Liuderis nodded again. “I have spoken my mind, you have spoken yours. Now let us have an end of speaking. Tomorrow we ride.” He sat down.
“It is a risk,” Ulrica said. “These are my last living sons, and maybe they fare to their deaths. That is as Weard wills, who sets the doom of gods and men alike. But rather would I have my sons die boldly than kneel to their sister’s murderer. No luck would come of that.”
Young Alawin leaped anew to his feet on the bench. His knife flashed forth. “We won’t die!” he shouted. “Ermanaric will, and Hathawulf will be king of the Ostrogoths!”
A slow roar, like an incoming tide, lifted from the men.
Solbern the sober walked down the hall. The crowd made way for him. Strewn rushes rustled and the clay floor thudded beneath his boots. “Did I hear you say ‘we’?” he asked through the rumbling. “No, you’re a boy. You stay home.”
The downy cheeks reddened. “I am man enough to fight for my house!” Alawin shrilled.
Ulrica stiffened where she stood. Cruelty lashed from her: ” ‘Your’ house, by-blow?”
The growing din died away. Men traded uneasy stares. It did not bode well, such an unleashing of olden hatred at such an hour as this. Alawin’s mother Erelieva had not merely been a leman of Tharasmund’s, she had become the one woman for whom he really cared, and Ulrica had gloated almost openly when every child that Erelieva bore him, save for this firstborn, died small. After the chieftain himself went down hell-road, friends of hers had gotten her hastily married off to a yeoman who lived far from the hall. Alawin stayed, the seemly thing for a lord’s son to do, but Ulrica was always stinging him.
Eyes clashed through smoke and shadow-haunted firelight. “Yes, my house,” Alawin called, “and Swanhild m-m-my sister too.” His stammer made him bite his lip for shame.
“Easy, easy.” Hathawulf raised his arm again. “You have the right, lad, and do well to claim it. Yes, ride with us, come dawn.” His glance defied Ulrica. She twisted her mouth but said naught. Everybody guessed she was hoping the stripling would be killed.
Hathawulf strode toward the high seat at the middle of the hall. His words rang: “No more bickering! We’ll be merry this eventide. But first, Anslaug -” this to his wife – “come sit beside me, and together we’ll drink the beaker of Wodan.”
Feet stamped, fists pounded wood, knives lifted like torches. The women themselves began to yell with the men: “Hail, hail, hail!”
The door flew open.
Dusk had deepened fast, when autumn was on hand, so that the newcomer stood in the middle of blackness. Wind flapped the edges of his blue cloak, flung a few dead leaves in past him, whistled and chilled along the room. Folk turned to see who had come, drew a sharp breath, and those who had been seated now scrambled to stand. It was the Wanderer.
Tallest he stood among them, holding his spear more like a staff than a weapon, as if he had no need of iron. A broad-brimmed hat shaded his face, but not the wolf-gray hair and beard, nor the gleam of his gaze. Few of them here had ever seen him before, most had never happened to be nigh when he made his seldom showings; but none failed to know the forefather of the Teuring headmen.
Ulrica was first to muster hardihood. “Greeting, Wanderer, and welcome,” she said. “You honor our roof. Come, take the high seat, and I will bring you a horn of wine.”
“No, a goblet, a Roman goblet, the best we have,” said Solbern.
Hathawulf came back to the door, squared his shoulders, and stood before the Elder. “You know what is afoot,” he said. “What word have you for us?”
“This,” answered the Wanderer. His voice was deep, and did not sound like the southern Goths’, or like any’s whom they had met. Men supposed his mother tongue was the tongue of the gods. Tonight it fell heavily, as if grief weighted it. “You are bound upon vengeance, Hathawulf and Solbern, and that stands not to be altered; it is the will of Weard. But Alawin shall not go with you.” The youth shrank back, whitening. A near sob broke harsh from his throat.