IT WAS A church – or at least it had been one. It looked like any other Roman church: tall, oblong in shape, with large double doors at the entrance. Like any other church, above the door was a metal cross fixed to the wall. Except someone had changed this one. The two arms now bent downwards so it resembled an arrow instead of a cross.
Hagan’s time in the Army had lessened his religious convictions, however he still felt a little chill at seeing the holy symbol vandalised. It had been done deliberately, and the fact that the defaced cross was still on the wall said something as well.
Just past the church they entered into a wide square and right in the middle of it an enormous hall. Hagan’s mouth dropped open at the sight of it. Its style contrasted with most of the old, brick-built Roman buildings around it. It was long and narrow and at least two hundred paces long, with a roof that rose from not far off the ground at the sides to high overhead at the apex, giving it the look of a huge, upturned ship sitting in the middle of the city.
The roof was covered in shingles that were painted white and glittered in the firelight from ranks of torches set in brackets all around the square. One strange thing Hagan noted was that in the centre of that magnificent roof there appeared to be a gap, through which what looked very like the branches of a tree were poking out.
The square before the hall was slabbed with paving stones and there were lots of people milling around. As their little company pushed their way through the crowds Hagan could not help but note a large, flat rock, that reached to about waist height, right in the middle of the otherwise level square. It was covered in dark brown stains as if some sort of liquid had been splashed all over it and left to dry.
Warriors, their mail polished for show rather than the dull metal worn by the fighters they had met at the border, stood on guard all around. Hagan noted that unlike the strange raven device painted on the shields of the one-eyed man’s warriors, these warriors guarding the hall all bore an eagle on their shields: the emblem of the Nibelung clan.
Wodnas led the little company towards the gable wall of the hall where a set of stout wooden double doors, perhaps twice the height of a man, were flanked by a pair of wooden pillars. These held up a short canopy that formed a porch. The doors were covered with ornate carvings of heroes and beasts that twisted around each other in an intricate fashion. The carvings were painted in bright colours. The pillars were the same, some of the decoration even being picked out in shining silver and gold. The building was even more impressive than Gundahar’s hall had been at Vorbetomagus.
‘There is no shortage of wealth here,’ Zerco said from the corner of his mouth. ‘I believe we are in the right place.’
He licked his lips.
The guards at the door snapped to attention at the sight of Wodnas approaching. They raised their arms over their heads in a salute. Wodnas nodded then spoke a few quiet words to them that Hagan did not hear. There was a smaller door cut into the left main one and one of the warriors went inside through it. For long moments they stood waiting in the chilly night air, then the warrior returned.
‘Enter,’ he said, pulling the door wide.
Wodnas went in first, then Hagan and Zerco followed him. The young warriors followed behind.
The inside of the hall was as impressive as the outside and in contrast to the semi-darkness of the exterior was ablaze with light. Torches burned in brackets and oil lamps stood on tall stands. A long hearth ran up the middle of the floor, making the air warm and comfortable, while the smoke from the smouldering wood drifted off through openings in the roof so as not to clog the air.
The roof was held up by two rows of mighty pillars which, like the ones outside, were richly carved and painted with vivid colours. They were also decorated in places by gold and silver leaf which glittered in the torchlight. Long woven cloths hung upon the walls and across the pillars, and over them rode or ran figures from ancient legends: warriors, heroes and monsters. Unlike in the hall of Gundahar, where the tapestries had been ancient and faded, these were new and alive with many bright colours.
In the midst of the hall was indeed a stout, living tree that grew up from the floor. An opening had been created in the roof surrounding its trunk so it continued on above without letting rain or snow in.
The floor was not just packed dirt like in many similar halls; it was paved with countless tiny tiles. They too were many colours and had been arranged to create patterns and pictures in the manner Hagan had seen in great Roman houses and temples.
At the far end of the hall, beyond the hearth and facing north towards the doors, was a dais with three steps, and in the middle of the dais was a great gilded chair. Before it was a table around which a small band of people were gathered.
Despite the years that had passed, Hagan recognised Gunhild straight away. She was no longer the girl she had been when he had last seen her. She was now a mature, beautiful woman but she had the same mane of blonde hair, captivating smile and eyes that seemed to sparkle, even at a distance, enchanting all they fell upon to return their gaze in rapt adoration.
In the gilded chair was her brother. Gunderic too had matured. His torso had filled out and his face had started to resemble his father’s. He had a grizzled black beard now and the same aggressive glare that Gundahar had had, though Hagan knew this was more than partly due to the stern arch that by nature his eyebrows made.
Both Gunderic and his sister wore long black cloaks, both with the Nibelungs’ eagle embroidered in multi-coloured threads at their left shoulders.
Beside Gunhild was a giant of a man. Hagan knew this could only be the Volsung prince Aetius suspected of stealing the Roman treasure. He was young, handsome and at least a head and shoulders taller than Gundahar, who was a big enough man himself. Like Gunhild and Gunderic he wore a long black cloak, though his had a wolf embroidered on his left shoulder.
There were other men of varying ages at the table but Hagan did not recognise any of them. Hagan’s eyes were drawn towards a young woman who sat among them, a big black cat resting on her lap. It was not because she was one of the very few women there but because she was beautiful – as stunning as Gunhild but in a different way. The flash of her eyes as they regarded him, her fine features, and her evidently lithe body accentuated by her tight-fitting blue dress, made Hagan’s heart begin to beat faster.
Hagan wondered how Gunhild found having such a rival in her brother’s court.
Wodnas walked ahead, leading the way towards the table, his bare feet padding on the tiled floor and the butt of the spear he used as a walking staff clicking out every step. They had barely got halfway when Gunhild rose to her feet.
‘Hagan!’ she cried. ‘Gunderic, look!’
Hagan felt himself bursting into a grin. Joy surged in his heart and his eyes became clouded by tears. He realised how much he had missed his old friends, especially now all their other families were gone. Gunhild came rushing down the hall towards him and he ran towards her. He heard the warriors behind him move to stop him but Wodnas said, ‘This confirms what he claimed is true.’
Gunhild threw her arms around Hagan. Gunderic came jogging after her and soon all three of them were locked in an embrace.
‘I can’t believe it!’ Gunhild said, staring at Hagan as if he were a ghost. ‘After all these years you just turn up and walk in here?’
‘I didn’t know any other Burgundars had survived,’ Hagan said. ‘Beyond the ones I was with in the Army.’
Gunderic clapped him on the back.
‘Good to see you again, old friend,’ he said.
‘You too,’ Hagan said. ‘Or should I say “Lord King”?’
Both laughed, though Gunderic finished laughing before Hagan.
‘High One is fine,’ he said.
‘Who is this, my dear?’
Hagan looked around and saw the big young man had joined them. There was an expression on his face that suggested bemused annoyance.
‘This is Hagan, Sigurd,’ Gunhild said, still looking at Hagan as if she could not believe he was standing there. ‘Hagan, this is Sigurd of the Volsungs, my husband. Sigurd, Hagan is a very old friend.’
‘Just a friend?’ Sigurd said, a half-smile on his face that held no mirth.
‘Of course!’ Gunhild said. She dropped her arms away from Hagan. Her expression changed to one of consternation that assured her husband that a friend was all Hagan was and that was all he ever would be.
‘Sigurd is the new champion of our people,’ Gunhild said, ‘Just as your father was, Hagan.’
Hagan and Sigurd exchanged cool glances. Sigurd nodded and Hagan returned the gesture.
‘So you survived the Army?’ Gunderic said. ‘I heard the last Burgundars were wiped out by the Goths?’
‘I’m hard to kill,’ Hagan said.
‘And wait until you hear this, Hagan!’ Gunhild said. ‘Brynhild is still alive too! Soon we will all be back together again.’
‘Brynhild?’ Hagan’s jaw dropped. ‘I saw her die!’
‘She was only badly wounded,’ Gunderic said. ‘She recovered. She is a little… different now but still the same fiery Brynhild. Beautiful, too.’
‘Is she here?’ Hagan said, looking around.
Gunderic shook his head.
‘She rules her own realm high in the mountains,’ he said.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Hagan said.
‘Any more than we can believe you now stand among us, alive and well,’ Gunhild said, smiling. ‘And who is your little friend, Hagan?’
All eyes turned on Zerco.
Hagan opened his mouth to speak but then hesitated. What should he say? That a Roman general had asked him to bring this dwarf along as a spy? That he was here to try to find stolen treasure? What would his friends think of him then? Perhaps he should just come clean and tell them he had been sent here by Aetius. He would be alright – probably. Then Hagan regarded the suspicious looks of Sigurd and the old man and wondered if that really was the case. Even if Gunderic and Gunhild did protect him, what would happen to Zerco? The little man’s life had been miserable enough so far without Hagan now condemning him to a painful death.
‘I have heard the Burgundars hate the Huns,’ Zerco said while Hagan was still trying to decide what to say. To everyone’s surprise he spoke in the tongue of the Burgundars.
‘We do,’ Gunderic said. ‘They almost wiped our people out at Vorbetomagus.’
‘I too hate the Huns,’ Zerco said. ‘For four years I was slave to Bleda the Hun. He made me work as his jester. You want vengeance on them, right? You are going to fight them?’
‘Sooner or later, yes,’ Gunderic said, narrowing his eyes.
‘When that time comes I can be of service,’ Zerco said. ‘I lived right at the heart of their court. I know much about them. I know their plans. I know how they fight. I know Attila. Hagan here thought I might be useful to the Burgundars.’
‘In that case you are most welcome,’ Gunderic said. ‘What do we call you?’
‘Zerco, lord,’ the little man said.
‘Well, Zerco,’ Gunderic said, ‘Welcome to my kingdom. If you prove useful to us – and funny enough – perhaps someday you will be my personal jester.’
Hagan just caught the expression that crossed the little man’s face at Gunderic’s words. It was a mixture of rage and contempt that flickered like lightning across his visage before Zerco managed to switch it to an obsequious smile.
‘It would be an honour, Lord King,’ he said in his strange, lisping voice.
Hagan and Zerco exchanged looks. Both knew that they now shared a secret that would be dangerous for both of them if it became known to the others in the hall. Hagan wondered if he had in fact done the wrong thing in not telling the truth about Zerco. But then Zerco may have said things about him that would cause his friends to suspect him in turn. Had he brought a serpent into this new Eden of his people?
‘This is indeed a miracle,’ Hagan said. ‘So many of our folk died yet we three all survived. And Brynhild too! Thanks be to God!’
Hagan felt as if someone had opened the great doors of the hall, letting in an icy blast of wind from the mountains. All around glared at him, their expressions a mixture of consternation and surprise. No one spoke.
‘Have I said something wrong?’ he said, breaking the awkward silence.
‘We no longer honour the God of the Christians here,’ Gunderic said. ‘We have returned to the customs of our fathers and their fathers. We honour the Thunderer, the Lord Ingwass, Nerthus our mother the Earth and above all the Great God, Tiwass.’
‘The old war god?’ Hagan said, his voice a little breathless with trepidation. He may not have been the most fervent of believers, but twenty-one years of religious habit were hard to just slough off. An old, half-remembered fear stabbed at his heart as well. The conversion of the Burgundars to faith in Christ had not been bloodless. When he was nine years old, to deny Jesus could have resulted in decapitation.
Gunhild laid a hand on Hagan’s forearm. The expression on her face softened again.
‘You were not to know, Hagan,’ she said. ‘Much is different in the new Burgundar kingdom.’
‘As you shall see, old friend,’ Gunderic said, placing a hand on Hagan’s shoulder and steering him towards the table at the top of the room. ‘But some things have not. For now it is the second new moon past the winter solstice. Surely you have not forgotten what that means?’
Hagan’s jaw dropped open.
‘Of course! It’s the appointed time for the Great Thingwas of the Burgundars. That’s why all those folk are gathering here! How could I forget?’
‘It starts tonight,’ Gunderic said. ‘And you will see with your own eyes the greatness of our new nation. Come! You have much to tell us, and we have much to tell you.’