At an earlier guesting the Wanderer showed surprise. Since his last appearance, Erelieva had come to Heorot and had borne her son. Shyly, she brought the babe to show the Elder. He sat unspeaking for many heartbeats before he asked, “What is his name?”
“Alawin, lord,” she answered.
“Alawin!” The Wanderer laid hand over brow. “Alawin?” After another while, almost in a whisper: “But you are Erelieva. Erelieva -Erp -yes, maybe that’s how you’ll be remembered, my dear.” Nobody understood what he meant.
– The years blew by. Throughout, the might of King Ermanaric waxed. Likewise did his greed and cruelty.
When he and Tharasmund were in their fortieth winter, the Wanderer called again. Those who met him were grim of face and curt of speech. Heorot was aswarm with armed men. Tharasmund greeted the guest in a bleak gladness. “Forefather and lord, have you come to our help – you who once drove the Vandals from olden Gothland?”
The Wanderer stood as if graven in stone. “Best you tell me from the beginning what this is about,” he said at last.
“So that we may make it clear in our own heads? But it is. Well… your will be done.” Tharasmund pondered. “Let me send for two more.”
Those proved an odd pair. Liuderis, stout and grizzled, was the chieftain’s trustiest man. He served as steward of Tharasmund’s lands and as captain of fighters when Tharasmund was not there himself. The second was a red-haired youth of fifteen, beardless but strong, with a wrath beyond his years in the green eyes. Tharasmund named him as Randwar, son of Guthric, not a Teuring but a Greutung.
The four withdrew to a loftroom where they could talk unheard. A short winter day was drawing to its close. Lamps gave light to see by and a brazier some warmth, though men sat wrapped in furs and their breath smoked white through gloominess. It was a room richly furnished, with Roman chairs and a table where mother-of-pearl was inlaid. Tapestries hung on walls and carvings were on the shutters across the windows. Servants had brought a flagon of wine and glass goblets from which to drink it. Sounds of the life everywhere around boomed up through an oak floor. Well had the son and the grandson of the Wanderer done for themselves.
Yet Tharasmund scowled, shifted about in his seat, ran fingers through unkempt brown locks and over close-cropped beard, before he could turn to his visitor and rasp: “We ride to the king, five hundred strong. His latest outrage is more than anyone may bear. We will have justice for the slain, or else the red cock shall crow on his roof.”
He meant fire – uprising, war of Goth upon Goth, overthrow and death.
None could tell whether the Wanderer’s face stirred. Shadows did, across the furrows therein, as lamps flickered and murk prowled. “Tell me what he has done,” he said.
Tharasmund nodded stiffly at Randwar. “You tell, lad, as you told us.”
The youth gulped. Fury rose through the bash-fulness he had felt in this presence. Fist smote knee, over and over, while he related roughly:
“Know, lord -though I think you already know – that King Ermanaric had two nephews, Embrica and Fritla. They were sons of a brother of his, Aiulf, who fell in war upon the Angles in the North. Ever did Embrica and Fritla fight well themselves. Here in the South, two years ago, they led a troop eastward against the Alanic allies of the Huns. They bore home a mighty booty, for they had sacked a place where the Huns kept tribute wrung from many a region. Ermanaric heard of it and declared it was his, as king. His nephews said no, for they had carried out that raid on their own. He asked them to come talk the matter over. They did, but first they hid the treasure away. Although he had plighted their safety, Ermanaric had them seized. When they would not tell him where the hoard was, he first had them tortured, then put to death. Thereafter he sent men to scour their lands for it. Those failed; but they ravaged widely about, burned the homes of Aiulf’s sons, cut down their families – to teach obedience, he said. My lord,” Randwar screamed, “was that rightful?”