THEY DID NOT get far.
As they passed under the gallows that marked the boundary of the territory, Hagan caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye.
He turned his horse towards the right-hand side of the road where he had spotted the movement, ripping his Roman spatha from its sheath as he turned.
There was a man standing beside the road looking at them. Hagan blinked. He was sure the man had not been there moments before. It was like he had just appeared from nowhere.
The man was tall, thin and wore a long grey cloak that came down to his ankles. The woollen jerkin and breeches he wore beneath were plain but of good quality. He was past middle-aged, with very long grey hair and beard combed and braided. He stood upright as a statue. He had a wide-brimmed hat on, and one of his eyes – the right one – was covered by an eye patch of black material. The other one was a dazzling blue. Over his shoulder was slung a leather satchel that bulged in the middle.
He stared at Hagan with such Intensity that for a moment Hagan felt as if he were paralysed. He felt like the old man was glaring deep into his heart, probing for whatever secrets lay there.
With some effort Hagan looked away, noticing then that what he had thought was a walking staff, because of the way the old man held it, butt planted on the ground, was actually a spear.
There was something strange about the old man’s presence that unnerved Hagan. Was this a ghost, one of the earth-bound spirits set to guard the border of this new land of the Burgundars?
Of course not, he chided himself, noticing for the first time the drainage ditch that ran beside the road and the scrub bushes that covered the ground around it. The old man’s sudden appearance was down to concealment, not magic, the sort of skills he had learned himself as a Roman scout.
‘Who are you?’ he said. He tried to sound commanding though surprise and disconcertion made his throat feel dry and his tongue thick. ‘What do you want?’
‘You are the stranger here, my friend,’ the old man said. An enigmatic smile spread across his thin face. ‘I think it is for me to ask the questions.’
He spoke in Latin, like Hagan, however he had a slight accent that Hagan could not quite place. It was not Burgundar though it was not far from it. Perhaps from another Germanic tribe from somewhere more to the east.
‘But you are one old man,’ Hagan said, levelling the point of his sword at the stranger. ‘And there are two of us.’
The old man raised one eyebrow.
‘Are you sure about that?’ he said. ‘You ask me what I’m doing. Do you think I would not be chatting with my friends here?’
He flicked his eyes upwards to where the blackening corpses turned in the wind.
‘If you are,’ Hagan said, ‘I doubt it is much of a discussion.’
‘You would be surprised,’ the stranger said. ‘But what I was actually up to was out training some of the young lads of the warband. Perhaps they should say hello.’
He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. All of a sudden there was movement all around. Figures rose from the ditches, the bushes, clumps of long grass – any scrap of the terrain that could give any possible cover. There were about twenty of them, all in war gear. They had been concealed so well Hagan had had no idea they were there.
This did explain his earlier feeling of being watched, at least. They wore good mail with no holes in it. It was not rusted, but not polished to gleaming either. That was why no glint of metal had betrayed their presence. They had round shields and every one was painted with a raven.
Hagan’s heart soared at the sight of that picture. It was not a bear of the Dagelungs, his clan, nor a wolf, lightning symbol, Sun Wheel or an eagle, but it was painted in the traditional style of the Burgundars, a style he had not seen for fifteen or more years.
They bore spears that were all levelled over the top of their shields, every point directed towards Hagan and Zerco. They wore no helmets and he could see they were young men, between sixteen and nineteen winters old.
There was something else he noticed about them too. In his years in the Roman Army and afterwards Hagan had learned a lot about men in warbands. Many men donned armour and went into battle. Many had to. It was obligatory in return for the protection of a lord. Many joined the Roman Army too but even there, in an organisation whose very purpose was war, there were men who had no real will to kill their fellow men. They would scream war cries, take their place in a shield wall, and even strike at the men they met as opponents in battle. But they had no real will to kill their fellow men. They could cause injuries – even kill someone – but it was never really intentional. They delivered death by accident, and the memories of those deeds haunted them for the rest of their lives.
Then there were others – far fewer in number – who always struck to kill. Those who did not hesitate when an opening for their blade presented itself, and who afterwards did not lose a wink of sleep about the lives they had cut short. Hagan had learned they were the ones to look out for in the opposition. You could tell by their eyes: there was a strange, blank look in them, as if their lack of conscience was visible from the outside. In most shield walls, that sort of men was perhaps one in ten and he had learned fast, mostly through the tutelage of his centurions, that they were the ones you needed to kill first.
Looking at the young men around him now, and the cold eyes with which they watched him, Hagan realised with a chill that every one of them were killers. He could also see that none of their hair was shaved at the back, but grew out in long tails that touched their shoulders. If they were Burgundars this confirmed that they had all already taken another man’s life.
Hagan sheathed his sword and held both hands in the air.
‘I mean no harm,’ he said.
‘You wear Roman armour,’ the one-eyed stranger said. ‘Romans are not welcome here. Your little friend wears the armour of a Hun. Those folk are particularly unwelcome in this kingdom. This is a dangerous time, my friend. War is only a heartbeat away. We need to be careful of strangers sneaking into our land.’
‘We were not sneaking anywhere,’ Hagan said, using his native tongue instead of Latin, resentment making him straighten up in the saddle. ‘I am Hagan, son of Godegisil. I am a Burgundar of the Dagelung clan. I was at the fall of Vorbetomagus and was forced to join the Roman legions after that. I did not know my folk had survived that disaster. Then I was told the Burgundars had survived and this was their new kingdom. I have come to rejoin my own folk.’
No one moved. The spear points remained levelled in Hagan’s direction.
‘Interesting,’ the one-eyed old man said. ‘You speak the Burgundar tongue but with your short beard and armour you look like a Roman.’
‘I am a friend of Gunderic, who I am told is now king here,’ Hagan said. ‘We grew up together. My father was his father’s champion.’
‘Anyone can find out the name of our king,’ one of the young lads said. ‘How do we know you are a Burgundar and not a Roman?’
Hagan pulled off his helmet and tossed it on the ground.
‘You can’t,’ he said. ‘But if you kill us you will have to explain to your king – and his sister – why you put one of their oldest friends to death.’
His words did not have the effect Hagan hoped they would. The young men remained unmoved. They looked towards the old man with the one eye.
The one-eyed man in turn cocked his head to one side, regarding Hagan for what felt like a very long time. Once again Hagan felt the strange effect of the other’s intense gaze.
Hagan assessed his options. They were few so it did not take long. He was outnumbered twenty to one at least and he had little doubt that the warriors aiming their spears at him would not hesitate to launch them if given a reason. Trying to fight his way out would be suicide. He could spur his horse forward and try to escape but he was surrounded on both sides. He would not be fast enough to get beyond a spear cast and they could not all miss him. There was really only one viable option.
Hagan slid his sword back into its sheath and held his arms wide, palms outward, showing he held no other weapons.
‘I see you are no fool at least,’ the old man said. ‘Now perhaps we can begin our discussion again? You look like a Roman and you speak Latin, but you speak the Burgundar tongue and know a little about the Burgundars from the time before. That suggests you may be more friend than a foe. And I admit I am very curious to hear the story of your dwarf. First though I should make sure you are not here to cause mischief. Let us test your claims. We shall all go and meet the king and we shall see what he makes of you. Grani?’
‘Yes, lord?’ one of the warriors who looked a little older than the others responded.
‘I will take our friends here to Geneva,’ the one-eyed man said. ‘I’ll take eight of the lads with me – that should be enough to keep these two in line. You remain here to finish putting the rest of them through their paces. And keep an eye on this borderland. I want to know everyone who comes and goes.’
Hagan noticed Grani’s face fell.
‘But what about—’ he began to say.
‘War does not sleep,’ the old man cut him off. ‘War does not take a day off. If you want to defeat an enemy then attack him while he’s still asleep in bed. Attack him when he isn’t prepared. Attack him when he is celebrating his holy festivals. Now, I will take these two to see King Gunderic to see if we should hang them or not.’
The old man counted out eight of his warriors while the others approached Hagan and Zerco and took all their weapons away. Then the one-eyed man and his eight warriors jogged off across the fields. After a short wait in awkward silence – Hagan and Zerco and their captors all eyeing each other with mutual suspicion – they returned, mounted on horses that must have been concealed as well as they had previously been themselves. To Hagan’s surprise, he now saw that the old man’s feet were bare. The skin on his soles was tough and dirty, suggesting this was normal for him.
Then the old man, his eight warriors, Hagan and Zerco set off down the road. The one-eyed man rode in front, his shoulders slouching from side to side with the movement of the horse. Hagan and Zerco were a little way behind, surrounded by the Raven Warriors.
As they passed through the countryside Hagan tried to question the warriors, asking what clans they were from, who the old man was and if there was any news of other of his old friends and family from the previous time before the fall of Vorbetomagus. All his questions were met with stony silence, which puzzled Hagan.
‘If you young men are Burgundars then our folk have changed much while I’ve been away,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘We were always a sociable people, outgoing and welcoming to visitors. What way were you lads brought up that you are so silent and suspicious?’
Even these words provoked no response and Hagan resolved to stop wasting his breath.
As they travelled deeper into the kingdom, the countryside became less deserted and eerie. As they moved further from the borderlands the fields were cultivated. There were cows, sheep and horses roaming. Some hillsides were terraced and lined by rows of vines. They passed a settlement which was ringed with a ditch on top of which sat a palisade of stakes. He could see the roofs of buildings inside and above the gate fluttered a banner with a picture of the Sun Wheel on it, the emblem of the Solung clan.
At the sight of the flag Hagan felt a prick of excitement. Here was the first clear, recognisable sign that this was indeed a Burgundar kingdom. He longed to ride to the settlement and call out to those inside, to sing one of the old songs, but he knew the silent, deadly serious young men around him would brook no such action.
Hagan consoled himself that once he met Gunderic and Gunhild he would be rid of these warriors and everything would be right with the world once more. All he had to do was keep his temper until they reached Geneva, which, after all, was where they intended to go anyway.
Several times on the way Hagan tried to engage the old man in conversation. He was desperate to know as much as he could about this new land. The old man’s responses were terse, however, and he always ended any discussion almost as soon as it had begun, either by lapsing into silence or riding on ahead of Hagan.
They came to a small settlement on the shore of an enormous lake. The lake was quite easily the largest Hagan had ever seen. If it were not for the distant outlines of ragged mountains visible on the far side he would have sworn they had reached the sea.
As they rode through the village Hagan smiled at the locals. He did not know any of them but their faces looked somehow familiar. They smiled back but, Hagan noticed, they nodded to the warriors who accompanied him with obvious respect. At the sight of the strange old man, ‘respect’ was an understatement. The faces of the ordinary people lit up with joy. They grinned and waved at him, apparently desperate for any attention he might throw in their direction.
‘Blessings upon you, lord!’ one man called as they rode past. ‘Thank you for all that you do for us.’
The old man endured all this with a sort of bemused, tight-lipped smile on his face. He nodded and waved to those he passed but never stopped to speak.
Hagan also noticed the distinct signs of preparation for war. Thick smoke rose from the blacksmith’s forge and the sound of hammering came from within the round building. Men of fighting age sat outside their houses sharpening blades on whetstones. Some children were polishing their fathers’ mail shirts. A party of around ten young men, overseen by an older warrior, were practising shield wall manoeuvres in the middle of the village.
As well as that, a lot of people appeared to be preparing to make a journey. Men were filling leather travel bags and horses were being groomed. They all wore what looked like their best clothes, however, so wherever they were planning to go, it was not to war.
The old man led the way to a long, narrow boat with many rowing benches that bobbed on the water at the end of a wooden jetty. Hagan noticed that around them others were also preparing boats. There were men, women and children in them, all in their best clothes and chatting or laughing. There was a festive mood in the air. Some of the boats had already launched and were heading out into the lake.
Hagan’s company got into theirs and soon they were rowing their way along the lake. After a while the sail was hoisted and they picked up speed.
The weather was fine and if he had not been a prisoner Hagan would have found the trip pleasant. The sun sparkled on the water. Wind tugged at their hair as the boat scythed through the water. They passed other settlements on the lake shore and Hagan saw the banners of other Burgundar clans: the wolf of the Volsungs and the lightning symbol of the Leuhtungs. At these sights his heart soared. He really was back among his own people. He was home.
Home. Could he really call it that? His home had been Vorbetomagus. He had grown up among its forests and meadows. This was a different land altogether. A strange one. Then again, his father’s generation in turn had likewise called somewhere else, somewhere north of the Rhine, home. Perhaps home was were his people were, regardless of location.
The sun set but they sailed on. The moon rose to shed light on the lake and the lights of shoreline settlements showed them where they were. Across the water Hagan could pick out more lights: other boats on the lake, all sailing in the same direction as they were. The light-hearted, excited chatter of the folk on board the boats drifted across the water. All the while the strange old man with bare feet watched him and Zerco with his one eye, an expression on his face that suggested slight bemusement.
‘What is your name?’ Hagan said at length. ‘We’ve told you ours.’
‘I am known by many names,’ the old man said. ‘But here they call me Wodnas.’
‘You are not a Burgundar,’ Hagan said.
‘I am not,’ Wodnas said. ‘But I am a cousin. I came from the east. I lost my kingdom to the Huns, now I am here to ensure the same thing does not happen to King Gunderic.’
‘You know that the Huns are coming?’ Hagan said.
‘Eventually, yes,’ the old man said. ‘And I am helping Gunderic prepare for that day.’
‘I saw men in the village by the lake preparing for war,’ Hagan said. ‘But also it looks like a festival. Are we all sailing to a celebration?’
The old man did not reply.
‘You and your men don’t say much,’ Hagan said.
‘The tongue is the head’s bane,’ the old man said. ‘I teach all my warriors this: watch everything you say. Every word you speak to someone else will bring a reward or punishment in return.’
‘Evenings by the fire with your warband must be rather dour affairs,’ Hagan said. ‘Burgundars have always been sociable folk. This behaviour is not common to us.’
‘I have taught them to talk freely only with people you can trust,’ Wodnas said.
‘And I resent your lack of trust, friend,’ Hagan said. Frustration at the man’s unforthcoming stance was beginning to boil in his chest. ‘You will be sorry when King Gunderic finds out you’ve treated me this way.’
‘We shall see,’ Wodnas said. ‘The less you speak, the less you tell your enemies about your business.’
‘You said you were interested to hear Zerco’s story,’ Hagan said. It was the last tactic he had to try to force a conversation. ‘Yet you haven’t asked a thing about him this whole journey.’
For a moment the old man looked at him. Hagan could tell he was biting his tongue. He thought he was finally getting somewhere when Wodnas’ eye became hooded once more.
‘When we get to Geneva you will tell your whole story to the king,’ Wodnas said. ‘There is no need for me to listen to it twice.’
He got up and walked to the bow, signalling that the discussion was over.
‘And that’s that,’ Hagan said, looking at Wodnas’ scrawny back as he walked away from him. ‘Another talk done. It’s like trying to have a conversation with a ghost.’
Hagan noticed then that one of the young warriors stood beside him, listening. He looked a little older than the others and Hagan had noticed by the way he was treated by them he was some sort of leader, after Wodnas.
‘I assume he’s more talkative when instructing you young men in war?’ Hagan said.
For the first time on the journey, and much to Hagan’s surprise, the young man’s face lit up.
‘The Lord Wodnas is amazing,’ he said. ‘He knows so much. Not just about war but everything. He is so wise. When he looks at you, you feel like he is looking right into your soul and you feel like you are invincible. I’d fight the world for him. We all would.’
Hagan raised his eyebrows.
‘What is he? The War Leader or something?’
‘He is the Spirit,’ the youth said. ‘The Breath. He breaths fire and knowledge into all of us.’
Hagan now frowned, surprised that such strange, almost poetic words should come from someone so young and clad in the raiment of a warrior.
‘What’s your name, lad?’ Hagan said.
‘Gunfjaun,’ the warrior said.
The conversation ended there, however. The unemotional, guarded mask fell across the young man’s face once more. He clamped his lips shut then walked away.
Eventually the fires of what appeared to be a rather large settlement loomed ahead. From the direction of the prow it was obvious this was their destination.
A beacon fire burned at the end of a jetty which speared out into the lake from a large harbour thronged with many other boats. The fires spilled out beyond the harbour, showing that it was so packed others had had to beach their boats in the mud and reeds of the lake shore.
Wodnas steered their boat into the harbour. Hagan was surprised to see that there was one space at the packed jetty that no one had tied up at. Then he spotted a warrior in a dark cloak, minding the space.
‘This old man must be important,’ Zerco muttered to Hagan, ‘if he has his own mooring space in such a busy harbour. What do you think’s going on? Why all the crowds?’
Hagan just shrugged but there was something niggling away, deep in his mind; some buried memory that was trying to make itself heard.
Wodnas’ warriors tied up the boat and they disembarked. Surrounded by the ever-silent warriors, the old man, Hagan and Zerco plodded up to a wall that looked like it protected the settlement that stretched up the shore behind it. Torches burned atop it and Hagan could see warriors patrolling a platform atop the wall that allowed them to look out over the defences.
There was a large gate in the wall which was guarded by warriors as well. Just beside that was a gallows from which swayed four bodies. Gunfjaun exchanged a few words with the gate guards and they stepped aside to let the company enter.
‘Welcome to Geneva,’ Wodnas said and went in through the gate.
Hagan, Zerco and the accompanying warriors filed through behind him into the city. They entered a street that was bustling with people. Hagan noticed the same festive atmosphere he had detected in the settlement they had passed through earlier. Torches and braziers lit the night. The buildings were decked with greenery and flowers and the residents were well dressed and chattering in an excited way. People hugged each other as if being reunited after some time.
The paved street, clearly Roman, had fallen into disrepair but the cracks and potholes had been overlaid with a wooden walkway. As they strode up it Hagan could feel the excitement building in his own heart. The people they passed looked familiar. Not that he knew them personally, but the shapes of their faces, the clothes they wore, the tongue they spoke – all said he was among Burgundars. Many of them showed the same reverence towards Wodnas as in the village and Hagan began to wonder if the man was a bishop or other high-ranking churchman. Yet his thoughts were dwarfed by the emotions churning inside him. Soon he would meet his old friends. Who knew who else was here besides Gunderic and Gunhild? Perhaps more of their friends had survived?
At the same time he felt a tremor of unease. How would they feel about seeing him again? Gunhild especially. Would she even remember him?
Then Hagan saw something else to unsettle him.