Adalwulf: The Two Swords (Tales of Germania Book 1) (7 page)

“You—“

Gisil beat me to it. “You damned, rat-bitten dog,” she hissed like an irate cat. “I told you, if you see him, get him to
safety.
Keep him
safe.
How is sending him to meet Leuthard
safe
? It’s like showing a mouse in a cat’s mouth and hoping the beast’s not hungry.”

“I’m sorry,” he rumbled. “I serve Hulderic. Not you. I wanted to know more of their plans for my lord’s benefit. There were those queer men inside, and I figured this one would go and hear things. He’d tell me because I feed his horse, right? Besides I don’t know why this Chatti is so important—“

“I serve Hulderic as well, and I dare say I serve him better. This one? He has a destiny,” she said tiredly. “We have to take care of him.”

“Don’t look like a destined one to me,” Bellows said mulishly. “More like minced liver.”

“He is destined for Woden’s work,” she said stubbornly. “He will help guard Hulderic in the future, you see. And you nearly got him killed.” They were dragging me, and people gave way. We reached the bridge, and I fought the urge to look behind.

“What are you talking about?” I asked groggily.

She patted my cheek. “You can stop pretending soon. I’ll take you to rest, and then you tell me what you heard in there, since you already took a spear for us.”

“I don’t have a spear in me—“

She put a finger on my lips and nodded towards Leuthard’s hall. “Shh. You are with allies. They hate me, you see, as I, too, like the idiot Bellows here, am friend to Hulderic the Goth. I’ll help you.”

‘Thank you, lady,’ I told her and she smiled. I admired her dark red hair, which was braided into a thick bun, and felt invigorated by her brown eyes burning under her lively eyebrows.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet. We shall need you. Didn’t I tell you this? Hulderic will need you, and so you will help us with some dangerous matters. You will have to help us against the lot you just eavesdropped on.”

“Donor’s hammer, but I don’t know if I—“

“You will,” she smiled. “You are brave.”

She was hard to deny, and I gave up. I looked behind me.

Across from the bridge stood Leuthard and Raganthar, and twelve men with furry cloaks, and I knew I was in trouble.

G
isil sat next to me as I was taken to the living quarters of the blacksmith. I heard my horse whinnying in the next room, and looked at the woman working above me. Her fingers were strong, and she frowned when I yelped as she probed my skull, pressing it gently, and then forcefully. She gave an offended, exasperated sound when I winced again, and that forced me to man myself up. She went on as the touched the back of my skull, her leg on my lap.

Her face and breast were uncomfortably close to my cheek. Her proximity had an intoxicating effect on me, and I fought to think of something that would prevent me from getting too excited. Her reddish hair was spilling on my shoulder, the bun undone, as she took a close look at my skull. Bellows was standing and staring at us as if he was witnessing the upheaval of the whole hill, and liking it. I was sure he tried to open his mouth many times, as he was a man not used to being left speechless, but there he was, gawking lecherously, and then sucked in his breath as Gisil’s bosom pressed on my neck, which made me groan as well.

Her tunic had shifted, and I was sure her breast was bared and I nearly choked holding my breath, and so did Bellows. His eyes were shocked, and that confirmed her tunic had indeed suffered a malfunction. I could hardly blame him. Gisil was very unlike any Chatti girl I had seen, and seemed much less reserved about being close to a man than most married women to their husband.

“Hulderic,” I stated finally, to break off the silence and hide my glorious discomfort.

She pushed back, and I regretted saying anything, as I still felt her breast on my skin. She frowned at the look on my face, and my eyes shifted to look away from her perfectly pink nipple. She adjusted the fibula so she was covered again.

“Hulderic indeed,” she whispered as she turned my face to one side, then another. I sighed as she regarded me like a recent kill, a prized stag about to be eviscerated and the head taken as a special trophy. “I serve the people in his village, like my mother did, and I am a völva.”

Seidr mistress
, I thought, cursing myself for flinching. She was a mistress of Freya’s red magic indeed, a woman of seducing power, even if she was young, and while they often wore white tunics and carried staffs and wands, this one was much like a high-born noblewoman. Seidr was like galdr, song magic, which the vitka practiced, but with a darker side, a woman’s magical callousness attached to it. It was dangerous, and the woman hovering over me was certainly seductive. “I—”

“Ask away,” she grinned. “I’m not putting a spell on you. Your safe with me.”

I nodded gratefully. “Can you explain what is going on?” I asked as respectfully as I could, but winced like a girl as she again pressed my temples with her fingers. It hurt like Hel’s fires roaring inside my skull. She kept probing, and at that, I growled, and grasped her hands and held them. I cursed myself for a moment, but then steeled my voice. “I’m fine. I’ll live.”

She shook her hands free, stood away, scowled at the blacksmith, and then back at me. “You are not fine, actually. You were hit savagely in that hall. You might have fractured the skull, or worse.”

“Surely the Woden’s chosen fighter for Hulderic survives a small incident like that,” Bellows chuckled. “He fell down some stairs!”

She pelted him with a small log and turned to me. “You have no blood coming out of your ears or mouth, so perhaps you are right, and you’ll heal. You really should be resting for some days, but I doubt you can, since we need you. And as for explanations, I guess you need to understand why I was looking for you.” She sat down, adjusting her dress, and I could not help but notice how shapely her hips were. I massaged my skull and cursed softly, trying to focus.

I spoke. “I was riding here, when a man hailed me and told me about Hulderic and Bero, and that I should find a lord from the Goth stock. He also said a woman was looking for me. I take it the woman is you?”

She was smiling nervously. “It was I. I had a sight.”

Sight
. I trembled with fear. I didn’t want to be part of the games of the gods. “You had a sight. About me?” I asked her. “What kind of sight was it? Did it have a happy ending?”

At that, her façade of coolness broke. Her face turned ashen, and she looked away, the eyes full of bottomless sorrow. There was something else, like a mask of normality had fallen for a second and revealed … madness? Then she straightened her face and turned to me.

“I was dancing to the goddess’s tune two nights ago, in a shrine to the gods, not far. It’s called the Flowery Meadows—“

“They mentioned it,” I said.

“They did?” the blacksmith said, but Gisil raised her hand, and he went quiet, seething with impatience, wishing to question me.

“And while many vitka and völva see spirits, vaettir of the dark night woods, dead spirits, and things that never lived, I only see them when I drink certain boiled herbs.”

“When you are drunk, you mean?” the blacksmith stated more than asked, and then bit his lip so hard blood flowed, looking down.

“Something like that,” she said so coldly the hall felt like the icy ass of a jotun of Nifleheim had descended over it. “When I’m close to the gods, I see signs, shady answers to my questions and such. Seidr magic is not ordered and simple, but wild and uncertain. But the spirits know I serve a great, fine lord, and aid me sometimes.”

“Few völva have allegiances to a mere warlord,” I stated, but that was the Chatti way, and perhaps not the same there, with the Marcomanni.

“Few do. But Hulderic is special,” she said, and again looked like she was going to be sick. “I live in a village, days and days that way,” she said, and pointed a finger towards northeast, where Moenus ran for Rhenus, “and our lord is Hulderic the Goth indeed, a wily, strong lord who keeps the peace in the fringe of the gau. There, I found a good home. I lived in my mother’s hut, I had a husband, and lacked for nothing.” She hesitated, and couldn’t force out a word.

Husband,
I cursed, but saw the look on her face and decided the sorrow in her was about him.

“Something terrible happened?” I coaxed her gently.

She nodded swiftly. “When I lost something dear, Hulderic made sure I survived.”

“What did you—” I began, but clamped my mouth shut, as she looked away, her eyes brimming with tears.

“I’ll not speak of that. I’m not married, suffice it to say. But with Hulderic, I have a good life, and I am grateful for the lord who gave me home and food when I had nothing left, and who cared for me enough to make sure I was not lonely.”

Her husband died. Mother as well?

She went on. “Such gratitude may have pleased the goddess, who gave me a vision, and didn’t foul the sight with lies, nor shades, but the sight was clear and loud. And I was
not
drunk when I received it.”

The blacksmith said nothing, but nodded his head empathetically as the beautiful creature that resembled a growing winter storm frowned at him. “Yes, mistress. Not drunk.”

She sighed so sorrowfully that I placed a hand on hers, and cringed in terror as I realized I had. But I kept it there, holding myself still, and she didn’t take it away, but actually thumbed my palm. “I can see how a goddess would grant you a warning, if you serve such a lord,” I said, and felt regret for approaching Leuthard at all. “I was looking for service, and didn’t want one near my homelands.”

She snickered. “A Chatti, yes. I see.” She winked. “And the much honored heroes live here in Hard Hill, and you dreamt of a shiny coat of Roman lorica hamata, a Roman sword, enough glory to drown in self-importance, and a fair wife who sets up a fine hall for you, preferably near the Red Hall?” she stated, and nodded up the hill. “You are vain, my young Chatti.”

I grunted with embarrassment. “Perhaps that is so, then. Perhaps it is. But it nearly got me killed, didn’t it?”

“It did,” she agreed gravely, and looked furiously at Bellows. “Though he no doubt poured honey in your ear, the bastard. He could sell fish bones to a starving man.”

“I said I’m sorry,” he rumbled. “But no, I didn’t pour honey in his ear. He was all ready, and chomping at the bit. I just pushed him. Come, let him tell us what they spoke of. That mercenary band is
queer
, to say the least.”

She leaned close to me, and I could picture her pouring honey in my ear indeed. “I think the goddess knew what she was doing, and so she guided your greedy Chatti feet to the right direction, and led you here. You survived, despite Bellows and his stupidity. She sent me there to save you. What I saw in my vision, my young friend, was a burning pyre, and the pyre was lit around the hall where Hulderic lives in our village. His grandsons were there, boys still, Gernot and Hraban. There will be a day when the Goth lord burns, I know this, but that day should be far from now. I felt the spirits whisper to me. They said the hall would burn soon, if I do not find Adalwulf. It will burn later, if I do. I found you. You can save Hulderic. There was a woman of fiery red hair,’ she said, and stroked her own with some badly hidden pride, “Freya, her spear held before me as I tried to approach the pyre, and she told me to hurry. I rode around, leaving word, and gods heard me. You are here.”

“I’m Adalwulf,’ I said softly. "That is I.”

“Good, he knows his name,” the blacksmith said softly and shrugged at me. “Head injuries. I didn’t mean you are an idiot by birth. I had a man serving me once who fell and split his skull on a bucket full of urine, and I swear he could never piss straight again.”

“Shut up, Bellows,” she told the man with exasperation. “Drunken grandmothers gossip less than you do! I think you have a duty to help Hulderic, though I am not sure how.” She cocked her head. “What did you hear in the hall?”

“Finally,” Bellows breathed.

“They intend to do a hall-burning,” I said softly. “Or at least a theft.”

“When?” she asked me sternly, and looked worried.

“Tonight,” I stated, while fighting a small part, stubborn I might still benefit from Bero’s sponsorship, but the beautiful woman before me made such selfish thoughts evaporate into fog, and I went on. “They will attack his hall this very night.”

“That makes no sense,” Bellows said in low tones.

“Who is he, after all?” I asked her, and nodded at the man.

“Bellows served Hulderic,” she said with a smile. ‘And still does. Hulderic has many eyes in the Hard Hill, Adalwulf, to spy on the harbor and Bero. I guess Bellows has to move back to Hulderic’s villages now. He built this place, not one year past, and now he has to let it go.” The man shrugged. It didn’t bother him at all, and she went on. “But as he said, this makes no sense. Hulderic is here for the great Thing, but the high lords will all be attending a sacrifice this night in the Flowery Meadows. There will be many men with him. It’s well known all the lords shall be there, not sitting in their halls.”

I snapped my fingers. “They are not after
him
. They want this thing. A sword?”

“
The Head Taker?”
she breathed. “It is a very famous weapon. Legendary, you might say. Old as time.”

“The Head Taker? They plan something evil with the blade, I think, and it will go ill for Hulderic. Or even the Marcomanni, though Leuthard didn’t care. There was more, something I didn’t understand. They killed some poor man days ago, and I think this Bero has even more plans for some other fool so as to distract Hulderic as to who stole the sword. They seek a man this very day. That’s what I heard, sort of—”

“Forget the men. What kind of plans they have for the sword?” Bellows asked brusquely. “Tell me!”

I scowled at his tone, but he didn’t relent, and kept scowling at me, and so I spoke. “There is that Raganthar, a mercenary of some band called the Brethren, and they will take the sword and use it for some purpose they didn’t mention. They said it might go ill for the Marcomanni. Where is Hulderic’s hall?”

“He doesn’t have a hall here, he stays with his friend Teutorigos the Celt,” Bellows said, “a Gaul lord who left the Mediomactri a decade ago. What—”

“His sword,” Gisil said softly, gazing at me strangely. “Nothing more? You know nothing else?”

“They said no names,” I said. “None. Except Raganthar. A queer man—”

“We have to go,“ she said, her face tight with worry. ”We must stop them. They are coming for the sword. They’ll frame some poor fool, and the sword will go and wreck havoc on all the Marcomanni. We have to hurry. Will you help us?” she asked me.