Maroboodus: A Novel of Germania (The Goth Chronicles Book 1) (32 page)

Bero’s face brightened for just a moment and then he blushed from the indignity I had just witnessed. ‘Maino? Where exactly is he? The others?’

I stared at the fool. I wanted to blame him for all our trouble, heard a voice in my head, one that whispered I was also to blame, but I ignored the voice. Hughnot would have betrayed us in any case, but had Father led? We would not be on the fucking hill kneeling to Hrolf. ‘Danr and Eadwine are dead. Gasto is fish-food,’ I said bitterly. ‘I killed Gasto,’ I said, and the men around me rumbled, some angrily, others in awe. ‘I killed his dogs before him. He,’ I said with a threatening hiss as I pointed a finger at Hrolf, ‘killed your Danr. Eadwine died when we escaped. But Maino? He thrives. Gods do not want turds in their halls, and so I have him.’ I looked at the men, and my face broke with anger and sorrow. ‘The rest of the men with Maino died. They murdered them when they tried to surrender.’ I lied, of course, but the men believed that lie quickly enough. The warriors around us began to shout. They had relatives, sons, brothers, uncles who were dead by treachery, and they all eyed Hrolf murderously. They didn’t look as beaten as they had before.

‘All dead?’ Bero asked, and was left swallowing. ‘While surrendering?’

‘Of course they are dead,’ Hrolf yelled, his eyes betraying fear as the mob around him clutched their weapons with white knuckles. ‘That is so. Yea, they are all gone. And they weren’t surrendering! Maroboodus lies! They fought like men. And died like men!’

‘Shut your mouth, you corpse-faced coward,’ I told him and he grasped his sword. Hrolf sat there, silent, and pondering what I was doing there. His eyes went downhill, and then over the lake, his animal-like cunning working on a plan on how to survive.

Bero took a tentative step forward. ‘I will want to see him. Maino.’

‘Maino,’ I said thickly, ‘serves a higher purpose for now. He is, alas, held.’

‘You hold him?’ Bero yelled so hard the forest echoed, and his voice carried across the lake. ‘You damned whelp! Tell me what you wish with him!’

I kicked dust his direction, and his face went blank with indignation. I pointed the sword at him. ‘I want something with you. You quivered like a grandfather when Hrolf said he held Maino. Now you shout? Trust me, I’ll be no less merciless to the bastard if you don’t calm down. Maino is with my friends. He is alive. And he waits for you.’

Bero slumped down to the tree stump, his face gray as ash. ‘Me?’

Hrolf spat. ‘He wants to make a man out of you, threatening to kill your boy if you don’t fight us. He dares not kill Maino. Who shall you choose, Bero? Join a vagabond of no worth, or the Black Goths? The latter is the easier road; I tell you. And if he will kill Maino,’ Hrolf said while looking at me spitefully, ‘you can sire new sons.’

I cursed Hrolf. ‘Spoken like a true bastard. This is what you would ally with? I don’t pity Maino, Uncle; I hate him. But I’ll spare the one-eared shit if I must.’

Hrolf opened his mouth and laughed cruelly. ‘For the girl?’ he asked slyly. ‘You’d spare your enemy for a girl?’

‘For her, for us all. For my wife,’ I said.
For me, as well,
I thought.

Hrolf had a gleeful glint in his eye, and was about to say something hurtful, something terrible to stab me mortally, but thought better of it and spoke to Bero at length. ‘Maino or no Maino, you are strapped like a cow to a post. We have over two hundred men around this hill. And it will end badly for the lot of you. I’ll ride down, I’ll send word to Father and we’ll kill you, and Maino as well.’

I looked at Bero, who was licking his dry lips. He rubbed his face tiredly. His eyes sought mine, hoping I might have an answer. I had one. I prayed to the gods, walked forward and pushed past his men to stand next to Hrolf, who looked down at me disdainfully. I pointed the sword at Hrolf while speaking to Bero. ‘He’ll take the ring, the sword, and the only reason they haven’t done so already is because they fear you might throw the ring away before they put their tiny, greedy claws into it. No, Bero, you must fight.’

‘We cannot win!’ he yelled.

Hrolf snorted and looked down, enjoying the strife. ‘No, you cannot.’

I took a deep breath and steeled myself.

I pulled the sword back, saw Hrolf’s eyes widen, and then I moved. I stabbed at the young standard-bearer. The blade went to his chest, the man gurgled and fell with an astonished face, and he gave a sad, child-like wail as he lay there, sprawling on the fallen crow-wings. Hrolf pulled at a sword; the men around us stepped forward in horror and I stabbed at the horse Hrolf was sitting on. The beast whinnied, reared, Hrolf fell from it and screamed as his horse rolled on him. I jumped on the thing and put the sword on the man’s throat, but I had spears surrounding me now and Bero was pushing men aside, his face a thing of terror.

‘You … you are damned! The vitka shall judge you, Maroboodus!’ he screamed.

I laughed. ‘Did I fear your vitka when I defied you in Marka? No.’

Osgar, former champion of Friednot’s, grabbed Bero and tried to reason with me. ‘Do not kill him. If you do you will be skull-nailed to an oak and left for the spirits to feast on!’

‘I’ll skull-hump Hrolf before you make a move,’ I growled at the men around me, all hesitant, some apparently hoping to try to pry me off the shivering horse and Hrolf. Hrolf’s two remaining men were near, holding their spears, contemplating attacking me, and so I emphasized my words by placing the sword tip just under Hrolf’s eye.

Bero was wringing his fingers. ‘You attacked my guest! You have brought doom to us!’

‘Doomed you all,’ I said with a grin. ‘Or saved you. They would have killed you the moment you gave them that ring and sword. Can’t you see that?’

‘Damned right we’ll kill you lot,’ Hrolf yelled, pained and shamed as he stared up the sword-blade his father had once given me. ‘We will if you won’t gut him now! Do that, and all is forgiven!’

They moved. I saw it in their fearful eyes, and I pushed the sword into Hrolf’s skin under the eye. He howled and yelped, and they froze. I looked at the lot of them. ‘Hear me now,’ I said, terrified I’d fail, but I did have their attention. ‘There is only one way for this to end if you take his deal. The Black Goths will rule, you will lick their shitty shoes, or you shall die anyway here on this hill. They will have the ring, and our families will fall. They will purge us. They will fear the vengeance of sullen, bitter men and they will slaughter you all later, if not today. Instead, we have brave men here. And they are divided. Their camps are split. And we have him.’ I nodded at Hrolf.

‘He is an emissary!’ Bero yelled, and ripped at his dark beard. ‘You cursed us all in the eyes of the gods. We are all going to be fed to the dogs of Helheim.’

‘Let us fill their bellies first with Hughnot’s men. I have warriors down there,’ I told them and that piqued their interest. ‘They are Svearna, who love Saxa and wish to see her free. They are ready, down below. We will take this bag of shit down there. We will strike at Hughnot. We will do it fast, and we will do it from two directions. It will be an even fight as those bastards are holed up on too many sides of the hill, won’t it? We will go down there,’ I said and nodded for the small clearing where Hughnot was camped, ‘and then we’ll butcher them. We’ll dance on their yellow guts.’

‘You—’ Hrolf began, but I twitched, and the sword moved, and he gulped down his next words. I smiled maliciously as ants were crawling on him. ‘We take him and his fucking standard and surprise them.’

‘That is hardly honorable,’ Osgar said from the crowd, but I was beyond caring.

‘It will be as honorable as the poets will make it sound. And when Hughnot is swinging from a branch, you will feel much better about your honor,’ I told the multitude. ‘Be brave, and be like a fox now, and only in the battle think like a bear.’

Bero looked at me with resignation. ‘You give me the same options as Hrolf did. Maino’s life is at stake.’

‘Except I have the bag of shit under my blade. He doesn’t,’ I told him. ‘And there is more at stake here than that ugly liar. It’s our tribe. Let’s surprise the enemy.’

They all looked down, feeling shame. None wanted to take the blame before the eyes of the gods for the actions I suggested, even if most saw the plan had possibilities. They all waited for Bero.

‘You damn me, Maroboodus,’ he whispered. ‘Hulderic was right. You are dangerous. The Bear, though I never believed in the curse. You are a dark blot on our honor.’

‘Where is Hulderic?’ I asked him.

‘He refused to help capture you. He rode away that night we found you missing. He was wise.’ Bero took a breath and looked me in the eye. ‘Very well, dark blot. We shall go down together, then.’

I pulled the sword from Hrolf’s eye. ‘Ready the men. I’ll lead us down.’ I pointed at the two men of Hrolf’s. ‘Tie them up. And beg the gods we will succeed. Now we have hope.’

T
he crow banner was bobbling as the fifty men slinked down the path for the west. I kept my eyes on the men leading Hrolf on Bero’s horse, which was nearly the same color as the warlord’s dead one. Hrolf had been bound, his legs were tied under the horse, his mouth gagged and a man was walking on each side, holding a spear to his back. Osgar, the last champion of Friednot was walking near, wounded to his belly in some earlier fight, but holding himself erect as he walked, grinning to himself. ‘You seem to be the only cheerful soul in this pack of vermin,’ I murmured as we stepped across some wet mossy boulders.

‘Oh, yes, Lord Maroboodus,’ he said sarcastically. ‘I mind not smiling. It is better to fight than to bend a knee. Your honor is gone, but at least we will go fighting. Lord Bero,’ he said, eyeing the gaunt man walking nearby, ‘would have dishonored us as much as you did.’

‘I think Woden,’ I said mirthfully, swallowing fear as I saw our scouts slinking ahead down the hill, ‘would approve of a few twists. I’m merely stirring a wonderful stew, Osgar, not willing to give every advantage to a superior enemy. Woden is a tricky god, is he not? Has he not taken disguises, like a Jotun, and fooled his foes with lies?’

‘Gods have their own game, Maroboodus. And the children are expected to obey the rules,’ Osgar said like a student of the gods, his eyes wide as he contemplated the strange ways of the Aesir and the Vanir. ‘He lied, by the way.’

‘Who? Hrolf?’

‘Bero, when he said your father refused to join your hunt. He wanted to, but Bero wanted to capture you on his own. He distrusted Hulderic and sent Hulderic away. He rode away like a damned man.’

I eyed the gaunt Lord darkly. ‘I hate him. I always wanted Father to lead, but Hulderic is gutless as well.’

‘He is not,’ Osgar said reproachfully. ‘He is obedient and humble. Unlike you. I don’t like Bero either, Maroboodus, and I know what men often say of him. Many would have liked to see your father lead. Hulderic is the best of us.’ He looked like he was ashamed. ‘I serve Bero now, he took my oaths, but there it is. I wanted to give them to someone else.’

I looked at some ferns below and saw the scouts wave at each other. There were five, and they were holding bows and javelins and had probably spotted the enemy. ‘Let them be lax,’ I whispered.

‘They will be,’ Osgar said with a bloodthirsty voice. ‘They have no reason to think Bero would fight. And the standard,’ he added and looked up to the fine crow-wing pole, ‘will confuse the shit out of them.’

And so it did. We marched on and soon three Goths approached, wearing furs and smudged tunics for having been lying low in some berry bushes. They waved at us, and I waved back, pointing at Bero’s standard that was behind the troop and held my hands up jubilantly. I heard Hrolf squeak, but then he went quiet as spears prodded his rear. The Goths came forth, confused. ‘Lord Bero,’ I yelled at them, ‘has surrendered! Hail Hrolf the Ax!’

And they did. They cheered, which I cursed, as it would be heard in the main camp below, but they didn’t cheer for long, as when they got near, javelins flew. The scouts acted, Hughnot’s men looked shocked, two fell silently, and one let out a piercing wail, but only until two of our men clobbered him brutally in the face and head. He fell silent, a feast for the night animals.

We walked on, past the dead.

‘Pray to gods,’ Osgar said reverently as he kicked one corpse he was stepping over, ‘that the rest will go down easily as well.’

‘Pray other guards didn’t see that,’ I whispered.

‘Too much praying,’ Osgar added. I looked down, and behind the pines, I saw flashes of movement. I did pray one more time, and for Agin to be ready.

We marched on, down the slope, the men tense, even if they had been instructed to look like a relaxed, humbled party of men, instead of a troop readying to form a cunus, a boar’s tusk bristling with spears, trying to kill the men down there.

There were warning yells downhill.

They had spotted massive movement. Perhaps they had heard the cheers? And the man dying?

Our scouts were waving at the men getting up in Hughnot’s camp, pretending to be their guards. Dozens of men were moving down there, some wiping their hands after eating a meal, others drunk on mead, some probably looted from Svea settlements. They clambered towards us, cheering Hrolf’s brave standard, though some looked thoughtful. I noticed the terrible twins Ingulf and Ingo. There would be well over a hundred men down there.

Then I saw Hughnot.

The old warlord exited a large skin-tent, and was soon walking forward, head cocked as he buckled on his sword. His war standard was being carried behind him, almost similar to Hrolf’s, if taller. There was an odd silence, and while most of the Black Goths smiled and nodded at our procession happily, Hughnot was hesitant, Ingo was fidgeting, holding his shield’s rim tautly in his hand, and Ingulf, he was walking briskly for Hughnot, dragging out his two-handed ax.

They would spot Hrolf’s gag in a second. I eyed Bero. He was praying, his mouth moving as he tried to gather courage. Hughnot turned to Ingulf. Ingo was pointing at Hrolf.

‘Cunus!’ I roared, and Hughnot’s eyes widened in shock. Men pulled Hrolf out of the saddle and dragged him back as agreed and the rest of us?

We charged in a thick mass, spears bristling, shields overlapping.

The hesitant men turned into vengeful hammers, bent on breaking their enemy. Many were brave only thanks to ale and mead. We gave ourselves to Woden, roaring our defiance at the Black Goths, our one-time allies, and men who were even family tied to many of us. The common blood did not matter then, but the feuds that grew from the battle they later called the Dragon’s Tears would carry on far into the future. Our fifty men charged, we tightened the block of men as we went, Bero’s largest warriors taking the point and then javelins flew down at the enemy as many men on the sides stopped to throw them, the best hunters. Black Goths howled in surprise and pain, and Ingulf was shrieking orders. The Black Goths reacted, some too slowly, but many running to cover the Lord with their shields, as spears and javelins rained down at Hughnot. Men fell, bearded faces twisted in agony, and I could barely register what was happening as the dense mass rolled over some of the enemies. Beyond them there was an incomplete wall of shields in place, the leathers painted with wondrous beasts, stars, and symbols. Nervous grimaces and looks of hate flashed over the rims, then javelins fell amongst us, even stones, and some men fell in our ranks.

We all collided in a battle to make Woden and Freya weep.

The terror of the mad charge and the shieldwall after.

To fight for your life in such a tight place, with panting, desperate men before and behind you and dying men flailing at your feet? You remember little of it but the fear and the confusion. Our thick cunus hit the middle of the thin, barely formed enemy line, bowled over a dozen men into ruin, shattering their shields and I could see Hughnot’s eyes widen with horror. It could have ended right there, right then.

But for the champions.

Ingo and Ingulf stopped us, and heroics were what such men were all about, anyway. Few heroes live to see old age, and the ones who did were often sad cripples. The two terrible men of Hughnot’s rushed in and met us. Bero’s men had pushed through the first of the enemy, crushing and stabbing Black Goths, and then met the champions, who were covered by shields on all sides as desperate men streamed from the sides to save their lord. I saw Ingo’s ax go up, heard his roar and saw the weapon come down and split a skull. It went up again with gore flying high, and he killed another.

Ingulf’s attack was worse. The two-handed weapon cut a man in half, and that gruesome sight nearly halted the attack, and at least bought the enemy time to form.

The champions were pushed back to a new shieldwall, men fell in both ranks, and there the momentum of our charge ran out. Men were panting, clutching weapons, pushing, getting pushed back and our cunus flattened on those steady shields. It flattened bloodily as our men fell to prepared spears and we formed into a shieldwall to match theirs.

Agin. Where was he?

There was only silence in the woods beyond the battle and the tents.

I was in the second rank, nearly fell as men crashed into my back, everyone clawing to find a place in the wall, and the enemy wall was building at the same time. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe as I flattened into the man in front of me. The enemy faces were so close I could smell their breaths over the shoulder of the man before me. Ingulf was nearby, his huge ax coming down again with a crash. Splinters of a shield flew high into the air, a man screamed. I struggled to raise my spear on top of the shoulder of the man before me, who was panting as his shield pushed at the shield of the foe. I managed it, despite the press of bodies and so did others around us. The spears stabbed, many without great force, but some punctured enemy faces and throats and so did mine. A man disappeared, another took his place. The next enemy was struggling mightily with his shield, and did not see the spear coming as I pushed it in again. His eyes went round with terror as I reached forward and the blade went into his mouth. He gargled a bloody scream and fell back to the mud, and the man behind him stumbled on him and fell as a spear flew from the side to hit him in the chest. I could hear little, and I was not sure how long we kept stabbing at each other like this. Out attack had surprised them, certainly, and dozens of men had died for the fact. Their shieldwall was still incomplete, broken in places, thick in others, but Ingo and Ingulf held the line while Hughnot screamed for men to rush around our sides. They had the men to do it. And perhaps Hrolf’s men were coming over the hill, alerted by something?

‘Where,’ Bero roared somewhere near, ‘are the Svearna?’

I turned to answer and curse him, and then disaster struck.

Ingulf attacked in a frenzy, having heard Bero’s question. He was cursing, wounded in the face, but seemingly indomitable. He pushed at the shields in front of him and shrugged off hits from axes and clubs. He held his huge ax one-handed and then jumped on the shieldwall. He was muttering, spitting, barking like a dog, and the already dulled ax spun left, it spun right, and meat and blood flew high in the air as his vengeful wrath felled the best men of Bero.

Then he fixed an animal’s eye on Bero himself.

Ingo joined his brother, his massive shield covering the maniac’s back as the terrible twins ripped through a shieldwall. I saw Bero’s face, holding his shield with trembling hands as his men tightened around him. It was a mask of naked horror. He was shaking like a leaf. On the sides, there was a battle tightening around our edges, men getting pushed, so we were about to be surrounded, and our men began to lose hope.

I cursed Agin, I cursed Fox, and prayed they would still appear.

You could nearly feel it, smell it, amidst the blood and shit and vomit. The defeat. It was there, almost readable in the very air around us. First, we had nearly won, almost grasped victory. Then, in the next moment, the gods took it away.

I cursed and pulled myself towards Bero. Ingulf would be there, very soon, ready to slay the Lord, and no matter how gutless Bero was, he was fighting now, fighting well, and his death would ruin us. Bero’s men were throwing rocks and spears at the champion, who took the hits stoically. His ax went up and split a shield in half. I clawed myself past warriors and reached Bero just as the enemy champions did. I cursed Osgar, who was nowhere to be seen and prayed, as Ingo’s shield appeared before me, protecting his brother who was grabbing Bero’s shield, growling away a spear in his shoulder. I dropped my spear, useless against the great shield, and pulled the sword and cursed as I dodged under the shield and saw Ingo’s legs. He was shuffling forward, hacking with an ax at a man on Bero’s right but he did not see me.

I stabbed the sword forward, and it went deep into his leg.

I felt flesh and leather resisting, and then I felt bone and tendon split on the blade, and he dropped down on me, and his shield’s rim struck my neck. I screamed with pain, seeing black, but I also saw a man on his knees next to me and so I stabbed up at the mass, and Ingo fell on his side, his side bleeding, screaming his lungs out. Ingulf faltered, saw Ingo and then me and cried vengeance.

He went for me.

He moved like a vaettir of the night, and tried to kick me, but someone pushed him over his brother, and he fell amidst their troops. He was soon up, I was as well, and I slithered to his wounded twin. Ingulf surged forward, but too late and I stabbed the sword down at Ingo’s throat, and the man didn’t even gurgle. Perhaps he had died already, but that didn’t matter to Ingulf. I spat at Ingo’s face in my battle frenzy, hoping to taunt the foe into a horrible mistake and Ingulf went mad indeed. He charged and bowled me over. Bero and his men tried to kill him as I punched with the blade at the man’s face. A fierce fight was being fought over us, and I saw Hughnot’s angry face near, holding a spear. The weapon went forward, and Bero howled above me as I struggled to keep Ingulf’s fingers off my throat.

It didn’t matter
, I thought. Only the way I died matters, I hoped. We were going to fail. Woden, spare Saxa, give her a good life, I prayed in my head. Half of our men had fallen, at least. Then Ingulf slapped me so hard I saw red and dark, and he pulled a dagger from his belt, hovering above me. I swatted his face weakly, he stabbed down and my mail saved me. The hit hurt like hot coals, my chest was bleeding, but the blade was thick and wide, and he didn’t hit any vitals, though there would be a terrible wound.