Oathbreaker

by Adam Lofthouse

I felt rather than saw Ruric approach my flank. My face was a mask of iron. All thoughts I’d had when returning to my men, of my selfishness and my new found resolve to be better, had vanished like morning mist. I knew I would throw more of my men’s lives away if I had to, that there was nothing I would not do to see my wife and child safe, and to have Warin’s head on the end of my spear. Deep down, I would never change. It wasn’t down to any great love of my wife that drove me north faster than a winter gale. It was pride and stubbornness.

  How dare Warin make a move against me. Who did the snivelling little bastard think he was? Even with his father’s support did he really think he could get the better of me? I was Alaric, lord of war. Battle turner, Loki cunning, there was no man or army in this land that could bring me low. I was invincible, Donar rode at my shoulder. When I entered the arena of death men’s courage deserted them, they prayed to their gods and begged for their mothers even as I ripped the guts from their bellies. Men knew me, and men feared me. Warin would die, I would be king. Of that there was no doubt.

  ‘I don’t like that look in your eye,’ Ruric said, rubbing a hand through his bristly white beard.

  ‘They have to die Ruric. You know that.’ I said, not turning my eyes to meet his. I knew I would not like what I would see there.

  ‘I know, lad. I know.’ It had been some years since Ruric had called me ‘lad’, for some reason it made me feel like a pup again, listening to one of his lectures when I had done something he thought ‘improper’. He soon stopped bothering with those. ‘But do more of our men need to die too?’

  The silence dragged on as I thought of a suitable answer. How could I possibly justify throwing my men back into battle, after what they had just been through. ‘If it comes to it,’ was all I said. I was in no mood for conversation. ‘There is somewhere we must stop on the way,’ I said, this time turning in the saddle to face Ruric. ‘There’s someone who is long overdue a visit from the Ravensworn.’ Ruric grinned as he saw me fiddle with the golden torc at my neck, showing me the stumps of his teeth.

  I probably did not look as impressive as I did the first time I rode into the lands of the Fenni. I still rode Hilde, my fine horse, but she was dry mouthed, and half lamed from our fast ride north across Germania. I wore still my fine blue cloak, though it was covered in dust and dirt. I was without a helmet, which I had discarded when the beads of sweat running down my head had turned into a torrent. My hair was wild, my beard unkempt, my skin was sunburnt and wind lashed, and my hands were as chapped as my lips.

  The village was much as I remembered it. The same brown mud huts, sitting squat in the marshland in the same disorder they had been the previous year. The same half-starved children ran between our mounts legs, cheering and whooping to see such an army enter their inconsequential village. They would not be so happy when I was done.

  I dismounted Hilde and stalked through the huts, the repugnant smell of shit mixed with putrid meat filled my nostrils and almost made me gag. I scowled at the pale, skeletal men who backed away from me, creeping into their hovels, hoping to hide until I was gone. Cowards. Nithings. I reached the centre of the village and drew my sword, standing stock still, waiting for the man I had come to kill.

  ‘Lord Alaric,’ a small voice said from behind me. I spun on my heels to come face to face with Wulfric, chief of that worthless tribe. ‘How…how good to see you again, lord,’ he said, bowing his head.

  Gods, but that man really was pathetic. There he was, the chief of an actual tribe. And there was me: the outlaw. Chief of a tribe that didn’t exist. A warband of cut throats and thieves, oathbreakers and life takers. Wulfric had every right to show his outrage at my impudence; baring a blade in the centre of his own village. He just lacked the courage, even then at the end.

  ‘You know why I’m here?’ I said. It was not really a question, we both knew it.

  ‘Y…yes, lord.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked. That really was a question.

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘Why did you sell me out to the Romans? I had no quarrel with you, or your people. Don’t tell me it was just for gold?’

  He paused, did Wulfric. His lips moved, as if he was trying to shape the words, before he finally let them out. ‘She made me, lord. Said she would wipe the Fenni from history if I didn’t comply. I didn’t want to lord, I swear. But, my people, I couldn’t protect them from her.’

  Her? That was unexpected.

  ‘And you think you can protect them from me?’ I spat. I had moved closer to him, our faces just a hands width apart.

  ‘No, lord,’ he sobbed.

  I sighed, a hint of sympathy creeping through me for Wulfric, for clearly he had been put in an impossible situation. ‘Who is she?’ I asked. ‘Who has been collaborating with Rome to see me dead?’ The words of Tacitus sped back through my mind. He had mentioned a woman, and something about sharing my blood; I had not made much of it at the time. ‘She will be the end of you,’ he had said. What else had he told me? It all felt so long ago now, not the couple of weeks it had actually been.

  ‘You really don’t know?’ he asked me, his expression almost mocking. ‘Half the tribes are talking about her.’

  ‘Talking about who?!’ I bellowed, spittle flying from my mouth to spray his face. I was raging, confused and vulnerable. Not my favourite emotions.

  ‘Why, Ishild of course.’

  I stood, dumbstruck. Ishild? My Ishild? The woman that haunted my dreams. Strong willed, luscious curves, eyes bluer than the deepest ocean. Ishild. She was plotting to have me killed, this whole time.

  I have only a vague memory of my sword licking out and carving into Wulfric’s skull. Vaguer still is the memory of Ruric and Baldric hauling me to the ground as I howled in rage and slaughtered every member of the Fenni I could get within sword reach. Men, women, children, I killed them all.

  The only thing I can truly remember is the curse. Wulfric’s wife, standing over the bloody corpse of her husband, arcing her fingers into claws and calling on the Gods to witness her words. She spat and put her thumb to her forehead, before speaking again: ‘I curse you, Alaric, son of Hengist. I curse you before all the gods. May you never rise to the heights you desire, may your men all be slaughtered at the hands of your enemies. But, may you live, Alaric. May you live long into your winter years, your heart void of joy and filled with bitterness and regret.

  ‘Your death will come many years after that of the dogs that serve you; the son of your greatest foe will be the one to strike the telling blow. With the Norns as my witnesses, this shall be your fate.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The Rest of the journey north was made mainly in silence. My men had watched in horror as I had butchered a dozen or more innocent people, then been the recipient of a foul curse. I remember regretting that I hadn’t killed the old crone whilst she was in full flow, but had never paid much heed to witches and curses, and was therefore quite nonchalant about the whole thing.

  Men though, they are superstitious. Particularly poor men, who come from nothing and have no education or clue as to how the world works. They simply find a lord and follow his orders. Gods, I could never be such a man. I did however, have three hundred and fifty men at my back, all who came from nothing, all who lacked any form of education – or common sense for that matter – and they were superstitious, very superstitious.

  I could hear the whispers all around me. I rode in the centre of our marching column, trying and failing to appear happy and cheery to the men within ear shot. They gave me guarded looks; put their thumb to their eye and spat in the hope it would keep off the curse that had befallen me. I worried, in those days as we passed through the empty countryside, would they still follow me into battle? I had more need of those men then, than I had ever had before. Would they still have the courage to fulfil their oaths to their lord? Either way, I was about to find out.

  It was Birgir who spotted the figures in the thick forest that lie on our route. He came galloping down t
he column, his skinny backside bouncing up and down in the leather saddle. ‘Warin’s men lord, in the trees up ahead.’ He panted as he brought his horse alongside Hilde, who nipped at the beast when its head got too close to hers. I pulled on the reins, not wanting to create any distance between myself and Birgir, and run the risk of men overhearing our conversation. ‘How many?’ I asked.

  ‘Couldn’t tell, lord. There is a narrow track that leads into the forest, I saw men in cloaks with their hair in top knots on either side. They seemed to be shouting at more men deeper under the canopy, but it was too dark in there for me to make out anyone.’

  I nodded, visualising it in my head. ‘Good work, Birgir, as always.’ The young scout beamed, showing me a set of crooked, yellow teeth. ‘A good place for an ambush, no?’

  ‘Perfect, lord. There are banks either side of the track, so although they would have the advantage of both surprise and height, and we would be packed so tight together their spears could hardly miss.’ I noted with pride that Birgir showed no signs of fear or anxiety as he spoke. He was just a pup, and yet he would gladly die if I ordered him to. Maybe not all was lost. Birgir brought back memories of a lad who had served me early on in my quest to become the greatest Warlord outside the empire, Hafdan. He had been a quiet boy, of no great height or breadth. Ordinary looking, would easily mix in with a crowd. But that had been his great advantage. Never before or since had I had a better scout or spy. The information that lad had brought me had been the main reason my wild venture as an outlaw had been so successful.

  ‘Are you ok, lord?’ Birgir asked, growing anxious at my ongoing silence.

  I smiled across to him, a sad smile that didn’t reach my eyes. ‘Fine Birgir, fine. Just remembering, is all. We shall set up camp for the night, let those curs wait a day for their carefully laid ambush. Send word to Ruric, will you?’ With a nod the young scout rode off. I slowed Hilde then, steering her off the road to watch the endless file of warriors’ ride pass.

  So much blood. Was it all worth it?

  ‘This is a fight to first blood. The victor shall receive this bag of gold,’ the herald says as he raises a small leather pouch that chinks as he lowers it back down. ‘Each warrior will be armed with just a sword. There is no time limit, the fight will end on my signal. Begin!’

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes, picturing the beautiful face of my mother as I try to calm my fraying nerves. My opponent moves forward, raising his sword above his head and roaring a battle cry. The crowd cheers, I hear wagers being made and all of them are on how long it will take this brute to best me. He is the champion and on home turf in front of a crowd of his own people. I am a stranger, an unknown quantity. My opponent is both taller and broader than me; he swings his longsword like it weighs no more than one of those vine sticks Roman centurions use to beat their men into line.

  I bring my own blade up and kiss it for luck; the feel of the newly wrapped black leather on the hilt brings me comfort. A black sword for a black soul, that is what the tanner had said when I had paid him with the last of my coin for his work. My blade is heavy, cumbersome, and would be the downfall of a weaker man. But I am not weak. I am hardened by training, my muscles toned and responsive. I may not have experience in the dance of death, but I am more than ready to prove to the Allfather that when my time on middle earth is done I am worthy of a seat in his hall. The big man moves toward me and my father’s voice rings in my ears: ‘Don’t watch the blade boy, watch the eyes. The eyes tell you where the blade is about to strike. Watch the eyes, and you have half a chance. Watch the blade, and you’re already dead.’

  Those eyes are as dark as the bottomless pit in which I stand. The winter has been harsh and the brown puddles which lie beneath my feet are sheeted with ice. I know this fight is as much about footwork as it is about sword play. Still my opponent strides toward me. He really is huge, fearsome; the wolf among the sheep.

  With a savage scream he whips the great sword behind his head and sends it spiralling toward my own. I keep my eyes on his and bring my blade up to meet his savage strike. With a loud snap and clang the blades kiss and sparks fly through the winter mist. I am forced to my knees with my sword still above my head. With all the grace of a twelve-year-old girl dancing around her mothers skirts the big man pirouettes on his left foot and leaps from the ground, this time his blade coming in a sweeping arc from low to high. Just in time I lower my own and once more there is a flash of fire.

  He steps back, does the big man, and I am grateful. The two blocks have taken my first wind, and I feel my wrist going limp and my sword getting heavier with every ragged breath. Once more his dark eyes meet mine, I feel them weighing me, judging my mettle. With a howl of rage and a spark of courage I hadn’t known I possessed I leap to my feet and charge him. A frantic blow to his left then I try to use the momentum of his blade grating on mine to spring the point to the side of his head. There is a low whistle as the blade cuts the air and cuts a few stray hairs from his unruly red beard. ‘Clever,’ the big man grunts as he regains his composure, shrugging off the near miss and rolling his shoulders.

  There is no way I can beat this man, I think as I step back carefully, not wanting to slip on ice but also not wanting to let my eyes stray from his. He is too quick, too strong, too talented. I send the Allfather a swift prayer of thanks that this fight is only to first blood; I will not die with my guts spilling from a great wound in my belly, as that warrior had when I had first set foot in Goridorgis. Gods, could I have really been here a year already?

  My mind is wandering and once more the big man is on the move. He lets his blade fly in a flat trajectory from right to left, but I have been watching his eyes. He has seen my blade slip from my slack grip, seen my numb wrist struggle with the great weight of the iron. He thinks me weak, tired, beaten. As the sword scythes through the air toward me I keep my eyes on his. They flick from his blade to my head, and I know where he plans to land his blow. At the precise moment his blade is a whisker from my left ear – so close I can almost feel it piercing my reddening skin and breaking my skull like an egg, I duck and roll towards him. Into the frozen mud my head goes, there is a blinding flash of grey light as I look directly into the dull sky, and then my blade is to my front and I slash it across the big man’s calf.

  I stay there, on my knees, panting like a dog. I dare not move, or breath in anything more than a shallow gasp. Silence hangs in the air; the crowd are no longer cheering; no more wagers are being made in loud voices from either side of the death pit. With a huge sense of relief mixed with pride I see a shallow cut on the big man’s calf; the tip of my blade is dark with blood.

  I have won.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The night was pitch black as I slithered like a snake on my belly, creeping painfully slowly towards the canopy of trees up ahead. I had Birgir and Gerulf with me; the former for his speed and owl-like eyes, the latter for his cool head in a hot mess. I could have brought Ruric along for the jaunt, but I worried the greybeard would alert the enemy scouts with his creaking joints and cracking knees. Baldo would have suggested a headlong charge at first sight of the enemy; Adalhard was slain and Otto, well, I still did not know enough about him yet.

  So, there we were, guided by nothing more than a shrouded moon, edging our way across the open plain, our destination seemingly getting further away rather than closer. I had a plan, or the beginnings of one, but I needed to see the enemy for myself, get a feel for their numbers and positions before I would divulge anymore to my captains.

  ‘Wotan’s crusty beard,’ Gerulf groaned as I signalled the halt once more, ‘The sun will be up by the time we get there!’ He lay flat on his belly and stretched his aching arms above his head. His neck gave a loud crack as he rolled his head from side to side. If we were not fifty or so yards from a forest full of spears, I would have slapped him on his bald head. ‘Quiet,’ I hissed, trying to give him my meanest stare, before realising he wouldn’t actually be able to appreciate it i
n the darkness.

  ‘Birgir,’ I hissed, ‘see anything?’

  ‘Nothing,’ the scout said.

  ‘Lot of good you are,’ I harrumphed. I wore no helmet and thought I would be safer with my dark hair and face masked in mud, so I raised my head ever so slowly and paused there, my eyes scrunched shut. Ketill had taught me that, along with many other valuable lessons when we were young men. I counted slowly to thirty, then opened my eyes and found with satisfaction they had adjusted to the darkness. I could make out the tree trunks under the canopy now; black figures moved slowly beneath them, I counted up to ten.

  ‘Bollocks,’ I muttered.

  ‘What is it?’ Gerulf asked in a tense voice, he sounded as though he was desperately trying to hold in a full bladder.

  ‘Donar’s pissing hammer, Gerulf,’ I snapped in a voice too loud. ‘Just piss if you need to, there’s no shame in it.’ On more than once occasion over the years I had experienced the unpleasant warm sensation of my own urine soaking my trousers and running up my belly. I had once spent an entire night spying on a Roman patrol, with nothing but a couple of stolen wineskins for company. It had not been long until I had deeply regretted downing the both of them.

  ‘Oh, I need to go all right,’ Gerulf said with a resigned chuckle. ‘But it’s not that end that’s causing me grief.’

  To my left I heard Birgir gasp as he struggled to contain the spasming belly laugh that had taken control of his body and wits. I let out a low chuckle myself, ‘on second thoughts Gerulf, put a cork in it.’ Birgir was visibly struggling now, his whole body contorted in mirth. I counted my heartbeats and reached twenty by the time he had calmed down. I was about to raise my head again when a foul smell, pungent like a dead soldier with open bowels whose body has been left to rot in the summer sun, invaded my nostrils and it was all I could do not to vomit.

  ‘Sorry, chief,’ Gerulf said, and even through the darkness I could see the colour rise on his cheeks.