Withal, they were mettlesome lads, quick to learn everything that beseemed a man, well-liked wherever they fared. They were unlike, Hathawulf the hotter, Solbern the more thoughtful, but fondness linked them. As for their sister Swanhild, all the Teurings—Erelieva and Alawin among them—loved her.
Throughout that time, years passed between visits by the Wanderer, and then they were short. This brought folk still more into awe of him. When his craggy form came striding over the hills, men blew a call on horns, and from Heorot riders galloped forth to greet and escort him. He was even quieter than of yore. It was as if some secret grief weighed upon him, though none dared ask what. This showed most sharply whenever Swanhild passed by in her budding loveliness, or came prideful and atremble if her mother had allowed her to bring the guest his wine, or sat among the other youngsters at his feet while he told tales and uttered wise sayings. Once he sighed to her father, “She is like her great-grandmother.” The hardy warrior shivered a little in his coat. How long had that woman lain dead?
At an earlier guesting the Wanderer showed surprise. Since his last appearance, Erelieva had come to Heorot and had borne her son. Shyly, she brought the babe to show the Elder. He sat unspeaking for many heartbeats before he asked, “What is his name?”
“Alawin, lord,” she answered.
“Alawin!” The Wanderer laid hand over brow. “Alawin?” After another while, almost in a whisper: “But you are Erelieva. Erelieva—Erp—yes, maybe that’s how you’ll be remembered, my dear.” Nobody understood what he meant.
—The years blew by. Throughout, the might of King Ermanaric waxed. Likewise did his greed and cruelty.
When he and Tharasmund were in their fortieth winter, the Wanderer called again. Those who met him were grim of face and curt of speech. Heorot was aswarm with armed men. Tharasmund greeted the guest in a bleak gladness. “Forefather and lord, have you come to our help—you who once drove the Vandals from olden Gothland?”
The Wanderer stood as if graven in stone. “Best you tell me from the beginning what this is about,” he said at last.
“So that we may make it clear in our own heads? But it is. Well… your will be done.” Tharasmund pondered. “Let me send for two more.”
Those proved an odd pair. Liuderis, stout and grizzled, was the chieftain’s trustiest man. He served as steward of Tharasmund’s lands and as captain of fighters when Tharasmund was not there himself. The second was a red-haired youth of fifteen, beardless but strong, with a wrath beyond his years in the green eyes. Tharasmund named him as Randwar, son of Guthric, not a Teuring but a Greutung.
The four withdrew to a loftroom where they could talk unheard. A short winter day was drawing to its close. Lamps gave light to see by and a brazier some warmth, though men sat wrapped in furs and their breath smoked white through gloominess. It was a room richly furnished, with Roman chairs and a table where mother-of-pearl was inlaid. Tapestries hung on walls and carvings were on the shutters across the windows. Servants had brought a flagon of wine and glass goblets from which to drink it. Sounds of the life everywhere around boomed up through an oak floor. Well had the son and the grandson of the Wanderer done for themselves.
Yet Tharasmund scowled, shifted about in his seat, ran fingers through unkempt brown locks and over close-cropped beard, before he could turn to his visitor and rasp: “We ride to the king, five hundred strong. His latest outrage is more than anyone may bear. We will have justice for the slain, or else the red cock shall crow on his roof.”
He meant fire—uprising, war of Goth upon Goth, overthrow and death.
None could tell whether the Wanderer’s face stirred. Shadows did, across the furrows therein, as lamps flickered and murk prowled. “Tell me what he has done,” he said.
Tharasmund nodded stiffly at Randwar. “You tell, lad, as you told us.”
The youth gulped. Fury rose through the bash-fulness he had felt in this presence. Fist smote knee, over and over, while he related roughly:
“Know, lord—though I think you already know—that King Ermanaric had two nephews, Embrica and Fritla. They were sons of a brother of his, Aiulf, who fell in war upon the Angles in the North. Ever did Embrica and Fritla fight well themselves. Here in the South, two years ago, they led a troop eastward against the Alanic allies of the Huns. They bore home a mighty booty, for they had sacked a place where the Huns kept tribute wrung from many a region. Ermanaric heard of it and declared it was his, as king. His nephews said no, for they had carried out that raid on their own. He asked them to come talk the matter over. They did, but first they hid the treasure away. Although he had plighted their safety, Ermanaric had them seized. When they would not tell him where the hoard was, he first had them tortured, then put to death. Thereafter he sent men to scour their lands for it. Those failed; but they ravaged widely about, burned the homes of Aiulf’s sons, cut down their families—to teach obedience, he said. My lord,” Randwar screamed, “was that rightful?”
“It is apt to be the way of kings.” The Wanderer’s tone was like iron given a voice. “What is your part in the business?”
“My… my father was also a son of Aiulf, who died young. My uncle Embrica and his wife raised me. I’d been on a long hunting trip. When I came back, the steading was an ash heap. Folk told me how Ermanaric’s men had had their way with my foster mother before they slit her throat. She… was kin to this house: I sought hither.”
He sank back in his chair, struggled not to sob, tossed off his beaker of wine.
“Aye,” Tharasmund said heavily, “she, Matha-swentha was my cousin. You know that high families often marry across tribal lines. Randwar here is more distant kin to me; nonetheless, we share some of that blood which has been spilt. Also, he knows where the treasure is, sunken beneath the Dnieper. It is well that Weard sent him off just then and so spared him from capture. That gold would buy the king too much might.”
Liuderis shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “After everything I’ve heard, I still don’t. Why does Ermanaric behave thus? Has a fiend possessed him? Or is he only mad?”
“I think he is neither,” Tharasmund said. “I think in some measure his counselor Sibicho—not even a Goth, but a Vandal in his service—Sibicho has hissed evil into his ear. But Ermanaric was always ready to listen, oh, yes.” To the Wanderer: “For years has he been raising the scot we must pay, and calling free-born women to his bed whether they will or no, and otherwise riding roughshod over the folk. I think he means to break the will of those chieftains who have withstood him. If we yield to this latest thing, we will be the readier to yield to the next.”
The Wanderer nodded. “Yes, you’re doubtless right. I would say, besides, that Ermanaric envies the power of the Roman Emperor, and wants the same for himself over the Ostrogoths. Moreover, he hears of Frithigern rising to oppose Athanaric among the Visigoths, and means to scotch any such rival in his kingdom.”
“We ride to demand justice,” Tharasmund said. “He must pay double weregild, and at the Great Moot vow upon the Stone of Tiwaz to abide henceforward by olden law and right. Else I will raise the whole country against him.”
“He has many on his side,” the Wanderer warned: “some for troth given him, some for greed or fear, some who feel you must have a strong king to keep your borders, now when the Huns are gathering themselves together like a snake coiling to strike.”
“Yes, but that king need not be Ermanaric!” blazed from Randwar.
Hope kindled in Tharasmund. “Lord,” he said to the Wanderer, “you who smote the Vandals, will you stand by your kindred again?”