. Segestes made an imperious gesture with his hand, releasing us. Vulcan pointed to the wall behind them and dragged me after him. A door was behind some wooden pillars, one with bronze handles and Vulcan pulled at them, listening to Ragwald laugh at his back over some senseless, drunken joke. We went into the dark room. Vulcan turned and fetched a torch and carried it to the room. I was astonished.
Around the small room hung the weapons Segestes had looted from his enemies. There were axes of fine make, boar spears by a dozen, framea and hasta, darts and bows, weapons of men he had gotten killed. Vulcan grunted. ‘That was Sigimer’s ax.’ He nodded at a long hafted, double bitted ax with a wolf on the handle and the blade.
‘Gift from Odo.’ I whispered, knowing Odo had sent it as a proof of holding Sigimer. I rested the shield on the ground. I heard Segestes curse Armin, and a rough laughter followed it. ‘So, there is your helmet, and armor,’ he pointed at the far wall, where my treasure were placed on the wall. I walked over, ran my fingers over the surface of the Athenian helmet, and lifted it out gingerly.
I had missed it.
My eyes sought the weapon, and then I froze.
Nightbright, my short, slender sword was there, glittering in torchlight, resting against a wall. I rushed for it and grasped it, felt its speed and deadly balance and smiled like a man who cannot be beaten. I gulped and felt tears come and heard Vulcan snort. I nodded at myself and put the sword down. ‘How many men were there out there?’ I asked him as I took the chainmail off the wall as carefully as I could, starting to slip it on, the metal jingling like a stream full of silver.
‘Two Chiefs half asleep, Segestes, the fucker. Ragwald I mean, even if Segestes is also a fucker.’ He took the helmet and held it for me. ‘Two men of this Odo.’ I finished slipping into the chainmail, adjusted it and took the helmet. I pulled it on and let the metal engulf me. I felt like a god of war, like Woden or Freyr, like Donor or even Mars of the Romans. I rummaged in the shelves and pulled out a thick belt, one studded with silvery studs. I girted it around me. I took the seax and Nightbright and stuck them in the belt, Nightbright in its fine sheet.
‘Give me Sigimer’s ax,’ I grunted as I struggled to adjust the belt now that the
weapons were making it tight. He grabbed it, and I took it.
‘Now, go tell him that there is a dent on the shield, and that you do not know where it came from.’ I shook my head, and the helmet felt hot and heavy in my head, but so familiar.
‘Dent, eh? Fine.’ Vulcan grinned at me and went.
I grasped the ax handle and made some experimental swings while I went to stand by the wall and the doorway. It was the length of my arm, heavy and fine, the blade superbly sharp. I leaned on the wall, feeling like a man reborn in my helmet and mail. I had missed them. I felt Woden was watching, and I prayed to him for aid. Soon I was rewarded by a shriek and a thud as Segestes hauled his weight up and flapping footsteps resounded in the hall as he came running.
‘How is it possible?’ he asked Vulcan. ‘How?’
‘It is a shield, Lord, surely in a battle?’ Vulcan told him maliciously, and I snorted.
‘Armin’s men ran from me; there was none to stand before me this year!’ Segestes complained loudly, and then he came in, rushing for the shield leaning on a pillar and went to his knees before it.
I stepped forward and whacked him on the side of the head with the flat of the ax.
Why I used the flat side, I know not, and I did regret it later, but I remember thinking about Helmut’s words over the death of Segestes. I doubted Ragwald would be any different from the man I had slaughtered, and Thusnelda might suffer if Ragwald were to take over. Then I thought of slaying him for Drusus. I spat and hesitated. Nobody would believe me. They would all think I was a murderer of the allies of Rome, and I would suffer. And Rome, it was not merciful to the friends of the traitors.
The Winter Sword: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 3) Page 23
