The Sorrow of Odin the Goth

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.

“Think. You have readiness to fare west, and a welcome awaiting you among the Visigoths. It will be the warmer for the rout Athanaric suffered this year from the Huns at the River Dnestr; they all need fresh and hopeful souls. Within a few days, you can be leading the trek. Ermanaric’s men, when they come, will find nothing but the ashes of this hall, which you set afire to keep from him and be a balefire in honor of your brothers.

“You will not be fleeing. No, you will be off to forge a mighty morrow. Alawin, you now keep the blood of your fathers. Ward it well.”

Wrath twisted Ulrica’s face. “Yes, you’ve always dealt in smooth words,” shuddered out of her. “Heed not his slyness, Alawin. Hold fast. Avenge my sons—the sons of Tharasmund.”

The youth swallowed hard. “Would you really… have me go… while the murderer of Swanhild, Randwar, Hathawulf, Solbern—while he lives?” he stammered.

“You must not stay,” said the Wanderer gravely. “If you do, you will give up the last life that was in your father—give it up to the king, along with Hathawulf’s son and wife, and your own mother. There is no dishonor—in withdrawal when outnumbered.”

“Y-yes.… I could hire a Visigothic host—”

“You will have no call to. Hearken. Within three years, you will hear word about Ermanaric that will gladden you. The justice of the gods shall fall upon him. On this I give you my oath.”

“What is that worth?” fleered Ulrica.

Alawin filled his lungs, straightened his shoulders, stood for a while and then said quietly, “Stepmother, be still. I am the man of the house. We will follow the Wanderer’s rede.”

The boy in him burst through for a moment: “Oh, but lord, forebear—will we indeed never see you again? Do not forsake us!”

“I must,” answered the Gray One. “It is needful for you.” Suddenly: “Yes, best I go at once. Farewell. Fare ever well.”

He strode through the shadows, out the door, into the rain and the wind.