Maroboodus: A Novel of Germania (The Goth Chronicles Book 1) by Alaric Longward Page B

side, or at least behind your back, even when you are mulish and stupid. I’ve not been happy these last years, but you have been my friend. I’ll always help you. So I swear.’
    I smiled at him thinly and nodded in thanks. I was selfish. ‘Not happy?’
    He sighed. ‘I’ve endured Erse’s smiles at—‘
    ‘You like Erse?’ I asked with a surprised laugh. ‘Does she like you?’
    ‘She liked my voice,’ he said stiffly. ‘But thinks I’m not really a prospect.’ He looked very unhappy and I clapped a hand on his shoulder.
    ‘She will,’ I said weakly, not sure she would.
    ‘She won’t,’ he whispered. ‘I’m no fool. They gave me a shield and a spear, but she is after something else. Perhaps someone high? But I will try.’
    I shook my head. ‘I’ve thought about her, but now—‘
    ‘I know! You’re not that high! She liked them older.’
    ‘Father?’ I said.
    ‘Shut up!’ he hissed, too loud and looked down as the others glanced at him. He looked stricken and I felt sorry for him. Perhaps he was right. Erse was a great mystery, but she did like Father.
    I decided to humor my miserable friend. ‘So, you know the spell-songs of the gods, then? What galdr do you know, Aldbert?’
    ‘Woden knows songs against biting—‘
    ‘Biting? I’m not going to fight a horse. Or a woman,’ I told him with a laugh.
    ‘Fight?’ he said with worry. ‘So, you will make trouble.’
    ‘Only if trouble finds me,’ I said darkly. ‘I heard Father, but I’ll not budge. I will not kiss his ass. Maino’s. Father’s.’
    ‘If you need galdr to fight Maino, best not fight at all. I have no guards against spears and swords, though yes, perhaps one against biting. I only know one useful that is not meant for battle, really. Perhaps it’s only good to avoid battle?’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘I can speak with the dead,’ he said with a pale face.
    ‘Damned liar,’ I said. ‘You cannot walk straight and you can speak with the dead?’ I laughed, but still felt cold claws of terror rake my back. ‘You shouldn’t speak like that.’
    He was silent, then humming uncertainly and I wondered if he was to try to do his galdr-song right there, but then he spoke. ‘Meet me in the woods this night. There is a copse of oak near the hall, holy and ancient, said to be devoted to Freya, the Red Lady, goddess of wisdom and war and from her, I shall find guidance.’
    ‘On what, exactly?’
    He nodded at Hulderic. ‘On if he is right. Let the dead tell you what you should do, friend, and I’ll help you endure.’
    I didn’t agree. But I knew I’d not be able to resist.
     
     

CHAPTER 4
     
    H ulderic and his men enjoyed a small, intimate feast. There was convivial chatter in the smoky, dark wooded hall of Birmhelm, where a near deaf Goth with two pretty daughters, served us smoked bass with greasy gruel, and famous ale brewed by some secret old recipe, something the old man had been perfecting since he was beardless. It was an excellent drink, with a thick wheat taste, and always left you yearning for more, and Birmhelm was not a rapacious host and shared the drink willingly. The man’s hair was white and long, and it brushed his plate as he leaned forward to hear what Father was telling him in a low voice, apparently scheming and gathering allies for possibility of war as Birmhelm sent a man out with a message. Another man, perhaps Birmhelm’s son, a large, fat man with a savagely scarred face kept nodding at Father’s words. Dubbe was dozing on a bench, Sigmundr and Harmod were sharpening their axes by a small workspace in the corner and mostly it was a very homelike place and strangely comforting.
    The shingles sputtered angrily set in some trunks by the fireplace and I waited for Aldbert to get up. Mostly, he just slurped on the ale, and seemed to be muttering to himself, and I realized he expected to perform his poem for Friednot, or a song and it would be requested during the Thing, or before the