Two days had passed since Malthe assumed the crown of all Juteland. Conall was starting to think the new King had forgotten him. As Champion, he’d expected to be standing behind the King’s chair at all times, hand on his sword hilt as a latent threat to any who intended mischief. The position of Champion was another difference between the two races, and it confused him. What was the point of having a Champion who did nothing except sit at the top of longhouse steps feeling ignored and maybe a little slighted?
Accept your lot and move on, he thought, realizing his new reality was that there was nothing he could do to change it. He’d sworn a blood oath and was bound to Malthe’s whim because of it. Nothing would be gained by regret, either. Considering the oath’s consequences was something he should have done before he slashed his hand and gripped Malthe’s bloody palm with it. Thought of the gash caused his palm to sting as if his brain needed reminding of the self-inflicted wound.
Flapping it ineffectively, he thought about Skadi and Mikkel. During the last two days, he’d seen nothing of them. When he awoke, they were away—fishing in their small boat or hunting in the forests, doing whatever farmers needed to do that was out of sight of the farm. By the time they returned each night, Conall was already asleep. He wondered if Skadi was purposefully avoiding him and, sitting on the top step of her longhouse just before twilight, decided that she was.
But why?
He was a vastly experienced and competent warrior and woefully inadequate regarding women. Throughout his summers as an adult, most thought he pitched his tent on the other side of the palisade. The truth was, he had lacked feelings about love and sex or men and women. Back then, there was no tent or palisade to choose on which side to pitch it. Now, there seemed to be a very large tent indeed, and it was scaring him. Bowing, he spat between his feet and wondered what to do.
Should I talk to Skadi about my feelings when she returns tonight? Just the thought of talking to her made his gut flutter even faster. Tuatha take this feebleness. He was acting like a beardless boy and powerless to do anything about it.
“The King demands your presence in the mead hall, Lord,” broke into his thoughts.
Demands, does he? I suppose it is his right.
Lifting his head, he regarded the messenger. He thought about asking why the message had taken so long, as if the lad before him had taken two days to walk from the mead hall to Skadi’s steading. Instead, he climbed to his feet with a sigh and followed the boy into Lindholm.
He found Malthe sitting on his chair in the center of the dais. Seemingly, the King had ordered all other furniture on the dais removed except for a smaller chair beside him where his wife was sitting, staring off into the rafters as if bored by the mead hall business. At least—judging by the way she greeted him when they arrived—Conall supposed the woman was the King’s wife. They were yet to be introduced, which some would consider an unforgivable oversight.
“Conall. Conall. Skadi is treating you well?” Malthe said, standing and hugging him as he arrived at the dais.
He was going to say she wasn’t treating him in any way but thought better of it and said, “I hardly see her from one day to the next.”
“I am sorry,” Malthe said, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I have been remiss in leaving you so long. I had a messenger from the south, and we—the jarls and I—have been discussing what to do.”
“From the south, Lord?”
“Ya. From the Angles, Cimbri, and Tuetons. The Romans have crossed the Rín in force, and an alliance is forming to fight them.”
“I’m not sure I follow, Lord. How does the Romans crossing the Rín impact us? The river is, what, two hundred leagues from here?”
“Ya. At least. However, there needs to be an alliance if we are to stop the invasions. Otherwise, the Romans will do to us what they did to the Gauls. They will destroy us one clan at a time. We would be foolish to think they would conquer the clans in Southern Germania and then stop. They will continue until there is no one left to conquer. Their soldiers have built a summer fort deep in the lands of the Cherusci. We have allied to go and aid that clan in their struggles.” Conall watched the new King and wondered what was the true force behind him sending an army in aid of a distant people. His reasoning appeared to be less than the whole truth, which Conall again considered a privilege of kingship.
“And who will protect your lands when you’re gone?”
“When we are gone, Conall? You will be coming with me.”
“Sorry, I meant to say when we are gone.”
“Most of our warriors will stay here, of course. The Southern clans have only paid for a small army.”
Ah. It is gold or silver—or maybe grain—the real motive.
“Will Jarl Sigmund be joining us?”
“Alas, no. Sigmund is too ignorant to understand the depth of the problem.”
Or perhaps he’s waiting for you to leave.
“So, what will stop him from stealing your crown?”
“The Queen will rule, and Skadi will protect her.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Conall frowned. He was unsure whether leaving Jarl Sigmund in Juteland was the wisest course Malthe had ever followed. He knew nothing about the Queen but was sure Skadi was a capable warrior. That said, he was not as confident in her ability to protect the Queen without Malthe. Being a good Champion required training and experience, and Skadi was too young. She’d admitted that brute strength won her the position, not subtlety.
“You seem less than convinced, Conall,” Malthe said. “Speak your mind.”
Judging by the look she leveled at him, Conall did not impress the woman beside the new King. He thought he might now see why Malthe hadn’t introduced them. It seemed apparent to him that words had passed between them in privacy—probably words about his foreignness. At least something that she considered made him unworthy. As well as revealing her feelings, the expression on the Queen’s face convinced him that he should keep his own counsel. He didn’t want to make an enemy of the King as well as his wife.
Or is there something else in it? Something I’m not seeing.
Malthe didn’t seem to notice the woman’s discomfiture, so maybe Conall was imagining it. It would not be the first time he’d seen something that wasn’t there. Or—when he thought about it—not seen something that was there.
“I’m here to serve, Lord,” he said. The woman turned away, apparently satisfied.
“Good. Be at the ferry on the east of the settlement at first light. We have a long march ahead.”
***
After the night’s darkness had fled and the sun had not yet risen, the predawn fjord was an eerie mixture of blacks and greys. A mist was crawling on the surface, making Conall feel like he was in a shadow world waiting to cross the water into Tír na nÓg or, more likely, Tech Duinn. Over the lapping of the surf, he could hear the mustering beside the ferry on Lindholm’s eastern shore: the clopping of hooves as warriors guided their horses onto the ferry’s deck, the banter exchanged between the warriors as they prepared, the shouted orders of the ferryman.
Conall topped the rise and saw the organized chaos on the pier where they were loading under Malthe’s supervision. The ferry was on a pulley with two boats. The boat on the opposite shore, just visible in the predawn light, was already unloading, and he thought he might be late. If he were, Malthe did not mention it as he clapped Conall on the back and asked if he could feel the excitement. With mention of it, the excitement became palpable, like the buzzing of an unseen hornet’s nest. The warriors preparing to depart were like children preparing corn dolls for the Samhain festival.
Nodding, he looked for Skadi, but there was no sign of her. When he gazed over the fjord, he saw the silhouette of a sail and knew she had risen before him.
His heart skipped.
What is wrong with you, bundún?
He was meant to be an unbeatable warrior, Conall of the Victories. Yet, his gut fluttered over having missed a girl. He also did not understand the anger he felt when she went fishing without first saying goodbye. She must know that they would be riding south this day—and that he might not return. As King’s Champion, Conall would defend Malthe to the death if needed. If the Romans were as fearsome as their reputation implied, there was every chance that none of them would return from Germania. But then, why would Skadi care? They had just met, and he was sure his feelings were unrequited.
“We are fifty,” Malthe said as he dragged him to the pier, “so it will take time to cross. Each boat carries ten horses and their riders…”
Conall stopped listening, wondering why the King felt the need to explain the logistics of the crossing. When they arrived on the pier, and Malthe put his hands behind his back while staring at Lindholm with a frown, Conall thought he knew. Despite all his professed confidence in Skadi the previous day, Malthe was nervous about leaving his kingdom so soon after assuming the crown. Or, more probably, anxious about what Sigmund might do while he was gone.
“Yulia will manage,” Malthe said so quietly that Conall only just heard him.
“Who is Yulia?” Conall asked.
“Yulia? Did I not say? Yulia is my wife, the Queen.”
“Oh.”
“It will take us ten days to get there, so summer will be ending when we arrive…” the King continued voicing the logistics aloud. Conall suspected he was trying to work out how long they would be away, which Malthe confirmed by saying, “The messenger said the Romans always withdraw in the autumn, so there won’t be much time for the decisive battle.”
“Decisive battle?” Conall asked as he followed the King onto the ferry’s deck.
“Ya. The Cherusci have a spy in the Roman camp, and he is convinced that if they suffered a major defeat, they would not come back.”
“And how will we force a major defeat?”
Malthe did not respond immediately but continued frowning at Lindholm. Finally, he turned to Conall and said, “Because of an uprising in the south—Illyria—there are only three legions left in Cherusci lands. With auxiliaries, they are about twenty thousand men. Behind the walls of their summer camp, they are invincible, but if we get them into the forest, then who knows.”
A horn sounded from the other bank, and Malthe waved in acknowledgment. Conall felt himself wobble as the boat began to move across the water, and he grabbed the saddle of the nearest horse to steady himself.
“Need to find my sea legs again,” he told Adelbjørn, the warrior behind him.
The warrior ignored him, staring at something across the water. Looking where the other was, Conall saw the other ferry moving towards them, which was now empty except for the ferryman.
I was only trying to be friendly.
“So, how do we get them out of the camp?” he continued his conversation with the King.
“A Cherusci chief called Herman has devised a plan. The Cimbri, Teutons, and Angles believe it will work—did you know the Cimbri and Teutons fought a war against the Romans about a hundred summers ago?” Conall shook his head. “United, they did well—conquering many of Rome’s allies, but there was some disagreement, and they separated. Divided, the Romans defeated them with ease. That division, or more accurately, what that division caused, is why the clans are so strongly in favor of an alliance. Together, we stand a chance.”
“You still haven’t told me how we will get the Romans into the forest.”
Malthe shrugged and said, “The plan is in the hands of this chieftain called Herman. We will follow orders and hope he knows what he is doing.”
Conall shook his head and watched the empty ferry as it passed them. Again, the Juti were surprising him. Despite their quiet tones, he could hear the excitement in the talk of the warriors on the ferry. They were going deep into the Germanian forest to face a foe with the reputation of being invincible, and they couldn’t wait to get there.
“Herman, you say?”
“Ya. Our neighbors tell me he is a very special warrior. One the Romans are not aware of. They say his tactics will surely win if only we can get them out of their fort.”
Nodding because it felt like the right thing to do, Conall looked at the ten warriors standing with their horses. Some might say they all appeared keen—too keen, except Adelbjørn, who seemed distracted. He was staring at Malthe with an expression that was difficult to read. A strange expression. Fear, maybe. Conall thought to ask him what he was afraid of, but a bump and Malthe’s shout of “Onto the pier, quickly now,” drove it from his mind.