The Sorrow of Odin the Goth

372

Wind gusted out of twilight as the door opened. Fires burning down the length of the hall flared in their trenches; flames wavered and streamed from stone lamps; smoke roiled bitter back from the roof-holes that should have let it out. The sudden brightness gleamed off spearheads, ax-heads, swordguards, shield bosses, where weapons rested near the entry. Men, crowding the great room, grew still and watchful, as did the women who had been bringing them horns of ale. It was the gods carved on the pillars that seemed to move amidst unrestful shadows, one-handed Father Tiwaz, Donar of the Ax, the Twin Horsemen—they, and the beasts and heroes and entwining branches graven into the wainscot. Whoo-oo said the wind, a noise as cold as itself.

Hathawulf and Solbern trod through. Their mother Ulrica strode between them, and the look upon her face was no less terrible than the look on theirs. The three of them halted for a heartbeat or two, a long time for those who awaited their word. Then Solbern shut the door while Hathawulf stepped forward and raised his right arm. Silence clamped down on the hall, save for the crackling of fires and seething of breath.

Yet it was Alawin who spoke first. Rising from his bench, his slim frame aquiver, he cried, “So we’ll take revenge!” His voice cracked; he had but fifteen winters.

The warrior beside him hauled at his sleeve and growled, “Sit. It is for the lord to tell us.” Alawin gulped, glared, obeyed.

A smile of sorts brought forth teeth in Hathawulf’s yellow beard. He had been in the world nine years longer than yon half-brother, four years more than his full brother Solbern, but he seemed older, and not only because of height, wide shoulders, wildcat gait; leadership had been his for the last five of those years, after his father Tharasmund’s death, and hastened the growth of his soul. There were those who whispered that Ulrica kept too strong a grip on him, but any who questioned his manhood would have had to meet him in a fight and been unlikely to walk away from it.

“Yes,” he said, without loudness, nevertheless heard from end to end of the building. “Bring forth the wine, wenches; drink well, all my men, make love to your wives, break out your war-gear; friends who have come hither offering help, take my deepest thanks: for tomorrow dawn we ride to slay my sister’s murderer.”

“Ermanaric,” uttered Solbern. He was shorter and darker than Hathawulf, more given to tending his farm and to shaping things with his hands than to war or the chase; but he spat forth the name as if it had been a foulness in his mouth.

A sigh, rather than a gasp, ran around the throng, though some of the women shrank back, or moved closer to husbands, brothers, fathers, youths whom they might have married someday. A few thanes growled, almost gladly, deep in their throats. Grimness came upon others.

Among the latter was Liuderis, who had quelled Alawin. He stood up on his bench, so as to be seen above heads. A stout, grizzled, scarred fellow, formerly Tharasmund’s trustiest man, he asked heavily: “You would fare against the king, to whom you gave your oath?”

“That oath became worthless when he had Swanhild trodden beneath the hoofs of horses,” answered Hathawulf.

“Yet he says Randwar plotted his death.”

“He says!” Ulrica shouted. She stalked forth until what light there was flickered more fully across her: a big woman, her coiled braids half gray and half still ruddy around a face whose lines had frozen into the sternness of Weard herself. Costly furs trimmed Ulrica’s cloak; the gown beneath was of Eastland silk; amber from the Northlands glowed around her neck: for she was the daughter of a king, who had married into the god-descended house of Tharasmund.

She halted, fists clenched, and flung at Liuderis and the rest: “Well might Randwar the Red have sought to overthrow Ermanaric. Too long have the Goths suffered from that hound. Yes, I call him hound, Ermanaric, unfit to live. Tell me not how he made us mighty and his sway reaches from the Baltic Sea to the Black. It is his sway, not ours, and it will not outlast him. Tell yourselves, rather, of scot well-nigh ruinous to pay, of wives and maidens dishonored, of lands unrightfully seized and folk driven from their homes, of men hewn down or burned in their surrounded dwellings merely because they dared speak against his deeds. Remember how he slew his nephews and their families when he did not get their treasure. Think how he had Randwar hanged, on nothing more than the word of Sibicho Mann-frithsson—Sibicho, that viper forever hissing in the king’s ear. And ask yourselves this. Even if Randwar had indeed become Ermanaric’s foe, betrayed before he could strike to avenge outrage upon his kin—even if this be so, why should Swanhild die too? She was only his wife.” Ulrica drew breath. “She was also the daughter of Tharasmund and myself, the sister of your chief Hathawulf and of Solbern his brother. They, who sprang from Wodan, shall send Ermanaric below to be her slave.”

“You talked to your sons alone for half a day, my lady,” said Liuderis. “How much of this is your will, not theirs?”

Hathawulf brought hand to sword. “You overspeak yourself,” he snapped.

“I meant no ill—” the warrior began.

“The earth is tearful with the blood of Swanhild the fair,” said Ulrica. “Will it bear for us ever again, if we do not wash it with the blood of her murderer?”

Solbern stayed more calm: “You Teurings know well how trouble has been waxing for years between the king and our tribe. Why else did you rally to us when you heard what happened? Do you not all think that belike this deed of his was done to test our mettle? If we sit quietly at our hearths—if Heorot takes whatever weregild he might deign to offer—he will know he is free to crush us altogether.”

Liuderis nodded, folded arms across breast, and answered steadily, “Well, you shall not fare to battle without my sons and me, while this old head remains above ground. I did but wonder if you and Hathawulf are being rash. Ermanaric is strong indeed. Would it not be better if we bide our time, make quite ready, gather men of neighbor tribes, before we strike?”

Hathawulf smiled afresh, a little more warmly than erstwhile. “We thought about that,” he said in a level tone. “If we give ourselves time, we give the king time, too. Nor do I believe we can raise very many spears against him. Not while the Huns prowl the marches, vassal folk are sullen about paying tribute, and the Romans might see, in a war of Goth upon Goth, a chance to enter and lay all beneath them. Besides, Ermanaric will not sit idle long before he moves to humble the Teurings. No, we must attack now, before he awaits us—catch him unawares, overwhelm his guardsmen—they do not much outnumber you who are here—slay Ermanaric in one quick, clean blow, and afterward call a folkmoot to pick a new king who shall be righteous.”

Liuderis nodded again. “I have spoken my mind, you have spoken yours. Now let us have an end of speaking. Tomorrow we ride.” He sat down.

“It is a risk,” Ulrica said. “These are my last living sons, and maybe they fare to their deaths. That is as Weard wills, who sets the doom of gods and men alike. But rather would I have my sons die boldly than kneel to their sister’s murderer. No luck would come of that.”

Young Alawin leaped anew to his feet on the bench. His knife flashed forth. “We won’t die!” he shouted. “Ermanaric will, and Hathawulf will be king of the Ostrogoths!”

A slow roar, like an incoming tide, lifted from the men.

Solbern the sober walked down the hall. The crowd made way for him. Strewn rushes rustled and the clay floor thudded beneath his boots. “Did I hear you say ‘we’?” he asked through the rumbling. “No, you’re a boy. You stay home.”

The downy cheeks reddened. “I am man enough to fight for my house!” Alawin shrilled.

Ulrica stiffened where she stood. Cruelty lashed from her: “ ‘Your’ house, by-blow?”

The growing din died away. Men traded uneasy stares. It did not bode well, such an unleashing of olden hatred at such an hour as this. Alawin’s mother Erelieva had not merely been a leman of Tharasmund’s, she had become the one woman for whom he really cared, and Ulrica had gloated almost openly when every child that Erelieva bore him, save for this firstborn, died small. After the chieftain himself went down hell-road, friends of hers had gotten her hastily married off to a yeoman who lived far from the hall. Alawin stayed, the seemly thing for a lord’s son to do, but Ulrica was always stinging him.

Eyes clashed through smoke and shadow-haunted firelight. “Yes, my house,” Alawin called, “and Swanhild m-m-my sister too.” His stammer made him bite his lip for shame.

“Easy, easy.” Hathawulf raised his arm again. “You have the right, lad, and do well to claim it. Yes, ride with us, come dawn.” His glance defied Ulrica. She twisted her mouth but said naught. Everybody guessed she was hoping the stripling would be killed.

Hathawulf strode toward the high seat at the middle of the hall. His words rang: “No more bickering! We’ll be merry this eventide. But first, Anslaug—” this to his wife—“come sit beside me, and together we’ll drink the beaker of Wodan.”

Feet stamped, fists pounded wood, knives lifted like torches. The women themselves began to yell with the men: “Hail, hail, hail!”

The door flew open.

Dusk had deepened fast, when autumn was on hand, so that the newcomer stood in the middle of blackness. Wind flapped the edges of his blue cloak, flung a few dead leaves in past him, whistled and chilled along the room. Folk turned to see who had come, drew a sharp breath, and those who had been seated now scrambled to stand. It was the Wanderer.

Tallest he stood among them, holding his spear more like a staff than a weapon, as if he had no need of iron. A broad-brimmed hat shaded his face, but not the wolf-gray hair and beard, nor the gleam of his gaze. Few of them here had ever seen him before, most had never happened to be nigh when he made his seldom showings; but none failed to know the forefather of the Teuring headmen.

Ulrica was first to muster hardihood. “Greeting, Wanderer, and welcome,” she said. “You honor our roof. Come, take the high seat, and I will bring you a horn of wine.”

“No, a goblet, a Roman goblet, the best we have,” said Solbern.

Hathawulf came back to the door, squared his shoulders, and stood before the Elder. “You know what is afoot,” he said. “What word have you for us?”

“This,” answered the Wanderer. His voice was deep, and did not sound like the southern Goths’, or like any’s whom they had met. Men supposed his mother tongue was the tongue of the gods. Tonight it fell heavily, as if grief weighted it. “You are bound upon vengeance, Hathawulf and Solbern, and that stands not to be altered; it is the will of Weard. But Alawin shall not go with you.” The youth shrank back, whitening. A near sob broke harsh from his throat.

The Wanderer’s look ranged down the hall to lay hold upon him. “This is needful,” he went on, word by slow word. “I lay no slur on you when I say that you are only half-grown, and would die bravely but uselessly. All who are men have first been boys. No, I tell you instead that yours shall be another task, more hard and strange than vengeance, for the welfare of that kindred which sprang from your father’s father’s mother Jorith—” did his tone waver the least bit?—“and myself. Abide, Alawin. Your time will come soon enough.”

“It… shall be done… as you will,” lord,” said Hathawulf out of a stiffened gullet. “But what does this mean… for those of us who ride forth?”

The Wanderer regarded for him for a while that grew very still before answering: “You do not wish to know. Be the word good or ill, you do not wish to know.”

Alawin sank to his bench, laid head in hands, and shuddered.

“Farewell,” said the Wanderer. His cloak swirled, his spear swung about, the door shut, he was gone.