Oathbreaker Read online

  We watched as the Batavians hurdled the next two sets of pits, losing more men on the way. One row of ‘lilies’ remained only ten paces to the front of our line. When they landed from that jump, they would land not on grass, but on a wall of men, wood and iron.

  ‘Step back three paces,’ I ordered, seeing the danger.

  The Batavians were galloping now, the ground shook furiously, as if Hel were trying to escape from her underground prison.

  The enemy approached the final pit, and in horror I suddenly realised that my men armed with only short handled axes would be horribly outmatched against this tidal wave of armoured horse flesh. ‘Spearmen to the front, spears to the front!’ I bellowed in near panic, though my men responded quickly. With no more time for thought or doubts, I watched in awe and terror as the famed Batavians leapt the last pit; hooves flailed in the air, helmeted men screamed and snarled as each picked a target for his lance. I sucked my teeth, set my face in a savage grimace and hefted my sword.

  I was Alaric, lord of war. Nothing but victory awaited me.

  EIGHT

  The first man to meet my blade died with a foot of iron through the back of his mouth. The next had half his right leg cut off as I stepped over my first victim and swung a savage backwards slash that cut through his saddle and into his mount. It is difficult to describe the first engagement in a battle. Thrilling? Bowel clenching terror? Probably a bit of both. The din of combat filled my ears: iron met iron with an ear-splitting clang; blades chopped through spear shafts like a sickle through barley; horses whinnied in fear and men screamed in agony and ecstasy. There really is nothing like it.

  I had no notion of how the battle went and if my men held their line or their blood lust had gotten the better of them. The Batavians could have forced their way into our formation, they could even have encircled us and were right then spearing my men in their backs. I wouldn’t have known. All I saw was the iron in my hand and the mounted men at the end of it.

  I had left my shield wall now and vaguely remember ignoring Baldo as he was yelling at me to get back. Suddenly a horse pressed in on my left flank, and a well-timed pivot allowed me to avoid a piercing lance blow that was destined for my shoulder. I dropped my shield and grabbed the lance in one fluid motion, yanking it hard, forcing the rider to fall from his saddle and I ran him through whilst he was still struggling to stand.

  Another came at me with a snarl, his long sword bared. Our blades met with a mighty crash as he passed, I was still turning when he came back at me. Startled by his speed and control of his horse, I dodged the cavalryman’s sword and aimed for the mount. Crouching low, moving with all the speed my armoured body could muster, I slashed at the soft belly and was rewarded with a warm gush of blood that flew from the beast with my blade.

  I watched as the animal collapsed, trapping its rider who was quickly trampled by another rampaging horse. It was dark – the sun long gone below the horizon. I staggered as another Batavian galloped past. I was at the ditch now, watching the battle unfold. My first wave of adrenalin had worn thin, I slumped, sword scraping the earth, my breath thick on the night air.

  A group of horsemen swamped my shield wall; hooves flailing as lances jabbed at gaps in the murky light, but my men were fighting back. One took hold of a saddle, causing the rider to sway, the second rammed his spear in to the man’s neck.

  Still I watched on as Ruric swung his great axe as if it weighed nothing more than a spoon. He prowled in front of my men’s shields, hacking and slashing the butterfly blade at any man foolish enough to get too close. Even as I watched, he lopped the arm off one and the leg from another and his next swing near on decapitated a horse. A centurion in a red crested helmet kicked his horse towards him, but Ruric merely stood and waited for his moment. He sidestepped the cantering horse and leapt – pirouetting in the air and hacking his axe into the officer’s neck on the way back down. It was a beautiful kill, perhaps the best I’ve ever seen, and I have seen a lot of men die at the end of a blade.

  Spurred on by Ruric’ prowess, and desperate not to let him steal all the glory, I raised my sword and prepared to charge the Batavians once again. As I did I heard a piercing howl behind me. It was a wolf’s howl, the kind the leader of the pack makes when he spots some easy prey for his family of sharp toothed savages to gauge on. The howl was followed by another, and soon the night was alive with high pitched wailing.

  My blood was hot, my heart hammering and every sinew in me was itching to jump back into the fray. But suddenly the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and my legs wouldn’t follow my brain’s commands. Fear gripped me, and to my shame I felt a wetness down my leg, a warmth where moments before had just been the cool night breeze. It’s not easy for a man to admit he pissed himself, but there you have it. The wolfpack howled again, closer this time. I could almost smell their rank fur; picture their sharp-edged teeth. I sensed their charge, felt the low rumble of the ground even above the cacophony of battle. Within heartbeats however, my fear had turned to joy.

  It was no wolfpack that thundered past me in the darkness. I saw just shadows as wave after wave of black clad men leapt the ditch, howled their war cry one last time before drenching themselves in Batavi blood.

  The Harii had come.

  Black shields, black tunics and black skin, they were truly the Einherjar: Wotan’s warriors, who had died a glorious death and now feasted in his hall, waiting for the end of days. Shadow warriors, they hurtled the pit in their masses and fell upon the Batavians like a hungry wolf pack on a fat sheep. They were an endless tide, a flood of bared teeth and naked iron. Exhilarated, blood-maddened by their sudden appearance, I howled myself and launched into the fray.

  In all honesty, I could not recall to you the events of the next few moments, or hours, however long it lasted. All I can tell you is I hacked and slashed myself a body pile like I had never done before, and not bettered since. By the time we were done there were but a handful of scurrying survivors. The tribune fell to Ketill’s blade, which I remember angering me as I had been carving myself a route to him. I hacked off lumps of fresh horsemeat; smashed my precious blade against so much mail it took me the whole of the next day to clear the iron of notches and dents. I was masked in claret and guts and bone fragments by the end, my long black hair redder than my banner. I stood on that field, surrounded by dead and dying Roman soldiers, and knew I had carved myself another bloody step on the road to legend. Men would sing of my spear fame, and all me would know not to cross paths with Alaric, lord of the Ravensworn.

  I was the battle turner, Chief destroyer, Roman slayer. Loki cunning and blessed by the Allfather himself, there was no man or tribe or army that could defeat me. I was untouchable. Or so I thought.

  A blood sun rose. Fitting, I thought. I knelt beside a great fire built by my men, still drenched in dead Batavi insides. Ketill was beside me, his face running with black sweat from the charcoal he had rubbed on it the day before. We had one of the few surviving Batavians tied up against a wooden stake. He was young, his smooth cheeks pale and soft, his sun bleached hair like yellow straw. He tried to act the big man to start with, spitting defiance at us even as I heated his own sword in the fires heart. I saw him recoil in fear as the bright glow of the blade was revealed when I pulled it clear.

  I hadn’t thought to cover my hands before picking up the blade, and inside I winced in agony at the simmering heat that blistered my palms and sent shockwaves of intense pain up my arms. I managed to hold the sword in front of the puppy’s face just long enough to get a whiff of shit over the crispy remains of the skin on my right hand. I dropped the blade back into the fire, cursing myself for being a fool. I saw Ketill’s smirk, and bit back a retort, instead concentrating my anger on the Batavian. We had established his name was Gerbold, and that he came from a long and proud line of Batavi warriors. He was proud, I think more angry with himself for not dying gloriously in battle.

  He had been adamant that he would tell us nothing, but
his stern and furious expression had softened in the moments since he had soiled his breeches. ‘C’mon boy!’ I said, shaking my burnt hand furiously to no effect. ‘Talk, and we’ll kill you quickly. Don’t talk, and, you know,’ I nodded to his long sword, now back in the flames heart.

  ‘Fuck you!’ He spat. ‘Curse you to Hel.’ His eyes were rimmed with fear, though there was still venom in his tone.

  ‘Oh, I’ve been cursed before lad,’ I said, chuckling to myself. ‘I’ve had men curse me in front of all the gods in the nine worlds Yggdrasil holds together. They’ve spat at me, called me a coward, promised me the Allfather will bar me from his hall when I eventually come knocking.’ I wrapped my hand in an old cloak I had picked up from the ground, and wincing, lifted the bone pommel of the sword from the flames. ‘But, in the end, they’ve all talked, spilled their secrets and then their guts. Now don’t think you won’t do the same, young Gerbold. I know, I know, you’re the son of some whoreson who was the son of some other cur. Don’t change anything lad. I lay this blade on your flesh,’ I hefted the weapon in my hand, the blade was inches from my face, the heat was intense, I worried it would singe my beard if I let it too close. ‘And you’ll sing like a bird on a glorious summers dawn. Ha! Don’t shake your head, you will lad, you will.’

  Ketill lifted Gerbold’s tunic, laying bare the pale skin of his belly. I lowered the blade, quicker than I wanted too, but the raging heat was quickly seeping through the cloth of the cloak. He had more hair on his belly than he did on his head – and his hair wasn’t short. There was a crisp smell as the hair sizzled, and I saw Gerbold’s belly tense in fear, heard his gasp of shock and pain. ‘I’m going to ask you one more time Gerbold, and if you don’t give me the answer I want, I’m going to hold this blade on your stomach till it burns right through and your guts melt out of your back.’ I held his gaze, hoping my own was as vicious as I thought it was. ‘Now, who ordered the attack on me? That piece of shit Trajianus was just a soldier. I want the brains behind this operation, and you’re going to tell me.’

  I lowered the blade a bit more, and to my satisfaction his skin took on a red glow as it reacted to the intense heat. I met Gerbold’s gaze again, and knew he was going to crack before he did.

  ‘Okay, okay!’ He screamed. ‘I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you everything! Just don’t burn me, please don’t burn me!’ Tears streamed down his blood-stained face, his expression a mixture of shame and relief.

  ‘Good choice boy,’ Ketill said, releasing his grip on his tunic. Ketill pulled a dagger from its sheath on his hip, the curved blade nestling threateningly on Gerbold’s neck. ‘Now speak, and go and meet your ancestors.’

  Gerbold took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm his nerves. ‘The man you seek, is called Fulvius. Marcus Ovidius Fulvius. He is a tribune of the frumentarii, based west of the Rhine, in Colonia Ulpia Traiana.’ Gerbold spoke in gasps. His reluctance clear, eyes shining with tears of resignation.

  I leant toward him, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘You made a good decision, lad,’ I said. ‘You are one of us, I know you don’t think so. Years of slavery and humiliation at the hands of Rome have made you think differently. They’ve made you think you’re one of them, but you’re not. You’re German! You worship Hercules, Wotan, Donar, just like us.’ That wasn’t quite true. There were few other tribes, the Harii being one, that still worshipped Hercules in my lifetime. But, I thought, it would do no harm for him to die thinking he was helping the right side.

  ‘You will kill him?’ Gerbold asked.

  ‘I will. He has started this, I will finish it.’ I snatched my knife from its sheath and put the hilt in his palm. ‘Hold it tight brother,’ I said, nodding toward Ketill, who swept his own knife through Gerbold’s windpipe without fanfare.

  Ketill stood and moved from the writhing form of the dying Gerbold. People think slitting a man’s throat a mercy, a quick death awarded to a man you want to spare from pain. I disagree. Gerbold writhed and shuddered for many fluttering heartbeats, dark blood pulsing from the gash in his throat. It was some time before he finally went still, letting out a last, wheezy breath.

  ‘What do we do?’ Ketill asked, wiping his blade on the hem of his tunic.

  ‘Find this Fulvius, and kill the whoreson,’ I said, showing Ketill my teeth.

  NINE

  Two weeks later found me on the eastern banks of the Rhine. It was a glorious summer’s night, and moonlight flooded the land as we camped on the banks of the river. I sat there with a stomach full of venison and a skin of good wine in my hand, revelling in the peaceful sounds of the wind whispering through the rustling pine that stood tall and ominously black against the darkening sky. The calming swirl and swoosh of the rivers current made me drowsy, the lazy waters kissing the bank to my front. An owl hooted, another replied. I was happy, sitting there in the half light. I loved the land that was Germania: the wildness of its inhabitants, the rugged beauty of the terrain. I thought then of where we were going; to Colonia Ulpia Traiana. I had been there once, many years ago. Roman red brick and slate, multicoloured stone climbing so far to the sky it could almost be a pathway to the gods. But our gods did not live in halls of stone.

  What were gods if not the beauty that surrounded us. Were they not there in that whispering wind? Was the rustling of it through the branches not them communicating? They say the Allfather walked our middle earth once, talking to the humans he met. They say he gained knowledge from us, and spread a little of his infinite wisdom. What would he think if he met me now? Would he curse me for a fool, for seeking vengeance on an officer of Rome? For what hope did I have of attacking this Fulvius whilst he was safe behind Roman stone?

  But, I would reply, not only do I possess the wisdom of Wotan, I have the cunning of Loki, the trickster. Loki, it was told, could take on any form. He could have even been the owl that hooted that night, as I lay by the swirling water swigging Roman wine. I recall a story my father told me once, when I had been caught making a young boy on our farm eat cow shit that was still warm to touch – I forget the lads name now. My father had taken me by the ear and dragged me kicking and screaming to the old barn next to our house. ‘Think you’re like Loki?’ he had spat at me. ‘Let me tell you the story of his downfall.’

  It was useless, that barn. Any farmer worth their salt knew that in order to make a barn fit to store a winters supply of grain and cured meats, you had to build it on stilts to stop the damp getting in, let alone the rats. You also had to weave the thatch on the roof tight, letting the reeds thoroughly dry out before you did so. My father, warrior that he was, knew neither of these things. So we stood there, in that damp barn, surrounded by the clamour of scurrying rodents and the odd open bag of sodden grain, and he regaled to me the tale of Loki’s doom.

  In short, he had tricked Hod into killing Balder. Hod had been blind, and had therefore no real idea what he was aiming at when he launched his spear into his brothers unsuspecting heart. The gods had been devastated. Frigg, mother to both Hod and Balder and wife to the Allfather, had been inconsolable for weeks. Wotan had decided to hold an autumn feast, to help lift the gods morale. He had asked Donar to seek out the frost giant Aegir. After some, shall we say, encouragement, Aegir agreed to make the ale. He brought it to Wotan’s great hall with his servant, Fimafeng. In a moment of utter madness, Loki unsheathed his twin blades and slew Fimafeng where he stood, then left the hall without a backwards glance.

  The gods decided they had had quite enough of Loki and his erratic scheming. They banded together and hunted Loki down to a shallow pool beneath a small waterfall in the lands of the giants. He had taken the form of a salmon. Loki was not concerned when he saw his fellow gods come to slay him, not even when they made a giant net and covered the shallow pool from one rock face to the next. He simply hung in the water, watching the net move slowly towards him. When it was so close he could have kissed the entwined rope, he simply sprung from the water and leaped upstream, away from the useless net and
the dumbfounded gods.

  Again and again he did the same thing, until eventually when he leapt into the air he found himself smothered in an old cloak and unable to wriggle free. The gods had then taken him to a dark cave under the tallest mountain, and left him chained in metal stronger than iron, with just his wife for company.

  The reason I tell you this, is that I have always considered myself to have the finest of Loki’s qualities, always managed to trick myself out of any potential disastrous situation I’ve found myself in, and there have been a few. And I was about to do it again. Or so I thought.

  We moved out with the dawn. I had left Ketill and his Harii with Ruric and Baldo and the remainder of the two hundred men that had slaughtered the Batavians. With them also were Otto – another of my captains – and his Hundred. My other two files of Hundred had filtered to us in the days that followed the battle. Like birds flying south for winter, they had known exactly where to find me, as if I had given off some sort of smoke signal for them to follow. Even when we moved on from the battlefield and its stink of open bowels and decay, one after the other the groups of Hundred cantered into sight on the horizon.

  With me now I had those two hundred men. I had no hope of taking the stone walls of Colonia Ulpia Traiana by force. Not even with my full five hundred and the might of the Harii would we stand any chance of taking their battlements by force. I would have to sneak in, slither like a snake and be as sly as a fox. I cast aside the blood thirsty warrior inside me, all thoughts of Donar and his mighty hammer quashed from my mind. Loki was my god now, the only one who could help me.