Adalwulf: The Two Swords (Tales of Germania Book 1) (11 page)

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.”

“No, I—”

“You killed our men. You killed Cerunnos. Teutorigos, his father? He is outside. You should be glad he is still crying over the body of his precious boy, because he’d be ripping your guts out right now, if he saw you here alive. Oh, no. Don’t you hope to survive this,” he chortled, though in reality, I had experienced no such thoughts of hope. “No, you will die. But it is best to die with dignity then be eviscerated. Yes, this crime will be paid back, and we start with your life. We’ll string you up right now, if you don’t speak.
Where
did your kin take Gisil and the sword?” He kicked me hard on the side, and I yelped.

“Easy, Harmod, ” the older Goth lord rumbled, and spoke to me softly. “Did you come here with the Chatti, boy? Whose warband do you belong to? Or do you truly claim you are not their warrior? I know your speech. You’re from Mattium, or thereabouts.” He had a powerful jaw, and keen, blue eyes. His face was scarred, and his skin leathery and brown, and while his voice was not unkind, I knew he was about to decide on my fate. His men looked on, having lost brothers and friends, and I’d pay the price. This was all so far from Gisil’s vision, me serving as this man’s champion. Perhaps the gods had played her a fool, and were laughing like demented idiots?

“I
am
a Chatti named Adalwulf, and yes, I
was
born in Mattium,” I said thinly, not sure how to slither out of the dilemma. There was no reason they’d believe me. “But I didn’t come here with others of my kind. Nor were there others waiting for me. No. I know nothing of this Chatti who supposedly was looking for me! Except—”

“They say there was a Chatti in the town, some days past, nonetheless,” Hulderic said. “He was looking for
you
, Adalwulf. Explain that.”

I sputtered. “I cannot! And who are “they”? I wouldn’t know why someone would be looking for me. Or, yes, I do.” I hesitated, and decided I had nothing to lose. “I’m a thief. I left them, you see, on a stolen horse. I was looking for work, and a new start. This is the truth, by Donor,” I stated as steadily as I could, looking into his eyes.

He stared at me, and then shrugged. “They say in the village there have been many other Chatti—”

“Many Chatti visit the Hill!” I yelled, losing my composure, and regretted it as Harmod’s foot found my ribs.

“We don’t have time for this,” Harmod said with a voice dripping malice. “He keeps lying, and he won’t speak. If he does, it will be days from now. The Chatti are stubborn, and he thinks he is protecting his kin.”

Hulderic rapped the spear into the floor and dust flew. He aimed the head of the spear my direction. “You are right. Stubborn as a pig.”

“What do you wish to do?”

Hulderic shrugged. “If he tells us where they hole up in, we might get a trail. We have nothing else to go on. But I doubt we get it now.”

“Let me break him, and he will sing like a sparrow. Let it take days. Then we’ll ride—” Harmod began.

Hulderic waved his hand. “He might
tell us where the robbers have gone, eventually, but they won’t be there any longer. If they are wise, they will have moved away already. And the Chatti are not stupid. The trail is the best we can hope for.”

“They were not Chatti!” I yelled, and heard commotion outside. Before I could focus on that, Harmod kicked me.

“He’ll speak today, not days from now,” Hulderic said darkly, and poked my side with the spear’s shaft. “He’ll do it as he swings. Few men remain stubborn when the rope tightens and the feet leave Midgard. Some do, but perhaps not him.”

“Hear that, Chatti? Start barking!”

“But—”

“Bring him up,” Hulderic said with a bored voice, looking down at me as if I was a bit of rotten meat as Harmod pulled me around. He tore me up from the floor, and a stabbing sensation left me half-delirious with pain. He tore the cloak off me, slapped my cheeks to make me focus, and pushed me face first against a wall. I tried to move, but he ripped my tunic, and apparently looked at my wound. I had a sickening feeling as he poked at something, and I felt there was a slab of skin and meat hanging loose. “Looks like your rib saved you. Damn lucky! What’s your name again?’ Adalun? Don’t want to hang a man whose name I forgot.”

“Adalwulf, you shit,” I hissed. “Wait! I was fighting for you!”

The Goth lord shook his head and let out a deep breath. “Yeah. That’s why your spear was in Bellows’ gut. Shut your mouth, unless the truth comes out. I live near your lands, Adalwulf. You know this, don’t you? We, the Quadi and Marcomanni, Suebi tribes both, fight your lords every summer. Men we capture are usually honorable warriors. Be one as well. You said they were not Chatti. What are those men, then?”

“They are mercenaries. Some kind of men Leuthard knows, and—“

“Leuthard,” Hulderic said, his eyes in slits. “You are saying Bero is behind this?”

“Yes!”

He smiled. “I guessed this already. I knew it, in fact. Bero. But
also
the Chatti. They have common interests in pacifying me, and Bero has conspired with them before. Bero hired you?”

“No! Gisil told everyone she was looking for me! She—”

Hulderic turned to a man on the side. “Bero and the Chatti working together to discredit me? To kill me? He is the go-between for the Chatti and Bero’s men.”

“No! I don’t know Leuthard! Or Bero!”

Hulderic whistled, and someone approached. “See here, Adalwulf. I know you have met them. Leuthard at the very least. He the one?” A man with thin hair and a scar on forehead walked forward. It was the man I had fallen on in the harbor.

“That man walked out of Leuthard’s hall in the harbor. Your völva thought he was hurt, and helped him,” he said guardedly.

“I didn’t walk! I fell, after being hit! They were the thieves! Not Chatti! And I was looking for service—”