Raven's Wyrd: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 2)

by Alaric Longward

  I laughed at him. 'I suppose so. No, do not get up. I laugh when I kill men, so we are not friends yet.'

  'Fine, my lord, fine!'

  'What did you see while visiting Hard Hill?'

  I walked around him, grouching and looking at him from above. He shuddered and answered quickly. 'There was a ruined hill, with burned buildings and a somber number of half-starved people! A king dying. Not a few days past,' he said carelessly.

  'A king?' I asked.

  'A mighty lord! King or a lord. A strong body he once had, now broken! We were called in to a meeting with him, to make him happy. He barely moved; he did not see the act!' he said. 'Though he paid.'

  'He is sick then? Not dead?' I asked with alarm. 'I thought the Hill was in mourning?'

  'It mourned later! We held a play for him. Then, when we finished, he choked out a gout of thick blood and did not move, even when they tried to rouse him. He died, and they cried. Placed his sword in his hand and wailed. The dark Gaul grumbled, and wanted to come here to trade. Lots of silver here, he assured us!' he said, daring to look up to me.

  'Very well.' I let him go, gave him a bronze coin, and the dwarf thanked me. 'More than you deserve, if your plays kill lords.'

  'The lord gave me a silver coin before he died. Perhaps you can give me the same? He was not as wealthy looking as you, his locks gray and face dirty,' he said slyly.

  Gray. Not red like father.

  I felt my stomach churning. 'Do you know why they went to Hard Hill first? Surely they knew it was ravaged?' I pulled out a silver coin.

  He shrugged. 'Now that you mention it, they did not even unload the merchandise. Did not make many coins from the lord. I suppose they charged something from the men who boarded the ships there.'

  'What kind of men? A man with a furred cap? Archer?' I asked, as I threw the silver to him. 'Do not try my patience.' He was holding out his hand for more, and put it down.

  'Him, yes, and his friend. A small man, short, neat beard, moved like a cat,' he said, shrugging, uncaring. 'Held a Roman sword under his tunic, armor. Warrior. Running from his dead lord. Probably has enemies.'

  'Did he come with you?' My heart was racing. 'To this town? In here?'

  'Both did, but I have not seen them in the crowd. Wait, the fur cap was with your lord Burlein, when we performed. He was there with the dying lord in Hard Hill as well. Not sure where the small one is,' the man said with a chuckle, and judged his own height ludicrously. 'I'm big enough down there,' he assured me.

  I ran off, leaving him stupefied, groping in the mud, because I ran over him in my haste.

  In the muddy shore, the merchants were pulling off, waving lanterns, having packed their last gear, and the dwarf ran for his life, screaming for them to come back. Men laughed at him, but the men on the ships ignored him, their faces grim. I turned around to look at the crowds. I did not see the man, the archer, and our former spy in Hard Hill. Gunnvör.

  The man who had arrived with Nihta.

  The hall of Burlein was not far. I jumped on a horse, the owner cursing me for a filthy thief as he ran after me unsteadily and deep in hic cups, hanging on to my foot for the moment it took me to kick him off. I rode like a feverish maniac, kicking the horse so hard it neighed in fear and pain. Mud flew crazily as I navigated halls, begging no child should get in the way. At the hall, I jumped down and drew Head Taker, holding it with both hands. I considered Nightbright, the lighter blade, but I missed my shield and the reach of the heavy killer blade gave me comfort. My helmet gleaming in the torchlight, as I stalked for the door. Then my heart was racing, for a guard was dead in the nearby shadows, nothing but a bloody heap, his belly cut and the guts steaming on the muddy ground.

  I entered the hall to see my hopes die.

  Nihta and Burlein had fought, that much was obvious.

  He was not caught unawares, or alone. The savage Hermanduri envoys had been feasting there, and had tried to defend him, but they were dead. One had an arrow in his head; the other one was as pale as snow, artery slashed in his leg as he was stretched on a table. In the corner, the dark part of the old hall, a struggle was going on. A man was hissing soft encouragements to another, who was weeping, struggling, holding on to a blade of a gladius that was deep inside his belly. The dying man's eyes turned to me, and I shuddered, as it was Burlein, his eyes terrible. He was gibbering in fear. His hair was matted with blood. He was constantly being pushed to the bloody floorboards by the murderer, even if he pushed back up bravely.

  'Hraban!' Burlein said with a sob, and the man holding the gladius turned to gaze at me.

  It was Nihta.

  It was the lithe man I had known, the man with sharp eyes and a lean face, trimmed brown beard and a small frame, deadliest of the deadly, a former slave and Maroboodus's lieutenant who had trained me, who had been a friend, sort of, but who had no heart, no more than my father. His eyes flickered to the end of the room, away from me, and I instinctively went to my knees as an arrow thunked to the doorway, spinning out to the darkness. It was Gunnvör, the traitor, and he pulled another arrow, his face betraying shock at my rage.

  For it was rage that was hammering in my temples, Woden's Dance filling me with animal-like speed as I turned towards him.

  'Bastard,' he hissed, 'fame stealer, coward. I killed Guthbert, and they made a song about you? Shit walker. Die.' He pulled the arrow back and then fell back. The Head Taker had sliced into his temple, splitting his skull as I had charged him with vengeance, scrambling forward with berserker speed. I grunted over him, laughed at his dimming vision, and grasped and freed the blade with two hands as I turned for Nihta.

  Oh, gods, how I feared, despite the rage hammering in my heart.

  Burlein was gone; his fingers sliced through as Nihta pushed his gladius maliciously to Burlein's chest and out, leaving no doubt the last lord of the south was gone. He wiped the blade crudely on Burlein's face, smearing him in thick blood. The blade glinted dangerously. He regarded me as he moved to the light of the hall. He had grown a bit thinner, a touch more merciless. There was cold disdain in his voice. 'Hello, boy. It does look like your father Maroboodus is again the one Marcomanni lord who can make this shitty tribe achieve something more than growing ugly, small cows.' He swished the sword in the air, droplets of blood hitting me. I said nothing, just staring at Burlein's face, feeling sorry for him, and for our lost friendship. 'Did you two get close?' Nihta asked, walking around me, nodding at Burlein's direction. 'Is this terrible for you?'

  I nodded at his coaxing, Woden's rage thrumming in my head. I hissed at him and laughed in his face, braving the terrible warrior’s wrath. He was a snake that was now slithering around me. 'He was a fine friend. Better one than you turned out to be,' I told him, as I turned with him, the Head Taker anxious in my hands. I would die. I would die in an eye blink, and the rage would drain, leaving peace, but I wanted to live, and I was very confused as I faced the nightmare of any warrior, a practiced killer with rare gifts with a blade.

  'He is not vengeful, Hraban, despite the surprise you served him. Your father, that is,' he faked a lunge at me, but I ignored him.

  'Is he not?' I questioned, as his eyes laughed at me. We had sparred many times, but this would not be a game. ‘I’m disappointed.’

  'No,' he told me matter-of-factly. 'He told me to slaughter you, and make it as quick as it pleases me. He has bled you once, you see, and there was no challenge in it. So, I shall do as he asks. I shall kill you as quickly as it pleases me. Perhaps not as quickly as one might hope, but certainly it is not going to last for hours. Minutes, perhaps. Oh, that scar must be nice, they tell me. Gives you character. Show it to me.'

  'Come then, my former friend,' I laughed spitefully. 'Come and see it.'

  'You don't have a wolverine around? Or help, like you did with Guthbert? No?' he asked scornfully.

  'No, I am alone, like I was with Vago and his son,' I spat and cursed him profusely. 'You gave me a sword to fight Odo. I thank you for t
hat, though I doubt it was given because of compassion. No, you have none, Nihta. You are an empty husk of a soul, a turd on the snow, a worthless creature no real men would toast with, causing misery where you go,' I told him. 'And you will not take Gunhild and her baby.'

  'Ah, the child that carries the blood of these traitors. That is ill news for the baby, another one for Maroboodus to hate,' he laughed, 'after he is reunited with her.'

  'He won't be,' I spat.

  He laughed happily. 'You are a tenacious, surprising little pawn. Odo and his mad schemes, you and your willingness to hang on to something that was never in your reach, like a father who is Roman with Roman agendas. You think yourself so special you will not give up,' he mocked me. 'You are a fool, boy. You could be somewhere else, living a happy life, but instead, you run around these lands, trying to slay men who are as high above you as the clouds are to a rat.'

  I shook my head. 'Vengeance is a dish even a rat enjoys. I find it sad that you have no such passions. The Semnones who crushed your family? Do you not think about them at all? Nay, you are but a tool, and tools have no meaning. You are an obstacle between my father and I, and soon it will be a family affair, and you will be dead.'

  Nihta stiffened and licked his thin lips. 'I keep my oaths, Hraban. You do not. Now, where is Gunhild?'

  'She is safe,' I lied, for I had no idea where she was.

  He nodded grimly. 'No man or woman is safe tonight, my little raven. All oaths will be held tonight, the ones broken avenged. Tell me where she is, and she will be spared, at least.'

  'I—' I began, but his words were just a nasty ruse, and he scuttled forward so quickly a lighting would have been left gawking. He appeared there, in front of me like a wraith, his face brutally twisted as he thrust his sharp sword forward. I was still hearing Woden's Dance, the battle rage giving me heightened reflexes, the heat of rage churning inside, but despite this, I could barely follow the blade. I threw the Head Taker into a sweep before me as I stepped back, dodging as well as I could and slashed my blade at him. He was nowhere near, and I rolled away, hearing the blade part air where my face had been. 'Gunhild deserves peace, not the mad bastard’s tender affections,' I told him savagely and attacked. 'And you will meet Guthbert and his ugly brother, if a heartless man is even accepted in Valholl.'

  He played with me like a sated cat swats at a mouse. Some of it was like the times when we were training. I tried to conserve my strength, to hold back the rage inside me for it would not help with Nihta. It would only force me into mistakes for him to exploit. I grew tired as the armor was heavy, and he was so good it was hard to understand. There were terrible heroes and famed champions running wild in our songs and stories, but this small man was closer to legends than any man you knew from the stories.

  'Drop the blade, Hraban. It is too heavy for you. Perhaps you should use your teeth like you did with Vago?' He cackled as he danced left, then right, and then right at my face and under my blade.

  His hand clipped my chin. I stumbled back and twisted desperately as he jabbed at me, splintering the wall under my armpit. I kicked away, rolling, dropping as he laughed and slid after me, always so I had to turn, turn. I despaired, for I would only very rarely get a stab of my own his way. Whenever I tried to hit him, the blade danced around me and I took hits and scratches in the chain mail and my helmet. I did the best I could to keep my feet and arms away from his deceptive moves.

  I defended, ran and dodged, sweating, the rage playing futilely inside, for this man was greater than any berserker. Soon, I would have to take risks, as I was tired, and he was not, and he expected each one of my few futile stabs and slashes. This became evident when I staggered and a deceptive stab at my feet turned to an upward slice, which nicked my throat and he hissed in anticipation. 'You need the chaos of a battle to kill me, boy,' he laughed and came at me again, enjoying himself. 'I will find your Ansbor next. And any cur that follows you. The women I will give to the Gauls; oh, they will enjoy them.'

  I swallowed and roared, pushing at him, dodging a slash, and tried to think of something that would save my life. I felt my throat, trying to decide if the blood oozing on my chest was from a fatal wound. Likely not.

  'Come, Hraban. You do well against most men, even more experienced ones thanks to the gift Woden has given you, but you are no match for me, burdened with armor. Die on my blade now, and I'll tell your father it was a hard fight.' He looked serenely composed, and I remembered something. The last time I had seen him angry was when Odo had probed into his past. He had lost control then. In addition, had not Nihta himself told me to find the weaknesses of one's foe, if one can, much before a battle?

  I might know his.

  I grinned at him bravely. 'I am rather burdened by armor than shame. Do you know what the men say when I tell them the champion of Maroboodus has been a man whore for his former Roman slave master? A pleasure boy? Do you?' His eyes narrowed as his serenity disappeared, and I came forward, slashing with the Head Taker. He blocked it casually, kicked me back savagely, stumbling as he did and came at me, his eyes wild. I fell away, breathless, as his sword clanged on my helmet. 'They ask me if the woman was a beauty? I say no, she was no woman, it was a man, a fat, wart-ridden Roman master, part Celt, perhaps? Imagine their surprise and disgust as I tell them you enjoyed it, while he was humping away at your ass in front of the other slaves,' I mocked him, watching his reaction, which was no longer that of a cool-hearted killer, but one who would charge headlong at a shield wall, risking all.

  And so he did. Nihta did.

  He attacked, his face a mask of fury. He was very, very fast, and my helmet deflected one attack again. I thrust back, puncturing his tunic, but he did not care for his danger, pushing me back relentlessly, snarling. I was panting very hard now, but found strength to slice and dance out of his way, and a swift overhead cut of the Head Taker took a hank of his hair. 'I tell them that you liked it so much you chirped at his feet, thanking him as he was cleaning himself up, and you were hugging his knobby knees, a pitiful, sated thing. Roman ways for Roman dogs, eh? And the songs they sing about you? Have you heard them? Not one for fragile nerves and sensitive ears! Gods, the poets do make you seem like filth. For once, they do not lie!'

  I dodged again as he roared, moving like a wraith, uncaring, trusting his speed. I rolled over a table, slipping on blood as he jumped on the table.

  'They do not laugh; they shrug. They say you look like a woman, small and weak, pretty as a girl virgin,' I panted, and Nihta jumped down, slipping on the same blood. I stabbed the Head Taker down at the blur that was his torso, already regaining his balance.

  He screamed like an angry spirit, recoiled away, rolling and panting. There was a ripping wound on his side, running to his hip. He looked at it in shock, grabbed a torch off the wall and threw it at me, readying to fight me to the death. I stepped back, prayed what I was about to do would save me, and I swung the blade at a latched door.

  It opened, and the two hounds flew out, panting and snarling, and Nihta blanched. They both stared at him ferociously, and I could swear Burlein's corpse grinned. They jumped forward with a howl, latched their slavering teeth on his leg and arm, and he howled as they rolled on the hay. He roared; a dog whimpered and slumped to the floor, its neck broken. I charged him, but far too late as I saw him skewer the last hound through its throat. He aimed his gladius my way, shaking, cursing softly as he took stock of his wounds, retreating for the door. He shook his head, face pale from blood loss. 'Run, Hraban. Run. He will be after you. The man-eater. He has a job, Hraban, but he hates you and will come after you.'

  'Who?' I asked, but he was gone, a trail of blood on the floor and ground outside.

  'The man eater!' he yelled from the shadows, laughing wildly, and I charged outside.

  Somewhere, ominous horns sounded. I ran out, thanking gods for Cassia's diligence. We would have to flee.

  Maroboodus had come.

  CHAPTER XVII

  When the mournful h
orns blared, the revelry in Grinrock had reached the point of tiredness as drunken lords and their men were heading for their bedding. The night mists of the deep swamps and the woods always harbored secrets and beasts, but nothing made men feel more terrified than the sound of the horns, not so distant.

  My father was not dead, nor dying.

  He was there in the mists, sitting on a prancing horse, capricious and vengeful, and it would mean death and destruction. Only the fleetest and the wisest would survive to see the day. I swore, for I had not sent Ishild and the baby away in time, and now she was in danger indeed. I cursed and swore more. I was a perfect fool. I bade poor Burlein goodbye in my thoughts, mounted the horse I had stolen, and rode away wildly towards my house, praying Gunhild was safe, and Cassia had prepared our horses. Burlein was dead, and our dreams were dead, but we were not, not yet.

  But, we would be, if we tarried.

  I saw the harbor, where a hundred very confused, entirely drunken men were milling on the shore, some still drinking, wondering about the horns, and then suddenly aware of a distant rumble. A vast number of cavalry was approaching swiftly under the cover of the night and mists. I turned the corner only to see Fulcher galloping down from the house. Ansbor was riding after him, whipping a horse, and they were leading Ishild and the baby. Cassia was holding on to a horse's mane behind her, packed with our wealth and food. Ermendrud was mounting her horse, her face pale with fear. I gazed at Ishild, and decided it was the wrong hour to accost her for her absences.

  Ishild shrugged. 'He is come, then.' Her face had no guilt or fear, and she pointed for the eastern woods. 'There will be chaos, and we must run.'

  I was about to curse her when Fulcher grunted. 'Horns, Hraban. Cassia insisted they are not ours. What happened to you?' he asked as he regarded my bloody countenance. 'Where is Burlein?'