Maroboodus: A Novel of Germania (The Goth Chronicles Book 1)

by Alaric Longward

  I chortled to myself, snot flying. The dogs would catch me much before I made it anywhere near Gislin’s unwelcoming village. Perhaps the legendary dverger could show me a hole to their underworld? No holes presented themselves and so I began to accept I’d have to fight.

  When running in a thicket full of spider webs, and what I thought would be midday, I heard a dog growl very near, the sort of a half-escaped sound one makes when pounding over stones and slippery surfaces. I didn’t think. I acted.

  I pulled my sword, threw the shield over me and fell under the weight of a dog and just barely avoided the fangs that snapped closed before my eyes. I pushed my shield up, and the dog fell to the side, and I was damned afraid. A ferocious, killer dog is a thing to note. It’s fast, so fast, and relentlessly powerful. It knows how to rip flesh apart, how to make sure the prey doesn’t go anywhere, and like it would herd and savage a moose for Gasto, this one was doggedly determined to rip my legs to shreds. It lunged for my limb, and I was kicking at it frantically, but never fast enough because it was following every move with speed to match and I begged Woden for help. My sword swished at it, but it saw it coming and changed tactic. It jumped over my shied, the claws burrowing into it, had one leg on my face and turned to latch its fangs on my shoulder. I rolled away, avoided the bite, but fell to my belly, as the sword again struck weakly at the brown-gray mound of trouble, and the beast grabbed my forearm. I lost the sword, foolishly, but when such a foe has a hold on you and begins to shake its head, you will not be able to hold your weapon unless you are made of stone. The shield was stuck on my left arm, and I used its rim to pull myself up while the dog was biting down hard, and I screamed with pain.

  Then another dog jumped on my back.

  It tore into my side, tearing and jerking and pulling at my tunic and a bit of skin and I felt the blood flowing from my side as it pulled me over.

  I managed to drop the shield. I latched my hand over the snout of the dog pulling at my arm. I pushed it, squeezed the furry face and all I managed were to make it look comical as its skin rolled over its eyes, but the fangs stayed in my arm, and it bit even harder, and I yelped and wept and then, I pushed my fingers through the wrinkled skin and into its eyes.

  It was harder than one might think, but then the fingers slid into the slits, something popped and broke, and the creature shuddered with pain.

  It let go.

  It fell away, yelping piteously and rolled in the mud and grass, its legs twitching. It was making dreadful, terrified howls but I ignored it as I turned to the dog on my side. I grabbed the sword, fought with a desperate need to hack wildly, but I endured the dog’s bite as I calmly placed the blade on its neck and stabbed down. The dog twisted, its sleek muscles taut with pain as it bowled me over and I rolled with it as its paw was stuck in my tunic. It was barking loudly, clawing at me, biting weakly and I managed to pin it with my hand, and pressed the sword into its throat, twisting it around and then I pushed down. It made a meowing noise, its claws still scratching my belly, and it died.

  I got up, panting, eyeing my wounds which seemed surprisingly small, when things turned even worse.

  Gasto surged from the thicket, his red shield flashing.

  He saw the dogs, my shocked face, and then he raged. ‘I’ll rip your head off and hide the body, boy! You took my prized bitches!’

  He pulled a dark club, and ran for me, his chain jingling, his face red, eyes bulging with a rage that would not disappear by begging or surrender. He had loved the creatures and evil tongues around Marka often claimed he preferred them to his sons and daughters. I turned to face him, trembling with the shock of seeing the dangerous man charging. I was covered in blood, and I was sure I’d be covered with my brains in a bit as the club went up. I prayed to Woden, and as the enraged champion got close, I charged for his leg. The club sailed past my back, as I surged around the limb. We fell heavily, he lost his shield, but not the club as he swatted it down on my back, but it had little power as we rolled. He lifted the club again, and I bit down on his leg. His eyes widened in shock as I tore into the flesh and we rolled painfully down a small, mossy bank, and ended up in a muddy pond. He swatted me across my ears as I kept biting down, but finally struck my ear so hard I had to let go. I saw red dots as I tried to find my footing. Gasto backpedaled from me, but went deeper into the pond and nearly floundered as it turned deep very suddenly. I had lost the sword while we tumbled, but I grasped under the surface of the water, found a fist sized, jagged rock and as Gasto made his way up, now holding a dagger, I whipped the makeshift weapon into his face. He looked shocked, but strangely not so hurt. He was, in fact, but like a real champion of dozens of terrible fights, he thought of his honor instead of his wounds, and still lifted the dagger. He opened his mouth to spit, and teeth fell out, and while his pain was evident, his refusal to give up made me despair. I cursed and danced to his side, dodged a clumsy slash and struck down again, and the rock dug deep into his skull with a sickening crack. He fell on his side with a splash, his eyes staring like a dead fish’s, his hair floating in the cold water.

  I panted, delirious, shaking, surprised by my survival as I looked down at the dead one. I had killed him. Like Ludovicus had been, he was a lord of war, a ring-giver and famous man with songs and poems and wealth. He had been a terror of a shieldwall, a Goth champion.

  I staggered to the beach and grasped Hel’s Delight. Had Hulderic been right? Was I the bane of the worlds, at least, that of the Goths? I looked at Gasto, whose brains poured into the water, and that made me vomit. My belly heaved, I gagged, and I wept as I looked at the jagged hole in the skull of the man I had been allied with once, a man who had greeted me kindly when he met me and like Ludovicus, this one had not hated me before I had decided to defy Father. It had been my choice, and the Norn had woven the tapestry, and that weave had pulled hundreds into a headlong, desperate battle for their lives, and now, some life-strings had been cut. Gasto’s boys and daughters and their boys would be waging a feud against me until the end of the ages, and it would extend to Hulderic, as well. I wiped my mouth and took a deep breath. ‘Wyrd, mine and yours, eh?’ I asked the corpse, but it had nothing to say on the matter. It had been a nasty, terrible fight for my life. I hoped he would understand, even if his family never would. I spat his flesh and blood from my mouth. I staggered my way up the incline and took up the red shield.

  Not too far, Maino burst from thick woods, with ten Goth warriors.

  ‘Give me a damned break, Woden!’ I cursed the god for his unfairness, but of course the Goths would be there, hot on Gasto’s heels. There was a surprised, brutal grin on my cousin’s face, but then one of puzzlement as he gazed at the familiar shield. ‘You looking for your lapdogs?’ I yelled and kicked a dog’s corpse and flashed my sword at him. ‘All three are here. Bury them together!’ I yelled and pointed at the dead Gasto. Their eyes followed my sword, and I could see the astonishment on their bearded faces. ‘Burn and bury him and let the poets sing of Maroboodus, the Blood Maw!’ I wiped the blood off my lips, laughed deliriously and ran off as they spread out, their incredulous looks changing into enraged ones.

  ‘Bring the bastard’s bloody maw to me, and I’ll bloody it properly!’ Maino screamed. The Goths took after me, and I thought them terribly predictable. I was in a fey, strange mood, and for some reason didn’t fear as much as I had. We raced through the woods and patches of old blueberries. My side was hurting, my head was aching and my arm was throbbing with festering pain. I prayed Saxa would survive even if I didn’t, and yea, the damned Saxons as well.

  I stumbled on, hearing the Goths gaining ground on me. I heard a man yell with surprised anger, then pain as he fell, but the others came on, heedless of danger. In fact, there were many others out there, running through the Svea woods and hills, Maino’s men who had spread out and further on more as the Goth war bands were organizing, though most were far and I had a hunch Bero would not approve of Maino’s relentless chase. Horns blared, and I b
egged for the Svea to intercept as many of Bero’s men as possible. Eadwine and Danr were jogging, the latter holding a javelin, his eyes gauging when he might dare to throw it. Ten more men were apparently getting closer, not showing much fatigue under their hard looks. Their Suebi head knots were bobbling, beards swinging and all clutched their weapons with the certainty of seasoned warriors. I begged Woden for intervention, and then, miraculously, after an hour of exhausting, tortuous running, I received it.

  I stumbled out into a field.

  Before me rose two wooded hills with palisades on top and smoke was rising from the roofs of beautiful, long halls, solid structures. There was a glittering lake, swampy woods and there, between the hills was a village with many burned up remains of halls. Snowlake.

  There was a warparty of ten Svea riding in. There were two women on horses. One was clearly Hild.

  And there, also, was Saxa.

  She was being escorted to her father. Something had gone wrong.

  There was no sign of Ceadda, not at first, but then I saw twelve men jogging after the Svea and I saw they were the Saxons. They had lost some men, and I realized Hild had betrayed them. Her intensity, her strange questions the night before, her look as she regarded me. There was something about it. She was going back to Gislin, and she was bringing a grand prize with her. Saxa.

  I looked behind me, and knew I’d not be able to hide. I didn’t want to. None would fetch me to safety. I burst into a run. I could not scream, I could not do anything but keep my legs pumping, and my lungs felt like they were bursting out of my chest. My wife reached the village, and I saw men rushing about, some on horseback and spears were glinting. The Saxons were hanging back, hesitating and I cursed them for failing to protect her, though likely it was not their fault.

  I looked behind as I ran. Some horses were now emerging from the woods, and Maino sat on one sturdy beast, having commandeered one from his men. A Goth was running faster than the others, unburdened by armor. He held a javelin, and he threw it. It sailed near me, embedded itself in turf and I kicked it as I ran. He was a good runner, young man of Bero’s dominion and apparently had spared his stamina to capture me, to gain fame and honor in front of the gods. He was grinning, puffing and fingering a thick seax, a dagger of crude make. The Saxons were pulling at each other and I thought I saw Ceadda pointing a finger at me.

  I ran for them, but let the Goth get closer. I stumbled and cursed and heard him laugh hysterically, sensing his kill, his capture, his fame. I felt him right behind me.

  Then I turned, lightning fast, agile as a lynx, and stabbed upwards. The blade pierced his chest, and he fell on the edge, which I ripped out as we fell.

  The Goths were closing, and I got up to my feet. I saw there was a field right before me, and a rut dug around it, and I jumped over the rut. The Saxons were coming for me, and the Goths were nearly there and it would be desperate.

  Someone in the village pointed a long sword our way. It was an older man. Gislin. It had to be, and the man I had planned on killing, would perhaps be our only hope. He would help, surely, against the Goths. But he would not spare the Saxons. Or me. Unless Saxa made it so. She would try. I thought I saw her there, arguing with the old man. Then someone rushed from the side, pulled at Saxa, held on to her. They grabbed the man, and Saxa was holding on to him as well, and would not let go. She struggled, was talking to the man and I felt my head spin as it was Aldbert, whom they finally tore from her. They kept them apart.

  Had he escaped Maino? How did he end up in Snowlake?

  I turned to stand and faced Maino’s men across the rut. It was a muddy, nasty field, and I held on to my shield ferociously.

  The pack of beastly warriors ran at me, encouraging each other, but now Ceadda was there for me and his men, all carrying hide-shields spread around. I wept, laughed, and cursed. They guarded the ditch and Ceadda grabbed me. ‘Not a Lord Pup anymore, eh?’ he laughed thinly. ‘Looks and smells like a proper Saxon, no?’

  ‘Woden and Donor thank you, bless you,’ I wept. ‘Saxa?’

  He swallowed and looked at the village. ‘Some Goths caught up with us. Had to fight, and while we won, that whore völva … she had men waiting for them. Probably had fetched some during the night to grab Saxa. I’m not sure who betrayed Agin and us, Aldbert or her, but neither are friends to us. I’m sorry. They knew the land and we gave chase, but—’

  ‘You’ve done more than we agreed on,’ I said, swallowing the unreasonable need to blame them.

  ‘Yes, we have,’ Njord said, but smiled to take the edge of the comment. ‘It’s Ceadda’s fault. Got lost in the woods, the idiot,’ he added.

  ‘First we deal with this,’ Ceadda barked. ‘Then we get her back. Shieldwall!’

  We formed one. We had six men in two ranks, and we held the ditch. The Goths across from us cursed, some twenty of them now. Some men had ridden in, and they dismounted, looking at the village with apprehension, but Maino was beyond caring about the Svea. He pointed his ax at me. ‘Bring him to me. Slit the bellies of the others. In fact, slit his belly as well, but do it well, so he lives a while, holding his traitorous entrails.’

  ‘She is safe, cousin,’ I told him. ‘Safe from you. Married to me, by the way.’

  He grunted as their shieldwall formed. Eadwine was on one end, Maino in the middle and Danr on the other end as they crouched behind their thick shields, their eyes gleaming over the rims. They were eying the ditch, and yes, they could jump over to our side, but we could kill many as they did. Maino growled at me and looked across the field to Saxa. ‘She is safe for now, cousin. But I’m not giving up on her, no. Never. Know that in your death. We will wage war with them after we deal with Hughnot’s Black Goths, the hall-burning bastards. We’ll hump their skulls like I will hump yours, and she, Maroboodus, will be a widow, won’t she? In a bit. I have time. Just wait and watch from the afterlife.’

  We braced our feet. In Snowlake, dozens of men were gathering, shields could be seen, spears flashed, but there would be no help coming our way for a while. ‘Come, cousin. I already killed dogs today. One more won’t feel any different,’ I said and tried to hide the despair in my voice.

  ‘I’ll hang your ugly face from my standard,’ he grinned, and so they marched forward, hitting the spears on the rims of their shields. They stopped at the edge of the ditch, so close we could nearly touch them. They were hesitating, and that is when the six men in our second rank grabbed rocks and began pelting the enemy. One struck a man in the mouth; another bounced off Danr’s shield to scrape his face, and that is when Maino roared, in his battle rage.

  They jumped over. It was a mad, crazy move that nearly caught us unaware.

  They crashed into us, pushing us back, some fell into the ditch and flailed as they tried to get over and then we pushed back. Three Goths fell to the spears, our second rank pushed the first rank, our backs, and we bowled them all into the ditch, Maino included and there, above that rut the killing began. We stabbed down. They slashed and pulled at our feet and blood flowed. A shield rim caved in a man’s face, a seax cut one’s nose, but then two Saxon fell and were dragged to the damned ditch and there Maino and Danr hacked them to death. Then another Saxon fell as javelins were thrown at us by men who had stayed across the ditch and we answered with rocks. I slashed at a wrist that was reaching for me and the man howled. Another pulled me on my knees and Maino ripped at my shield with his hands, his face enraged beyond all sense. I slashed the sword into his helmet, then to his shoulder, drawing blood, and so the terrible battle went on until Eadwine jumped over to the side and ran his sword through a Saxon throat. He turned to kill another and Ceadda turned to face him and then things changed.

  An army rode out of the woods. They carried a standard of crows and I nearly shat myself as I saw it was Hughnot. Hrolf was there, Ingulf, and Ingo as well and they looked splendid as two hundred men marched behind them. Two hundred, at least.

  Hild was screaming, and rode her horse past us to meet
them, gesturing at us wildly, but Hrolf pushed her aside with no remorse and she fell from her horse. He ignored the holy völva and that deed made everyone flinch and make signs to ward off evil luck. Hughnot’s army didn’t care. Maino climbed out of the ditch, so did his men and they turned to look at the newcomers. Now, Svearna were also running across the field, fearless in front of the vast army of Goths, and we retreated to them. I looked on and saw how Maino walked to Hughnot, showing his fist to the man. Danr was pulling at Maino, but the mad berserker didn’t care.

  Hrolf dismounted.

  He pointed a finger at Danr. Six archers rode out of the army and raised their bows. Danr lifted his shield, but it didn’t matter. Arrows ripped into his body and he fell to his knees. Hrolf swung a sword and Danr’s head twisted to the side and he fell, his chainmail blooded.

  Butchery began. Eadwine slashed his spear in a grinning foe’s face, and then ran at another. He was caught by a rider, who slammed a studded club in the back of the champion’s head. Maino fought valiantly. I almost felt sorry for him, but he attacked a man, pulled him from the horse, broke his neck with his foot and vaulted on the horse. He slammed another man from a horse, but that man fell and hung on to Maino’s saddle and then my cousin was dragged down and beaten by six men. The others ran away, but were brutally hunted across the field.

  I pulled at Ceadda. ‘Go, and run. You have done your bit.’

  ‘You are going to fall here!’ he said, too loudly and the Svearna, who formed a shieldwall near us, scowled at him. A man with nearly iridescent eyes, an older man with braids running on each side of his head nodded at me. Saxa had been speaking with him. It was Gislin. ‘They should go.’