The Oath Breaker: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 1)

by Alaric Longward

  'I let her go, Bark,' I said, alarmed by his strange mood. 'I, too, guard the old songs and work for the gods.'

  'Did you? Or did she escape? I think she did. I am not the kind Wulf, making decisions based on feelings. One cannot do so, when guarding the gods. It was I who forced Bero to try to slay Tear, so many years past, but he did a bad job of it, and Tear survived to breed children. Then, Wulf guarded the girl, Veleda, or had others keep her safe. I thought she should die, and that would have solved all the problems. But now, finally, I will have Tear, Odo, you, your quarrelsome, Woden cursed father and even the pretty little Ishild with the seed inside her gone from this world.'

  'I doubt Isfried agrees to this,' I growled at him. 'He gave me the sanctuary, and men witnessed it.'

  Bark laughed. 'Isfried will forgive me quickly, Lord Hraban, for we spoke last night after you fell asleep. I will swear some stray baby is your whelp. Isfried does not yearn for future rivals, but he will rule in Aristovistus's name, be it a babe of the simple peasants or of yours. Yesterday, he showed the men the blood of Aristovistus swearing an oath to him. That was powerful to all of them, and I will tell them you did so in order to have a safe haven for your baby. Not Ishild's and yours, for we will find someone with fewer complications in their bloodline. We want no blood of hers near us, nor of yours, both equally cursed.'

  'Why did you try to stop Isfried yesterday? You could have let him kill me,' I asked him, feigning disappointment, for I was no fool either.

  His eyes hardened. 'I asked him to do this favor for me. You see, I lied just now. I said I make no rash decisions based on feelings, yet I do. This one time, I do. I might serve the gods, but I am also a simple man. The other woman you killed with the cursed sword? Not Ralla, no. The one whose throat was crudely slashed? That was my wife. No, you did not die easily yesterday. I want to see you die at my feet, by my very own commands, you filthy murderer, killer of my brother and of my beloved wife. I will slit you open and piss in the wound.' And so, I understood him.

  But I was not ready to die.

  He took out his gnarled wand, and chanted vile curses, slowly, crudely, deliberately, spewing foul, wicked words, pleading to spirits to hurt me. I felt weak in the knees from his power. The man who had escorted me was moving behind me, and Bark nodded quickly at him. I moved though I felt slow and wondered if Bark had indeed cursed me. I gritted my teeth, anticipating a swift spear in my back. I whirled unsteadily, ready to try to dodge a nasty thrust, but I did not need to. Felix had not failed me. The man who had escorted me was cross-eyed, a thin blade protruding from his wide chest, and the rest of the framea was quivering in his back. The determined face of Wandal was ten feet away with Felix hovering behind his back. He had obeyed me, and made sure Wandal would follow us.

  'The runt got me, said you were in trouble,' he said calmly. I nodded, very grateful, and turned to Bark. The old man was on his feet, looking around nervously, and the wand quivering in his hand. 'Stay away, oath breaker. This will not stop here. Shayla will find you, and …'

  I grabbed the spear from the dead man's hands and walked for Bark. 'What god told you to kill me?'

  'Woden did!' he said. 'Woden, he wishes to live and wants to save us all.'

  'Then,' I said, and thrust the spear in his belly, 'why does the god also speak to me? I think he has more faith in me than you think.' It was true. Woden's wild dance was raging in my ears as Bark fell on the stone, his blood covering the intricate paintings. I ripped the spear out, slashing his fingers that had been trying to pull at it.

  He grinned at me, with bloody gums. 'You will find Woden to be a complicated god, Hraban.'

  I spat and rammed the spear through his eye, ending his struggles. 'Give dear Wulf my greetings, cur,' I hissed.

  Wandal raised an eyebrow. 'Betrayed, Hraban? Eh? No oaths seem to hold these days.'

  I nodded. 'Betrayer betrayed by betrayers. We must ride. Do we have horses?' Felix pointed at the beasts he had hidden behind a house and then we rode, fast as wind, to warn my father.

  CHAPTER XVI

  It took hours to escape Isfried, who rode after us, sending men to catch us. Soon, these men rejoined Isfried's column, giving up the desperate chase, and I realized they would ride through the night like ghosts. In the early morning, Father would be waiting for Bark. Isfried was going through with his plan, hoping to outpace us. We were exhausted, and the tired horses were swaying under us. We whipped them hard, brutally hard, and had to stop a few times to let Felix catch up. Isfried was not far behind, and sometimes it seemed he was not behind at all. Gasping with exertion, I told Wandal and Felix what was going on, and Wandal shook his head in disgust at the duplicity of it all.

  'Will we make it there for the planned hour? Eh?' Wandal panted, angry with the mess we had made of it.

  I nodded. 'Isfried will try to hurry. He cannot risk letting Maroboodus go. We will be there in the morning.' For us, that night was full of fear. A rider went by, close to us, but did not see us. A few more hailed us, but they were not with Isfried. We shivered, starved, and grinned in terror when our eyes met in the night.

  In the morning, it seemed the dark woods, wide pastures, and well-trodden routes were clear of the early hunters and even toiling farmers, and the wise land understood there was something terrible happening. Behind us still rode the best of Isfried's power. We finally started to see familiar landmarks, our own woods, wheat fields, and even bright streams we knew, and soon Hard Hill was in sight, hazy and beautiful. I spied the Flowery Meadows, and there, that day, my father would be waiting for Isfried, and his men would be ready. The sun was up, its strange blood red orb promising a spear day. We stopped our trembling horses downhill from Hard Hill amidst small outlying huts and lesser halls. Wandal whistled and thumbed behind him. There, spears and standards by hundreds were appearing out of the woods.

  Felix gritted his teeth. 'Look, all around the countryside, smoke,' he said, gesturing to the north.

  I saw that, too, and like a dormant anthill, all around us, Armin's plan started to take place as scouts spotted Isfried arriving at the edge of the woods. Somewhere, a thin horn rang, answered by harsh horns from Isfried, and others in the countryside. I pushed my friend. 'Wandal, take Felix and ride to my father! Warn him. He is surely expecting it, but the Matticati are coming, and some will come to Hard Hill! Many will go to the Flowery Meadows,' I panted and guided my horse for the hill. I wanted to see Koun and Tudrus when the chaos of the coming day allowed me to do so.

  Yet, Hard Hill was not safe, but would know bitter war that day.

  On the horizon, I saw over two hundred wild men riding for the Hard Hill, under a strange foreign banner, white horse hair tangling from its crossbar. It was Hengsti the Matticati himself, hoping to sack the very power of the Marcomanni. More clouds of smoke were rising all across the horizon as Hengsti's men were raiding, far and wide, and I wondered if Father had prepared for everything. Behind us, I saw most of the southern Marcomanni head for the Flowery Meadows, but some fifty men broke off, riding after me. Melheim's standard of gray bones was tangling on top of the pole. I realized he was going for poor Gunhild and Balderich.

  'Haiaah!' I screamed and kicked the trembling horse hard.

  That afternoon the Marcomanni fought well. Father had an army with him, nearly a thousand men, eight hundred men trained in the Roman way, by no means equal to Romans, but sturdy and more disciplined than your average, wild tribal band in any case. The Matticati army, some six hundred strong, were riding for Flowery Meadows, but found this force rising up from a field, like a god's summoned shades appearing to block the enemy.

  They were made of the eastern Marcomanni, simpler men who respected Father for his war with the dreadful Hermanduri, and the Matticati could not easily pass them. The men stood in fine, disciplined lines, commanded by the bravest men, and the terrific horsemen of the Matticati tried to break them, with no chance to do so. A hundred men died in the terrible spears, and Isfried was alone, unknown
to him. Maroboodus was no fool, knew Armin uncannily well, and had men in Hard Hill. There were many men hiding in the lower halls, and sturdy ropes were pulled across alleys to block the horsemen from riding freely through the town.

  I later heard from Wandal that Isfried and his family surged up to the Flowery Meadows, dismounted, and charged in a drunken stupor when they spied my father and his few men in line at the place the vitka had died. Isfried cursed him foully, mocked Maroboodus for a rapist and a cowardly turd, and they came swiftly; ready to kill the lord of the north gau. That was when the hidden men of Maroboodus surged from pits dug deep and camouflaged well, and closed Isfried's escape off. Then, in a spear storm, they hemmed the family of Isfried in a copse of wood, shields out, pushing them in brutally, and they killed them.

  My father slew Isfried in a duel, the lord dying bravely, his arm dangling useless, and so died his unlucky cousins and the great uncles of their great, ancient family, all falling one by one, with no mercy given. Only Burlein broke out, when some two hundred Matticati rode up, late to battle, already bloodied by Maroboodus's easterners, and they failed Armin, but then, Father had expected them and likely they would have made no difference. The Marcomanni overwhelmed the rest of the cursing Matticati. Later, savage Leuthard captured the fleeing Burlein.

  The fact that Flowery Meadows held the best Marcomanni men meant others suffered.

  In Hard Hill, up which I rode, things were harder. There were many Marcomanni men there, but Hengsti, the old warlord, was coming to burn and raid. His men, frustrated by the resistance, killed hard-fighting guards, even speared slaves, and gave no mercy to youngsters who joined the fight.

  The northern part of the hill was soon smoking in many places. The sounds of stiff battle were shrill in the air. Arrows flew swiftly, cursing men and screaming horses fell, even our women cursed the foe, and the Matticati were stopped somewhere in the middle of the hill by determined men with sharp axes, long spears, and unfettered hatred for Hengsti. From my exhausted horse, I saw the old warlord leading his horsemen between twisting buildings, and I saw him falling as his horse died from a well-thrown framea by a red-haired woman.

  The Matticati, shields high, helped him up, and he was dazed, but that day, the Matticati would get their victories from the outlying villages. There, many Marcomanni died as hundreds of the Matticati burned, killed, and looted. Much of the lands around the Hard Hill and north of it would be desolate; fields burned, the precious cattle taken. Many young ones and weak elders would die of hunger that winter.

  I plunged to the maze of buildings, heading up the hill. Behind me, I spied Melheim's evil face as his men started their climb. Despite Hengsti's fall, chaos was rife on the Hard Hill, men fighting the still probing Matticati and the quickly spreading fires. Thus, it was that Melheim, sporting a suebian knot, hoped to surprise the men at the Red Hall, guarding Balderich and Gunhild. I hoped to warn them.

  Yet, just like with Hands, my horse fell, tired beyond survival. I rolled, hit my shoulder and head hard, and cursed. I saw Melheim's horse rearing before me, the lord licking his thin lips in anticipation, eyeing the Red Hall up ahead, and then considering me. He pointed me out to a burly old man with a salt and pepper beard. 'Finish him. Bring me his head.' The man nodded and vaulted from his horse. He was a champion, one of their family, but not an unkind man as he let me scramble up, and take my spear. He drew a fine blade.

  'This is Blood Shine. My wife gave it to me the day she married me. It is a good blade to die on, Hraban. Just fight, and you will see your grandfather in Valholl,' he told me stoically.

  I nodded, nervous. The blade was thin and bluish-colored, the size of gladius and obviously quick, and sharp beyond any blade I had seen, and it glittered at me invitingly.

  I gripped the spear two-handed, and the old warrior grinned at me. 'Bergulf, that is my name. Distant blood of Isfried. You killed a man in Grinrock. A good man, that. One of mine. You carry his spear.'

  'Was not me, but I would have,' I told him as calmly I could, and we smiled. I pulled out the sack from my horse where my helmet was, fished the fabulous thing out and put it on. The man smiled approvingly, either anticipating the loot, or agreeing with my bravado.

  There was a group of some thirty nervous Marcomanni around the Red Hall, eyeing the carnage downhill. Some were undisciplined, running to fight Hengsti, and others were waving at Melheim, thinking him a friend. Melheim evidently smiled, faked friendship with the guards and then, drawing his axe, struck at a man leading the guards, one of Maroboodus's riders. The man fell like a trunk, and the battle ensued in chaos of blood and horror.

  'Your master is trying to capture Balderich and Gunhild, eh?' I asked, observing the man.

  'Yes, but Melheim is a sick man, and I think Gunhild will not enjoy the beginning of her life as wife of Isfried,' the man said somberly, his eyes darting uphill, his face showing disgust. I grunted, the thought filling me with anger, and I maneuvered myself in such a way that the sun was behind me. Woden danced in the mists, and my blood rushed with the joy of battle.

  'Come, boy, to the blade,' he told me, squinting.

  'You know, all your family are riding to a trap. They will die there, in the Meadows, and soon there will be only you, who rode up this hill,' I told him, viciously.

  'There are Matticati helping Isfried,' he told me, and so I rushed him like an angry wraith. He braced his feet, I was yapping like a mad dog, and then he slashed his blade at me. He was fast though the sun was bright in his face. The blade, it came at me, wishing to slit my throat, but I held my spear at an angle to my left, and then slashed it across desperately, as fast as I could to knock his blade aside, but it drew blood. It tore a red ribbon off my chest, but my spear slashed forward, snake-fast, and Bergulf's eyes widened as the blade went crudely through his throat.

  I pushed him on his back, pinned his flailing, panicky hand with my brutal foot and pried the blade from his fingers. It was still bright in places, but night dark blood covered it, most its former master's. 'Nightbright,' I renamed it, tucked it in my belt, pulled the spear from his throat and ran uphill, my chest burning. I had slain a champion. Woden's dance pounded in my head, and I felt alive, full of joy and unholy rage. I puffed as I dashed up the hill. Many men had died there, as well. Marcomanni killed Marcomanni, and as I approached, only some few men were left. Balderich was not in sight, but Gunhild had been dragged out by Melheim, mad at the loss of so many of his men. Many of his survivors had scattered, chasing our fleeing men, and only four sat on their skittish horses, eyes wild, bloodied by butchery.

  'What are you doing?' Gunhild asked in horror, but Melheim was beyond politeness.

  'You are coming to Isfried. He has a home for you. He is not the gentlest husband, but you do not need to worry about it. Worry about me.' He laughed and stepped up to Gunhild, and ripped the tunic off her, leaving her exposed. 'I have watched you many times when you lived with your husband in Grinrock. He kept you safe, you know, and cared for you enough to deny me what I asked him for, so many times. Now, in your queenly solitude here, a simple tool for Bero, relative to Aristovistus, you thought you had escaped us. A proud lady you have always been. I will humble you a bit, and I know Isfried will not mind. Now, undress.' He pushed her, touching her breasts crudely, and she cried in anger, red-faced with shame. 'Undress,' he growled.

  'No!' she screamed, and tried to run, but Melheim slapped her, hard.

  Gunhild was weeping with pain, shame and the men were leering at her, and I prayed to Woden, grabbed my framea, and jumped on a horse with blood on the saddle. I rode at them, battle madness whispering in my ears, navigating corpses and the terribly wounded men.

  The enemy was not prepared for me. The general chaos, the groaning men, and crackling fires around us kept their faces turned away from me to the spectacle of Melheim's game. He tore the rest of the clothes off Gunhild who was now putting up a desperate, if futile, fight, and the men laughed as Melheim grinned at them. The shocked look on his
face alerted them, but not before I screamed my challenge right behind them. I speared a man, a boy really, in the back, and the rest of the men turned, getting in each other's way. I pushed the body off the spear and turned the horse with my knees. I charged a man with a bow, a toothless old man who was fumbling with an arrow. I screamed as he shot desperately, hitting nothing, and I did not see where my spear hit, but it was caught hard, and I let go of it as he screamed in pain. My horse fell as another arrow hit its flank, and I was thrown free. I saw Gunhild being held down by Melheim, who had his axe in his raised hand, but he made no move for me, his face slack.

  'You shall not have her, nor my head, you bastard turd of Hel,' I screamed and cursed, and pulled the sword out of my belt. I dodged as a spearman tried to pin me down from his saddle. I slashed at the elusive, dancing horse, the rider's foot dangling near me. I cut his foot deep and the man was thrown off the horse, screaming in pain, but I was going for the other archer, who had dismounted. His arrow was tracking me, and I cursed. I dedicated my life to high Woden and ran at him.

  I remember little of what followed.

  I felt a burning pain in my throat, and I was sure I would die. I raged. I spat blood and jumped at the man, discarding all caution. I ripped the sword from his crotch to his collarbone, spilling nasty guts and even shit, and pushed the screaming mess away from me. I remember Melheim slapping Gunhild so hard that she fell and whimpered. I growled at the lord as he gawked at me, a lord of the Marcomanni who was shaking in fear at an apparition of death. I laughed at him, blood flying from the bronze helmet. The lord backed off, his axe shaking in his hand, and he tried to run. I was a bronze-headed hound, my mouth rasping like an unholy thing, arrow fixed in my throat, and I ran at him like an animal. He cried for mercy.