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  OATHBREAKER

  ADAM

  LOFTHOUSE

  Copyright ©2019

  Adam Lofthouse has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  First published in 2019 by Adam Lofthouse

  OTHER BOOKS BY ADAM LOFTHOUSE:

  The Centurion’s Son

  War in the Wilderness

  COMING SOON:

  Shield of the Rising Sun

  For Michael, Wayne, Harry,

  Joe, and Tom,.

  Shield brothers.

  PART I

  ONE

  It takes years to build a legend. To turn fear into reputation, and reputation into immortality.

  It takes mere heartbeats to shatter it to dust.

  Back when I was young, when my beard was more black than grey; my muscles still firm; my face unlined and void of old scars, I was building my legend faster than Rome was conquering cities of fine cut stone.

  From east to west my men would ride, the endless expanse of grass and forests our home. We slept where we wanted, ate what we wanted, and fucked who we wanted. No man would stand in our way, even if he possessed the finest mail, the sharpest blade and a war host at his back; all men knelt in the mud when Alaric and his Ravensworn rode past.

  And what did they see, these lords and chiefs who knelt in the dirt and prayed to the Allfather that the dreaded Ravensworn would ride past their hovels and leave their sour ale, stale bread and ugly daughters untouched. They saw a lord of war. A cold faced killer at the head of a horde of men and metal. They saw a blood red banner, streaming in the wind with a black raven swooping through the claret. They saw a man in his prime, flowing locks of dark hair, Loki-cunning eyes framed by a scowl, above a long, thick beard. Gleaming mail, beneath a deep blue cloak, pinned with a brooch of silver. Boots of the finest leather, pillaged from the cold and lifeless feet of a slaughtered Roman officer. A black pommelled sword, well-oiled and freshly sharpened, in a scabbard of wood lined with the wool of a new born lamb. When the blade was freed from its sheath, the length of glimmering iron ran from hip to foot, four fingers wide, there was no sword to match it in all of Germania.

  When that weapon was bared, men died.

  Chieftain killer, battle turner, mercenary, pirate, Wotan wise, Loki cunning, Oathbreaker. I have been called them all. I revel in the names whispered in the hearth flames; timid tribal leaders and their retainers, speaking half in fear and half in reverence. For all men knew, it wasn’t Rome and her emperors who settled land disputes and wars of honour in the far reaches of the wild lands, however much they thought they controlled us with their frumentarii agents creeping through our forests, the senate installing client kings whenever and wherever they saw fit. It was Alaric and the Ravensworn that turned the tide when German met German in the storm of blood and iron.

  For the right price, of course.

  And so it was on that glorious midsummers day, as I sat atop my horse with my war host at my back, a grovelling chieftain at my feet; I felt the breeze tickle my beard, the sun caress my face, and I knew I was destined to carve my legend in blood. Men would speak of my deeds for generations.

  ‘And what is in it for me?’ I asked the quivering chief, whose mouth moved like that of a fish, his whole body trembling under the weight of his rust-pitted mail.

  ‘We will pay lord, and pay well.’ I liked it when men called me lord. I had no right to be called it, not really, but men did anyway. Even chiefs, like that wet trout who grovelled at my feet.

  ‘What will you pay in?’ I asked sceptically, looking at a collection of scrawny mud huts with patchy thatched roofs and half naked children ducking in and out the canvas flaps that passed for doors in this part of the world.

  ‘We got no coin lord, but we can pay you in cattle, even offer a few horses.’ He said in more hope than expectation. It was evident in the quivering of his voice, plain as porridge in his wide, hopeful eyes.

  ‘The fuck do I need cattle for?’ I scoffed. ‘If me and my men need food, we’ll just eat yours!’ This was greeted with a roar of approval from those of my men within earshot, just as I had intended. ‘And as for horses, well, look around. Does it look like we need them?’ I swept my arm in a grand gesture, indicating the five hundred sworn men behind me, each on horseback and with a remount in tow. ‘Now, what are you going to offer me?’

  He knew what I wanted, had known all along. He’d known as soon as he’d sent a runner east to beg for me and my men to visit his village. Did I say village? I meant shithole.

  I watched as his heart sunk, his shoulders slumped and he stood leaning forwards, his head drooping as he studied the holes in his boots. ‘Wait here lord,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I might have something more to your liking.’

  He went off into the collection of huts, a woman approached him and the two spoke in low tones. Their conversation took a turn for the worse it seemed, as she began to shout and scream whilst slapping the chief repeatedly over the head. She was his wife, I guessed. I also guessed he was reluctantly going to grab some chest of silver or precious jewellery he had either hidden in his hut or buried underneath. Clearly, she didn’t think us worthy recipients of such a gift.

  But, we got it anyway. He scurried back with an object wrapped in cloth. I felt my men move closer, drawn in by the potential of gleaming silver or precious jewels. Each man in the Ravensworn knew they were to get a cut of whatever we were paid, and whatever they pillaged on the job would be thrown into a pile at the end for each man to take their equal share, depending on his rank and importance. Of course, some men thought to hide certain wealth from their fellow Ravensworn. Well, all of them did. In spite of the fact all knew that any man caught would be flogged then sent packing without so much as a coin. But men are greedy, heartless and selfish. When there are gold or silver coins on offer, or intricate links of gleaming metal hanging from a woman’s neck, no man thinks of sharing it with his brothers in arms. I am no different, just not afraid to admit it.

  The chief staggered as he rambled towards me. I still sat atop my horse, a fine brown and white mare, I’d named her Hilde after an old lover. She tossed her head and snorted as the man edged closer. I’d had a retired Roman auxiliary cavalryman ride with my warriors for a while. He’d taught a few of the lads the basics of training a horse for war; it had been by far his most useful contribution to the Ravensworn. He only lasted a few months before taking a spear in the belly on a raid against the Cimbri in the north. I was reaching into the depths of my mind to remember the man’s name when I noticed the chief on his knees to my left, hands extended and offering the cloth wrapped package. I looked down at him and smiled. ‘Aristides,’ I said and the chief looked up at me and frowned.

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘Aelius Hadrianus Aristides,’ I muttered in guttural Latin. I had a basic understanding of the language; it came in useful when trading amber for silver. ‘The gods only know why these Germans and Gauls give themselves such stupid names when they scurry over the river to take Rome’s money for murdering their own people.’ Again, the chief looked at me then my men in confusion, for I still spoke Latin. The Aelius Hadrianus part of the name, in case you were wondering, symbols that Aristides entered Rome’s service during the reign of Emperor Hadrian. Aristides would just be some shit Greek name his officers threw at him when he had made his mark and agreed to sixteen years’ service in an auxiliary unit. That’s how Rome treated people. They couldn’t give a fuck who you were or where you were from; just as long as you could make a mark on a wax tablet and shove a spear into a barbarian’s neck,
you were in.

  But I digress. I sprung down from the mare with all the vigour and swagger of youth. The chief fell on his arse when my boots hit the ground next to where he knelt. Snatching up the cloth wrapped package, I opened it quickly to reveal a glimmering torc of silver lined in gold. It was, I thought, quite beautiful. There was a picture engraved in the centre, but the lines were old and the engraving filled with dust and dirt. I squinted, holding it up to the sun to try and get a better look. ‘It is the Allfather lord.’ The chief said, rising slowly to his feet. ‘See, his face his hidden under a large beard, but one eye is covered in a patch. The triangle at the top is his great hat, and the two marks either side are the ravens.’

  The Ravens. Thought and memory. Huginn and Muninn. My hands shook as the realisation of what I was seeing, holding. It hit me like Donar’s hammer. Me, Alaric, lord of the Ravensworn, had been given a torc depicting the Allfather and his two ravens. It was perfect, better than that. I coughed, rubbed the sweat from my palms on my cloak. ‘This, is some gift Chief Wulfric,’ I said with newfound respect.

  Wulfric was the chief of the Fenni, a small and inconsequential tribe buried in the middle of some marshland in central Germania. They had very few warriors, no armour and less swords. In this country, if you’ve got no swords, you have no chance of keeping hold of your cattle. No cattle, no food. Simple. Wulfric was young, not long since risen to the rank of chief after the passing of his father. He had many lessons to learn, did Wulfric, he was about to be taught one now.

  ‘Tell me again, Chief Wulfric, exactly what happened.’ I always do this, get men to explain a story to me twice. You would be amazed at how much the same man can change his version of events.

  ‘They came in the night lord. Twenty men, maybe thirty.’ See, there already. The first time the whoreson spun his tale it was fifteen men, maybe twenty. And that was not an hour ago. ‘They wore all black lord. Faces darkened with soot, black tunics and cloaks, black shields and boots. They were silent as the grave, we didn’t even know they were here till the cows kicked up a fuss.’

  Again, this version differed from his last. The first time he regaled me with this woeful story of treachery and loss, he said he hadn’t seen the raiders, but one of his men had told him they were all in black. Now, here he is, explaining to me in detail what they looked like. I don’t mind a fool, a simpleton with a small mind, unable to string together a coherent sentence. But a tribal chief, openly lying to me? Now that I can’t have, won’t have.

  ‘Some of us rallied, lord. Grabbed what weapons we could and chased them off, but they’d already taken the cattle away into the night. That’s when the killing began…’

  He trailed off then, did Wulfric, eyes downcast, that quiver back in his voice. Pathetic.

  ‘How many men did you lose?’ I asked, it was five the first time he told me.

  ‘Seven lord. Good men too, hard workers, honest people.’

  I smiled. Smirked more like. Wulfric had the sense to not look upset or angry. He just stared at me with those pathetic fishy eyes.

  ‘Where are the bodies?’ I asked, as innocently as I could.

  ‘Lord?’ Wulfric replied, eyebrows rising to hide behind his straggly straw-coloured fringe.

  ‘The bodies man! You say seven men were killed, so there must be seven bodies, no?’

  A struggled to hide my laugh as Wulfric looked round in exasperation, searching for an answer that wasn’t forthcoming.

  ‘We buried them lord.’ He said eventually.

  ‘Where?’ I asked, ‘show me the graves.’

  I followed the hapless Wulfric through the ramshackle of huts his people called home. The ground was soft under the soles of my boots, and twice I nearly lost my footing. Cursing at the mud splashes that blotted the black leather, I reached the back of the huts to find a freshly filled in grave.

  In Rome, I know, it is common for the deceased to be sent to their gods on great pyres of flame. A coin will be placed on their tongues for the ferryman, who will row them over the River Styx to their final resting place in Hades. Their ashes will then be sealed in an urn, and either placed in the family’s mausoleum or buried in a grave beneath a tomb stone. In Germania, we are less dramatic about death. The elders say we come from the earth, we are as much a part of it as it is of us. When we die, we simply return to it. In other words, our dead, rotting corpses are chucked unceremoniously into unmarked graves, and then quickly filled in with the same mud that was dug out. Job done.

  I looked upon this unmarked grave, a brown patch amidst the endless green, and knew it was not big enough to be the final resting place of seven new born babes, let alone seven full grown men.

  ‘If there’s seven men in there Wulfric, then I’m old One Eye himself.’ I said, turning to Ruric, my second in command. Ruric scoffed a laugh, hefting the shaft of his axe, aiming the head at Wulfric.

  ‘It is a deep grave, lord. Took us a whole day to dig it deep enough.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I muttered to myself. ‘And how do your woman folk feel about seeing their men dumped one atop the other, lain to rest till the end of days?’ I asked, my Loki cunning eyes fixed on Ruric, a knowing smile on both our faces.

  ‘They…they didn’t say they were offended lord.’ His voice shook with fear now. I imagined I would see the piss stain growing on the front of his woolen trousers at any moment.

  ‘I’m going to ask you one more time Wulfric, Chief of the Fenni. How many bodies are in this grave?’ I clutched the gold and silver torc in my palm, fingers running across the engravings that shaped the outline of Wotan’s face. I hadn’t yet decided if I was going to take on the work Wulfric was paying me to do, but I was damn sure I was leaving that wasteland with that torc.

  ‘Two lord,’ he said with a sigh. I looked at him then, my dark eyes boring into his. I’ve always considered myself to be a strong judge of character, and to me, everything about Wulfric seemed off.

  ‘Your men, or theirs?’ I asked in a quiet voice.

  ‘Ours lord, honest.’

  I paused then, letting the silence stretch out. ‘And how did your men die?’

  ‘They fought the raiders lord, with nothing more than their wood axes.’

  ‘No one else fought with them?’ I asked. Wulfric opened his mouth to speak, but I held up a palm in warning. ‘No more lies Wulfric. I swear to the Allfather if you lie to me again I will kill you here and now.’

  Again, Wulfric’s mouth opened and closed like a blubbering fish caught in a net. ‘No one else fought lord. We all stayed in our homes.’

  And there, was the truth. Men had raided their village in the night. Only two men had possessed the courage to leave their beds and fight them. Wulfric, clearly wasn’t one of them. ‘You have been raided by a tribe, a common occurrence in these lands. And yet, with your women and children unprotected and vulnerable in their huts, only two of your men had the balls to step into the night air and face them. A sad day, Wulfric.’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘Yes, lord,’ he mumbled, eyes downcast. Let’s face it, there wasn’t much else he could say.

  ‘So, you want me to attack this tribe, wipe them from the pages of history. That right?’

  ‘Yes, lord. Too long we have lived in fear of the Harii. We’re not the only ones to have suffered this, I know of three other tribes that have lost men to their raids.’

  ‘So why not band together? Surely four tribes of men can handle the Harii?’ The Harii were ferocious, a warlike tribe based in the north west of our land, near the Rhine border with the Romans. They were infamous for their night raids; men dressed all in black, charcoal blackening their faces; they stuck to the old ways, worshipped the old gods in secret groves deep in forests of pine. They were not to be trifled with, even by me.

  ‘No one fights the Harii, lord.’

  ‘But you expect me to?’ I asked with all the savageness I could muster. I had five hundred men at my back, certainly more than enough to take on the Harii. But I would lose
men, for no man storms the home of the Harii without being bloodied.

  ‘You are Alaric,’ was all he said. I guess he hoped I would take it as a compliment.

  ‘And you, are a Nithing,’ I spat. A Nithing is a coward, a man without the courage to fight for his loved ones. There is no shame in shitting in your breeches before a fight. I’ve seen men vomit, piss dribbling down their trousers, a foul smelling brown patch spreading on their arse. Yet still they stood when the iron clashed and the blood flew. ‘I have no time for Nithings. But, I will go to the Harii, and fight them if need be. Not for you,’ I said to Wulfric before he could blubber his thanks. ‘For the other tribes who have suffered at their hand. And I will accept this as payment.’ I said, showing him the torc I still held. ‘The Ravensworn will leave immediately, you will hear from me when it is done.’

  I walked off without another word. Mounting my horse and cantering away before Wulfric could feed me anymore bullshit.

  TWO

  ‘You don’t believe him chief?’ Ruric asked as we cantered through the marshland. We were an hour or so gone from the village Wulfric and his tribe called the capital of their lands.

  ‘Of course I don’t,’ I said. ‘You?’

  Ruric weighed up an answer in his mind, I could see the cogs working behind his huge forehead. ‘He was telling the truth for the most part. I just think he exaggerated a bit, is all.’

  ‘A bit?!’ I scoffed. ‘He’s a coward, and a liar. Plain as day.’ I said, with absolute confidence. ‘Get me Birgir.’

  Ruric returned shortly with the young lad. He was a runt, an urchin we picked up in Goridorgis, capital of the Marcomanni. A proper capital that one, walled and garrisoned, not a place you’d want to assault. I stopped my horse and dismounted, gestured for Birgir to do the same. ‘Keep the men moving north,’ I said to Ruric. ‘We get out of this marshland and turn west, understand?’ Ruric nodded and moved off, heading the vast column of mailed men that cantered past.