“Traitor!” screamed Ermanaric, and launched into a long tirade. Randwar stood, hunched, belike not hearing much of it.
When he saw that, Ermanaric stopped. “Enough,” he said. “Hang him by the neck and leave him for the crows, like any thief.”
Swanhild shrieked and struggled. Randwar threw her a blurred look before he turned it on the king and answered, “If you hang me, I go to Wodan my forefather. He… will avenge -”
Ermanaric shot forth a foot and kicked Randwar in the mouth. “Up with him!”
A haylift beam jutted from a barn. Men had already thrown a rope over it. They put the noose about Randwar’s neck, hauled him aloft, and made the rope fast. He struggled long before he swung free in the wind.
“Yes, the Wanderer will have you, Ermanaric!” Swanhild yelled. “I lay the widow’s curse on you, murderer, and I call Wodan against you! Wanderer, lead him down to the coldest cave in hell!”
Greutungs shuddered, drew signs or clutched at talismans. Ermanaric himself showed unease. Sibicho, perched on horseback beside him, yelped: “She calls on her witchy ancestor? Suffer her not to live! Let earth purify itself of that blood she bears!”
“Aye,” Ermanaric said in an uprush of will. He rapped forth his command.
Fear more than aught else gave haste to the men. Those who had held Swanhild cuffed her till she staggered, and booted her out into the middle of the yard. She lay stunned on the stones. Riders crowded around, forcing their horses, which neighed and reared. When they withdrew, nothing was left but red mush and white splinters.
Night fell. Ermanaric led his troop into Rand-war’s hall for a victory feast. In the morning they found the treasure and took it back with them. The rope creaked where Randwar swung above that which had been Swanhild.
Such was the news that men bore to Heorot. They had hastily buried the dead. Most dared do no more than that, but a few Greutungs felt vengeful, as did all Teurings.
Rage and grief overwhelmed the brothers of Swanhild. Ulrica was colder, locked into herself. Yet when they wondered what they could do, even though tribesmen of theirs had swarmed to them from widely about… she drew her sons aside, and they talked until the restless darkness fell.
Those three entered the hall. They said they had decided. Best to strike back at once. True, the king would be wary of that, and keep his guard on hand for a while. However, by the accounts of witnesses who had seen it ride past, it was hardly larger than the band which crowded this building tonight. A surprise onslaught by brave men could vanquish it. To wait would give Ermanaric time he needed and was doubtless counting on – time to crush every last East Goth who would be free.
Men bellowed their willingness. Young Alawin joined them. But suddenly the door opened, and there was the Wanderer. Sternly, he bade Tharas-mund’s last-born son abide here, before he went back into the night and the wind.
Undaunted, Hathawulf, Solbern, and their men rode forth at dawn.
1935
I had fled home to Laurie. But next day, when I let myself into our place after a long walk, she was not waiting. Instead, Manse Everard rose from my armchair. His pipe had made the air hazed and acrid.
“Huh?” I could only exclaim.
He stalked close. I felt his footfalls. As tall as I and heavier-boned, he seemed to loom. His face was expressionless. The window at his back framed him in sky.
“Laurie’s okay,” he said like a machine. “I asked her to absent herself. This’ll be plenty rough on you without watching her get shocked and hurt.”
He took my elbow. “Sit down, Carl. You’ve been through the wringer, plain to see. Figured you’d take a vacation, did you?”
I slumped into my seat and stared down at the rug. “Got to,” I mumbled. “Oh, I’ll make sure of any loose ends, but first – God, it’s been ghastly -”
“No.”
“What?” I lifted my gaze. He stood above me, feet apart, fists on hips, overshadowing. “I tell you, I can’t.”