Adalwulf: The Two Swords (Tales of Germania Book 1) Page 8

  “You are welcome,” I said, and then we all heard the rumble of horses. There were dozen, perhaps more, and they stopped in the yard. I turned to face the main doorway. Gisil pushed past Bellows to rush to the side door, one we could not see beyond the sleeping quarters, and to help the men and servants there, but we, five of us, stayed to guard the main doorway. There was a silence for a long time, then some horses neighed with agitation, and we heard men gathering, for shields were banging together. And then, the familiar voice of the man I had heard in the hall, Raganthar, called out.

  “The sword,” he yelled with a manic pitch. “That’s all we want. Throw it out!”

  Gisil shook her head, terrified, but gathered herself and called out. “I’m a völva. I’ll beg for the gods to curse you thieves, if you do not go away. There will be a feud, you dog-faced cowards, and you shall pay, if you—”

  “Shut your mouth, or we fill it with a spear, woman,” the voice called out harshly. “I fear no goddesses. We fear no evil spirits. I’m one myself. We have a job to do. Spare us your shit-talking, and come out. Come out already.”

  “You know we won’t give the sword away easily, murdering sell-spear of Bero, so you might as well stop asking. You’ll have to come and get it,” I yelled, and that paused them. Finally, the voice called out again.

  “Who’s this? The young pup in the hall at the harbor?” it called out, and then we saw how the door moved a bit. Someone was testing its sturdiness.

  “Yes, the pup you tried to kill,” I growled. ‘Now it’s not so dark inside here, and I have my back covered.” I looked at Gisil, who smiled at me bravely. “Come and face me!” I felt surprisingly brave, but then, I had a door to guard me still.

  There was hollow laughter outside, the sort that chilled your backbone to its core. “I am Raganthar,” the man laughed. “I’ve not been beaten by seasoned, armored champions, and you would? You would beat the Black Shield? Bah! There are twenty men here. There are but a few in there, isn’t that so? Your young lord’s head in in my bag. Yes, we shall come, and fetch the sword. We’ll not burn you out, but eat you raw. Kill them!”

  The door shuddered with heavy strikes. Axes cut to the well-crafted timber, one hit after another. A plank cracked. “Get ready!” Gunther said, and we moved to surround the doorway. More planks groaned, one flew in and clattered past us, and a flicker of shadows showed in the light of torches outside.

  A face, hairy and scowling looked inside, and the rage I had felt since they arrived in the yard burst out in action. I was fast, quick as a snake on a cool rock, and the spear flickered forth. The eyes of the face shot open with panic, the mouth opened up with surprise, and then he shrieked, as his lips and teeth met the iron, and the man fell away, howling. I felt elated by the brief success, but then the strikes on the doorway intensified, it shuddered terribly, and two more planks cracked. One fell in near the bar.

  Hands groped inside, trying to lift the bar, men pushed it up and we charged the door. Spears flickered, punched in to the holes, and the groping arms, backed out, punched again at the limbs. Some spears were grabbed, and a terrible pulling and pushing match ensued. At least one man was hurt outside, as Gunter pushed his spear in a chest of a shadow that had held on to a spear point for too long.

  Gisil was next to me, pale and shivering in the animal like brawl, and I feared the men would hurt her. That thought made me rage twice as hard. I thrust the spear to the hole, again and again, and felt it puncture through flesh, meat, and skin. The howls of the men outside the door were more animal than human in pitch and intensity.

  Then, a guttural command, and the hands disappeared.

  We bunched together, not sure what to expect.

  Arrows flicked through the holes, dark as birds, and deadly fast.

  Gunter screamed, and so did another man, who fell on his face, holding his groin. The balding warrior had a shaft in his chest, and he dropped his shield to roll on his back with horrible pain, until the shaft broke, and Gunter was nearly still, panting, bleeding profusely. The other man was a hideous sight as he rolled on his back, the broad bladed arrow having punctured his lower belly, and blood was spurting in a wide ach. “Get the men from the side, if they can be spared!” I told Gisil desperately. “And then, hide yourself!”

  “I can’t—”

  “Go!” I roared, and prepared my spear as the arms again appeared in the cracks. The bar was lifted as we hesitated too long. The few men and I pushed into the hole again, drawing blood, but this time, a thick, muscled arm had pushed the bar all the way up, and the door exploded in.

  Men appeared, hunched and savage, dark-dressed in leather and hides, furry-haired men who slept in the woods. They were the same unkempt lot I had seen, smelly, dangerous looking, fast, and ferocious as wolves, as two of our men fell under their speed and weight, the enemy feet thrumming the boards as cudgels and axes beat down. I threw my spear with desperation, and one man fell back, holding his chest, an astonished look on his darkened face.

  More men appeared, one pointed his spear at me, and I was sure I saw the huge shield of Raganthar looming outside.

  I’d die, and my boasts would be in vain.

  Then Woden whispered to me. It was the first time the terrible rage was kindled in my head. Perhaps it was the presence of the old blade that did it, magical and odd, or just the desperate need for a savage, merciless fighter with no fear, or, simply, the wicked gods wanted to give me a chance, but I received what I needed.

  Woden was there.

  I heard him encouraging me, or thought I did, because the gods did not truly speak to us, not in ways we’d remember or understand, but his message was clear as careless fury filled my limbs. He wanted me to fight with all my heart, and bring death to our enemy. I saw, in my mind’s eye, a figure of war, shadowed, dancing ferociously, and I joined him in the dance. I looked around, saw the splendid hammer of Teutorigos, and grabbed it. Its balance was perfect, the weight deadly, and the shaft fit my hand. I lifted my shield, braced my legs, and held the heavy hammer high. I turned back to see the last Celt getting stabbed by three fur-clad spearmen over a bench, and charged.

  I held the heavy weapon overhanded, and tore into the enemy mercenaries with wild abandon. Their faces looked nearly comical as they lifted their weapons from the butchery, but they were too slow, and the hammer came down in an arch. I was fast as a weasel, powerful as a young bear, and the heavy bit of round metal chopped through a forehead as if it was an egg, swiped past a man’s nose, so close it drew blood, and buried itself in a skull of the third. I pulled the weapon out effortlessly, bone bits flying, smearing my face with blood and brains, and the last, nose-bleeding man, strong as an ox, tried to tackle me, dropping his spear. I let him, pushed back with my feet and shield, stopped him in his tracks, and hammered the shaft down on the hairy neck, breaking it, and his head lolled to the side crazily as he rolled away.

  I forgot about him, like I would discard the entrails of a deer after a successful hunt, and turned to look at the doorway. Five men were there, gazing at me with hate, rage, and even fear, and I laughed at them, sure I’d die, but I’d die very well, indeed. “Crawl to the bosom of the gods you believe in, thieving rats, because I’ll open the door for you!” I screamed as I hurtled for them.

  I remembered little of that fight.

  I was hit by an ax blade, but for some reason, I found no wound later. A club struck my leg, and the pain was intense, but not enough to stop me. I was in midst of them, the hammer coming down with such brutal power, it broke bones, cracked weapons, and bruised flesh, even breaking a floorboard. I ripped it across my vision at the enemy again and again, throwing it around me in the close battle, and slapped down man after man.

  Some tried to get back up, two crawled out, terribly hurt, and I recall stepping on a neck of a blood-soaked man, breaking it. More men surged in, some fell, and how a berserker could kill and maim so many men in such a short time, I didn’t know. Maybe it was not a short amount of t
ime, after all, but took a long while. I lost all sense of time, and the floors and the walls were red with gore, bits of bone, and bodies littered the floor.

  “Lord of the Hall, Lord of the Hall!” I screamed again and again hysterically, tearing the weapon around and around, tirelessly.

  Then I saw the huge man enter, fast as an otter, and he bashed his huge shield in my face, and his dark reddish hair flailed around with the strength of his next move, as his weapon, the crude sword slashed down from the side. I blocked it with my shield, and our strength seemed equal. Raganthar’s face was dark with fury, bestial and inhuman as he roared, and spat, and pushed his shield in me.

  I jumped back, bashed my shield in his, and hammered at him from above. His huge shield blocked my attack effortlessly, he pushed again at me, lighting fast, and the rim of my shield struck my own face. I fell back, dazed, but ground my legs on the boards, felt his sword hit the rim of my shield. I pushed at him, and he stopped and we stood thus, like young boars, grinding at each other.

  His face looked bony, hairy, as he struggled against my strength. We pushed, grunted, and I struck across the rim with the hammer, but the shield was so large, he merely moved it up to block the hit. His sword came at me, and the shield shuddered, about to break. I spat at his face, and he pushed me against a pillar. There, we exchanged strikes, all of which our shields blocked, until he heaved with a roar. His sword came in, my shield broke, and I let go of it. He kept me against the pillar, but cursed, because his sword was stuck on the remains of my shield.

  I had only a moment to live.

  I roared with desperation, and fell to the side. He crashed against the pillar, turned, tossing my shield’s frame from the blade, kicked at me, and he slipped in a pool blood. He fell on his knee, then his back, cursing, holding on to his sword and shield. There was a groan from his men, and I slipped as well, regained my balance. With such joy of battle I had never imagined possible, I brought the hammer down, crushing his shield against his chest, and he howled with pain. The sword came at me, weakly, but I kicked if across the floor. Spear flew past me from outside. An arrow crashed in the pillar. I stood there, uncaring, the mighty weapon hovering above Raganthar’s face. There was a flicker of fear in the beastly visage, finally. I exploded with happiness, and saw the horror in the faces outside the hall as well, as their lord was about to die.

  And then, a voice screamed behind me.

  It was one of anguish, of soul-wrenching agony. I was Gisil. Someone got to her. I began to turn.

  I felt a stabbing pain in my back.

  I fell, trying to catch my breath amidst the throbs of pain, knew I was badly hurt, and hit my face on the planks. I got to my elbows, but saw a fist coming my way, and Raganthar’s powerful punch made me see black. He grabbed me and threw me across the floor to the corner, where I gagged, squirming with the pain of the wound on my back. There was a framea there in my flesh, at least the head of it. I pulled it away and that pain was too much. I was losing the fight, and could not fight any longer.

  Raganthar was screaming. “So many dead! This is Bero’s fault. We didn’t need this shit. Did you know what he was?”

  A hand pressed on my neck. It was cold, and I tried not to move. It hesitated, and then went away.

  “Dead? I asked, did you know what he was?” Raganthar roared. “A berserker!”

  I didn’t hear the answer.

  I passed out.

  BOOK 2: WOLF BAITING

  “They call me Bait.”

  Bait to Adalwulf

  CHAPTER 5

  I dreamt of a cool mountain stream I knew well, very close to Mattium. It ran down from great heights of a mountain we called Ram’s Tumble, silver, gray, and blue cascade of bright waters. When the water reached the hills, just next to Mattium’s, it streamed brilliantly over perfectly round stones, gushed past tall pine woods. It sprang life wherever it streamed, made the land fertile and often soggy, and the priests thought Freyr, god of fertility, especially loved the water. On the hills, flowers of the spring grew wildly along the slopes, all the way to the top, where the mountain began. Women took full advantage of the stream. Since it was believed to be holy and good for growth, maidens visited it to get the blessings of fertility and beauty.

  And men knew this.

  Where the stream ended below the hill closest to Mattium, there was a deep, cool body of water, a holy spring the women bathed in, and that was where the warriors visited first when they went hunting, though they usually didn’t show their faces, but stayed in the woods. There, they gazed down at the lithe bodies, braving the anger and feuds of the fathers and brothers of those maidens, perhaps hoping to marry one of the girls one day.

  In the dream I was having, I was there, one of these lecherous warriors, sitting on Snake-Bite, who didn’t care much for the women. I was looking at a dozen such nude creatures, who were frolicking in the small pool below. I reached out to remove an offending branch hampering my sight, when I accidentally pressed the sides of the horse with my calves, and the damned fool thing took a step forward.

  Suddenly there was rubble under the hoof, and the rubble gave away. The hillside betrayed us, the horse fell, toppling me with it. It happened so fast, I had no time to yell. We rolled crazily down a mossy bank of flowers, and while we rolled, the horse kicked me in the chest, stealing my breath. I hit the water.

  I fell amidst the shrieking, nude group of feminine beauty and went under. I went deep, much deeper than I thought possible, and felt my lungs burning. There was a pain in my back as I hit the bottom. I swam up to the surface, looking apologetic as a child with his hand in a jar of honey, and hoped they’d forgive me. Around me a group of young women flocked, furious, gloriously naked, sputtering, but then the women smiled, and I smiled back, relieved. They dragged me out of the water with happy whoops, but instead of kisses and care, they began to kick me so hard I felt my morning gruel surge for the daylight.

  I woke up, saw an older, armored champion heave above me, and another of his kicks struck my belly. I emptied my belly weakly on the planks.

  “Enough, Harmod,” said a murderous voice, and I turned to see another man, high lord of the Marcomanni, his armor glittering with golden hoops at the hem, and a fabulous helmet of a carved beast head under his arm. His spear was at his side, and all around me stood a scowling group of Marcomanni warriors. I tore myself up, and howled, as my back—flesh and tunic—ripped out of the floor, and I dimly remembered I had been wounded there. I fell back, writhed with shock, and knew the blood had dried up and glued me to the floor. I groped for my back, twitching with pain, but the older warrior placed an implacable foot on my chest, and pushed me back to the floor, and made me gasp breathlessly.

  Then I noticed some other things.

  First, I was wearing a cloak of hair and skins, similar to what the attackers had worn, and the dead enemy mercenaries were all heaped on the side of the hall, red, grisly streaks on the floor showing where they had been dragged across the floorboards. Some dogs were sniffing their corpses experimentally.

  The dead of Hulderic and the Celtic lord, who was not apparent in the hall, were heaped by the doorway.

  Save for the blacksmith, Bellows.

  He was on his back next to me, dead as a stone. He was bleeding from a very thin wound on his throat, or perhaps from a wound to his belly, where there was a spear buried. The shaft was broken.

  And I held half of the broken shaft.

  “Shit-faced thief,” the warrior hissed. “They left you for dead, didn’t they? You Chatti piece of shit.”

  “What?” I asked, and let go of the broken weapon like a viper had been slithering in my hand. ‘No! That’s not—”

  “Where did you come from?” the older warrior asked venomously, and pressed down so hard, I had to grab the foot in hope of wrestling it away. “They tell us you are a Chatti. That another Chatti looked for you, Adalwulf, earlier this week. You lot came here, one-by-one, and did you thing, eh? But you live. For now
.”

  A Chatti had been looking for me earlier? The man Raganthar had killed? I stiffened with horror. They had wanted to have some fool in this hall. And apparently, that fool had been me. And Gisil had taken me in for them, not knowing better. “Wait—”

  The warrior went on, grinding down as if he was determined to see how much the floor could take. “Is that so? You are a Chatti out to kill our lord, Hulderic? Because he beats your warbands every year? Beats them like a band of small boys, eh? And you can’t take it like men. Hall-burning and robbery in the night is your lot. Lucky for us, you failed to kill my lord. You failed, because Woden spits on cowards. But answer this,” he said icily, with a chilling threat thrumming in the voice, and I didn’t expect to survive the man’s wrath much longer. “Where, my friend is Gisil and the sword? You filth. Where do you hole up in? Tell me this, and you’ll go on your way with a snap of neck, and need not suffer.”

  “I came here—”

  “To rob, to murder, and you did, didn’t you?” the man continued, and I turned my face for Hulderic, hoping to find a more reasonable man there, one to hear me out, at least.

  It was a face carved of stone, his brown, long beard finely plaited, and his eyes gave nothing away. I tried to talk to the statue anyway.

  “I didn’t come here to rob you! I fought them! This is not,” I said, and tugged at the cloak that had been tied around me, “mine. I have nothing against the Marcomanni, and I have left the Chatti. They didn’t do this, anyhow. Not their way, no matter how many warbands you beat previously. I was looking for work, for a lord in the Hard Hill, when Gisil found me, and claimed she had seen how I’d help you, Lord Hulderic the Goth! But they left me here as a scapegoat—”

  “Help yourself to his things, yea?” the man above me growled, his face red with fury, the sort that built up like a storm. “Gisil found you indeed. She found you having a fight, and helped you. In reality, you were pretending to have one, and so you got inside, because she had a good heart, and you are filth.”