‘YOU PLANNED ALL this?’ Gunhild said to Gunderic.
‘I couldn’t tell you,’ her brother said. ‘In case the Romans found out. We had to take them by surprise.’
The door of the hall burst open. A Roman cavalry trooper came stumbling in. He was clutching a stab wound in his chest that had pierced his mail shirt. Blood pulsed down his side.
‘Treachery!’ he shouted. ‘Commander, we’re under attack.’
His eyes roved around the room, taking in his dying commander who was now curled on the floor, his lifeblood spilling from his punctured stomach and severed arm, the decapitated Flavius, and the other cavalry officers who were struggling for their lives with the very people who until moments before they had been exchanging pleasantries with over dinner.
‘To me, your Holiness!’ the trooper shouted to the bishop.
Sigurd whirled around, bringing his sword to bear on the priest. But Salonius was already gone, scrabbling under the table. He rolled to his feet on the other side then started off in a staggering run towards the doors at the far end of the hall.
Gunderic drew his own sword. He and Sigurd stalked down the table to where the remaining cavalry officers were fighting with the Burgundars. In moments the Romans lay sprawled on the floor, blood spilling from slit throats or sword wounds in their backs or bellies.
The bishop had made it to the doors and out into the darkness outside, flanked by the wounded cavalry trooper.
‘After them!’ Gunderic shouted and the folk in the hall all charged towards the door. Gunhild joined the throng through the entrance and out into the night. Outside in the city other Burgundars were flocking down the streets bearing torches and weapons. The ordinary folk carried pitchforks, spades and other farm implements, or old weapons: spears or rusty swords. Gunhild saw alongside them companies of young men in war gear, the warriors whose earlier absence had concerned her. They were poorly equipped – some had ill-fitting helmets, some had rusty mail shirts that still bore the holes where blades had killed their previous owners – but all their weapons were polished and serviceable, and the looks in their eyes showed they were deadly serious about the work they had come to do.
There was another bloody fight underway. The square was littered with more corpses, both Roman soldiers and the attacking Burgundars who had surprised them. Steam rose from the pools of blood into the chilled night air. The cavalry troopers, armed but on foot, had lost several men, killed or wounded. Yet many more Burgundars lay dead and the Romans had managed to fight off the initial assault.
They were now forming a line on one side of the square before the church that so recently had been the scene of Gunhild’s marriage. The streets in either direction, but most importantly towards the gate in the city walls, were blocked by throngs of hostile local people. The Romans’ only hope was to find a defensive position where they could hold the Burgundars off.
‘Attack them!’ Gunderic shouted. ‘Don’t let them form up.’
Gunhild thought she heard a note of panic in her brother’s voice.
With the enthusiasm and fire of youth, the mass of young Burgundar warriors rushed across the square at the Romans. The troopers were outnumbered but they managed to form their line in time, just before the mass of their enemies crashed into them.
The Burgundars screamed battle cries and there was a great crashing of metal on metal but the Romans were silent. They countered the wild blows of their assailants with measured thrusts. The young Burgundars threw themselves on the Roman line in a frenzy of aggression, but the troopers went about the work of killing them with methodical movements, each stab, strike or block practised thousands of times on the parade ground. Each man protected himself and, if the man to his right had a chance to strike, he protected his back as that trooper lunged forward to stab his opponent.
Soon the bodies were piling up but none of them were Roman. Before long the initial vigour of the Burgundar attack dissipated. Their energy and rage spent, the young men withdrew, dragging their wounded back to safety on the other side of the square. They were sweating heavily and panted for breath, exhausted by the frenzy of blows they had unleashed.
The Romans, on the other hand, looked like they could keep on fighting all night. They had lost men in the initial surprise attack, but there were still fifty-one left from the two turmae of sixty-four. The efficient organisation and training of the Roman Army took over. They did not even need their officers. Each man knew exactly what he was supposed to do without being told.
Gunderic cursed.
‘Your rebellion will be over before its even begun if we don’t deal with them,’ Gunhild said.
‘My rebellion?’ he said, turning to glare at her. ‘You’re involved in this just as much as I am, sister. Do you think Rome will distinguish between any of us when it comes to crucifixion?’
‘We could let them go,’ Gunhild said. ‘We’ve precious few warriors as it is. Why lose more if there is no need?’
‘Because if the bishop escapes,’ Gunderic said, ‘he’ll be back here with half the Roman Army before you know it. We will lose everything before we even start.’
‘I thought the army was too busy in the west?’ Gunhild said, a note of panic entering her voice.
‘Most of it, yes,’ Gunderic said. ‘But we’re still very weak. Like you said – we’ve few enough warriors right now. We can train men to fight but until we grow our strength the Romans could overwhelm us with a few cavalry regiments from the interior army that guards Ravenna. We need time, which we won’t have if Rome is alerted to our plans now.’
The Burgundars, after a brief respite, made another assault on the Roman formation. This time Sigurd ran in with them. The big man hacked and slashed but even he could not make a difference, and indeed would have been wounded himself if not for his amazing Byzantine scale armour, which sword blades seemed to slip over rather than pierce. After this second fruitless attack the Burgundars once more retreated across the square, this time accompanied by the jeers of the Roman cavalrymen.
‘It’s no use,’ Sigurd said, panting. ‘Our men are just boys. They’re no match for trained soldiers. If I had a couple of hardened warriors with me I could perhaps do something but with this lot I can’t even dent their line. We need something to draw them out of formation.’
Fear flashed across Gunhild’s face. If the Romans began to move they might fight their way through the crowd and get to the city gates.
‘The bishop must not escape,’ she said.
All three of them stared, teeth clamped in frustrated anger, at the line of cavalry troopers across the square.
The sound of hooves clattering on paving stones reached their ears. Gunhild turned towards the noise and saw that a band of riders were pushing their way through the people who thronged the street that led to the gates.
‘Who is that?’ she said.
‘If it’s Roman reinforcements we’re finished,’ Gunderic said. He brandished his sword. ‘Well, so be it. I will go down fighting.’
‘Those aren’t Romans,’ Sigurd said.
Once through the crowd the riders thundered into the square. There were about thirty of them. They wore mail shirts and helmets. Their leader had the wings of a raven, one on each side, nailed to his helmet. Some bore spears and others swords. Each one had a black cloak that swirled behind them in the night air like the wings of bats.
They formed a long column and galloped across the square towards the Romans, screaming war cries that sent a shiver through the bones of everyone watching. At the sound of their screeches Gunhild realised with a jolt that not only were these newcomers not Roman, they were not men.
Who were these women? The old folk had told tales of Great Uncanny Women who made appearances at times of great portent. Were these female warriors such a thing? She shook her head. She had been a Swan Maiden and knew such things most likely did not exist, or at least often involved trickery and collective self-delusion.
The Romans stood steadfast in formation as the women on horseback galloped towards them, knowing that if they stood firm the beasts would not charge straight onto the sharp ends of their swords, no matter how much their riders goaded them.
Just before they did, however, the lead rider turned her horse to the right. The others followed her and they rode along the Roman line instead of straight at it. Some hurled franciscas down on the foot soldiers, others spears. Men cried out as they were struck and went down. Holes appeared in the previously uniform Roman line.
The women whirled their horses around and rode back down the damaged Roman line, this time striking the troopers below them with their swords or thrusting down at them with spears. With the advantage of height they inflicted yet more damage. Within moments the Romans broke ranks and began to flee for the church.
Without mercy, the fearsome women on horseback cut down more of them as they ran. Cheering, the Burgundars rushed forward again and killed the stragglers.
The remainder of the Roman troopers closed around the bishop. With no way out, they backed away towards the church. Sigurd ran towards them, seemingly heedless of any threat to his own life.
Two of the troopers came forward to meet him. One slashed at the big man with his long-bladed cavalry spatha. The sword merely slid across the surface of Sigurd’s unusual armour, leaving nothing behind but the horrible scraping sound of metal on metal. The second trooper stabbed at Sigurd but could not pierce the armour either. Sigurd responded, stabbing the first man through the throat then swinging his sword in a sideways swipe that severed the left leg of the second trooper halfway down his thigh. He collapsed to the ground screaming and soon bled to death.
The troopers had bought enough time for their comrades to make it to the church, however. They entered and slammed the door. What was now a mob of Burgundars swarmed after them, rushing across the square and surrounding the church. Gunhild, Gunderic and Sigurd strode among them. The leader of the women on horseback rode over to them.
‘My lady, I do not know who you are or why you choose to help us tonight,’ Gunderic said to their leader. ‘But you have my thanks.’
The woman on the black horse with the raven wings nailed to her visored helmet laughed. Gunhild noticed with a chill that decapitated human heads hung by strands of what was left of their hair from the woman’s saddle and horse trappings. Most were little more than skulls, but one was fresh enough that dull eyes still peered from under its drooping lids.
‘Am I changed so much, Gunderic, that you do not recognise me?’ the horsewoman said. To their surprise she spoke in the Burgundar tongue, and with the same accent as them.
The woman undid the leather strap beneath her chin and pulled off her helmet. A torrent of black hair tumbled around her shoulders.
‘Brynhild!’ Gunhild cried out. ‘I heard you died at Vorbetomagus!’
‘Part of me did,’ Brynhild said, her smile fading. ‘Like many of our sister Swan Maidens. But I survived. So did Ostara, the Mistress of the Maidens, who nursed me back to health. We found the rest of the surviving Swan Maidens – except for you, Gunhild – you had disappeared – and we wandered far. We kept the Order going. Ostara made sure we did not forget the lore of our people. Eventually we found a refuge high in the mountains, far from Rome, the Huns, and all men and their wars and violence. We welcome women from all tribes, if they are fleeing from the oppression of men.’
Gunderic exchanged glances with Sigurd, who smirked.
‘That sounds like paradise,’ he said. ‘For a rapist. I take it no king knows of this kingdom of women?’
Brynhild’s lip curled.
‘Several have found us,’ she said. ‘And now they are dead. We don’t just chant old songs and weave necklaces of edelweiss. We have learned the craft of war. As you have seen tonight.’
She flicked her head towards the dead Romans lying in the street, then tapped the freshest of the heads that hung from her saddle with her toe.
‘We are no longer the white Swan Maidens who watch who lives and who dies in battle and sing the praises of the bravest,’ she said. ‘Now it is we who choose who dies and we make it happen. We are the Valkyrjur, the Choosers of the Slain.’
‘I’m so glad to see you are alive!’ Gunhild said. ‘If only Hagan were here, our old group of friends would be complete.’
Some of the fierceness dissipated from Brynhild’s face.
‘Hagan is alive,’ she said. ‘Or at least he was when the battle ended at Vorbetomagus. I saw him.’
‘So there’s a chance we could all be together again!’ Gunhild clasped her hands and jumped up and down.
‘Have you come to join us in our new kingdom?’ Gunderic said. ‘You would be most welcome. We need cavalry.’
Brynhild shook her head.
‘We have our own lands to guard,’ she said. ‘The Alemanni get ever closer. And the Huns behind them. However, we came here tonight as escort for another king who most certainly is coming here to join you.’
‘Where is this king?’ Gunderic said, looking around.
‘He and his close companions are several miles behind us on the road,’ Brynhild said. ‘We rode ahead to see if everything was safe for him to approach the city. Lucky for you we did, Gunderic.’
She smiled and winked at the new king of the Burgundars, who blushed.
‘Now our work is done here,’ Brynhild said. ‘And you have work to finish.’
She pointed her bloodied spear at the closed door of the church.
‘I think you can probably handle a priest and a handful of Romans without our help? Later tonight the wise king will arrive here. He has been with us some time and taught us many new and deadly arts of war. You will do well to give them hospitality. You will benefit much from an alliance with him.’
‘Stay,’ Gunhild urged her. ‘Let us talk, find out what each of us have been doing these years. We can be together again like in the days of our childhood.’
‘Those days are gone,’ Brynhild said, shaking her head. ‘And we must go too. I do not like to leave our realm unguarded for too long. But now I know you are here, perhaps we will see more of you in the future. For now: farewell.’
She kicked her heels against her horse’s flanks and rode off back towards the city gates. The other black-clad women followed her.
For a moment Gunderic, Gunhild and Sigurd watched them go, then they turned back towards the church.
Gunhild saw that the previous joyous expressions of the crowd were gone, replaced by anger and hatred. Shouts of ‘Get those Roman bastards!’, ‘Slaughter them!’ and ‘Vengeance for Vorbetomagus!’ echoed around the mob. It was as if Gunderic’s horn blast had unleashed a tide of boiling resentment that had been dammed up since the fall of their former homeland.
Sigurd, bloody sword still drawn, threw his considerable shoulder against the door of the church. It bucked and rattled on its hinges but it did not open.
‘They’ve barred it,’ the big man said, standing aside and nodding to some of the Burgundar warriors nearby. The young men charged forwards, smashing their shoulders against the church doors. The doors rattled but still held.
Then others brought benches from the feasting hall and the Burgundars began to use them as rams to batter the church doors. After three coordinated assaults the sharp sound of wood cracking came from inside, audible even above the baying cries of the mob in the square.
The Burgundar warriors slammed their shoulders into the door again. With a snap of splintering wood the church door sprang open, sending the warriors sprawling inside. Gunhild just had time to see the faces of the cavalry troopers, white with dread, before her view was blocked by the mass of bodies swarming into the entrance.
‘Let me through!’ Gunderic shouted, fighting to get to the front through the throng of his own people. Sigurd went before him, his great mass shoving people out of the way. Gunhild slipped in behind her brother and was swept along with the excited, bloodthirsty crowd as it gushed into the breached doorway.
Gunhild heard a frightened voice shouting ‘Pax! Pax!’ in Latin, then there were cries of anguish, rage and pain followed by a very sudden hush.
Sigurd, Gunderic and Gunhild struggled through the shattered doorway and to the front of the crowd beyond. The last of the cavalry troopers were now dead on the floor, overrun by the overwhelming numbers of the Burgundars. The bishop had retreated to the altar. He stood there, face aghast, arms held out before him as if to protect himself, even though the nearest potential attacker was the entire length of the aisle away. The scene was lit by the burning torches carried by the Burgundars, which somehow made it all the more lurid.
The Burgundars filed into the end of the church, forming a semi-circle inside the doorway. Gunhild felt a thrill of trepidation at the sight of the hacked corpses of the troopers. What had they done? In this sudden bloodletting they had killed Roman soldiers and a senior Roman official. The Empire would not stand for that. There would be retribution. The same thought appeared to be spreading through the crowds as they all stopped, not daring to advance any further into the church. Their noise and fury abated to a trepidation-filled muttering.
The bishop noticed the change and straightened up. He dropped his left arm and pointed at Gunderic with his right.
‘Sacrilege!’ Bishop Salonius said in a thunderous voice. ‘You have spilled blood in this holy place. You have defiled the house of the Lord with your treachery. God will punish you.’
He cast his gaze around the crowd at the far end of the aisle. Gunhild saw that his terror was gone. He now had the air of a priest filled with righteous fury and haranguing his sinful flock.
‘God will punish all of you!’ Salonius shouted. ‘Unless you turn on this treacherous maggot who calls himself your king. Rome will not stand for this. She will send her legions to crush you once again. You and your families will be slaughtered. Your souls will burn in Hell. Your only hope is to show you do not support him. I am a bishop of the Church. Heed my words! Turn on him and put that vile traitor Gunderic to death. Do this or you will all perish under the vengeance of Rome.’
No one moved. Gunderic looked around and saw a warrior standing nearby armed with a spear. He snatched it from his grasp.
The bishop’s mask of confidence dropped and his former terror returned.
‘Don’t!’ he cried. ‘I am a—’
Gunderic hurled the spear. It shot down the aisle and hit the bishop in the centre of his torso with a wet thump. The spearhead burst through his back and he staggered backwards, a red stain spreading rapidly around the shaft that protruded from his chest. The bishop collided with the altar and toppled back onto it. He let out one, rasping breath then lay still. His blood pooled across the flat stone top of the altar then began to dribble down the front, running down the cross that was painted on the stone.
‘You’re just another Roman bastard,’ Gunderic said.
As his words echoed around the lofty roof of the church a shocked silence descended.
Gunderic strode down the aisle. The only sound was the click of his boots on the flagstones. He wrenched the spear from the dead bishop’s body and held it aloft.
‘Rome and her cursed Hun allies took much from the Burgundar folk,’ he said. ‘Tonight, we have begun to take it back. We have a new land and on it we will live as free folk, not lapdogs of the Romans. We have only ourselves to rely on and that is how it should be. Yes, we are surrounded by enemies but we will withstand them because what happened to our people will never happen again. We cannot, we will not allow it to.’
The young warriors at the other end of the aisle nodded and muttered a few ‘Ayes’. Gunhild saw they were still a little half-hearted however.
‘Fear not Rome’s legions,’ Gunderic continued. ‘They are busy fighting for survival in Gaul. When – if – they turn on us we will be ready to stand against whatever is left of them. Rome is finished as a power. Now it is the time for free people like us to take what they can. To forge their own kingdoms. It will be a hard struggle, but tonight we took the first step. We have made it clear to Rome where we stand. We Burgundars have the heart and the spirit to make this land strong and now, we also have the wealth! I promise every warrior who fights for me new weapons, new mail and gold!’
The Burgundars cheered. This time they were more enthusiastic.
‘Now come: let us go back to the hall and finish our feast, for now we really have got something to celebrate,’ Gunderic said. ‘This is our first day of real freedom.’
The crowd filed outside once more. The dead Burgundars were carried away on wagons for their corpses to be tended to and prepared for a decent burial. The dead Romans were dumped in a heap for burning, all except the body of the bishop, which was left lying on top of the altar. It seemed everyone was too reluctant even to approach the dead holy man.
Back in the hall the feast resumed, though it was a much more subdued affair than before. Gunhild could feel the trepidation in the air. She, Gunderic, and her new husband sat at the top of the table. Gunderic laid the spear, still wet with the bishop’s blood, on the table before them and downed a goblet of wine. Sigurd did not say anything, he just laid a hand on top of Gunhild’s and beamed at those around them as if enormously pleased with himself.
Gunderic drank several more cups of wine. There was a strange, fixed grin on his face, more of a look of desperation than happiness. After he poured his next cup Gunhild took her hand away from Sigurd’s and laid it on her brother’s wrist, stopping him from raising his wine cup to his lips.
‘Well, brother,’ she said. ‘I am now married as you requested. And we have murdered our Roman benefactors in what appears very much like a pre-arranged ambush. You owe me an explanation. I want to know everything.’
Gunderic nodded.
‘Very well, sister,’ he said.