Maroboodus: A Novel of Germania (The Goth Chronicles Book 1) by Alaric Longward Read Free Book Online Page A

battle was anything but certain.
    I glanced at Maino. He was joking with some of the warriors. Bero was whispering to his champions and Hulderic, Father was speaking with his three most accomplished fighters as well, all glad in leather and furs and holding heavy axes. We watched the enemy scouts wind their way for the coast, obviously drunk. The army followed them, shuffling along in the strange, thick column, bristling with spears, the prisoners in the middle.
    ‘Try to spare her, if you can,’ Hulderic said softly. ‘She looks important.’
    ‘She does, lord,’ said Dubbe, and I was jealous as his lips were smacking lecherously. ‘Important was not the first thing that came to my mind, though, lord.’
    ‘Sultry,’ Sigmundr suggested.
    ‘Shapely,’ Harmod grunted. ‘Like my wife used to be, before she gave birth.’
    ‘You are a bastard, Harmod,’ Hulderic chortled. ‘But spare her, no matter what she looks like.’
    ‘She looked beautiful,’ I said and bit my lip as the men gaped at me with astonishment. Then they jeered me softly, so as not to alert the men below. ‘She did,’ I added, after they had finally shut up.
    Soon, the last of the Saxons walked away from under our hill. They would reach the beach in a bit and our scouts ran to see if there were stragglers. There would be. ‘Doesn’t matter now,’ called out Friednot from behind us. He was leading his men to us. ‘Let’s get down there and close off the escape route.’ We got up, and Friednot led his men to the middle of Bero’s and ours and we walked down the muddy hill in ranks. The rain was coming down in a pour now and limited our visibility from bad to nearly zero. ‘God’s should weep for their souls,’ Friednot laughed as he cursed the rain, ‘but they are premature. The dogs live still. Let’s enjoy this, and give the god’s tears some bloody meaning.’ We walked on, thick in the lines, pushing each other. Men fell, and so they took down some others and many cursed profusely. The warband didn’t look very glorious during that decent, and perhaps the gods wept for our ineptness as we slid more than walked down that hillside. There were some yells in woods to our left and a ragged group of tardy Saxons came running out. Some were bleeding and I knew the local villagers had done their bit well enough.
    ‘They are herding the dogs now,’ Hulderic said, and he was right. Javelins flew after the stragglers and the vanguard of the Saxons. Most missed, some hit and three of the enemy went down, screaming. The rest, some eight men saw us and headed for us, and pointed their spears at the woods, yelling gutturally, thinking we were with Cuthbert.
    ‘They think we are their kin,’ Dubbe chortled. ‘Oh, they will learn a hurtful truth in a bit.’
    ‘Kill them. It’s our job,’ Hulderic said coolly to his men, as the enemy was close to us. We turned that way, thickened into a column—a cunus resembling a boar’s tusk—with Hulderic as a deadly tip and I was at the rear. The enemy slowed down, cheering as they saw us coming but then some spotted our strange standard and one, cleverer than the others, noticed our hair knots.
    They had no chance.
    Javelins flew at them, several of the unlucky Saxons howled in pain and we spread to chase the last ones. Hulderic roared at one who turned to fight and spears flashed as the long-faced enemy tried to impale Father from under the shield. Father had none of it, but bowled the enemy over with his shield and then his spear flashed down at the kicking corpse, puncturing his belly. The man shuddered and prayed and wept and died, and we stopped after the small skirmish. ‘One got away,’ I hissed, ashamed, for I had not even gotten close to the enemy. ‘One ran there to the woods.’
    ‘Doesn’t matter. The villagers will have him,’ Hulderic said happily, his beard wet with blood as well as rainwater. ‘Run after Friednot.’ We jogged after the advancing column of the Gothoni and