Adalwulf: The Two Swords (Tales of Germania Book 1) (25 page)

The formation was almost level with the hole. Men yelled, and Marcomanni rushed out to the sides, holding javelins. They loosed them at the hole. I heard the weapons thrumming eerily in the air, some fell short, jutting in dirt, others rattled on the wall and the remains of a tower they had pulled down first, but others yet struck the Celtic shields and the men behind them. More and more of the javelins flew in, the aim getting better with each volley. Men yelled, screamed in pain, some in surprise, and I heard the clatter of shields, and Gaius screaming in Celtic, and I thought he was saying: “Hold still, maggots. Don’t mind some blood on the ground. Makes it worth holding!”

I grinned at that, and made my way towards the Marcomanni. Now javelins and stones were thrown downhill, a Marcomanni man gasped pain, another fell on his face, silent, and then the great chief thundered, “Up, and over them! Leave the traitors alive!’ the man yelled, and I saw his red hair, and knew it was Fulch the Red, Ermendrud’s father and cursed, because he might die, and I had liked him.

I chuckled.

Instead of dying, he would rip our guts out
, I thought, and approached the side of the Marcomanni. The pushing mass of shields and spears, men who flooded the hole in the wall, shouted their rage at the Celts, laughing like demented spirits at the wall of shields confronting and rushing forward to meet them. Dozens of javelins impaled many Marcomanni, shields rattled with impacts of the stones, but Fulch roared the men in, and the Marcomanni rushed over the broken turf, over the remains of the piles to bash up at the Celts.

The noise of meeting shields echoed dully across the hill like a distant thunder.

Spears stabbed, up and down. Men pushed at the foes, cursing and striking when there was room to do so, others stabbed over the shoulders of the man before them, men flattened on the backs of their friends in the turmoil. Celtic curses filled the air as they took steps back, then pushed back and fought, and I saw how the chief of the village slashed down with his sword at a head of a sturdy Marcomanni, whose shield was caught.

I saw blood flying in the air, dark droplets that turned to rain, and then, the milling enemy horde kept smiting and pushing, smiting and pushing. The Celts struck back amidst the screams of the wounded. Occasionally, I saw a red cape of Roman, their shields high. I ran on, wondering what I’d do and then I thought I’d be late, because the Marcomanni screamed joyfully, as some powerful warrior had fallen under their spears.

Fulch the Red was trying to make his way for the enemy chief. The Celtic second rank was hacking mightily over the shoulders of the ragged first rank, using even rocks, but mostly axes and clubs. The Marcomanni were holding their shields up like the shell of a thick bug, and spears flashed at the legs and guts of the Celts. A Gaul fell, another was dragged to the Marcomanni ranks, and then the two great chiefs heaved against each other, cursing, desperate, both afraid. Two Marcomanni braved the Celts and lowered their shields for a lunge at the enemy chief, but they fell with stabs from men who had been waiting for such an opportunity.

The column of Marcomanni thickened. It heaved forward, nearly over their enemy, which was no longer three ranks wide, but two, even one in places.

Another high man fell in the Gaul ranks, howling as his belly was opened.

I was running. It seemed to take forever. In fact, the battle had only raged for a moment.

Fulch heaved his sword at the face of the Celt chief, whose helmet held, but the man spat blood as he fell back.

It could be seen. The Celts would break in a bit. Too fast.

I streaked through the night, the last steps behind the mass of men, begging Woden help me, and Balderich and Hard Hill to forgive me, because I’d kill men I hoped to be allied with in my future. There would be men with families in the rank before me; fathers, brothers, uncles, and sons in the column trying to reclaim Bero’s lost treasure. Soon, some would die, but then, so would I.

The Marcomanni yelled together, the Celts nearly broken. Roman was yelling hoarsely in Latin, pained and horrified, the Germani jubilant in their apparent victory. Men were dying, some Celts were speared on the side, and few Germani fell as they pushed to the enemy rank. One such wounded man, yellow-bearded and young, was walking away from the battle, his face ash-colored and holding his broken arm, when he saw me. He likely thought I was a friend.

I ran for him, chopped the hammer down, and the man’s broken face fell into the shadows. I ran over him, felt Woden’s rage pumping me into higher levels of ferocity, felt him urging me on with a savage, hazy dance, welcoming my victims to his tables. Freya, the Red Lady would take some for hers, but I’d go to Woden, the one-eyed, and the one who loved me. I’d kill, kill until someone pushed a spear in my chest or back, but before that, I’d make a name for myself, one to echo through the halls of the Celts and the Germani alike.

As children, we had often played a savage game with my cousin. We had been scraggly, thin, young, and there was a small, flowery hill near Mattium, and there the children would gather in the long summer days to play war. The hill was steep, with a round top, defended by boulders and occupied by marmots, and that hill was our kingdom, my cousin’s and mine. We would scream, “The King of the Summit, the King of the Summit,” as the often bigger kids tried to wrestle it from us, and often they did, and we’d go back up, even when my cousin lost a tooth. We would take it anew, clawing our way through a horde of enemies to claim our place.

I imagined him there, near me, urging me on and holding me up. I was the King of the Summit, a lord of death that night. I screamed my hate at the backs of the Marcomanni. I slapped the hammer down in rage, and it connected with a thin man’s back, and he fell heavily. I danced left, I danced right, breaking arms, chests and horrified, surprised faces. The thick Marcomanni column could barely move or react. Most didn’t even notice me there, except the men in the back ranks.

I went after them relentlessly. When I saw two powerful youths trying to break off, scowling at me under their hoods, I rushed them, cracking one’s skull, the other’s collarbone. A man put his hands around me, another struck down with a club, but he fell over me, and took down the one who tried to hold me. I kicked them, while heaving the weapon around, connecting with surprised Marcomanni, who howled or fell. “King of the Summit, King of the Summit, Adalwulf is the King of the Summit!” I screamed, as I pushed forward, up, and went on in the thick, confused melee. Celts were there now, the shield walls gone.

Men fell. I didn’t.

I felt a pain in my hands, back and arms, pain by fatigue, not wounds. Many Marcomanni scattered, and others fled. There was something happening where the chiefs fought. I saw a blood-spattered Roman group of six holding their oblong shields amidst the survivors of the Celts, forcing them to fight. I saw desperate Fulch engage the centurion with his best men, under his banner or red hair and skull.

The Romans pushed back grimly, their swords glinted redly, and the raging Fulch screamed as three Celts fell to his men, but not the Romans, who held on grimly, taking hits with their shields, stabbing madly and efficiently, not giving an inch. The standard-bearer and twenty Marcomanni were before me now, and I growled away my fatigue, ignored the men left behind and those to the sides. I charged the mighty standard at the same time the centurion, Gaius, covered head to foot in blood, parried Fulch’s heavy overhand strike, pushed past Fulch’s shield, and stabbed at his chest.

A wail of despair rose from the Marcomanni ranks.

Fulch fell back, stumbling away, and his men caught him. Some Marcomanni charged up at the Roman shields still, the others turned to look at me with horror. I roared at the men charging me. I hacked down, slaying two. I chopped left, crumbling a third, a powerful warrior with blood red shield. Then I heaved the hammer at the skull of the standard bearing warrior. He fell nearly noiselessly, and I heard the Gauls cheer, saw them attack with vigor, and Gaius met my eyes with a grim nod. I flailed around me, hitting nothing, as the enemy retreated away like beaten dogs.

Fulch’s warband’s dishonor was complete as I straddled the standard, danced over the formerly fine, honorable thing. I mocked Fulch, who was being pulled away, his face ashen white, and he knew who I was. I laughed at him, showed him the bloody hammer. He, horrified and betrayed, wept, as he was dragged away downhill to the darkness over the bodies of his men. The Romans cheered, charged down after them and together with the remaining Celts, they completed the rout of the enemy.

I staggered and sat down.

I was patting my legs, my arms, my chest, and felt tightness in my back, where my old wound had been tested. I was not wounded further. It was a miracle.

After what seemed a very long time, Gaius appeared out of the dark. He had four legionnaires with him, all exhausted, their shields broken, pila thrown, swords nicked. Gaius approached me, staying at arms length, having witnessed the carnage. The Roman peered the wounded Celt chief nearby, who was senseless, and rubbed his face as he turned to regard me. What he was thinking was a mystery. I picked myself up, then the standard of Fulch, propped my hammer against my leg, and broke the mighty thing against my knee, throwing the thing down to the darkness. The rage was fading, and I knew we had failed. We had not captured Leuthard, had not even seen him, and even if there was still battle going on somewhere in the night, we would not likely catch the big man.

Then there was the business of the Roman and his agendas, one of which had probably been to silence Iodocus and me.

The Roman pulled me around. “Your name? It was Adalwulf?” he asked with his broken Germani dialect, probably used to speaking with the Ubii and the Vangiones, but I understood him well enough.

“Adalwulf, yes,” I said, picking up the hammer. “The man you aimed to kill to cover your theft. And I won’t easily go with you now.”

His eyes flashed. “Well fought,’ the centurion grunted. “Mad crazy, and you shouldn’t be alive, to be honest. I guess you know what I’m about. So, in a way, it’s too bad you didn’t die. I won’t give the coins away. I admired them this past night, ran my fingers through them for hours. God’s own treasure that. I read my happiness in them. You have seen them. You know how it feels to hold them. It’s worth more than a few man’s lives.”

I snorted. “Yes. I ran my fingers through them. We sat over them, ogled them, laughed madly with greed, and drooled like thirsty dogs. But it didn’t stop me from doing what I am oath bound to do. To serve my lord.”

He shrugged and laughed. “Who is your lord?”

“Hulderic the Goth,” I said, though it was not entirely true. I had none before I succeeded, and it didn’t look likely I would. “I took the coins from Bero to lure a certain man here.”

His eyes went to slits, and he was thinking hard, as if trying to recall something he had forgotten. Finally, he shrugged and sighed. “You serve your lord. I’ll serve mine, thief of not. I’ve fought in a dozen campaigns, and deserve a bit of loot for myself. This treasure will not benefit others. Rome needs no such coins, and I aim to keep them. Now, what am I to do with you?” He eyed his men, who tensed.

“They set you up, just like they did us. The Marcomanni. Sent you here to clean out the warriors. Knew you would take the bait,” I said bitterly. “And still it’s only about the coins, eh?”

He scratched his neck. “I guess they did, though I have little clue what issues your Bero and this Hulderic might be having. It all seems slightly familiar, but I’m a simple man, and care nothing for the barbaric lords across the river.” He looked nervous.

He is lying. But about what? I thought.

He went on. “If they cheated us, well, it changes nothing as far as I’m concerned. You and that other man—” He looked around the hillside. His eyes narrowed. “He is here somewhere?”

I ignored him. “Are they fleeing?” I growled and looked downhill, trying to see what was taking place. The shadows were rushing down there, men fighting, still dying. There were noises of battle all across the woods. Celts were chasing Marcomanni, and then, I realized, some of the noise was not that far, but close at hand. There were screams of women from the other side of the hill.

I felt all the blood drain from my face.

The centurion sighed. He turned to look at the village and nodded at the fallen chief. “I was telling the idiot Gaul that there is no reason for him to ignore the rest of the hill. Told him to send scouts, to hold some men in reserve, no matter how few. The buffoon insisted this attack would be it. I wonder if they caught Seisyll out there?”

“We have to go and rush over to that side,” I said.

“No, I think not,” Gaius laughed. “I’ll go and fetch the coins, and we are out of here.”

I moved fast and grasped him by throat. He looked incredulous, his men as well, and Gaius placed the gladius on my chest. I spoke to him very slowly. “Iodocus is around.”

“Huh?”

I laughed at his face. “I know you are a simple man, as you claimed, but think on this. Iodocus is still around. He has a mission. I gave him one. He is off with the coins you so love.”

He hesitated. He licked his lips, and I pushed him away. He looked to the darkness where safety beaconed, then towards the hall of Seisyll. Finally, he cocked his head at the noise on the other side of the village, knowing a terrible battle waited there. “So, you stole it.”