The Ostrogoths wondered and muttered. They were doubtful about a fast growth of trade across such distances, therefore unwilling to gamble work or wealth. As for leaving their homes, that was unthinkable. Did the Wanderer speak sooth? What was he, anyhow? He was often called a god, and did seem to have been around for a very long time; but he made no claims for himself. He might be a troll, a black wizard, or – said the Christians – a devil sent to lure men astray. Or he might simply be getting foolish at his high age.
The Wanderer kept on. Some who listened found his words worth further thought; and some, young, he kindled. Foremost among the latter was Alawin at Heorot – though Hathawulf grew wistful, while Solbern hung back.
To and fro the Wanderer went on earth, talking, scheming, ordering. By autumnal equinox he had gotten a skeleton of what he wanted. Gold, goods, men to attend these were now at Frithigern’s seat in the West; Alawin would go there the following year to push for more trade, regardless of how young he was; at Heorot and numerous other households, dwellers could depart on short notice, should the need arise.
“You have worn yourself out for us,” Hathawulf said to him at the end of his last stay in the hall. “If you are of the Anses, then they are not tireless.”
“No,” sighed the Wanderer. “They too shall perish in the wreck of the world.”
“But that is far off in time, surely.”
“World after world has gone down in ruin erenow, my son, and will in the years and thousands of years to come. I have done for you what I was able.”
Hathawulf’s wife Anslaug entered, to say her own farewell. At her breast she suckled their first-born. The Wanderer gazed long upon the babe. “There lies tomorrow,” he whispered. Nobody understood what he meant. Soon he was walking off, he and his spear-staff, down a road where lately fallen leaves flew on a chill blast.
And soon after that, the terrible news came to Heorot.
Ermanaric the king had given out that he intended a foray into Hunland. This would not be an outright war, such as had failed before. Hence he did not call up a levy, but only his full troop of guards, several hundred warriors well-known and faithful to him. The Huns had been wasting the borders again. He would punish them. A swift, hard strike should at the least kill off many of their cattle. With luck, it might surprise a camp or three of theirs. Goths nodded when that word reached their steadings. Fatten ravens in the East, and the filthy landloupers of the steppe might slouch back to wherever their forebears had spawned them.
But when his troop had gathered, Ermanaric did not lead it so far. Suddenly, there it was at Randwar’s hall, while the homes of Randwar’s friends stood afire from horizon to horizon.
Scant was the fighting, as great a strength as the king had brought against an unwarned young man. Shoved along, hands tied behind his back, Randwar stumbled forth into his courtyard. Blood trickled and clotted over his scalp. He had killed three of those who set on him, but their orders were to take him alive, and they wielded clubs and spearbutts until he sank.
This was a bleak evening, where wind shrilled. Tatters of smoke mingled with scudding wrack. Sunset smoldered. A few slain defenders sprawled on the cobbles. Swanhild stood dumb in the grip of two warriors, near Ermanaric on his horse. It was as if she did not understand what had happened, as if nothing was real save the child that bulged her belly.
The king’s men brought Randwar before him. He peered downward at the prisoner. “Well,” he greeted, “what have to say for yourself?”
Randwar spoke thickly, though he held his battered head aloft: “That I did not fall by stealth on one who had done me no wrong.”
“Well, now.” Ermanaric’s fingers combed a beard turning white. “Well, now. Is it right to plot against your lord? Is it right to slink about heelbiting?”
“I… did none of that…. I would but ward the honor and freedom… of the Goths -” Rand-war’s dried throat could get no more out.