Adalwulf: The Two Swords (Tales of Germania Book 1) (41 page)

The archer began running after the man, but I stopped him. “His world. The dark.”

“I’ve hunted
lion
in the night. It’s
my
world,” he hissed, and ran on.

I grouched and panted, trying to catch my breath, when Issa finally appeared with some of his men. He walked forward, and kneeled next to Clodius. “Well. It got fucked up then?”

“Yes,” I said miserably. “The archers saved me, but were late saving him. Leuthard. He was in a vengeful mood.”

A scream could be heard drifting from the darkness, and Issa’s men tightened around me, gazing at the shadows. “He’s hurt?”

“Leuthard?” I said, rubbing my face, dizzy for my wounds. “He’s hurt all right. They shot him full of arrows. He has his armor, and it helped, but he might survive.”

“The archer?” Issa asked slowly, toeing the other one.

“Won’t come back,” I said darkly.

Issa spat. “Well, I doubt even that bastard can survive the arrows. They were poisoned, as you asked. Not sure if they found a deadly poison, but he won’t be happy.”

I shook my shoulders, not sure. Perhaps he would die out there, victim of poison and wounds. If he was indeed Hati’s blood, he might come back.

“What then, eh? We have to speak to Marcus about this,” Issa said, and kicked a stone so it rattled along the walls, scaring a pack of cats into a headlong flight. “Do you have any bright ideas?”

I thought about it. I looked up the hill, where the compound of King Vago was located. “They don’t know Clodius is dead.”

He shook his head, looking at me shrewdly. “The King you mean? No, he doesn’t.”

I’d have to bluff
. I’d find Vago. There, I’d also find Raganthar. I would have had to find that man anyway, but there would be an opportunity up there, something Tiberius could use. “Go to your brothel,” I told them, and their eyes brightened. “Go, and be ready. Hide this bag of shit.” I toed the Vangione’s corpse and rubbed my face. “I have an idea. We’ll see how it goes.”

“Well, fine. You come there after you are done. And look out for wolves,” Issa said, looking at the dark alleys. “I wish you Fortuna’s best luck. If you won’t return, we’ll drink to your death.”

I had survived Leuthard.

I’d have to survive Raganthar and the Vangiones.

T
he compound was walled. There were Vangiones at the gate, towers with archers, and the men were all tired. I’d have to get in, and it wouldn’t be hard, I hoped, since I had stalked the wall. I found the very dark, shadowy parts I could try to scale, and the walls were not all well guarded anyway.

They didn’t expect trouble in Burbetomagus, and why should they? They were in the peak of their power and wealth, allies to Rome, overmasters of the Mediomactri still living in the land, and so they were lax. The Vangiones were strong, tall warriors, much like the Marcomanni. And just like the Marcomanni, some were drunk on duty, and others were asleep in the towers. I snuck near a wall on the northern part of the city, and tried to peek in through a badly fitted bit of timber.

A dog’s eye looked back at me, the orb much like Leuthard’s, full of malice and suspicion.

I took a hasty step back as the beast settled away from the hole, where the dog was growling softly. “Why can’t they be as lazy as the men?” I breathed, and cursed the Vangiones and their curs to Lok’s bosom. I walked back towards the main gate, and leaned on a tall hall, trying to figure out a way in.

I stood there for a long while. I wondered if I could get Clodius’s body and pretend he is drunk, and play an escort, but they’d just take over at the gate and kill me when they figured out he had been skewered like a pig. I wondered if I could bribe my way in, but that was risky. I had the scroll of Tiberius, and I suppose that might help, but probably the guards would fetch someone keener, and then I’d risk losing Raganthar. I was about to try the latter idea anyway, when I heard a clanking sound.

A cart rumbled past.

It was another benna, a wheeled transport that was a truly rough ride, and it was filled with amphorae, food crates, and vegetables. There was a pair of men pushing, two pulling, and they were all a dirty looking lot. They were peasants, Gauls who farmed and served the needs of Vago’s household.
Or slaves,
I thought. They cast fearful looks my way, and I decided that’s what they were. They would be too afraid to speak out.

I took a deep breath, gathered my resolve, and chased away the knee-shaking fear.

I growled at them, they stopped and bowed their heads, probably thinking I was one of the guards. I glowered at them, and then grunted and nodded towards the gate, covering my armor with my hooded cloak. I stepped in and began pushing the benna, and they joined me, also pulling and pushing vigorously. I prayed I’d not get caught. We went forward, and the guards at the gate apparently woke up because the heavy thing opened up, and men leaned on the wooden doors, gazing at us with utter boredom.

“You know the way,” one told us, and I prayed they would not notice I was better dressed than the slaves, my cloak well-made and didn’t really fit in. My hood hid my face, the guards were hoping to get back to their drinking and sleeping and so I was in.

A pack of dark, shaggy hounds jogged up.

The slaves whispered to each other, and then to the dogs, calming them. One tossed them some bits of meat, and the beasts were happy enough to forget us as they attacked the food. They had seen the benna many times. We kept pushing.

Before us, there was vast hall with many stories. There were torches flaring all over it, and there were alcoves on the second floor, windows, which was not the Germani way, but Vago the Vangione had built such a hall as to be the wonder of Burbetomagus, and so I could only gawk at the excellent building.

We stopped at the end of the hall, and the slaves hesitated as they looked at me. I looked around, noticed another set of halls nearby, and took some steps that way, hoping the dogs would truly have forgotten us, and were gnawing on the scraps still.

I saw Raganthar.

The man was walking out from the hall ahead. He was tall and wide as ever, slayer of my cousin, enemy of Rome and Marcomanni both, and he wore the Head Taker. With him walked a young man, with fine mustaches and tall, thin body. I stepped to unload the benna, lifting materials and jugs out of it, and kept an eye on them, as they walked past.

The black shield of the Hati’s lord was swinging, wide and formidable. The young Vangione was looking at us, curious, respectful steps behind the mercenary. They walked their way for an odd heap of rocks, and then I saw a shady colonnade, part natural rock, and part carved, framing a doorway in the formation’s side. I hesitated and put down an amphora of wine, and took steps that way.

A slave grabbed my arm, and shook his head. “Druid,” he said with huge, scared eyes. He had guessed I was not with the Vangiones. “Koun, an adeling,” he added, and nodded at the thin Vangione.

“I’m not worried about druids,” I whispered, and made my way that way. “Only of the gods they worship. And I’ll make soup of the adeling’s bones.”

Hati’s lord walked on with the Vangione, and the enemy disappeared to the columns. I took after them. There were no hounds, no guards, and Mani was high on the sky, celebrating the fight that was about to be finally settled.

I reached the rock formation, dodged the columns, and took a look inside.

I could see their shadows descending to the depths.

The walls of the decline, a sort of a cave were slick, moist and gleaming, and I saw light of a torch flutter below. I felt under my cloak for the last gift Marcus had given me, and hoped it would help me that night. Hammer against Raganthar’s shield was a death penalty, and I hoped I had found a way around that. Below, there were people speaking, and men muttering, and there was also the voice of an older woman.

I cursed my luck for the extra audience, but I’d not stay and skulk in the dark, waiting to be found, shuddering like a child. I waited, and hoped the enemy would disappear from sight. They did as they reached the bottom. The younger Vangione, richly dressed in armor, stepped away last, and a greeting could be heard.

I picked out a weird sound, like running water, but reverberating with odd gurgling noise. The Celt gods were there, waiting and looking on. Nevertheless, I sneaked down the uneven steps, begging not to break my ankle. I followed the way the others had gone, but found ways to right and left, and gods knew where those ways would take a man. I sneaked my way down and down, until I finally reached the limit of the shadows, where darkness mated with light, and found my enemy.

The young Vangione was leaning on odd pillar, like frozen water but not an icicle. It was white stone, rising up towards the ceiling. Some light shone with ghost-like quality, so there were holes in the roof. Strange symbols had been painted in the walls, odd figures, ancient, old as gods, and there, in the end of the cavern, there was a bed, and benches and furniture, scrolls and writing equipment like Tiberius had had in his hall.

An old woman, wearing white tunic, was speaking with Koun, and Raganthar was listening. “I shall seek the signs, my lords. I shall, though it doesn’t please me. And let the girl stay, she is no ill luck.” She nodded towards a bed, and there sat a girl, Koun’s age, fifteen, fine and beautiful, who somehow radiated with calm and hidden power.

And she was staring right at me.

They all looked at her, but she was staring at me. She lifted a finger.

And pointed it at me.

They turned, curious, and so the time to hide was gone. I stepped out and walked forward. Raganthar was frowning, and Koun took a hesitant step forward. “Ware, man,” he said. “We are reading signs here, seeking answers, and this is no time to come here, and beg for boons from the druidess. If you have business with me, wait up there.”

I laughed at him spitefully, strangely relieved I was finally to solve my oaths, or die trying, and Raganthar’s beastly features twisted with astonishment. “I, too, seek answers,” I said spitefully. “And I seek that sword,” I pointed at the Head Taker. “I’ll take it home.”

Koun frowned. “Home? Are you a Marcomanni?”

I nodded. “Sort of. And you no doubt know who hired the bastards,” I spat, and pointed at Raganthar, “to kill Tiberius? Tiberius knows, now. I work for him. He’s not happy.”

Koun went bone-white. He turned to Raganthar who looked at me, not acknowledging the shocked look on the Vangione adeling’s face. Koun strode to him and pushed him. “Tiberius
knows
it was Father?”

“He might suspect, that’s all,” Raganthar growled.

“How did they find out? You were the only one who should have known!” Koun roared.

I chuckled. “The fool consulted their priest. I had a chat with the man. You have been ill-served.”

“Adalwulf,” Raganthar hissed the words as if they were poisonous. He strode before me. “You’ve done enough harm. Where is Gisil?”

“I saved her from Ear, you rotten man-eater,” I laughed. “And now she is going to be widowed, as well.”

“She is mine. She will always be mine,” Raganthar said darkly.

I spat at Raganthar’s face and flipped down my cowl. “See the man who’ll kill you. Dead men have no wives.”

His jaws tightened with shock, and he roared. He grabbed the famous sword and took a step back, then forward, but Koun stopped him by placing a hand on his chest.

“Does Tiberius,” asked a harsh voice behind me, “know it was Lollius who paid us to act as the middle men? The plan was ruined, but how badly?”

I whirled, my bravado stolen by a man in silver chain mail, holding a long spatha, much like the Head Taker. I had not noticed him in the shadows. His sword was a butcher’s blade, little decorated, made for war and more kingly because of it. The man was a redhead, and I could see he looked much like the young man.

King Vago.

He had named
Lollius
. The disgraced governor had paid for men to kill Tiberius. Why? To hide his incompetence, to shade it with war? For his hatred of Tiberius? Likely all of them. And I was sure Tiberius had guessed the culprit.

“I’m the man who ruined the plan,” I said. “And it is utterly ruined.”

Vago’s eyes glittered dangerously as he regarded me. He held the sword easily before him, and his other hand was brushing the hilt, as he pondered the issue. “Does he have proof?”

I smiled. “Clodius. He’s in the town. And so are men who will question him.”

“You have Clodius?” Vago murmured, his eyes squinting at me. “How unfortunate.”

“Perhaps there is a way—” I began, but was interrupted.

Raganthar took a step forward. “Lord. We will find a way. We don’t need him. Let me slay this Chatti bastard for you. He has been making life hard for us from the beginning. It’s a proper sacrifice for the gods. He’ll suffer like his cousin did.” He gazed at me hungrily. “Did you know he begged us not to hurt you? Until the end, as he cried.”

Woden’s rage called for me, even through my exhaustion. I hated the bastard, as much as I did Leuthard.

“That man killed my cousin,” I growled. “He tried to kill Tiberius. Why not blame it on him and Clodius, eh? The best thing for you now, lord, is to take
his
head to Tiberius. To expose the treason. Blame them. Tell them they fooled you. Lie, as only a king can. Let us finish our feud, and I will tell the Romans you were guiltless.” He spat and ground his teeth together, at the end of his patience. I gazed at him steadily. “You’ll not get your war now. No Romans will join you in the conquest of the Marcomanni, not this year. But you’ll keep your head and there will be other years.”

Vago, an old dog thrummed his fingers on his mail, as if wiping off filth, trying to wash off his perfidy, but the accursed old woman, a druid walked to my side, whispering at the king. “Hati’s servant is still strong, my King. Very strong. He should be trusted, and he might very well still accomplish his goals. Send men to find and kill Clodius. Send Raganthar on his way. Take a risk. You might rule the lands across, if you but trust him. I wager my life he will do well.”

Vago lifted an eyebrow at me, as if to ask me what I thought about that.

I walked toward the old crone. She was frowning at me, and I stopped before her. Behind her, there was a dark flowing stream. It looked uncanny, and where the water ended in a stone wall, it gurgled like a living thing, a monster of the deeps as it was sucked to the bowels of Midgard. It was an underground river, one that was revered by the river worshipping Gauls, and I wondered why the Vangiones would listen to a Gaul druid, rather than their vitka and völva. Perhaps their ways were so confused, they could no longer tell them apart.