'Hraban? And who are you?' he yelled after me, a note of panic in his voice.
'I am Hraban, the one whom he wanted dead!' I laughed unwisely, with spite dripping from my voice, and spurred my horse wildly. I rode hard, only to slow down when a patrol of Vangiones passed by, little heeding anyone in their haste to reach the burning town. At some point, a tired Roman squad was crossing the road, and I hailed them happily, feeling mad and foolish. Soon, I left the lands of Burbetomagus behind me, and I wondered if Augustus himself was in the castrum of Burbetomagus, wondering about the fire. The old man had toured the lands not too long ago.
'Come, my friend,' I told the head of Vago, bumping against my thigh, 'hopefully they think we are riding for Moganticum. Let us cut for the river, and try to find a boat,' I drawled, and checked my short sword Nightbright was loose on the sheath.
I did not enjoy the silence and chuckled. 'But, we just stole horses!' I mimicked Vago's drunken, gruff voice.
‘Hopefully, they think like you,' I chided the head. 'Like cheap bastards with no guile.' I guided the horse for the banks of the mighty Rhenus River, having spotted a small fishing village nestled on a small bay. It was a bit too near Burbetomagus, I thought, but I wanted to be across the river as soon as possible. I was looking at the filthy people in their chores, wondering why so many were still up, but apparently, they were having some sort of a celebration. I was gazing at the houses, guiding the horse carefully around, trying to find a suitable boat, and spoke to Vago with concerned voice. I would have unpleasant company very soon; I was sure of that. 'On the other side live wild Germani and tribeless Gauls, none of the Marcomanni. Burlein's lands start some thirty Roman miles to the north, I think. We have to get there, and past that land,' I told the dead Vangione carefully while squinting at the village, and at the same time, I started to understand why Felix had not come along.
I was likely committing suicide.
In the lands of the Marcomanni, I had no friends. To revenge myself on Maroboodus, I would need an army. I would have to cross the hostile southern Marcomanni lands first, and I shuddered at the thought of Burlein, whose family was dead, thanks to the favors I did Maroboodus. They had opposed him; we had lured them to a trap, and I had lied to Burlein's brothers, Isfried and Melheim, though to be fair, they had tried to trick me as well. He would not love me, should he capture me. I mimicked triumphant Vago. 'Burlein is sure to welcome you after you broke your oaths to his brothers. Oh, yes, he will roast you slowly, savoring your whimpering and cries, and he shall serve his pigs a filthy fare.'
'I will try to avoid meeting him and his pigs,' I answer myself ruefully, kicked the head with my knee, and rode carefully by the village, gazing across the fluttering torches in the darkness, trying to see past a thick, neglected barley field and few trees. Surely there would be boats?
'Where, exactly, are you going then?' the head inquired, a small panic in his voice. I was growing cautious and no longer bothered changing my voice to Vago's.
'Hard Hill. I will go there, and murder my father,' I told him, 'one way or the other, but first, I need to see to my friends.' He began to argue, but I thought better of it and went silent. I was close to the village now. I finally spotted the boats. Some simple rowing rafts were moored on the bank some thirty yards away, near the village's larger houses. I got down from the horse and looked around. I began to smile, thinking I might make it across after all. There were no guards with the boats, but then horses neighed, and I stiffened.
A group of Vangiones rode to the town from the west, holding flaring torches. Their leader was a man in shimmering armor, with axes tattooed on his bruised and slashed face. Hunfrid, Vago's furious boy. There were some twenty of them, armed to the teeth with Germani spears, the thin-tipped framea, axes, and heavy clubs.
'It seems they know their land, Hraban,' said Vago's head with a sneer, and I cursed. 'My boy Hunfrid will take a shit in your skull, scum.'
'Indeed,' I said, depressed. 'It matters not, for we have to cross here. They must have men watching all the woods from here to Moganticum by now, so this will have to do.'
I should have gone west first, then cut to the south, but I had been arrogant, and Hunfrid, Vago's eldest son, the man I had bested before butchering his father, was after blood. The Vangiones dismounted, and were asking brusque questions from the scared and roused men and women living in the cruddy huts and halls. They had seen nothing, by their wild gestures, but then they shivered helplessly as Hunfrid raged at them, his horse turning in many directions under the heels of the enraged lord. His hair was disheveled, singed from fire, yet he looked a formidable lord, his trimmed beard shivering with rage. He was, I realized, now the King of the Vangiones.
'Your boy is the King now, Vago,' I told the head maliciously. 'A king of shit walkers, he is. Perhaps he will squander all your fortune while you weep unseen in his hall.'
'He can squander all my money and hump all my women as long as he walks on your shit first,' Vago insisted with a whisper, and I reluctantly thought it might be possible.
I decided I would take a rowing boat, despite the men searching the village. I told myself Woden would aid me, which of course was a lie, for the gods expect us to help ourselves. I tethered the horse on a branch. I hoped someone would find the beast before it died of hunger and infection, as it had done no ill to anyone that night. I began to walk slowly for the boats, leaving the bloody pillowcase with the head by the horse.
'All the village is there, bowing to Hunfrid, they have no eyes to spare this way,' I whispered to myself, hoping to be right. And I was, as I managed the dark obstacles of the harbor area and sneaked down to the waterline, pushed the first boat to water, and cut the rope, hoping the blade would not flicker brightly as the torches waved in the village. No one saw me.
I waded to the water and started to pull the boat to the side. I glanced back towards the village. Hunfrid was stroking his horse as his men were searching the last of the houses. The simple peasants and smelly anglers living in the village watched in helpless rage as their belongings were ransacked and thrown into the mud. With Hunfrid, there sat a group of men. They looked like a practical sort, mercenaries in greasy leather and chain mail, some wearing caps and hoods, all rich with silver rings. They had a curious red mark on their foreheads, and I realized it was a burnt scar, the result of some sort of a ritual they performed. I decided and wanted no more to do with them. Their leader, a tall beardless man with dark, lank hair, was maliciously riding around the peasants, kicking them on the backside, while a bright torc glittered in the torchlight. His scar on the forehead was thick and old.
I struggled through the weeds and sticky, sucking mud, trying to decide how far I should go. I was nearly on level with the tethered horse now, and I decided that would be enough as I dragged myself back to the land, crouched as I went to fetch my gear.
There was an arrogant yell from the village. I turned, and saw the fuming lord thinking hard, his hand in the air, contemplating on leaving. Something stopped him, and I cursed the fickle gods. 'Go away, and bury your filth of a father,' I willed him, but he did not heed my wishes. Hunfrid snapped his fingers, stopped his men from searching the village, and sent some men up and down the dark river to search the banks. 'Ass,' I told him softly, rushed to my gear, grabbed the sack, and waded to the river, keeping an eye on the encroaching riders. I hoisted the head, and gingerly placed it on the boat, thinking hard. There was no choice, I decided, and so I climbed to the boat, cursing the oars rattling hollowly on the bottom. I would row towards the north, perhaps escaping notice, and then to the east across the river. I'd hide the boat, and find a swift horse.
It was a good plan, the only plan, but as you remember, lord, I kicked a dog at the gate that night, and dogs have unsettlingly long memories. The very same dog was sniffing at the place where the sack had just been laying. I gazed at it while its fat, wet snout was on the turf, slowly puffing at telltale hints of blood from the sack, some having trickled t
o the moss below. I tried to remain quiet, glancing towards the men riding closer. It was a large hound, mottled and ugly as a hairy ass, likely ever hungry and malicious.
I moved my foot. The oar banged. The dog looked up, its beady eyes gleaming dangerously.
'Please be quiet,' I said pleadingly. I could swear it smiled, and in my head, I heard Vago's lips smack foully in happiness, though, of course, that was just my imagination. The dog sat down, raised its snout to the heavens, and barked. It barked hard and long, the sort of a sound that grinds into man's ears and nerves. It started to howl. I wanted to go back to murder it, but I glanced at the village where Hunfrid pointed a quivering finger in our direction, the torches coming closer all over the area.
So I rowed, and cursed softly. At least Felix would not be hunted, for they would all go for me.
The night air in the middle of the river was surprisingly cold, and I shivered as I rowed, but soon forgot about such mundane problems. Some arrows splashed into the water nearby, and I noticed frantic activity around the still baying mutt. More arrows flew, some men yelled with excitement. A clatter of oars. They were out there; soon coming after me with whatever they could lay their hands on, anything that floated. The boat was picking up speed in the middle of the river, and I would soon be out of their bow's reach, but they were sure to find me again. I thought about just letting the river take me home, the wide lane running freely towards the far sea, passing Marcomanni lands, Hard Hill even, but the Roman navis onageria patrolled the waters. I would be caught, I might run into rocks, even go through deadly, sucking rapids. I did not know the river.
Horns blared ominously on the Roman bank. Up ahead in the river, torches fluttered as well. They already had ships blocking the waters out there. That simplified things.
I rowed forcefully across Rhenus, jumped off the boat with a splash, stumbling on wet rocks as I dragged the pillowcase after me, glancing up a wet, muddy climb to a thick wood of alder and beech. Torches were now flickering all across the other side, as if there was an army out there preparing for a hunt. Then I froze, for some of the torches were in the middle of the river. I swore, and wished I had risked exposure in the village and cut the ropes of the other boats.
I ran up the hill to the woods, to the unknown, wild lands, and hoped to find friendly faces. I plunged to the darkness of the Black Forest, wondering how to navigate my way in the dark for the north. It would be slow going. The men across would know the woods. Some would, at least. I dodged under some fir boughs, and ran wildly in the dark, begging not to break my leg, sliding over a moss-covered trunk, cursing my luck. My triumphant night had turned into an inglorious hunt, and I was the prey. I begged for gods and spirits to guide me to the right path, but it was equally possible the night spirits and the evil vaettir would guide me to my pursuers, then enjoy the show from their shadow lands. The Vangiones, happily, took their time. I glanced at the bank through the trees every now and then. Most of them were still on the other side. Some few torches were at the place I had left the rowboat. They were not numerous on my side of the river, but they would soon be on the trail.
Later, I abandoned the bank and ran to higher ground. From a craggy hill, I saw a horde of rowboats descend on our side, and a larger ship rowed down the river, a navis lusoria, going to fetch the horses and perhaps even Hunfrid. There was frenzied barking in the night. I was sure the village I had stolen the boat from had sent local men to look for me as well, for there was more than one hound out there. One was, surely, the beast I hated.
I pulled the helmet Tudrus the Older had once given me out of the bag, and stared at its empty eyeholes. It was an old helmet, and I remembered Marcus Romanus, my tutor, speaking of the warriors of old Athens and Sparta. It was bronzed and beautiful, with symbols of our gods carved on its surface. There was the mark for Tiw, the Even-Handed, for Donor, the Smiter, and even Woden, my god of tricks. I prayed to them, and pulled the thing on my head, sure I would need its protection before the hunt was over. I begged for help and happy faces. I contemplated on abandoning the heavy chain mail, but decided to keep it. It was precious, rare in Germania.
I abandoned the hill and navigated for the north. Stars were bright and far away, the burning of Burbetomagus looking like an ethereal, strange spirit. I ran through that night with a rotting head inside a sack, not bothering discussing our plight with it. It would only enjoy my sorrow and worry.
Morning came, the mists of the night parting for the rays of light.
To my alarm, I now heard the dogs barking, not too far. I took to a shallow stream, and ran towards the east for some long hours. I did not run into any people, but only saw untouched, wild lands. Some startled stags ran away from me, eyes huge in terror at likely the first human they had seen. This was the Black Forest, dim and dark, full of vaettir, sprits both formerly human and non-human. It was a place few men braved alone, and some did not return.
At midday, I heard horses pass not far, riding hard for the north through the thickets. I withered in indecision and decided to take after them, as I heard no barks of the damned dogs near, and hoped the stream had diverted them for a time. I had to stop several times, spying men sitting on horses far in front of me. They would go on through the thickets, then stopping again, cautiously listening. Some had the red mark on their foreheads, and I spat in anger for these were men looking for me, not casual hunters. The mercenaries and the Vangiones were careful, skillful warriors, now spread out. It was touch and go, and I was nearly caught many times as some of the mercenaries stayed behind, often on purpose, having hunted for wily prey before.
Eventually I heard a horn blare mournfully, and they all looped back to search the area they had passed, as there was no sight of me ahead. I slid to the mud and hid under a bank of moss. Soon, a horse was whinnying two feet away from me. I grabbed Nightbright tightly, sweating as some ants were crawling on my back, finding their way to my pants. Eventually the horses went away, the riders patiently making hand signals. Woden helped me that day, and I thanked him profusely as I slowly crawled out from under the moss. I took off towards the north, and did not see a soul. The dogs barked to the west, near the Rhenus, and I began to run now I could see where I was going.
I had begged Woden for help and friendly faces, and so I found Fulcher.
CHAPTER II
By afternoon, I thought I had run some twenty miles in the deeps of the Black Forest, having made my way across pristine mossy valleys and clear streams. A pack of lazy wolves had stared inquisitively at me while panting in the sun, but they left me alone. Perhaps they were waiting for the night, or had eaten some other fugitive running before me. I laughed, offering the sloth-like beasts a mock bow. The woods were still thick, but there were some signs of life now. Germania was not all deep, brooding forests, like the Roman authors liked to think, but amidst these woods there were many clear valleys, fertile and breathtaking, and the closer I got to Marcomanni dominions, the more I started to see some small villages and houses amidst the trees, with fields having been cut and burnt to the woods.
I ran on, starting to feel tired and hungry, and wondered what kind of a hunger it would take for me to roast and eat the damned head.
Cows ogled at me amidst the trees, stopping mid-chew as I jogged past, sweaty and worried, for surely the Vangiones had not given up. I dared not approach the houses. They were perhaps Marcomanni, or men close to them, but I could not be sure, and would not risk it. No matter the tribe, the men living there in the deeper woods had their own loyalties and agendas, and they might very well sell me to my enemies, especially if they wanted no quarrel with armed men used to violence. Of course they would. They had families in those houses.
I felt paranoid, not sure where to go, unless forward, hoping for Goddess Frigg in her mercy to guide me, as apparently the gods I had already prayed to intervene were asleep. I had the sun, it told me where the north was, but no matter that small mercy, I was starting to feel very anxious. The nasty head bumping on my thigh
with each step was a reminder of what might soon befall me. I grunted in anger, driving such thoughts away, swearing my father's head would join Vago's inside my pillowcase, lip to lip, and went on, chuckling. I missed Felix, who would laugh with me. Or even my dull Wandal and surly Ansbor. I briefly wondered what had happened to my bastard of a brother, Gernot, who had sided with Odo. I had cut his hand off, and gods knew how he fared. I had left him there, without help or care. Perhaps he died with Ansigar, my former friend, another traitor, whom I had whipped bloody to the bone while Gernot watched.
I navigated down a small incline, hanging on to boughs and cursing as I slid and bounced down painfully. On my right, the land rose, and far off in the mists, there was a fine-looking mountain range where Burlein and the southern Marcomanni gau traded iron ore. There was bound to be a road to transport it north, I realized, and I started to navigate towards northeast. I ran on, cursing the torn moss hanging crazily on many a boulder from my passing. They would have an easy time tracking me, should they find the trail.
Soon, I smelled smoke. I heard horses neighing, and also upset yells, and I knew Hunfrid was close and they had not given up. I crashed through some thickets of thick ferns, and abruptly stopped with a curse, hoping none had heard my clumsy landing.
Below me, men had died.
A small, sturdy hall was burning.
One end of it was smoking, and some small flames were licking through the wet thatch roof. On the trampled field surrounding it, there were twisted bodies. Men, old mostly. Some horses were tethered at the side of the house, snorting uneasily, and a few men sat on other tall horses, questioning a tall, sturdy man with a long red beard and matching hair, his face angular with brooding eyebrows. He was on his knees, staring wildly at the hall as the riders prodded him with spears, asking questions, his hands tied in front of him.
Raven's Wyrd: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 2) Page 3
