THEY RODE UNTIL dawn, meaning to get as far away from Attila’s palace as they could, just in case there was anyone with still enough reason to start searching for them. By day they built shelters of sticks and moss and took turns at watch while the others slept. So they carried on, travelling hard by night and living off the land for the rest of the journey to the border of the Hun realms. Once they crossed the Danube and into the devastated borderlands, they felt more comfortable about slackening the pace and reverting to riding by daylight.
As the days turned to weeks Hagan began to feel sadness creeping back into his heart. The band of friends who had grown up together was now well and truly gone. His entire clan was gone. Over the course of the journey he had enjoyed the camaraderie of being with the other warriors and even Zerco, however he knew that time too would come to an end soon.
When they got to the deserted city of Naissus with its haunting field of bones he knew that time had come. It was the last point on the journey where they could split. The Burgundars, heading for Geneva, would go west. He would go south to return to Ravenna.
They camped outside the city. The company of hardened warriors reasoned that there was a chance of contracting plague from the corpses of those sick people in the church inside the walls, though everyone knew it was actually the dread of what ghosts might haunt the creepy ruins of that sacked town that kept them outside.
After darkness fell they ate and sat around the campfire. As he was accustomed to do, Wodnas announced he had some thinking to do and wandered a little way off and sat down just beyond the ring of light from the fire.
After a time Hagan got up and walked over to where Wodnas sat. The old man sat cross-legged with his leather satchel on his lap, staring down into it. At the sight of Hagan approaching he pulled the top of the bag closed.
‘I came to say goodbye,’ Hagan said. ‘Tomorrow we must part ways. Before we do however, I’d like to ask a question.’
‘Go ahead,’ Wodnas said.
‘What’s in the bag?’ Hagan said, pointing to Wodnas’ satchel.
The old man smiled his enigmatic smile.
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Yes,’ said Hagan.
Wodnas flipped the top of the satchel back open.
It was hard to see in the gloom and Hagan squinted but when he made out what was inside he stiffened and grimaced. It was a human head. The head was desiccated, its skin dark, wizened and tanned like leather. The black hair was dry like straw and tied in a knot. The eyelids were sewn shut with what looked like string. The mouth was slightly open, revealing a shrivelled tongue and small, yellow teeth.
‘His name was Mimir,’ Wodnas said. ‘He was my older friend. One of the wisest men I ever met. He helped me rule my old kingdom long ago. We used to talk long into the night, discussing issues, making plans, arguing sometimes. I was king but I really used to enjoy our talks. He was the only person I ever felt I could talk to as an equal. He helped me make all my most important decisions. Once I wanted to take my kingdom to war with another people called the Vanir. They were great fighters and Mimir advised against it. But I insisted. The war was a stalemate. We couldn’t beat them and they couldn’t beat us. So we arranged a settlement. To keep the peace we exchanged hostages – that old fellow Kvasir you met in Geneva was the one the Vanir sent to us. We sent Mimir to the Vanir. The truce was breached, however. The Vanir suspected treachery on my part and they beheaded Mimir. They sent me his head in a bucket.’
‘Were they right?’ Hagan said. ‘Were you going to break the truce?’
‘I preserved the head with herbs and other techniques,’ Wodnas said, ignoring the question. ‘And I keep it with me. Whenever I need to think about something I talk to it. It helps me come to what is hopefully the right decision.’
‘It doesn’t really answer, does it?’ Hagan said, frowning. ‘You’re really talking to yourself.’
‘When you get to my age,’ Wodnas said with a sardonic grunt, ‘that can sometimes be the only way to get a decent conversation. So you have chosen not to return home? You are going back to Aetius?’
‘Home?’ Hagan said. ‘Geneva is not really my home. My home was Vorbetomagus. That is where I grew up. It’s gone now, along with all the folk I knew.’
‘Vorbetomagus was not your mother’s or father’s home,’ Wodnas said. ‘The Burgundars have called many places home in their wanderings over the last couple of centuries since they left that cold island in the distant north that was their original home. Sometimes home is just wherever you feel most at home.’
‘What about your home?’ Hagan said. ‘Is that Geneva now?’
‘I am a wanderer, like you,’ Wodnas said. ‘I have called many places home. I think the time is approaching when I shall be moving on again. I feel drawn towards the northern realms of the world.’
Hagan thought for a moment. He realised the old man was just as alone in the world as he was.
‘If you’re going north you had better have this,’ he said, passing the Sword of the War God to Wodnas. ‘You said all you wanted was to get your sword back.’
The old man looked up at him.
‘I am not going north yet,’ he said. ‘I still have work to do in Geneva. As do you, which is why I am surprised that you say you are here now to say goodbye.’
‘What do you mean?’ Hagan said.
‘The king of the Burgundars is dead. As is his sister. As is Sigurd, the man he named as successor,’ Wodnas said. ‘You heard what Gunhild said. You are the late king’s half-brother. You are next in line to the throne.’
‘Me?’ Hagan started.
‘Yes, you,’ Wodnas said. ‘Why not you? You have as much right as anyone to the Kin Helm.’
‘The folk would never have me as their king,’ Hagan said. ‘I am still a stranger to them.’
‘They will if I tell them I support you,’ Wodnas said. He stood up and laid his free hand on Hagan’s shoulder. He fixed him with the gaze of his one, mesmerising eye. ‘Hagan, you saw the chaos and bloodshed that erupted when Attila died with no clear successor. Do you want that to happen to the Burgundars?’
Hagan shook his head.
‘The one way to avoid that is for you to take over straight away,’ Wodnas said. ‘The Three Great Women who control our fates have woven you into this position here and now. You don’t have to do it. We all have free will. But there was a reason they put you in this place and this time. Think about it.’
Hagan heaved a heavy sigh. He thought of Gunhild, Gunderic, Brynhild, his mother, his father – both Godegisil and Gundahar. Were their spirits watching him from above or had they just ceased to be, their lives snuffed out like a candle and their mortal remains now nothing more than cold meat for worms?
‘Do you think there is an afterlife, Wodnas?’ he said. ‘Does anything survive of us after we die?’
The old man smiled and tapped the side of his nose.
‘The answer is yes, Hagan,’ he said. ‘Everyone dies. You and I will die. All our friends and everyone we know will die. But there is one thing that lives on when we are gone: the reputation we leave behind us. It is the deeds we do and the choices we make in life that determine what people continue to say about us when we are gone. Will they still tell tales of us a thousand years after we are gone? That depends on what we do now.’
He began walking back to the campfire.
‘Come on,’ the old man said over his shoulder. ‘We have an early start in the morning. And let me hear no more of goodbye.’