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

by Alaric Longward

  One tower was gone. The top of it had been torn away, though the lower part still stood. That was the crashing sound we had heard.

  I saw two Celts on the parapets hacking at something mightily, and noticed there were ropes around the thick lumber, taut as if a god was pulling at them, and the Gauls could not cut of pry them off the piles. There were horses neighing wildly out in the dark, men yelling savagely. The wall shook precariously, and mud flew as the piles moved. Then they groaned, and tipped even more, dismantling several men who jumped or fell away heavily, and one screamed hoarsely, as he fell to the darkness. The wall disappeared in a cloud of dust and mud.

  There, where the wall had fallen, shadows flickered in the dusty cloud. Some fierce Marcomanni stepped forward to the light, nearly inside the compound, and threw some ineffective javelins at the column of Celts. One hacked at the debris where the fallen, wounded Celt was killed, and then they fled.

  The remains of the wall went with them, dragged away by horses. Timbers rattled, cracked, ropes fled in the dust. Gods help us if the tower had taken the wall as well, I thought. They would be inside already. The guards must have been napping to allow that to happen without an alarm. But luckily, they had had to try again, and so we had a defense in place.

  Silence.

  Seisyll opened his mouth to exhort his visibly shocked and frightened men. He didn’t have a change.

  Shields were being banged together in the darkness, men were yelling wildly, and then the barritus yell, men crying out fiercely behind their shield rims, creating a ferocious, thrumming cacophony echoed across the land. There were many Marcomanni down there. Many, many men. Balderich would be pleased. He got his war.

  I took tentative steps forward, unsure what to do. Should I join the shieldwall? The Celts screamed defiance, even without Seisyll’s exhortations, one bleeding from a javelin. Seisyll and another chief, a tall, armored brute, pushed their men towards the hole. Then the lord spotted me, yelled something more as the Celts shuffled to form a triple line of shields and spears across the broken fence, and ran to me. “Will you fight with them?” he screamed as pointed a finger at the men.

  “Yes. Will you?” I said, insulted. Of course, I would.

  “What?” he snarled. “How dare you doubt—”

  I pushed him, and he went silent with incredulity. “Was there more to this plan than just fighting here in the village, holding the place, and hoping Leuthard falls to our hands?”

  He shook away his anger and laughed darkly. “There was. There still is. We have to hold the town, though. Much harder to do now with the betrayal of Elisedd. She—”

  I shook my head at him. “It was Leuthard. The girl tried, but Leuthard was way ahead—”

  He pushed me towards the gate. “Whatever. For the plan to work, I’ll have to go. I have to go fast, because that lot will not hold for a long time,” he said, flicking his gaze to the group of brave men. “Help them. Fight well.” He clapped my shoulder. “We’ll catch the bastard.”

  “I’ll fight with them,” I agreed, and felt the stirrings of the familiar rage. Woden was pleased, his rage mine, and I could almost see his violent spear-dance in the shadows. “What about the Romans?”

  He glanced towards his house. Gaius was marching for the gate with his men. “They’ll join in, I guess. I hope they die, even if we win. In fact,” he whispered, “if possible, let them.”

  I laughed and ran for the wall, and he disappeared, fetching whatever surprise he had planned for. I begged it would not involve going to his hall, where Iodocus was probably looting the cursed treasure.

  There were more yells down the hill now, a demanding voice, and the telltale clatter for men to form a column. It was a powerful voice, but not Leuthard’s guttural one, though I could swear it had been him screaming when the trouble began. “Why didn’t they charge the moment the wall broke?” I wondered aloud, and rushed for the wall to the side, as the Gauls below were still forming a wall of wood and leather, closing the hole.

  The armored brute of a chief in the Celt formation stepped before them, and stopped them short of the hole. “Stay away from it, or they’ll hit you with javelins. Ready! Ready weapons, rocks, spears, and boys. We’ll throw them back down when they show their sickly faces, won’t we? Do it fast,” the chief chortled. “My supper is getting cold.” They cheered him, laughed nervously, and gazed at the darkness just shy of the gaping hole, over the churned up heaps of turf.

  I passed them, jumped to a ladder, climbed up, and hoped the wall would hold, the whole thing being slightly bent and weakened by the successful efforts of the Marcomanni. I reached the thin parapet and popped my head on top of the wall. It was dark, but I saw a mass of shadows, and what I saw made my heart flutter with fear.

  There was a warlord down there, horses were whinnying again, and a wall of spears glittered in the diluted light of Mani. I saw a wide, bear-pelted lord, who was dancing in front of eighty men, his own oathsmen, pointing an ax up to the wall. Somewhere in the dark someone was yelling warnings, then another, and I heard screams of battle across the land, and wondered what in Hel’s name was going on out there.

  The mass below heaved, the chief settled in the first rank of the Marcomanni, and they marched up. Was it Leuthard after all? It was hard to see. It was possible, but I couldn’t be sure.

  Leuthard, or not, it didn’t look good.

  In fact, it looked terrible.

  I looked behind, and saw the Romans were very close to the gate now, and they’d have to do miracles to hold the breach. There were nearly twice the number of Marcomanni to the Gauls and the Romans. I begged Woden spare Iodocus, and if the god should be on a generous mood, he might one day find Gisil.

  I was sure I’d die.

  “Get down here, you!” someone yelled at me. “Wait! What do you see?”

  I looked down the Celt warlord, whose eyes glittered under a helmet’s deep shadows. I saw Gaius looking at me from the side, strangely subdued, growling orders at his men who took a place on the right flank of the Celtic formation.

  I shook my head at him. “Lots of them. A big bastard in the first rank. Best take the families out.”

  “Women left already,” he yelled. “How many? Come man, give us a count!”

  The men all looked up at me with hope in their eye.

  “Same as you. Not many,” I answered cheerfully, and saw the men take heart at my words, whispering with their shield-mates. They were well-armed, some armored in leather, and sturdy warriors all with long moustaches and powerful limbs, but they would get slaughtered.

  I hesitated. I had told Seisyll I’d fight. I had been insulted he had to ask. But perhaps he was right to ask. Should I go? Take away to the woods, and wait it out? Look for Leuthard? Did I owe anything to these men?

  Woden thought differently.

  He had whispered to me already. I felt the rage there, in the back of my mind, in the tautness of my muscles, in that certain careless demand for a fight that overwhelmed fear. The god gave me fury that slowly filled my limbs, I remembered Ingrid, Bait, and the many others the enemy had killed. Leuthard was out there, and I’d catch him, despite everything that had gone wrong, but to do that, these men had to die. I looked down at the chief who gave guttural orders in the Celtic dialect, and the men tightened, shields banging together. Some Celts rushed from the darkness to join the lines, and there some women were still trying to hustle children and the elderly away to safety, and some horses were neighing as elders mounted them.

  The people needed time, at least.

  I looked down to the enemy, who were clashing their shields with their spears, as shadowy mass moved up the hill. It would not take long, they were nearly there. I, and now even the Celts, saw the standard in the shadows, the mass of killers heaving for them, and the lord was striding with them, brave as a drunk forest spirit. The Marcomanni champion spat purposefully on the hill, cursing the men who lived on it, and growled orders. The enemy tightened below us, and so did t
he Celts, again, as if the fear made men take comfort in a closeness of their friends. Legs bent, men crouched, prayed, sweated, and feared, and so I decided I had to act.

  However, I’d not fight in the wall.

  A berserker was not meant for a pushing match, a shieldwall of slow killing. He was meant to fight in the midst of his prey.

  I grinned at Gaius, who was frowning, and then took a deep breath, leaped down and landed with a roll, and ran a bit downhill to the dark. I felt giddy and foolish, having abandoned my dubious sanctuary. The Gauls would think I was fleeing the battle, but they had no time to dwell on my action, only to withstand the animosity of their ancient enemy.

  The formation was almost level with the hole. Men yelled, and Marcomanni rushed out to the sides, holding javelins. They loosed them at the hole. I heard the weapons thrumming eerily in the air, some fell short, jutting in dirt, others rattled on the wall and the remains of a tower they had pulled down first, but others yet struck the Celtic shields and the men behind them. More and more of the javelins flew in, the aim getting better with each volley. Men yelled, screamed in pain, some in surprise, and I heard the clatter of shields, and Gaius screaming in Celtic, and I thought he was saying: “Hold still, maggots. Don’t mind some blood on the ground. Makes it worth holding!”

  I grinned at that, and made my way towards the Marcomanni. Now javelins and stones were thrown downhill, a Marcomanni man gasped pain, another fell on his face, silent, and then the great chief thundered, “Up, and over them! Leave the traitors alive!’ the man yelled, and I saw his red hair, and knew it was Fulch the Red, Ermendrud’s father and cursed, because he might die, and I had liked him.

  I chuckled.

  Instead of dying, he would rip our guts out, I thought, and approached the side of the Marcomanni. The pushing mass of shields and spears, men who flooded the hole in the wall, shouted their rage at the Celts, laughing like demented spirits at the wall of shields confronting and rushing forward to meet them. Dozens of javelins impaled many Marcomanni, shields rattled with impacts of the stones, but Fulch roared the men in, and the Marcomanni rushed over the broken turf, over the remains of the piles to bash up at the Celts.

  The noise of meeting shields echoed dully across the hill like a distant thunder.

  Spears stabbed, up and down. Men pushed at the foes, cursing and striking when there was room to do so, others stabbed over the shoulders of the man before them, men flattened on the backs of their friends in the turmoil. Celtic curses filled the air as they took steps back, then pushed back and fought, and I saw how the chief of the village slashed down with his sword at a head of a sturdy Marcomanni, whose shield was caught.

  I saw blood flying in the air, dark droplets that turned to rain, and then, the milling enemy horde kept smiting and pushing, smiting and pushing. The Celts struck back amidst the screams of the wounded. Occasionally, I saw a red cape of Roman, their shields high. I ran on, wondering what I’d do and then I thought I’d be late, because the Marcomanni screamed joyfully, as some powerful warrior had fallen under their spears.

  Fulch the Red was trying to make his way for the enemy chief. The Celtic second rank was hacking mightily over the shoulders of the ragged first rank, using even rocks, but mostly axes and clubs. The Marcomanni were holding their shields up like the shell of a thick bug, and spears flashed at the legs and guts of the Celts. A Gaul fell, another was dragged to the Marcomanni ranks, and then the two great chiefs heaved against each other, cursing, desperate, both afraid. Two Marcomanni braved the Celts and lowered their shields for a lunge at the enemy chief, but they fell with stabs from men who had been waiting for such an opportunity.

  The column of Marcomanni thickened. It heaved forward, nearly over their enemy, which was no longer three ranks wide, but two, even one in places.

  Another high man fell in the Gaul ranks, howling as his belly was opened.

  I was running. It seemed to take forever. In fact, the battle had only raged for a moment.

  Fulch heaved his sword at the face of the Celt chief, whose helmet held, but the man spat blood as he fell back.

  It could be seen. The Celts would break in a bit. Too fast.

  I streaked through the night, the last steps behind the mass of men, begging Woden help me, and Balderich and Hard Hill to forgive me, because I’d kill men I hoped to be allied with in my future. There would be men with families in the rank before me; fathers, brothers, uncles, and sons in the column trying to reclaim Bero’s lost treasure. Soon, some would die, but then, so would I.

  The Marcomanni yelled together, the Celts nearly broken. Roman was yelling hoarsely in Latin, pained and horrified, the Germani jubilant in their apparent victory. Men were dying, some Celts were speared on the side, and few Germani fell as they pushed to the enemy rank. One such wounded man, yellow-bearded and young, was walking away from the battle, his face ash-colored and holding his broken arm, when he saw me. He likely thought I was a friend.

  I ran for him, chopped the hammer down, and the man’s broken face fell into the shadows. I ran over him, felt Woden’s rage pumping me into higher levels of ferocity, felt him urging me on with a savage, hazy dance, welcoming my victims to his tables. Freya, the Red Lady would take some for hers, but I’d go to Woden, the one-eyed, and the one who loved me. I’d kill, kill until someone pushed a spear in my chest or back, but before that, I’d make a name for myself, one to echo through the halls of the Celts and the Germani alike.

  As children, we had often played a savage game with my cousin. We had been scraggly, thin, young, and there was a small, flowery hill near Mattium, and there the children would gather in the long summer days to play war. The hill was steep, with a round top, defended by boulders and occupied by marmots, and that hill was our kingdom, my cousin’s and mine. We would scream, “The King of the Summit, the King of the Summit,” as the often bigger kids tried to wrestle it from us, and often they did, and we’d go back up, even when my cousin lost a tooth. We would take it anew, clawing our way through a horde of enemies to claim our place.

  I imagined him there, near me, urging me on and holding me up. I was the King of the Summit, a lord of death that night. I screamed my hate at the backs of the Marcomanni. I slapped the hammer down in rage, and it connected with a thin man’s back, and he fell heavily. I danced left, I danced right, breaking arms, chests and horrified, surprised faces. The thick Marcomanni column could barely move or react. Most didn’t even notice me there, except the men in the back ranks.

  I went after them relentlessly. When I saw two powerful youths trying to break off, scowling at me under their hoods, I rushed them, cracking one’s skull, the other’s collarbone. A man put his hands around me, another struck down with a club, but he fell over me, and took down the one who tried to hold me. I kicked them, while heaving the weapon around, connecting with surprised Marcomanni, who howled or fell. “King of the Summit, King of the Summit, Adalwulf is the King of the Summit!” I screamed, as I pushed forward, up, and went on in the thick, confused melee. Celts were there now, the shield walls gone.

  Men fell. I didn’t.

  I felt a pain in my hands, back and arms, pain by fatigue, not wounds. Many Marcomanni scattered, and others fled. There was something happening where the chiefs fought. I saw a blood-spattered Roman group of six holding their oblong shields amidst the survivors of the Celts, forcing them to fight. I saw desperate Fulch engage the centurion with his best men, under his banner or red hair and skull.

  The Romans pushed back grimly, their swords glinted redly, and the raging Fulch screamed as three Celts fell to his men, but not the Romans, who held on grimly, taking hits with their shields, stabbing madly and efficiently, not giving an inch. The standard-bearer and twenty Marcomanni were before me now, and I growled away my fatigue, ignored the men left behind and those to the sides. I charged the mighty standard at the same time the centurion, Gaius, covered head to foot in blood, parried Fulch’s heavy overhand strike, pushed past Fulch’s shield, and
stabbed at his chest.

  A wail of despair rose from the Marcomanni ranks.

  Fulch fell back, stumbling away, and his men caught him. Some Marcomanni charged up at the Roman shields still, the others turned to look at me with horror. I roared at the men charging me. I hacked down, slaying two. I chopped left, crumbling a third, a powerful warrior with blood red shield. Then I heaved the hammer at the skull of the standard bearing warrior. He fell nearly noiselessly, and I heard the Gauls cheer, saw them attack with vigor, and Gaius met my eyes with a grim nod. I flailed around me, hitting nothing, as the enemy retreated away like beaten dogs.

  Fulch’s warband’s dishonor was complete as I straddled the standard, danced over the formerly fine, honorable thing. I mocked Fulch, who was being pulled away, his face ashen white, and he knew who I was. I laughed at him, showed him the bloody hammer. He, horrified and betrayed, wept, as he was dragged away downhill to the darkness over the bodies of his men. The Romans cheered, charged down after them and together with the remaining Celts, they completed the rout of the enemy.

  I staggered and sat down.

  I was patting my legs, my arms, my chest, and felt tightness in my back, where my old wound had been tested. I was not wounded further. It was a miracle.

  After what seemed a very long time, Gaius appeared out of the dark. He had four legionnaires with him, all exhausted, their shields broken, pila thrown, swords nicked. Gaius approached me, staying at arms length, having witnessed the carnage. The Roman peered the wounded Celt chief nearby, who was senseless, and rubbed his face as he turned to regard me. What he was thinking was a mystery. I picked myself up, then the standard of Fulch, propped my hammer against my leg, and broke the mighty thing against my knee, throwing the thing down to the darkness. The rage was fading, and I knew we had failed. We had not captured Leuthard, had not even seen him, and even if there was still battle going on somewhere in the night, we would not likely catch the big man.