A Quadi rode forward through the ranks, and even the vitka stopped casting spells and cursing us as he came closer. The white pelted standard trailed him, as did four armored young men. He eyed me, saw no standard above me, and rode back and forth before his lines, looking at the barricade and the ditch. The ragged ranks behind him were chanting, the vitka dancing before them again and cursing us.
I lifted my head and yelled, “Cynefirth? Cynefirth the Thiuda?”
His beard was quivering as he watched the dead, the looted corpses, and burned halls. Then, he pointed a finger at me. “It is I. I am the man who owns these lands, and you are standing on them without leave. You murdering whore-sons. Where is my precious boy?”
He meant Tudrus.
I looked at him and his wealth. He wore a golden necklace, silvery armbands, and rings, and his sword was Roman, long, and decorated with silver wire. His armor was of white scales, though all this glory was now covered with dust.
“I am sorry,” I yelled. “Did you mean to ask where is your precious treasure? We have it. The Chatti of Maroboodus! We hold it! We shall enjoy it, and toast your boy and bones with your silver horns!”
He spat, the vitka hissed, and the men beat the shields even harder. He looked back, likely thinking Cenhelm was too near, and then turned to look at a woman near him.
She was beautiful, a daughter of a trade king from Stone Home, a Semnone, and, with her, came wealth. The town had been a fine gift, likely to her from him, because she was crying as she looked at the destruction.
The failure of the man was a terrible blow.
He had married well, into the riches of the Semnones, and had, for a moment, wrestled a major trade route for his glory under his control. He had even driven the Hermanduri away. Now, he sat amid his dead people and watched his wife.
He would still be married to her. It would still benefit him, and her, to be allied, married, and the Hermanduri would suffer Roman anger, if the man survived.
Kill me a king, Cenhelm had said.
Perhaps he will forgive you, Tamura had added, talking about Cenhelm, even if I should kill her. He had others, her daughters, he might trust better. I wasn’t sure if she and Cenhelm had trust or not, but I had to overthrow a Quadi throne to have any chance to gain position with him.
More, and more, and always more trouble, as Ingulf had said. Never peace.
I gathered strength to kill a king, and to kill her, and yelled again, “Come here, King. I’ll tell you all you need to know.”
The Chatti were chuckling, a wave of brutal, crude voices, preparing to kill, and then to die.
The king didn’t appreciate my levity. “Did you hear me, cur? Where is my son?”
I climbed back on a trunk and again pretended not to hear. “I am sorry, my king,” I called out. “Did you ask me where your father is?”
He opened his mouth and closed it. He looked back to the woods and frowned, and his men were twitching with anger.
I nodded. “The Owl who likes to squat on boulders. The blind bird.”
“My father?” he called out. “He, too, is dead?”
“It happens in war, my lord, that some owls have their feathers plucked,” I called out. “He was tricked by his good heart. Your son is alive, as far as I know. He pissed his chain and swam over the river like a salmon, leaving a trail of refuse as he went.”
At that, one of the armored young men roared and rode forward, pushing past a flailing vitka. He held a spear and jumped down from his horse.
“Berengar! No!” the king yelled.
Berengar didn’t care. Younger than I was, the Quadi adeling was rushing forward and then dancing before us. “Come, Chatti pig! Come and meet me! I am not old! I am no blind! Defeat me, if you can! Come, and none shall touch you, save for me, and the spear!”
“And what do I get for beating a child?” I asked. “Your mother will cry!”
The Chatti laughed brutally, smiling. We were buying time, and it all mattered.
“You’ll be famous! We’ll spare you, if you win! If you die, you get to serve me in Valholl, you motherless shit! When I come forth, you will be waiting!” he called out. “Woden hear my request, and grant it!” The vitka were nodding furiously, indicating he had heard the boy. He pointed his spear at me. “Come. I’ll see your innards, and they’ll look yellow, no doubt!”
I spat and jumped over the barricade. I landed on my feet in the ditch and eyed the ranks of the enemy as I slowly climbed out. I lifted my hand, and the red-head tossed my spear to me. I caught it deftly and stood there, dripping mud. The Quadi stared back at me with fury, as more and more of them filled the village, and they were chanting like things from Helheim. The Thiuda looked horrified as he rode back and forth before his men. He might tell them to kill me.
He closed his eyes and looked down.
He would let his son, it had to be his son, fight.
I stepped forward and lifted my shield. “Come, boy! Come and show me how you look at innards of men without shitting yourself.”
He came.
He charged forward like a boar, and I met him in the middle. The spear was fast, and he was fleet-footed. The weapon came for my face with such speed, I barely managed to move out of the way. Wild cheers of the enemy filled the air, as I stepped back again, dodging a stab for my foot, and back once more, as the young man, skilled with spear indeed, kept attacking and coming. He didn’t lose breath, his chain jingled resolutely with each attack, and he hissed curses as I kept blocking, sidestepping, and backing away. The Chatti were cheering, the enemy were inching closer, and the king was shaking his head, trying to give his son the honor of beating me, while struggling with the desire to save him.
“Come now,” I said. “You are slower than your grandfather.”
The boy’s eyes widened with anger, and he charged again. The spear feinted low, and came high, tore between leather and the boss in my shield. I grinned, twisted the shield, and the spear’s point broke. He lost his balance, just for a moment.
I rushed forward, shield first. I bashed his aside and fluidly changed stance, the spear cutting for him from below.
He looked terrified and jumped back, tripped on a stone, and fell on his back.
I stepped forward and stabbed the spear down on his foot.
The blade cut to the bone and through to the ankle.
The silence was deafening, save for his sobs. His father was shaking his head.
I looked at him and then pulled the spear out. He was screaming and howling with the sudden pain, not daring to move, and everyone froze. I placed it over his chest, the spear, and I looked at the king, who was shivering, trying to keep brave, and I grinned.
I toed the young man. “Here, you won’t fight with that leg again, and you are lucky to survive, boy,” I said. “I’ll let you go back to your father, and perhaps you’ll survive the day.”
I stepped away and backed off.
The Chatti cheered.
“Kill them! Fetch Berengar!” Cynefirth yelled.
“He promised you would spare me!” I yelled, and laughed. I dodged away and ran for the ditch. Someone threw a javelin at me, which clattered to the barricade, and that was when the battle began.
I splashed to the ditch and let go of my spear as I clambered out to the barricade, cursing the stinging pain on my side, courtesy of Tudrus.
The enemy charged forward like a wave of spears, howling like wolves. Bear and wolf warriors amongst them; the mad, berserking bastards would try to break through first.
They ran into a volley of javelins.
Dozen fell. Men went to their knees in the mass, clawing at jutting missiles in their flesh.
Berengar was crawling away, and men were rushing to cover him with shields. I topped the barricade, flashed a grin at the coming death, and jumped down.
“Take the bridge!” called the king. “Waste no more time!”
They tried. Rushing through air thick with stone and javelin, losing a mass of men,
the Quadi jumped to the ditch, climbed up like ants, tore to the barricade, and over it. They were falling into the ditch it, rolling down it, dying in droves at the wooden barricade, and still tearing it apart, while our men threw all we had at them—stones, javelins. Then, the enemy, in many places topped the barricade and were jumping down to our spears, swords, axes, and cudgels. I held my place and saw enemy just above me. He was about to jump down and then caught a spear in his gut and fell on his face over the barricade. Ten, twenty others were coming over the barricade, few fell back, and the rest came at us, eyes wild, howling. We took the men with our shields and stabbed and hacked them down brutally. Like waves breaking on a beach, the Quadi lost their best and bravest breaking over the barricades and the ditch, now filled with wounded and dead and torn barricade parts.
They kept coming, until I heard screams of their chiefs, and soon, we saw the muddy arms tearing at the barricades.
“Stop them!” I yelled, and we pushed to the barricade and began stabbing through holes the enemy had made. It cost them time and cohesion to pull the barricade apart. They were a milling mass of thousands and held by a thin line of wood and our spears, but they were finally working to prepare the way.
The barricade fell in one place, the trunks pulled out.
It fell in another, a huge table hacked apart by a champion and his followers.
Then, in one, two, four places, the muddy, bloody Quadi rushed through.
They howled for our blood and were in terrible haste, for somewhere behind them, I heard the horns of the Sarmatia and Hermanduri blowing like mad and the beat of Cenhelm’s drum.
Our lines buckled and twisted, and still, we held on. I held my shield high, the red-head covered me, and we pushed back, while the men behind us killed the enemy with heavy spears. The Quadi had no time to form shield-walls or to make tactical decisions. They simply tore into us. I had no idea where the enemy might break through first, but it would. A stream of them was coming forward from the holes in the barricade, looking like a spear-river breaking through a dam.
I heard Chatti yelling, Quadi howling, pushing to our spears brutally, their men jumping at ours, pushing through even when wounded. I saw one impossibly large Quadi hacking his ax up and down, up and down not far from me, and dozens of dead littered the ground around him. We were pushed back, and back, and the red-headed man fell to an arrow in his throat. I retreated momentarily, not knowing if I had Chatti behind, but I did, and we kept going back, our shields constantly pushed by enemy shields, spears, and by Quadi men trying to tear and push past us. My sword went up and down, up and down, wounding and killing.
The wounded were howling, the soon to die screaming, and the battle was so loud, I felt dizzy. They came like animals, with no heed for their lives. They pushed into our shields, tore at them two-handed, and dragged our men into their midst, where they tore and hacked them to pieces. They took wounds from our dwindling ranks of spears, savage axes, and swords, and still stomped over their dead to get to the bridge.
It seemed to take forever.
Then, suddenly, we were at the bridge. I looked at the mass of Chatti around me, then looked behind me, and actually saw some of the Quadi on the bridge. The huge warrior with an ax was amongst them, being pushed to the bridge by four Chatti. The Quadi died finally, so did the others, and they were thrown to the river. I noticed the Thiuda entering the ditch, his horse jumping over. I noticed there were enemy wading in the water, and some swimming over, but most of them, still thousands of them, were pushing at us.
We went back, our shields shattered, torn, and I stepped back to the bridge.
A chaotic mass of enemy rushed from the side and pushed between our men, led by a war-chief in ring mail, a wolf-mask on his face. They crashed into our remaining mass and broke thirty of my men, those who had been on our right flank, from us and the bridge.
I didn’t see what happened to them or how they died, but they would, no doubt be fighting to the end.
Behind the Quadi, in the edge of the town, I could see standards of Cenhelm now, and I saw Roman auxilia fighting, for just a moment, as the masses of enemy shifted. We were pushed back, less than a hundred of us, and again back to the bridge, and there, I found myself in a back rank. I panted, grateful to be out of the immediate battle, and rushed back and forth, my limbs aching.
“Hold it! Hold the bridge!” I screamed like a madman.
The Chatti did. They exerted all their strength. They fell to the enemy spears, the javelins being tossed from the river’s banks, but they pushed back, killed, and chanted.
They held it. They slowed the enemy down. Many fell in the first rank, their shields and lives spent.
The Chatti fed new men to the first rank.
Men used spears in the second and third ranks and put down Quadi after Quadi, tossing many to the river. The bridge was thrumming with battle, with weight, and the enemy still kept coming.
One of Cynefirth’s sons saw the attack stalling, looked desperately back at Cynefirth, and then howled. He led the attempt to take the bridge now. He roared, ran forward, and dodged spears. He hacked his ax down and was tearing a shield from one of our men, his champions with him. Those men were now slaughtering Chatti in the first rank with very long spears. The adeling was hacking with his ax, screaming for his men to attack, and then, one of the Chatti threw a spear and caught the man in the throat.
The adeling howled, spat hoarsely, and toppled to the river, his legs kicking, piss soiling his pants.
The enemy fell back. We took a breath.
Their ranks were heaving. I saw the Roman cohort tearing to flesh and shield outside the former barricade.
The Hermanduri were pushing them to us, and they had been stopped, and a wail of horror rose from every Quadi throat.
“Victory!” I screamed, elated. “Victory! We shall win!”
“Victory!” the Chatti yelled, some hundreds of them alive.
Across the village, there were men fighting. The mass of two thousand enemy was thronging around the bridge, and many were rushing to save themselves in the river. I saw the Sarmatians ploughing to the enemy, and Cenhelm screaming with joy, his spear high. The Prefect and his auxilia were brutally butchering the Quadi ranks.
I saw Thiuda Cynefirth looking around, weeping for the loss and for his dead son, and I felt fierce joy of victory.
I had destroyed the Quadi.
I had doomed their tribe to eternal loss and infamy.
I had done it. I would not be forgotten or pushed aside.
And then, I saw the king’s face brighten. I saw he was not looking at us. He was gazing over us.
I turned. I felt my belly turning to stone, and fear was rushing in my veins.
I saw loss and infamy charging forward.
I saw a great war chief, a Thiuda on a gray horse, standing by the river’s bank. He had a white hair, a savage, brooding face, a black chain and helmet of steel, and he was sitting under the banner of a Bear. With him, was the bastard Bero and the shit Maino and twenty tall guards in leather and chain. Around him were thronging thousands of savage, well-armed warriors, most carrying long, heavy spears, and a great number of them were led by a fierce war-lord.
The war-lord looked up from Odrick’s corpse, pulling a sword from the Chatti’s chest, standing in the middle of torn barricade, his men around him, and all bloodied by their kills.
He was on the bridge. It was my father. There, too, was Harmod and Ingulf.
They had taken the wd of the bridge.
None had seen it. None had heard it. The enemy had been silent, swift, and deadly. It seemed like Woden’s magic at work.
I felt Lok turning his face from me.
I turned and screamed orders, “Turn! Turn and hold! Hold for your lives.”
The Chatti turned, surprised.
I retreated to their befuddled ranks. I lifted my torn shield, and Father and Harmod came for me, stomping over the bridge like maddened oxen. His sword sang as he crashed
over me. I fell and was pushed back by the Chatti. Harmod killed a Chatti next to me and was propelling me to the railing of the bridge with his shield, spitting curses at me. Father was swinging the sword from high, his shield pushing at me hard. I pushed back, managed some room, and rammed my sword’s hilt at his face, just he smote the weapon down to my helmet. I fell back to the railing, which cracked. I felt throbbing pain as the helmet fell to the river. I felt blood flowing down my face, and full of rage and anger, I pushed the hilt to his face again as he hovered over me, unbalanced by the warriors killing the Chatti. He staggered back with pain. A young Chatti clung to his arm, trying to save me, only to be split by Harmod in a terrible melee. I bashed my shield forward, and the rim caught Father’s face. He fell back, shaking his head, and I lifted my sword, as Father tried to recover, his eyes full of pain.
I stabbed forward.
The Head Taker went for his throat.
And then, the blade stopped. I licked my lips and hesitated. I could kill him. I should. I could try to save my arse and jump to the river, struggle out of my mail, and save myself. I could go to Cenhelm, and he would still likely win the war. He would give me my heart’s desire, and I would deal with Tamura.
If only I killed him.
I tried. I failed. His eyes came to rest in mine.
Then, I felt terrible pain in my back. I felt something enter my armor and then flesh and turned to look back.
Tamura was on the shore, her bow in her hand, and she was smiling. She put a hand over her belly, nodded, and turned away to lead her men.
I staggered onto my knees and saw Ingulf and his fist. Then, I saw nothing more.
Lok had left me.
BOOK 5: THE BASTARD’S WEDDING
“Make sure, Maroboodus, that you remember what we are. Just wolves amongst wolves.”
Hulderic to Maroboodus
CHAPTER 19
I woke up in chains. It was oddly silent, and it was dark. A fire was burning near me, and I turned my head to see Ingulf eating a bit of dried meat while pushing wood to the fire. Erse was there with him, helping him. I found I still wore my chainmail, and also, when I moved, there was still a wound in my back.
The Wolf Page 24