Maroboodus: A Novel of Germania (The Goth Chronicles Book 1) Page 4

  ‘Woden, give me a rich foe to kill today. Let them all see it, and let me send the cur into Valholl,’ I breathed softly. I gazed at Maino, who seemed to read my nervous thoughts. His flat, meaty face had a look of disgust, and gods, I hated him. Maino stood with the champions of Bero, Eadwine, Gasto, Danr, and I would have to show humility before I equaled them. I should, at least. I gazed at the three men huddled around Bero, hearing advice. They were a sullen, silent lot around Bero’s standard of horse jaws and wore steaming leather mail with metal links and rings, and thick spears. All had axes, clubs, and the best spears. Maino hefted a fine, tall spear Bero had given him that summer, and wore a well-crafted, boiled leather armor that covered him to his knees. His shield was of the best make, and would stop a javelin easily.

  I cursed Father for that as well.

  For some reason he expected me to find my own gear. I had a thick spear, the sort the Romans call a hasta, a sturdy club and my shield, of which the paint had run off an hour ago, but they were not made by a master smith, or a leather worker of great repute. Granted, the metal of the spear was precious and I had worked hard for it, but the rest was what many regular warriors had. And I only wore a tunic, like such simplest of fighters. I was not being fair, I knew, as a simple peasant would have a shield and possibly only a simple framea spear, and often fought in nothing but pants on and a rock in hand. I had serviceable weapons, but not famed ones. ‘Forget him,’ Hulderic told me, apparently having heard parts of my whispering to the One-Eyed god. ‘A weapon will look its best when dipped in blood and even best when looted from a wealthy foe. Yours are good enough for a battle and you might find a better onse you can truly be proud of, should you slay its master.’ But my cousin didn’t make it easy to forget him. He liked to seek me out and torment me.

  He walked by Hulderic and slapped my shoulder hard. ‘Anxious, cousin? Hoping for a good fight?’

  ‘I am,’ I said as steadily as I could, but I couldn’t fool even a thick lump of muscle like Maino. I was nervous, and he knew it.

  ‘You’ll get your chance at glory, Maroboodus. And if you fall, I’ll raise my mug to you while you watch in the afterworld. If you die, please take my greetings to your mother in the Hel’s gray land. I liked her well.’

  Hulderic shuffled in his saddle and stared at Maino coldly. The death of my mother had taken place two years before. She had died of fever, snot, coughs, and her spirit was with goddess Hel now, in her sad kingdom of those, who died without glory. And what Maino was really suggesting was that I had no future in Valholl, where the brave go, and Valkyries would not pick pick my sprit up and help me travel there.

  ‘Shut your mouth, boy,’ Hulderic growled. ‘And make yourself useful.’

  Maino looked up to the great warrior, and there was a twitch in his eye, and even he realized he had crossed a line. He nodded generously. ‘Yes, lord. I’ll just take a piss, then.’ He sloshed his ale. ‘This might be the nectar of the gods, but I bet they don’t suffer the after effects like we do.’ Maino had a sort of a mug in his hands, one made of well-crafted wood. Men around us hailed him with agreement, drinking as well. Maino set down the mug, and sighed. ‘Damn them. The Saxons that is. Damn them to Hel. We should have taken after them.’

  Hulderic shrugged at his nephew and spoke as if to an idiot. ‘Sure. We should have. But we only discovered them last evening. We only had a hundred men at hand then and they have more. Now they are coming back, tired and probably hungry and well-bled from fights. Trust your grandfather.’

  As if he heard it, there was a whistle from the top.

  We all looked up at Grandfather Fridenot, the Thiuda of the two gaus, and he was staring down at us. His squat shoulders shook, the silver and gold beard dripped wetly and he carried a huge sword, the Head Taker, another treasure of our family. His banner of scalps and skins was swaying high up in the air behind him as his great warriors were readying for battle. Osgar, his warlord, a tall man with a scarred jaw and the beardless Ludovicus, a young terror of battle were readying the men. Grandfather nodded at us, and we knew Friednot could smell battle, always had, like a dog smells excrement, and so Maino and Hulderic nodded and even Bero’s men began to get ready. ‘Best piss now,’ Hulderic said stiffly.

  Maino looked down at the obscure path below us. ‘About damned time. They have been raiding for days in the inlands, and sure, they are probably tired and starving. The Svea have killed some. I am certain of that. But still, we might have stopped them before—’

  Hulderic nodded. ‘Yes, they have lost some. And that’s how we wanted it. We might have deals with the Svearna near our borders, but we don’t mind seeing some humbled. And there is the rumor of the Thing.’

  There was indeed. The Svearna had ever been divided like we were, but that spring they had called for a great many men to sit somewhere days away from us, and what followed was a virtual peace between Svearna. There had been few burning villages, very few mounds being built for their fallen, and they had had an excellent harvest. ‘They are making peace. Next spring they will attack us together,’ I said, having heard Hulderic discussing it with Bero.

  Maino snorted, readying a disgusted comment, but instead shrugged, as Hulderic’s eyes were on him.

  ‘We’ll be ready,’ he stated.

  ‘Saxons today,’ Hulderic agreed. ‘Svearna tomorrow. Let’s think about the scrawny sea-dogs now. This is where they will come and we need not look for them. They are coming. Father knows these things.’

  ‘Maino!’ Bero called from the side. He had thirty men, we had the same and Grandfather had the rest of the men we had had a chance to gather so fast in our gau, another thirty. It could be thousand and more, but we only had had a day to gather what we could. ‘Get here and stop prowling.’

  Maino set down his mug and spat. He was groping with his pants, trying to fish out his cock to take a piss and stopped to regard me. He was not ugly, nor handsome, just strangely beefy and powerful. He could not resist a final jab at me. ‘You wish to hold if for me, Maroboodus? I must preserve my strength, and it is rather heavy.’

  I glared at him as men laughed around us. ‘My hands are frozen. Wouldn’t want to make it even more insignificant, cousin.’ Hulderic quaffed and looked ahead as his nephew glowered at the men around us.

  ‘It’s a fine thing,’ he told me, ‘and you should learn to respect a berserker. Gods love me, cousin, and you should not doubt them. They would not favor a man like they do, if I were armed with a small cock.’ He turned away from me, unable to show his size after my insult and the men noticed that, and were laughing softly. I leaned over and slowly spat in his mug. The yellow snot fell true, though some of it landed on the rim and hung in there. He straightened, grabbed the mug and scowled at me. Then he walked back to Bero, drinking heartily. I felt very happy as Dubbe held his belly, chuckling like mad.

  ‘You should not,’ Hulderic said, hiding his mouth with his hand, trying not to laugh, ‘antagonize him. He is not all well up there.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘His brother Catualda is a saner specimen, but there is little Bero in Maino.’

  ‘This was all Bero’s idea,’ I cursed. ‘Standing here in the rain.’

  Hulderic nodded. ‘And Father agreed. We could have fought them in the cover of the woods, but we want to annihilate them. We have to hide here for a bit.’ He glanced up the hill at the lord of the gau who nodded at Father. Hulderic was the steady spear in Friednot’s hand, Bero a fair tactician. There were some six thousand people in our gaus, but most were responsible to defend their lands against the southern Goths, raiders from the sea, Svearna, and so the men we had would need to do. ‘It’s a good plan,’ he added and nodded towards the great Saxon boats that could be seen jutting on a rocky beach. We saw their proud wooden noses over some woods and a stretch of the beach, beyond a palisade the Saxons had built to guard them. They had landed there, in a remote part of our land, but we had been lucky and a boy had seen them the evening before and their surprise was gone. There wer
e men waking the area between the palisade and the boats and those men were not Saxons, but the men who had killed them. They were the men of the Black Goths, of Hughnot, Friednot’s brother and the lord of north, the lesser of the two gaus. ‘Hughnot was brave to send to many men to aid us with these dogs.’

  ‘He happened to be in Marka,’ I said. ‘Of course he helps.’

  Hulderic hummed. ‘Friednot was worried about the Saxons, and there is something strange about them indeed. Its almost like he knew they were coming. The boy found them, but did he send the boys around looking for them? I think he did. Has been for a week or more,’ Hulderic wondered and looked up at his father. ‘He keeps secrets and holds spies and these Saxons made him very anxious. And that Hughnot is here, tells a story. They both have an interest in these Saxons and whatever they were doing here.’

  I nodded. ‘Hughnot fought well to take the stockade.’

  He agreed. ‘Uncle’s men suffered ten losses in wounded, but they took it easy enough. Saxons were napping,’ Hulderic said. Hughnot had some forty men and they would keep the ships and the palisade, and that would make things very interesting, when the Saxons arrived. ‘Well, ours is to fight, and let your grandfather worry about the bigger issues. He will tell us in time.’

  ‘It’s a nice plan, I suppose,’ I grumbled. ‘But it should have been our plan.’ I growled, as I looked Bero’s way.

  Hulderic eyed Bero. ‘I’ve said it before. Respect Bero. He is not a warrior, son, but he is keen enough and close family. We will get our chance to shine,’ he said with a smile. ‘Just wait.’

  ‘I’d shine sooner than later, Father,’ I said.

  ‘You must learn patience,’ he said, and he said it with a tremble in his voice that led me to believe there was more to it than just trying to educate me. He was afraid. Of me? Surely not. He gave the horse away, to be led over the hill where Scald, my horse was and he did it just in time.

  We did not need to wait any longer.

  The scouts below twitched. We all saw it. They looked uncertain and then we saw a man rushing from the woods, waving his hands crazily. ‘Kneel!’ Hulderic commanded tersely. His men went on one knee, and then hid totally. Hulderic’s standard of bear jaws was pulled down. Friednot’s better-armed men above us followed suit as well and the standard-bearer was careful to hide the mighty artifact behind a tree. Bero’s men were busy as they stumbled on their knees and elbows.

  A crude laughter could be heard from the woods.

  Then more. Men were talking and soon we saw three men wearing wolf skin coats walk the path. They were tall, lanky and blond men, obviously tired for the campaign they had been involved in. All had dark shields. Hulderic grunted. ‘They didn’t lie. It’s Cuthbert, all right.’ Cuthbert, a sea Saxon, a ruthless, battle-scarred chief of Bjarnheim, the islands of the southern lands, across the straits that separated Mare Gothonium and the sea to the west. All the men had huge, dark shields and that was the color of the enemy Thiuda, Cuthbert the Black. He had been raiding our coast from across the sea for years, every spring, summer and sometimes even fall. This time he had landed on the fringes of the Gothoni powerbase and had gone to sack the great hill forts and trading villages of the Svearna, but he would not leave.

  A man pulled at Hulderic. Father turned to look at him, puzzled and I saw Bero was being similarly instructed. ‘There will be a woman with them,’ the warrior said simply. ‘You must—‘

  ‘Of course there will be women with them,’ Hulderic growled. ‘They have been raiding. They are slave-taking.’

  ‘This will be a special woman. A high-born Svea. She must not leave the field, if some escape.’ Hulderic gazed up at Friednot.

  ‘Is this important?’ Hulderic asked the man thinly. ‘I cannot vouch—‘

  ‘She must not leave the field. Dead or alive, she must not be allowed out,’ the man told Hulderic and disappeared back up the hill.

  Hulderic grunted and adjusted his helmet. ‘So, this is about a woman? There is something Friednot’s not telling us about this war, and Hughnot is on to it, no doubt. Well, its for us to fight, not to dwell on. For now.’

  More men pushed out of the woods. They were a savage-looking lot. They were muddy, their shoes were stuck with leaves and covered in mud, and mostly ripped at seams and many were barefoot. They all carried javelins and spears, their shields made hollow sounds as they hit each other while the column of men stumbled on. There were at least a hundred and fifty of them.

  And they had prisoners. Slaves. Miserable Svea slaves, though perhaps there were some Goths amongst them, because they Saxons had passed through our lands as well, no matter how thinly populated.

  Most were women, many were children, though there were no men amongst them. Thirty of them were carrying great bags full of loot, but very likely their only interest were the human prizes they had captured. We usually raided for cows and horses, the true wealth of any man but it was hard to transport such loot across the narrow sea.

  And then there was the dreadful lord of the enemy.

  It was Cuthbert himself. He was famed as a raider, a lord of a Saxon gau, and a noble of old Saxon blood and we all knew him. His standard of dark wolf’s pelt flapped up and down amidst the trees, and the great, bald lord of the Saxon islands nearest to our lands was unhappily conversing with a woman of exceptional beauty. She did not answer him, but looked forward as if there was an annoying wind rustling by her ear. Her face was smudged, but otherwise she wore strangely pristine doeskin cloak and a gray tunic of fine make. Her fibula—the brooches holding her tunic on each shoulder—were of silver and her shoes were made of sheepskin. It must have been the woman Friednot wanted. Dead or alive.

  Her face was striking. I could not help staring at her.

  Her skin was pale as the fresh snow and her long, braided hair was nearly black, as black as the ravens of the deeper woods. She was a high noble, that much was clear and the suffering slaves that were being pushed for the ships were likely her subjects. Cuthbert sat on his horse, talking to her harshly, and as she still did not acknowledge him, he finally toed her so that she stumbled, before leaving her to walk in peace. Her eyes glanced furiously at the high Saxon lord, and her eyebrows were raised in a rage that made men in the Saxon ranks close around the lord. There was a look of such goddess-like rage on her face, the lord should have fallen from his horse, dead, that very moment. Instead, Cuthbert just spat at her feet. There was angry rumbling amongst the men, even if the Svear were not exactly friends to the Gothoni. Many former Goth women lived in the Saxon lands now and we would not forgive the slavers our losses. Suebian knots, the elaborate hair braids bobbled in our hidden shieldwall and the men spoke to each other with subdued, harsh tones and I almost felt sorry for Cuthbert then.

  The army below us was strong, though.

  And I felt fear. Yes, Maroboodus who would become a legend later in his life, feared.

  We were slightly outnumbered. Cuthbert had brought a sizable number of his men to the field. The outcome of the battle was anything but certain.

  I glanced at Maino. He was joking with some of the warriors. Bero was whispering to his champions and Hulderic, Father was speaking with his three most accomplished fighters as well, all glad in leather and furs and holding heavy axes. We watched the enemy scouts wind their way for the coast, obviously drunk. The army followed them, shuffling along in the strange, thick column, bristling with spears, the prisoners in the middle.

  ‘Try to spare her, if you can,’ Hulderic said softly. ‘She looks important.’

  ‘She does, lord,’ said Dubbe, and I was jealous as his lips were smacking lecherously. ‘Important was not the first thing that came to my mind, though, lord.’

  ‘Sultry,’ Sigmundr suggested.

  ‘Shapely,’ Harmod grunted. ‘Like my wife used to be, before she gave birth.’

  ‘You are a bastard, Harmod,’ Hulderic chortled. ‘But spare her, no matter what she looks like.’

  ‘She looked beautiful,�
� I said and bit my lip as the men gaped at me with astonishment. Then they jeered me softly, so as not to alert the men below. ‘She did,’ I added, after they had finally shut up.

  Soon, the last of the Saxons walked away from under our hill. They would reach the beach in a bit and our scouts ran to see if there were stragglers. There would be. ‘Doesn’t matter now,’ called out Friednot from behind us. He was leading his men to us. ‘Let’s get down there and close off the escape route.’ We got up, and Friednot led his men to the middle of Bero’s and ours and we walked down the muddy hill in ranks. The rain was coming down in a pour now and limited our visibility from bad to nearly zero. ‘God’s should weep for their souls,’ Friednot laughed as he cursed the rain, ‘but they are premature. The dogs live still. Let’s enjoy this, and give the god’s tears some bloody meaning.’ We walked on, thick in the lines, pushing each other. Men fell, and so they took down some others and many cursed profusely. The warband didn’t look very glorious during that decent, and perhaps the gods wept for our ineptness as we slid more than walked down that hillside. There were some yells in woods to our left and a ragged group of tardy Saxons came running out. Some were bleeding and I knew the local villagers had done their bit well enough.

  ‘They are herding the dogs now,’ Hulderic said, and he was right. Javelins flew after the stragglers and the vanguard of the Saxons. Most missed, some hit and three of the enemy went down, screaming. The rest, some eight men saw us and headed for us, and pointed their spears at the woods, yelling gutturally, thinking we were with Cuthbert.

  ‘They think we are their kin,’ Dubbe chortled. ‘Oh, they will learn a hurtful truth in a bit.’

  ‘Kill them. It’s our job,’ Hulderic said coolly to his men, as the enemy was close to us. We turned that way, thickened into a column—a cunus resembling a boar’s tusk—with Hulderic as a deadly tip and I was at the rear. The enemy slowed down, cheering as they saw us coming but then some spotted our strange standard and one, cleverer than the others, noticed our hair knots.