HAGAN SHRUGGED, SHOWING he had not understood.
‘What were you doing under that wagon?’ the Hun demanded, switching his tongue to that of the Ostrogoths. It was a language similar to Burgundar if with a strange accent.
‘I was bringing this Saxon witch to the Lord Attila,’ Hagan said, doing his best to imitate the lilting accent of the Ostrogoths. ‘But I thought I might enjoy her charms first.’
The Hun looked Freya up and down, a lascivious grin on his face.
‘I can’t say I blame you,’ he said. ‘She’s a fine piece. But you’d better hurry. The king has already started his consultation while you’ve been swiving under there.’
‘Where do we go?’ Hagan said.
‘Follow the noise,’ the Hun warrior said, pointing further into the camp.
Hagan and Freya hurried off. They crossed through lines of tents with men huddled around fires outside them. It was late but the Huns and their allies clearly had as much trouble sleeping as Hagan had. He had camped alongside Huns in the Roman Army and knew what to expect. It was not the wild, lawless chaos some Romans might believe a barbarian camp to be. There was a huge enclosure beside the river where the horses were penned. The Hun tents were round with conical tops rather than the rectangular ones of the Goths and the Romans. There were countless campfires with groups of people gathered around them, not just warriors but women and children too, as the Gepids, Ostrogoths, Alemanni and other Germanic allies had all brought their families with them. The men were busy checking equipment and war gear for the coming battle. As they passed by tents of Germanic warriors Hagan could not help but notice there was little difference between them and the men in the Alliance camp.
Hagan also noted there was none of the wild intoxication that often happened in Germanic tribal camps the night before a battle, where men and youths tried to quell the butterflies that crowded their stomach with strong wine and ale. Indeed, the Romans had been known to ‘accidentally’ let contingents of wine fall into the hands of enemies they were due to fight, so that the next day, when the tribesmen stumbled out of their tents, hungover and weak, they presented much less of a threat.
Attila had fought alongside Romans for many years and knew all this. He must have left strict orders there would be no carousing. When the morning came his warriors would be ready for war, not ready to throw up.
There was a commotion going on somewhere in the camp, however. There was a great blaze sending sparks and smoke roiling into the night sky from somewhere towards the centre of the camp. The sound of wild drumming and discordant flutes, along with high-pitched shrieking that could have been singing, reached their ears.
‘That sounds like where we need to be,’ Freya said.
Like in the Roman camp, the closer they got to the centre of the camp the larger the tents became. Those of Hun and Ostrogoth kings and nobles were pitched at the heart of the temporary settlement, well out of range of arrows shot from beyond the perimeter of wagons and buffered from any potential assault by the rows of tents of the lesser ranks around them.
Right in the centre of the camp was a clearing in which a huge bonfire blazed. The heat from it was oppressive and it drove winds that picked up dust and tugged at the hair of all near it.
A ring of people were gathered before the fire. Many Hun nobles and their allies watched a lurid scene unfolding before them.
A motley crowd of bedraggled men and women beat on goatskin drums and played on flutes. They were almost naked, their modesties just saved by scraps of ragged cloth. Their skins were slick with sweat in the firelight. They beat the drums in a wild, erratic rhythm, none of them in time or beat with any of the others, while the flutes sounded out jarring notes. It was a cacophony rather than any sort of tune.
Another group of women dressed in long dark robes shrieked and wailed. It was only because they did this in unison that Hagan could tell the racket they made was on purpose. They were Galdring, chanting the holy prayers that called down the powers of spirits and gods. Before all of them another band of women danced and swirled, trailing their arms and long hair as they spun in circles. Some were dressed in sparkling blue robes like Freya’s, some were in different dresses, but all carried some form of distaff in their hands. Hagan knew this meant they were Hel-Runae – witches who could speak to the spirits and divine the future.
A gory pile of butchered corpses lay on the ground. Three men and four women had suffered the threefold death: strangled, hit over the head and stabbed. Then their stomachs had been ripped open so their insides tumbled out. Several of the witches were now scrabbling around in the loops of white, blue and green guts, studying them with great interest.
All this was set against the garish flickering of the flames of the bonfire which somehow made the scene all the more like something from a nightmare.
There was a wooden platform erected before the fire. On it was a high seat with a canopy of silk above it. A short, barrel-chested Hun with an elongated skull sat there, watching the proceedings with interest. Unlike the other noblemen around him who were bedecked with jewellery, gold rings and armlets, he was dressed in simple clothes: a plain linen tunic, leather breeches and latched Scythian shoes. Nevertheless from the deference with which all others treated this man, and from the fact that he was the only person sitting, Hagan deduced this must be Attila himself.
A white banner hung from a pole behind the seat and as the wind caught it Hagan gave a start as he recognised the emblem on it. Just as Zerco had said, it was the same stylised bird as the one on his mother’s amulet.
Attila said something to a nobleman who stood nearby. With another start Hagan realised it was Ediko, the Hun emissary who had come to Gunderic’s court. Hagan stepped back a little, away from the firelight, in the slight chance Ediko might recognise him.
Ediko raised his horn to his lips and blew. The drumming, caterwauling and dancing came to a gradual stop. From the confused, blank or frightened expressions on many of the dancers and musicians, Hagan judged they were either very drunk or, more likely, under the influence of the herbal or mushroom concoction he knew the witches drank so they could see into the spirit world.
‘King Attila orders that you make your prophesies now,’ Ediko said in a loud voice, translating Attila’s words into that of the Goths. ‘Which of you has seen anything?’
‘Looks like I’m just in time,’ Freya said in a low voice to Hagan. ‘I’ve got to get out there.’
She pulled up her long hood then stumbled out into the cleared area into the crowd of magic women, as if she had spun into the crowd and was now returning. In the confusion of dancing shadows, the light of the great fire and the swaying movements of the witches and the musicians, Hagan could see how she might get away with not getting recognised. He just hoped no one had counted them.
Several of the women stood up and began spouting gibberish. Spittle flew from their mouths as they chanted in a tongue known only to themselves. Attila looked at Ediko who shrugged. The king frowned angrily.
‘I see blood and death!’ another witch howled. ‘The winds of doom will sweep these fields tomorrow. Warriors will battle warriors. Shields will be sundered. Helmets will be hacked. A tide of blood will be unleashed. Many will die. Wolves will feast on the corpses of thousands.’
Attila growled something to Ediko.
‘The king knows men will die,’ the nobleman said. ‘He wants to know who will win the battle.’
‘That I cannot see, lord,’ the witch said.
‘What about you?’ Ediko pointed to another hellrūne. ‘Can you see who will have victory tomorrow?’
The woman shook her head and scurried away.
‘The future is murky, lords,’ another witch cried. ‘The Dísir and the land spirits do not want to speak tonight.’
‘You’ve all been well paid already! Surely someone must be able to see something?’ Ediko shouted. ‘This had better not be a ruse to get more silver.’
‘Lord, I can see one thing,’ another of the witches said. She was pointing at one of the piles of human entrails. ‘In the liver of this one. It tells me that the leader of the enemy will be killed in the battle tomorrow.’
Those who understood the German tongue all cheered. Ediko translated for Attila and his straggling black beard, flecked with grey, split in a broad grin. The other witches all nodded and smiled, eager to show they now saw the same thing.
‘I too see something, lord!’
Hagan stiffened. This time it was Freya who spoke.
‘You will not win victory tomorrow,’ she said.
Silence descended all around. In moments all that could be heard was the crackling of the fire. Attila’s grin became fixed as all eyes turned to him.
For a moment the king looked back at them all. Hagan could feel the strength of the man’s presence and the power of his will. It was like they were all captive to him. Then he spoke. His words were a short, staccato burst in the tongue of the Huns. The Hun noblemen who stood around the fire cheered once more.
‘We still fight tomorrow, the king says,’ Ediko said for the benefit of those who spoke the Germanic tongues. ‘Who knows if the prophesies of witches are to be believed or not? But if they are, the death of Aetius is victory enough for me. For he stands in the way of all our plans. However, think about this, King Attila says: why would Fortune have made the Huns victorious over so many of the nations of the world if she were to turn against him now? No! Tomorrow will bring us victory.’
The Goth, Alemanni and Gepid noblemen cheered then, though their cries were nowhere near as lusty as those of the Huns. Yet Hagan noticed the way Attila’s eyes flicked around the crowd. Perhaps it was his own wishful thinking but the Hun King looked unnerved.
Hagan felt someone touch his arm and he turned to see Freya beside him. Somehow she had slipped away from the other witches again while all attention was on Attila.
‘We had better go,’ she said in a low whisper. ‘I think we’ve tried our luck to breaking point already.’