Adalwulf: The Two Swords (Tales of Germania Book 1) Page 4

  Vago. We had heard of the rogue Germani king. That king had many sons, they said, powerful sons, and even more on the way. He planned to find himself more land, Oldaric had told the warriors of Mattium during the last Yule feast. It was easy to guess where such land was to be had, if Rome agreed. But, so far, peace. I guessed a man could admire Bero for that, if he still offered his warriors some wealth torn from the Gauls. But Herold had said even those kinds of raids were few.

  I guided the horse past some cellars, which would be mostly empty after winter and waiting to be filled during the fall, when a sheet of yellow flowers filled the land, the last to blossom. The horse neighed happily, and struggled to take a bite of some blue and white wild flowers, and I let him, as we reached the point where the hill ran downwards.

  I was looking across the trees and halls to squint at the harbor that was now in sight. It was something I hadn’t seen before. There were huge buildings, crudely built, some obviously only warehouses, others made for business, pillared and strange to Germani, and there was a well-made planked pier. Many ships could moor in to Hard Hill. Sturdy pine planks thrummed under industrious feet, as slaves, boatmen, and locals carried trade goods back and forth. Their calls echoed from below, and carried far over the water.

  And the old man, Herold, suggested I’d serve Hulderic? Somewhere so different from this place, I thought, and smiled, though I checked the scornful smile, trying to keep a cool, level head. I might not have a choice on the matter.

  After the flowers had succumbed to the horse’s gluttony, I guided the beast down towards the harbor, dismounted, and stopped by a hall, or what was likely a blacksmith, judging by the thick smoke sprouting from the holes in its roof, and gazed anxiously at the bustle of the harbor area. I brushed my tunic, cursed the unkempt, smelly garment, which had suffered days and days in the saddle, sleeping in the dust, and felt grime on my skin. Not only was a thief, but also looked like one.

  I took some tentative steps for the harbor, trying to see any sign of the great lords of the village. A powerful looking man carried a bale of hay past me, apparently about to feed a horse in the back of the smithy, and I hailed him. “I’m looking for Bero, the warchief of the Marcomanni.”

  “I’m looking for some peace and quiet,” the man growled. ‘Running the blacksmith is a bastard’s job. I’d kick the man who told me to take over this place, if he wasn’t so rich.”

  I chuckled. “Surely it cannot be that bad.”

  “No, I guess not,” he laughed, tottering with his load. “Perhaps it’s my lot in life. I am a bastard, all right,” he winked. “Never knew my parents. Gods like to kick my balls,” he said with a crooked smile. “They poke them with a stick, hoping to see they are healed, and then the kick comes again. Call me Bellows. They all do. I shout too much, they claim. Bad hearing, you see. You get that when you hammer iron all day.”

  “Adalwulf,” I said, and cursed myself softly for voicing my name. If the Chatti looked for me, there was no need to sing it aloud at every junction of Hard Hill. Might as well just sit down on the road, and wait for a spear in the back.

  “Adalwulf, eh? Looking for a lord, no?” he said shrewdly, and I didn’t like the sudden twitch on his face. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you.” He was about to speak more, but then he cursed and threw down the hay, but shut his mouth. I thought there was something clever in the way he smiled. Finally, he pointed a finger for the harbor. “That would be your man.”

  I turned to look at a cluster of men where a tall, older man in a fine, white tunic stood. He was lithe and dark, and stood strangely twisted to one side, as if one of his legs was too short. He had a black a hair, with a hint of gray on the hairline, a drooping moustache, and a long, forked beard entwined with silver. Silver and gold rings glittered in his fingers, and his shoes had a furry lining, expensive but extravagant in the summer heat.

  “Foppish fool, but he has really changed things for Hard Hill. Plenty of trade, though I think some of that ends up lining his hidden hoard, no? And Balderich doesn’t mind.”

  “What lord wouldn’t mind their underlings becoming too rich?” I wondered aloud.

  Bellows chuckled. “You might be right. Not sure what Balderich can do about it, though. He always seems to give Bero there the attention the fool craves, and Balderich just smiles regally, and gratefully, when Bero gives him his due on trade and raids. Who knows what the old man thinks? He’s been a Thiuda for a long time. Probably knows how to shit his pants and not give it away.”

  I was barely listening. I had begun to hope for a place in Bero’s circle of warriors. Might radiated from the man; it was clear from his relaxed pose, and the general ease which he conducted his business. Everyone leaned on his every word. I would be untouchable with him, I thought. No Chatti could threaten me. I’d grow rich. Not so with this Hulderic, surely, especially if they were enemies. “He must be the next coming man for the tribe, when Balderich dies. Or, are there sons with Balderich?” I asked, feeling self-conscious as the fine throng of high Marcomanni warriors were milling around the great lord. I felt filthy, and my throat was parched with fear.

  “You sound like you are hoping to marry Bero. He is married, boy,” he chuckled and waved away my protests. “He is the coming man and isn’t,” the man said uneasily. “He already rules for Balderich. Is that not high enough? Will he take over one day? I know not. He doesn’t have the blood of Aristovistus. He is a strange one. A Goth, from the north? Lord Balderich has no sons, but two daughters. One is married to Isfried’s kin, some weak fool from the south, and that means the southern gau might find power, if Gunhild will ever give a son. That will mean something, and trouble for Bero’s ambitions. If he has any beyond getting rich.”

  “The other daughter?” I asked him.

  He nodded, looking at me shrewdly. “Strange deal that. Something that leads me to think Balderich is not totally mad and indifferent. She, Sigilind, has sons with one of Bero’s worst enemies, with Bero’s brother Hulderic’s exiled son Maroboodus, the man who killed Maino, Bero’s son.”

  Bero was Hulderic’s brother, I though. And they have feuds.

  Bellows elbowed my leg, standing there next to me as I sat on the horse. “That‘s what they all say, of course, there was no proof, but come now. It happened. Everyone knows Hulderic left Gothonia as an exile, and Bero followed him like a whipped dog. So there must be something there, no? Wars, murders in the north, and they continue here. The Goths are terrible enemies to each other. But the only sons in Balderich’s family are sheltered with Hulderic, far from the Hill.”

  “Truly?” I wondered.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Bero rules here, but Hulderic guards the future of the tribe. Strange balance. Perhaps as Balderich hoped? Though it seems likely to me it ends up in a feud that splits the tribe.” He spat on the mud, and gave my horse a long look. “I can feed it. Can you pay?”

  “It ate. Too much, I think.”

  “It will need to eat again,” he chuckled, and clapped Snake-Bite’s thick side. The horse gave a whinny that could only be described agreeable.

  “I can work," I said with shame. “I have no hall, no livestock. I’m looking for work, in fact.”

  “We take the Roman coin here,” he said, without hope. “Bronze, silver, though not—“

  “I have nothing like that. Yet,” I said apologetically.

  He was rubbing his scraggly beard and finally nodded. “Adalwulf, eh?” He made it sound like the name might pay for the care of Snake-Bite. “Pay me when you can. Its only hay, bits of crude nourishment our god Freyr grows for the animals, and who am I to deny the high lord’s bounty to this fine one, eh? I’ll give him—the horse, not the god—a place in my stables, and feed. You look like an honest sort.” He ran his gaze over my disheveled form. “Though a bit ruffled. You stink worse than the poor thing, and the horse hasn’t been washed in ages, has it?” His eyes turned to Bero, critically. “So you will ask to serve one of them? I’ll get paid that way, e
h?” He nodded for the group of high warriors, now conversing with a strange, well-groomed man dressed in a red tunic. Roman? Gaul, possibly?

  “Serve one?” I asked after a while. “I hope to,” I told him, though the prospects of success didn’t look too great. The man was right. I smelled like a horse. Worse, even.

  “You should try.” He thumped his fist on my thigh, and appraised me with a critical eye. “Solid shoulders. You have strong limbs. Lie, lord, and perhaps you will find your place, eh?” His eyes went into slits, and I thought he looked like a horse-merchant out to sell someone a lame nag for a full price. “Talk to the jotun. He’s in there, in that hall they use as barrack for the harbor, though his own hall is up the hill near Bero’s. He’s here, though. Look. Coming out.”

  Jotun. The giant. My eyes picked him up quickly enough as he exited a dark-wooden hall. Well-armed Marcomanni with square shields and gray tunics followed him. He was a giant indeed, a bald, dangerous looking man. His face was lean, his jaws wide and tight, and eyes deep in the skull, glinting under a heavy, scarred brow. I had never seen one as wild, and when he reached Bero, the other men, many of them champions like him, took a step away from him, which he seemed to regard as a normal reaction, as if he was a pack leader of an old, grizzled band of wolves. And wolf he was, because he stood under a standard of skull and wolf tails. They ruffled in a gentle wind that reached out over the glittering river. “Northern wind,” I whispered, and the man with me agreed.

  “Northern,” he agreed, and that was a saying even in the lands of the Chatti that there was trouble brewing. “He is trouble, but only to his enemies. I know you are seeking such deployment, and Leuthard’s warband sees much action, but be careful of him, boy. If he asked you to kiss his ass, I’d definitely pucker my lips, if I were you.”

  I shrugged, not able to enjoy his humor. There was an air of exclusivity in the band of Marcomanni lords and their men, that was true, but something whispered of danger, and while I tried to push away the uneasy feeling, it was hard. Leuthard stood before a dozen ring- and chainmail clad men with thick spears and iron reinforced cudgels, axes, and even a sword for a few. All the shields bore animal marks, mostly wolves. Near him, there was another man, a red-bearded man of great height, who was listening to Bero intently. “That is—“

  “Fulch, the Red,” the man said softly. “Another of Bero’s warlords. One of the ten high Marcomanni gods of war. All bow to them.” He made a derisive, simpering dance, and then glanced towards the band of Marcomanni to make sure Leuthard hadn’t seen his mockery.

  “Fulch the Red, eh?” I said, and wondered if I should ask him instead.

  “Ask him later, perhaps,” the man insisted, reading my mind. “Leuthard first. But wait until Leuthard is isolated from the other lords, because if he says “no,” it’s going to be embarrassing and awkward to go to the others. It’s like a child begging for a honeycomb, when he already has been denied one.”

  “Of course,” I hissed, exasperated. “I’m not an idiot.”

  Bellows went on. “It would be like farting while a woman pulls your arm to go for a walk in the woods with you. Not impressive.”

  “Now that I see him,” I said, “I’m not sure I wish to approach him. He seems like a lord of fame, but perhaps not a …”

  “Good man,” the man agreed with a chuckle. “None of them are. Ask him, and judge him for yourself. A man should never be judged if you haven’t even met his eyes and exchanged words. You might find him different from his reputation.”

  I shuddered and looked at the huge man, who was wiping a hand across his bald, thick head and neck, and brushing his thick, brown beard as he listened to Bero negotiate some deal with the Gaul. Perhaps he was selling prisoners to be sold as slaves over the river. I doubted Leuthard had many faces, but Bellows pushed me. “Under that scowl he manages a hundred men, and all of them are wealthy. Few leave him, many die for him.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” I allowed. His men did look wealthy.

  “I am. Wait a bit, and go to the champion. If you ask him kindly, and he likes you and thinks you are worth more than shit on his shoe, you’ll do well. Follow him to the hall, wait at the doorway until he is unoccupied, try to be unseen so nobody throws you out, and then, close the deal. You can, you know.”

  “Oh, very well,” I said, and squared my shoulders. “I’ll try it, then.” And as I had committed myself, I felt some of the doubt drift away. I turned to look at the man. “Have you seen this girl …”

  He chuckled and waved his hand around. There were plenty of girls around. “You came here to find kisses or glory?” he asked me.

  “I guess both,” I allowed. “Well, wish me luck.”

  ‘Good luck, my lord,’ he said with a wide-mouthed smile, the sort you see when a trader has cheated you. “Come back and tell me everything. Go in but stay out of sight until he is free from any other business.”

  I nodded and dismounted, left the horse with him and walked for a small ditch that separated the harbor from the town, crossed over a small bridge, one that was sturdy enough to carry a cavalcade of men, and walked over it, and braced myself as the group around Bero, all of the men walked away, dispersing. Fulch the Red marched for the pier, Bero and the Celts went with them, and dust flew as they stomped away. For a moment I was tempted to smell my armpit, wondering if I had such an adverse effect on them to drive them to the four winds. I lost sight of Leuthard. The hall, he’d be there.

  I rushed forward, but was blocked by a group of slaves pulling at some spooked horses, and one nearly bit me. The backs of the powerful Marcomanni warriors disappeared, but then I saw Leuthard’s wolf-tail standard by the hall he had exited from and shadows disappearing inside it, and knew he had gone back inside. I hesitated, and saw how lord Bero climbed on a horse and rode away, separating from Fulch the Red. Should I rush after that lord instead?

  I cursed, trying to force myself to make a decision, finally, and I did. I turned like man carved of wood and went after Leuthard. I’d enter with all the confidence I could muster. I’d wait until he is free. I’d hold his baleful eye, kneel before him, and smile wickedly, as I proclaim my worth, hoping to serve him. Perhaps he will see through the grime, the young age, the obvious nervousness, for yes, I was nervous.

  I reached the hall, hopped up the creaky stairs, and glanced inside like a naughty child might, hoping to steal mead. There was a silence in the small room, with rows of benches and some doors to the sides, where I finally sensed a drone of voices. One voice was Leuthard’s, I was sure, because it was deep, merciless, guttural, the sort of a voice that compels men to tighten up in a shieldwall, and fight on.

  But there was another voice.

  It was also guttural, demanding, deep, but there was a maniacal pitch in it, as if the man was unaccustomed to speaking with civilized men. There was something unkind about the voice, wild as the forest, inevitable as death. One would imagine hearing such a voice in some ancestral grove of trees, where a mad, undead thing, a draugr, might live. I stopped to listen, but the voices faded, and so I sneaked forward to the darkness, and knew I should probably stay out, wait for the lord in the light of Sunna. I crept inside, made my way to the door, and waited, trying to ignore the words drifting from the hall.

  I couldn’t help myself.

  I tried to be careful, saw there were shingles lighting the next room, though it was full of shadows, and so I risked it. I looked inside, very quickly, and stiffened with fear.

  There was a band of warriors inside. There were dozens. Silent as trees, still as stones, like dangerous statues.

  They were a coarse lot, their beards long. They all had gnarled hands, bronzed skins, as men who lived in the woods and under the stars. They all wore cloaks of fur, all had spear and other weapons. They stared at Leuthard respectfully, the giant who was standing in the middle of the room, and a red-headed man of equal stature, with hugely thick hair and beard, with a wide brow faced him. That man held a shield, an unusua
lly wide, black shield, and a crude sword on his hip, and wore a ring mail of darkened metal.

  Leuthard was speaking, and there was clear tension between the two. “I don’t care shit’s worth what you will do with the thing. Bero wants it gone. It’s a thorn in his flesh, has always been, and so you make sure it will never come back to Hard Hill. You’ll do it this very night.”

  “A nervous master, this Bero,“ the red-head said gravelly, “Not worth the service of the Brethren. Why you serve such the man, is beyond me.”

  “I’m not of the Brethren anymore,” Leuthard rumbled. “I left them with you. I’ve got bigger plans than mercenary work, living in squalor, and—“

  “And yet, you need men who live in squalor, run under the moon, and don’t spit on their god,” the odd warrior said critically. “You need us, as much as you disdain our company. I just don’t like your lord, no matter how many times I’ve done his bidding before.”

  Leuthard took a deep breath. He deliberately placed a finger on the chest of the man, and pushed the ring-mailed man so hard he had to take a step back. “Don’t push your luck, Raganthar. I led you, I can take that leash back. You remember who made you. I was there before the lot of you, and what you are, or think you are, is for me to take away, if I wish.”

  Raganthar’s eyes glittered in the semi-dark, and I was sure he would slam the huge, wide shield in Leuthard’s face. He fought the urge, he struggled, and finally nodded swiftly. “We will do it as agreed. But I warn you now. We have more plans for this thing than just simply hiding it or throwing it to the river. We’ll get paid by someone else if we use it for something.”

  Leuthard spat on the ground. “You can saw it in your ass-crack for all I care. I told you. Gods might care what you plan to do with it, but I don’t. Make sure it doesn’t come back to Marcomanni lands.”

  Raganthar was not done with the subject. “It won’t. But it might stir trouble for the Marcomanni. There is someone who sees value for it. It’s as famous a weapon as your Feud Settler,” Raganthar said, and pointed his thick finger at Leuthard’s hip, where a dark-hilted, hugely long sword hung.