Poul Anderson - The Sorrow of Odin the Goth

“You have worn yourself out for us,” Hathawulf said to him at the end of his last stay in the hall. “If you are of the Anses, then they are not tireless.”

“No,” sighed the Wanderer. “They too shall perish in the wreck of the world.”

“But that is far off in time, surely.”

“World after world has gone down in ruin erenow, my son, and will in the years and thousands of years to come. I have done for you what I was able.”

Hathawulf’s wife Anslaug entered, to say her own farewell. At her breast she suckled their first-born. The Wanderer gazed long upon the babe. “There lies tomorrow,” he whispered. Nobody understood what he meant. Soon he was walking off, he and his spear-staff, down a road where lately fallen leaves flew on a chill blast.

And soon after that, the terrible news came to Heorot.

Ermanaric the king had given out that he intended a foray into Hunland. This would not be an outright war, such as had failed before. Hence he did not call up a levy, but only his full troop of guards, several hundred warriors well-known and faithful to him. The Huns had been wasting the borders again. He would punish them. A swift, hard strike should at the least kill off many of their cattle. With luck, it might surprise a camp or three of theirs. Goths nodded when that word reached their steadings. Fatten ravens in the East, and the filthy landloupers of the steppe might slouch back to wherever their forebears had spawned them.

But when his troop had gathered, Ermanaric did not lead it so far. Suddenly, there it was at Randwar’s hall, while the homes of Randwar’s friends stood afire from horizon to horizon.

Scant was the fighting, as great a strength as the king had brought against an unwarned young man. Shoved along, hands tied behind his back, Randwar stumbled forth into his courtyard. Blood trickled and clotted over his scalp. He had killed three of those who set on him, but their orders were to take him alive, and they wielded clubs and spearbutts until he sank.

This was a bleak evening, where wind shrilled. Tatters of smoke mingled with scudding wrack. Sunset smoldered. A few slain defenders sprawled on the cobbles. Swanhild stood dumb in the grip of two warriors, near Ermanaric on his horse. It was as if she did not understand what had happened, as if nothing was real save the child that bulged her belly.

The king’s men brought Randwar before him. He peered downward at the prisoner. “Well,” he greeted, “what have to say for yourself?”

Randwar spoke thickly, though he held his battered head aloft: “That I did not fall by stealth on one who had done me no wrong.”

“Well, now.” Ermanaric’s fingers combed a beard turning white. “Well, now. Is it right to plot against your lord? Is it right to slink about heelbiting?”

“I… did none of that.… I would but ward the honor and freedom… of the Goths—” Rand-war’s dried throat could get no more out.

“Traitor!” screamed Ermanaric, and launched into a long tirade. Randwar stood, hunched, belike not hearing much of it.

When he saw that, Ermanaric stopped. “Enough,” he said. “Hang him by the neck and leave him for the crows, like any thief.”

Swanhild shrieked and struggled. Randwar threw her a blurred look before he turned it on the king and answered, “If you hang me, I go to Wodan my forefather. He… will avenge—”

Ermanaric shot forth a foot and kicked Randwar in the mouth. “Up with him!”

A haylift beam jutted from a barn. Men had already thrown a rope over it. They put the noose about Randwar’s neck, hauled him aloft, and made the rope fast. He struggled long before he swung free in the wind.

“Yes, the Wanderer will have you, Ermanaric!” Swanhild yelled. “I lay the widow’s curse on you, murderer, and I call Wodan against you! Wanderer, lead him down to the coldest cave in hell!”

Greutungs shuddered, drew signs or clutched at talismans. Ermanaric himself showed unease. Sibicho, perched on horseback beside him, yelped: “She calls on her witchy ancestor? Suffer her not to live! Let earth purify itself of that blood she bears!”

“Aye,” Ermanaric said in an uprush of will. He rapped forth his command.

Fear more than aught else gave haste to the men. Those who had held Swanhild cuffed her till she staggered, and booted her out into the middle of the yard. She lay stunned on the stones. Riders crowded around, forcing their horses, which neighed and reared. When they withdrew, nothing was left but red mush and white splinters. Night fell. Ermanaric led his troop into Rand-war’s hall for a victory feast. In the morning they found the treasure and took it back with them. The rope creaked where Randwar swung above that which had been Swanhild.

Such was the news that men bore to Heorot. They had hastily buried the dead. Most dared do no more than that, but a few Greutungs felt vengeful, as did all Teurings.

Rage and grief overwhelmed the brothers of Swanhild. Ulrica was colder, locked into herself. Yet when they wondered what they could do, even though tribesmen of theirs had swarmed to them from widely about… she drew her sons aside, and they talked until the restless darkness fell.

Those three entered the hall. They said they had decided. Best to strike back at once. True, the king would be wary of that, and keep his guard on hand for a while. However, by the accounts of witnesses who had seen it ride past, it was hardly larger than the band which crowded this building tonight. A surprise onslaught by brave men could vanquish it. To wait would give Ermanaric time he needed and was doubtless counting on—time to crush every last East Goth who would be free.

Men bellowed their willingness. Young Alawin joined them. But suddenly the door opened, and there was the Wanderer. Sternly, he bade Tharasmund’s last-born son abide here, before he went back into the night and the wind.

Undaunted, Hathawulf, Solbern, and their men rode forth at dawn.

I had fled home to Laurie. But next day, when I let myself into our place after a long walk, she was not waiting. Instead, Manse Everard rose from my armchair. His pipe had made the air hazed and acrid.

“Huh?” I could only exclaim.

He stalked close. I felt his footfalls. As tall as I and heavier-boned, he seemed to loom. His face was expressionless. The window at his back framed him in sky.

“Laurie’s okay,” he said like a machine. “I asked her to absent herself. This’ll be plenty rough on you without watching her get shocked and hurt.”

He took my elbow. “Sit down, Carl. You’ve been through the wringer, plain to see. Figured you’d take a vacation, did you?”

I slumped into my seat and stared down at the rug. “Got to,” I mumbled. “Oh, I’ll make sure of any loose ends, but first—God, it’s been ghastly—”

“No.”

“What?” I lifted my gaze. He stood above me, feet apart, fists on hips, overshadowing. “I tell you, I can’t.”

“Can and will,” he growled. “You’ll come back with me to base. Right away. You’ve had a night’s sleep. Well, that’s all you’ll get till this is over. No tranquilizers, either. You’ll have to feel everything to the hilt as it happens. You’ll need full alertness. Besides, there’s nothing like pain for driving a lesson in permanently. Most important, maybe—if you don’t let that pain go through you, the way nature intended, you’ll never really be rid of it. You’ll be a haunted man. The Patrol deserves better. So does Laurie. And even you yourself.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked while the horror rose in a tide around me.

“You’ve got to finish the business you started. The sooner the better, for you above all. What kind of vacation could you have if you knew that duty lay ahead? It’d destroy you. No, do the job at once, get it behind you on your world line; then you can rest and start recovering.”