Crippled, bleeding, Ermanaric could nonetheless shout: “Heed! Stand fast where you’re up against the foe – the rest of you take the hinder door, swing around – heed the word of Wodan!”
His bodyguards were the first to understand. They yelled their glee and fell on their enemies. These lurched back, aghast, into the reborn turmoil. Solbern stayed behind, sprawled under the high seat in a pool of blood.
King’s men streamed through the small postern. They hastened past the building to the front. Most of the Teurings had gotten inside. Greutungs overran those in the yard. Had they no better weapons, they ripped cobblestones out of the earth and cast them. A risen moon gave light enough.
Howling, the warriors next cleared the entry-room. They outfitted themselves and fell on the invaders both fore and aft.
Grim was that battle. Knowing they would die whatever happened, the Teurings fought till they dropped. Hathawulf alone heaped a wall of slain before him. When he fell, few were left to be glad of it.
The king himself would not have been among them, had not folk of his been quick to stanch his wounds. As was, they bore him, barely aware, out of a hall where none but the dead then dwelt.
1935
Laurie, Laurie!
372
Morning brought rain. Driven on a hooting wind, hail-cold, hail-hard, it hid everything but the thorp that huddled beneath it, as if the rest of the world had gone down in wreck. The roar on the roof resounded through hollow Heorot.
Darkness within seemed deepened by emptiness. Fires burned, lamps shone well-nigh for naught amidst the shadows. The air was raw.
Three stood near the middle. That of which they spoke would not let them sit. Breath puffed ghost-white out of their lips.
“Slain?” mumbled Alawin numbly. “Every last one of them?”
The Wanderer nodded. “Yes,” he told them again, “though there will be as much sorrow among Greutungs as Teurings. Ermanaric lives, but maimed and lamed, and poorer by two sons.”
Ulrica gave him a whetted look. “If this happened last night,” she said, “you have ridden no earthly horse to bring us the tale.”
“You know who I am,” he answered.
“Do I?” She lifted fingers toward him that were crooked like talons. Her voice grew shrill. “If you are indeed Wodan, he is a wretched god, who could not or would not help my sons in their need.”
“Hold, hold,” Alawin begged her, while he cast an abashed glance at the Wanderer.
The latter said softly: “I mourn with you. But the will of Weard stands not to be altered. As the story of what happened drifts west, belike you will hear that I was there, and even that it was Ermanaric whom I saved. Know that against time the gods themselves are powerless. I did what I was doomed to do. Remember that in meeting the end that was set for them, Hathawulf and Solbern redeemed the honor of their house, and won a name for themselves that shall abide as long as their race does.”
“But Ermanaric remains above ground,” Ulrica snapped. “Alawin, the duty of vengeance has passed to you.”
“No!” said the Wanderer. “His task is more than that. It is to save the blood of the family, the life of the clan. This is why I have come.”
He turned to the youth, who stared wide-eyed. “Alawin,” he went on, “foreknowledge is mine, and a heavy load that is. Yet I may sometimes use it to fend off harm. Listen well, for this is the last time you will ever hear me.”
“Wanderer, no!” Alawin cried. Breath hissed between Ulrica’s teeth.
The Gray One lifted the hand that did not hold his spear. “Winter will soon be upon you,” he said, “but spring and summer follow. The tree of your kindred stands bereft of leaves, but its roots slumber in strength, and it shall be green anew – if an ax does not hew it down.
“Hasten. Hurt though he is, Ermanaric will seek to make an end, once for all, of your troublesome breed. You cannot raise as much force as he can. If you stay here, you will die.