Among the latter was Liuderis, who had quelled Alawin. He stood up on his bench, so as to be seen above heads. A stout, grizzled, scarred fellow, formerly Tharasmund’s trustiest man, he asked heavily: “You would fare against the king, to whom you gave your oath?”
“That oath became worthless when he had Swanhild trodden beneath the hoofs of horses,” answered Hathawulf.
“Yet he says Randwar plotted his death.”
“He says!” Ulrica shouted. She stalked forth until what light there was flickered more fully across her: a big woman, her coiled braids half gray and half still ruddy around a face whose lines had frozen into the sternness of Weard herself. Costly furs trimmed Ulrica’s cloak; the gown beneath was of Eastland silk; amber from the Northlands glowed around her neck: for she was the daughter of a king, who had married into the god-descended house of Tharasmund.
She halted, fists clenched, and flung at Liuderis and the rest: “Well might Randwar the Red have sought to overthrow Ermanaric. Too long have the Goths suffered from that hound. Yes, I call him hound, Ermanaric, unfit to live. Tell me not how he made us mighty and his sway reaches from the Baltic Sea to the Black. It is his sway, not ours, and it will not outlast him. Tell yourselves, rather, of scot well-nigh ruinous to pay, of wives and maidens dishonored, of lands unrightfully seized and folk driven from their homes, of men hewn down or burned in their surrounded dwellings merely because they dared speak against his deeds. Remember how he slew his nephews and their families when he did not get their treasure. Think how he had Randwar hanged, on nothing more than the word of Sibicho Mann-frithsson – Sibicho, that viper forever hissing in the king’s ear. And ask yourselves this. Even if Randwar had indeed become Ermanaric’s foe, betrayed before he could strike to avenge outrage upon his kin – even if this be so, why should Swanhild die too? She was only his wife.” Ulrica drew breath. “She was also the daughter of Tharasmund and myself, the sister of your chief Hathawulf and of Solbern his brother. They, who sprang from Wodan, shall send Ermanaric below to be her slave.”
“You talked to your sons alone for half a day, my lady,” said Liuderis. “How much of this is your will, not theirs?”
Hathawulf brought hand to sword. “You overspeak yourself,” he snapped.
“I meant no ill -” the warrior began.
“The earth is tearful with the blood of Swanhild the fair,” said Ulrica. “Will it bear for us ever again, if we do not wash it with the blood of her murderer?”
Solbern stayed more calm: “You Teurings know well how trouble has been waxing for years between the king and our tribe. Why else did you rally to us when you heard what happened? Do you not all think that belike this deed of his was done to test our mettle? If we sit quietly at our hearths – if Heorot takes whatever weregild he might deign to offer – he will know he is free to crush us altogether.”
Liuderis nodded, folded arms across breast, and answered steadily, “Well, you shall not fare to battle without my sons and me, while this old head remains above ground. I did but wonder if you and Hathawulf are being rash. Ermanaric is strong indeed. Would it not be better if we bide our time, make quite ready, gather men of neighbor tribes, before we strike?”
Hathawulf smiled afresh, a little more warmly than erstwhile. “We thought about that,” he said in a level tone. “If we give ourselves time, we give the king time, too. Nor do I believe we can raise very many spears against him. Not while the Huns prowl the marches, vassal folk are sullen about paying tribute, and the Romans might see, in a war of Goth upon Goth, a chance to enter and lay all beneath them. Besides, Ermanaric will not sit idle long before he moves to humble the Teurings. No, we must attack now, before he awaits us – catch him unawares, overwhelm his guardsmen – they do not much outnumber you who are here – slay Ermanaric in one quick, clean blow, and afterward call a folkmoot to pick a new king who shall be righteous.”