The Sorrow of Odin the Goth tp-7

by Poul Anderson

  “No, this is no slight ripple in the time-stream. This is a maelstrom abuilding. We’ve got to damp it out, and the only way to do that is to complete the causal loop, close the ring.”

  My lips formed the useless, needless “How?” which throat and tongue could not.

  Everard pronounced sentence on me: “I’m sorrier than you imagine, Carl. But the Volsungasaga relates that Hamther and Sorli were almost victorious, when for unknown reasons Odin appeared and betrayed them. And he was you. He could be nobody else but you.”

  372

  Night had lately fallen. The moon, while little past the full, was not yet up. Stars threw a dimness over hills and shaws, where shadows laired. Dew had begun to gleam on stones. The air was cold, quiet save for a drumroll of many galloping hoofs. Helmets and spearheads shimmered, rose and sank like waves under a storm.

  In the greatest of his halls, King Ermanaric sat at drink with his sons and most of his warriors. The fires flared, hissed, crackled in their trenches.

  Lamplight glowed through smoke. Antlers, furs, tapestries, carvings seemed to move along walls and pillars, as the darknesses did. Gold gleamed on arms and around necks, beakers clashed together, voices dinned hoarsely. Thralls scuttled about, attending. Overhead, murk crouched on the rafters and filled the roof peak.

  Ermanaric would fain be merry. Sibicho pestered him: “—Lord, we should not dawdle. 1 grant you, a straightforward raid on the Teurings’ chieftain would be dangerous, but we can start work at once to undermine his standing among them.”

  “Tomorrow, tomorrow,” said the king impatiently. “Do you never weary of plots and tricks, you? Tonight is for that toothsome slave maiden I bought—”

  Horns clamored outside. A man staggered in through the entryroom that this building had. Blood smeared his face. “Foemen—attack—” An uproar drowned his cry.

  “At this hour?” Sibicho wailed. “And by surprise? They must have killed horses traveling hither—yes, and cut down everybody along the way who might have outsped them—”

  Men boiled off the benches and went for their mail and weapons. Those being stacked in the entryroom, there was a sudden jam of bodies. Oaths lifted, fists flailed. The guards who had stayed equipped sprang to make a bulwark in front of the king and his nearest. He always kept a score of them full-armed.

  In the courtyard, royal warriors spent their lives on time for their comrades within to make ready. The newcomers bore against them in overwhelming numbers. Axes thundered, swords clanged, knives and spears bit deep. In that press, slain men did not always fall down at once; wounded who dropped never got up again.

  At the head of the onslaught, a big young man shouted, “Wodan with us! Wodan, Wodan! Haa!” His blade flew murderous.

  Hastily outfitted defenders took stance at the front door. The big young man was first to shock upon them. Right and left, his followers broke through, smote, stabbed, kicked, shoved, burst the line and stamped in over the pieces of it.

  As their van pierced through to the main room, the unarmored troopers beyond stumbled back. The attackers halted, panting, when their leader called, “Wait for the rest of us!” The racket of battle died away inside, though outside it still raged.

  Ermanaric sprang onto his high seat and looked across the helmets of his bodyguards. Even in the dancing gloom, he saw who stood at the door. “Hathawulf Tharasmundsson, what new misdeed would you wreak?” he flung through the lodge.

  The Teuring lifted his dripping sword on high. “We have come to cleanse the earth of you,” rang from him.

  “Beware. The gods hate traitors.”

  “Yes,” answered Solbern at his brother’s shoulder, “this night Wodan fetches you, oathbreaker, and ill is that house to which he will take you.”

  More invaders poured through; Liuderis pushed them into ragged ranks. “Onward!” Hathawulf bawled.

  Ermanaric had been giving his own orders. His men might mostly lack helmet, byrnie, shield, long weapon. But each bore a knife, at least. Nor did the Teurings have much iron to wear. They were mainly yeomen, who could afford little more than a metal cap and a coat of stiffened leather, and who went to battle only when the king raised a levy. Those whom Ermanaric had gathered were warriors by trade; any of them might have a farm or a ship or the like, but he was first and foremost a warrior. He was well drilled in standing side by side with his fellows.

  The king’s troopers snatched at trestles and the boards that had lain on top. These they used to ward themselves. Those that had axes, having retreated before the inroad, chopped cudgels for their fellows out of wainscots and pillars. Besides a knife, a stag’s tine off the wall, the narrow end of a drinking horn, a broken Roman goblet, a brand from the firetrenches made a deadly weapon. As tightly wedged as the struggle became—flesh against flesh, friend in the way of friend, pushing, stumbling, slipping in blood and sweat—sword or ax was of scant more help. Spears and bills were useless, save that from their stance on the benches by the high seat, the armored guards could strike downward.

  Thus the fight became formless, blind, a fury as of the Wolf unbound.

  Yet Hathawulf, Solbern, and their best men beat a path onward, pushed, rammed, hewed, slashed, stabbed, amidst bellow and shriek, thud and clash, onward, living stormwinds—until at last they came to their mark.

  There they set shield against shield, loosed steel upon steel, they and the king’s household troopers. Ermanaric was not in that front line, but he boldly stood above on the seat, before the gaze of all, and wielded a spear. Often did he trade a look with Hathawulf or Solbern, and then each grinned his hatred.

  It was old Liuderis who broke through the line. His lifeblood spurted from thigh and forearm, but his ax beat right and left, he won as far as the bench and clove the skull of Sibicho. Dying, he rasped, “One snake the less.”

  Hathawulf and Solbern passed over his body. A son of Ermanaric threw himself before his father. Solbern cut the boy down. Hathawulf struck beyond. Ermanaric’s spearshaft cracked across. Hathawulf struck again. The king reeled back against the wall. His right arm dangled half severed. Solbern slashed low, at the left leg, and hamstrung him. He crumpled, still snarling. The brothers moved in for the kill. Their followers strove to keep the last of the royal guard off their backs.

  Someone appeared.

  A stop to the fighting spread through the hall like the wave when a rock falls in a pool. Men stood agape and agasp. Through the unrestful gloom, made the thicker by their crowding, they barely saw what hovered above the high seat.

  On a skeletal horse, whose bones were of metal, sat a tall graybearded man. Hat and cloak hid any real sight of him. In his right hand he bore a spear. Its head, above every other weapon and limned against the night under the roof, caught fire-glow—a comet, a harbinger of woe?

  Hathawulf and Solbern let their blades sink. “Forefather,” the elder breathed into the sudden hush. “Have you come to our help?”

  The answer rolled forth unhumanly deep, loud, and ruthless: “Brothers, your doom is upon you. Meet it well and your names will live.

  “Ermanaric, this is not yet your time. Send your men out the rear and take the Teurings from behind.

  “Go, all of you here, to wherever Weard will have you go.”

  He was not there.

  Hathawulf and Solbern stood stunned.

  Crippled, bleeding, Ermanaric could nonetheless shout: “Heed! Stand fast where you’re up against the foe—the rest of you take the hinder door, swing around—heed the word of Wodan!”

  His bodyguards were the first to understand. They yelled their glee and fell on their enemies. These lurched back, aghast, into the reborn turmoil. Solbern stayed behind, sprawled under the high seat in a pool of blood.

  King’s men streamed through the small postern. They hastened past the building to the front. Most of the Teurings had gotten inside. Greutungs overran those in the yard. Had they no better weapons, they ripped cobblestones out of the earth and cast them. A risen moon gave li
ght enough.

  Howling, the warriors next cleared the entry-room. They outfitted themselves and fell on the invaders both fore and aft.

  Grim was that battle. Knowing they would die whatever happened, the Teurings fought till they dropped. Hathawulf alone heaped a wall of slain before him. When he fell, few were left to be glad of it.

  The king himself would not have been among them, had not folk of his been quick to stanch his wounds. As was, they bore him, barely aware, out of a hall where none but the dead then dwelt.

  1935

  Laurie, Laurie!

  372

  Morning brought rain. Driven on a hooting wind, hail-cold, hail-hard, it hid everything but the thorp that huddled beneath it, as if the rest of the world had gone down in wreck. The roar on the roof resounded through hollow Heorot.

  Darkness within seemed deepened by emptiness. Fires burned, lamps shone well-nigh for naught amidst the shadows. The air was raw.

  Three stood near the middle. That of which they spoke would not let them sit. Breath puffed ghost-white out of their lips.

  “Slain?” mumbled Alawin numbly. “Every last one of them?”

  The Wanderer nodded. “Yes,” he told them again, “though there will be as much sorrow among Greutungs as Teurings. Ermanaric lives, but maimed and lamed, and poorer by two sons.”

  Ulrica gave him a whetted look. “If this happened last night,” she said, “you have ridden no earthly horse to bring us the tale.”

  “You know who I am,” he answered.

  “Do I?” She lifted fingers toward him that were crooked like talons. Her voice grew shrill. “If you are indeed Wodan, he is a wretched god, who could not or would not help my sons in their need.”

  “Hold, hold,” Alawin begged her, while he cast an abashed glance at the Wanderer.

  The latter said softly: “I mourn with you. But the will of Weard stands not to be altered. As the story of what happened drifts west, belike you will hear that I was there, and even that it was Ermanaric whom I saved. Know that against time the gods themselves are powerless. I did what I was doomed to do. Remember that in meeting the end that was set for them, Hathawulf and Solbern redeemed the honor of their house, and won a name for themselves that shall abide as long as their race does.”

  “But Ermanaric remains above ground,” Ulrica snapped. “Alawin, the duty of vengeance has passed to you.”

  “No!” said the Wanderer. “His task is more than that. It is to save the blood of the family, the life of the clan. This is why I have come.”

  He turned to the youth, who stared wide-eyed. “Alawin,” he went on, “foreknowledge is mine, and a heavy load that is. Yet I may sometimes use it to fend off harm. Listen well, for this is the last time you will ever hear me.”

  “Wanderer, no!” Alawin cried. Breath hissed between Ulrica’s teeth.

  The Gray One lifted the hand that did not hold his spear. “Winter will soon be upon you,” he said, “but spring and summer follow. The tree of your kindred stands bereft of leaves, but its roots slumber in strength, and it shall be green anew—if an ax does not hew it down.

  “Hasten. Hurt though he is, Ermanaric will seek to make an end, once for all, of your troublesome breed. You cannot raise as much force as he can. If you stay here, you will die.

  “Think. You have readiness to fare west, and a welcome awaiting you among the Visigoths. It will be the warmer for the rout Athanaric suffered this year from the Huns at the River Dnestr; they all need fresh and hopeful souls. Within a few days, you can be leading the trek. Ermanaric’s men, when they come, will find nothing but the ashes of this hall, which you set afire to keep from him and be a balefire in honor of your brothers.

  “You will not be fleeing. No, you will be off to forge a mighty morrow. Alawin, you now keep the blood of your fathers. Ward it well.”

  Wrath twisted Ulrica’s face. “Yes, you’ve always dealt in smooth words,” shuddered out of her. “Heed not his slyness, Alawin. Hold fast. Avenge my sons—the sons of Tharasmund.”

  The youth swallowed hard. “Would you really… have me go… while the murderer of Swanhild, Randwar, Hathawulf, Solbern—while he lives?” he stammered.

  “You must not stay,” said the Wanderer gravely. “If you do, you will give up the last life that was in your father—give it up to the king, along with Hathawulf’s son and wife, and your own mother. There is no dishonor—in withdrawal when outnumbered.”

  “Y-yes.… I could hire a Visigothic host—”

  “You will have no call to. Hearken. Within three years, you will hear word about Ermanaric that will gladden you. The justice of the gods shall fall upon him. On this I give you my oath.”

  “What is that worth?” fleered Ulrica.

  Alawin filled his lungs, straightened his shoulders, stood for a while and then said quietly, “Stepmother, be still. I am the man of the house. We will follow the Wanderer’s rede.”

  The boy in him burst through for a moment: “Oh, but lord, forebear—will we indeed never see you again? Do not forsake us!”

  “I must,” answered the Gray One. “It is needful for you.” Suddenly: “Yes, best I go at once. Farewell. Fare ever well.”

  He strode through the shadows, out the door, into the rain and the wind.

  43

  Here and there amidst the ages, the Time Patrol keeps places where its members may rest. Among them is Hawaii before the Polynesians arrived. Although that resort exists through thousands of years, Laurie and I counted ourselves lucky to get a cottage for a month. In fact, we suspected Manse Everard had pulled a string or two on our behalf.

  He made no mention of that when he visited us late in our stay. He was simply affable, went picnicking and surfing in our company, afterward tucked into Laurie’s dinner with the gusto it deserved. Not till later did he speak of what lay behind us and before us on our world lines.

  We sat on a deck which abutted the building.

  Dusk gathered cool and blue in the garden, across the flowering forest beyond. Eastward, land dropped steeply to where the sea glimmered quicksilver; westward, the evening star trembled above Mauna Kea. A brook chimed. Here was the peace that heals.

  “So you feel ready to return?” Everard inquired.

  “Yes,” I said. “And it’ll be a lot easier, too. The groundwork has been laid, the basic information collected and assimilated. I just have to record the songs and stories as they are composed and evolve.”

  “Just!” exclaimed Laurie. Her mockery was tender, and became solace as she laid a hand over mine. “Well, at least you are free of your grief.”

  Everard’s voice dropped low: “Are you sure of that, Carl?”

  I could be calm as I replied, “Yes. Oh, there will always be memories that hurt, but isn’t that the common fate of man? There are more that are good, and I’m able to draw on them once again.”

  “You realize, of course, you mustn’t get obsessed the way you were. That’s a hazard which claims many of us—” Did his tone stumble, ever so slightly? It grew brisk. “When it does, the victim has to overcome it and recover.”

  “I know,” I said, and chuckled a bit. “Don’t you know I know?”

  Everard puffed on his pipe. “Not exactly. Since the rest of your career seems free of any more disarray than is normal for a field agent, I couldn’t justify spending lifespan and Patrol resources on further investigation. This isn’t official business. I’m here as a friend, who’d simply like to find out how you’re doing. Don’t tell me anything you don’t care to.”

  “You’re a sweet old bear, you are,” Laurie said to him.

  I could not stay entirely comfortable, but a sip of my rum collins soothed. “Well, sure, you’re welcome to the information,” I began. “I did assure myself that Alawin would be all right.” Everard stirred. “How?” he demanded. “Not to worry, Manse. I proceeded cautiously, for the most part indirectly. Different identities on different occasions. The few times he glimpsed me, he recognized nothing.” My fin
gers passed over a smooth-shaven chin—Roman style, like my close-cropped hair; and when the need arises, a Patrolman has advanced disguise technology at his service. “Oh, yes, I’ve laid the Wanderer to rest.”

  “Good!” Everard relaxed back into his chair. “What did become of that lad?”

  “Alawin, you mean? Well, he led a fair-sized group, including his mother Erelieva and her household, he led them west to join Frithigern.” (He would lead them, three centuries hence. But we were talking our native English. The Temporal language has appropriate tenses.) “He enjoyed favor there, especially after he was baptized. That by itself was reason for letting the Wanderer fade away, you understand. How could a Christian stay close to a heathen god?”

  “Hm. I wonder what he thought about those experiences, later.”

  “I get the impression he kept his mouth shut. Naturally, if his descendants—he married well—if his descendants preserved any tradition about it, they’d suppose that some kind of spook had been running around in the old country.”

  “The old country? Oh, yes. Alawin never got back to the Ukraine, did he?”

  “No, hardly. Would you like me to sketch the history for you?”

  “Please. I did study it somewhat, in connection with your case, but not much of the aftermath. Besides, that was quite a spell ago, on my world line.”

  And plenty must have happened to you since, I thought. Aloud: “Well, in 374 Frithigern’s people crossed the Danube, by permission, and settled in Thrace. Athanaric’s soon followed, although into Transylvania. Hunnish pressure had gotten too severe.

  “The Roman officials abused and exploited the Goths—in other words, were a government—for several years. Finally the Goths decided they’d had a bellyful, and revolted. The Huns had given them the idea and technique of developing cavalry, which they made heavy; at the battle of Adrianople in 378 it rode the Romans down. Alawin distinguished himself there, by the way, which started him toward the prominence he achieved. A new Emperor, Theodosius, made peace with the Goths in 381, and most of their warriors entered the Roman service as foederati: allies, we’d say.