Read Online Maroboodus: A Novel of Germania (The Goth Chronicles Book 1) by Alaric Longward - Free Book Online
Authors: Alaric Longward
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him and placed the spear under his chest.
He ran straight into it, let out a small, child-like moan and fell like a sack of leeks on his side.
Maino looked at me incoherently as I stooped over the man, reaching for his furs and ring mail. ‘His gear is mine,’ he hissed.
I spat at his feet. ‘Does the Sunna shine when it is night? Can you possibly understand what I’m asking? No? It is like talking with my ass. You did nothing to deserve anything of his.’ I hissed and stepped on the corpse and stood there defiantly, feeling strangely brave and fey.
‘He was afraid of me !’ Maino roared. ‘Me, not a pup of a lesser brother!’
I shook my head at him, the spear pointed his way and that was not lost on him as he gaped at me in disbelief. ‘Probably thought you were an ugly troll out to hump him. I killed him. You can go and impale yourself.’ He stood there, indecisive and then waves of men pushed into us, most Saxons bent on running. I slashed and stabbed around me and then, suddenly, there were none to kill and wound. The last of the Saxons streamed past us and ran along the coast for north and south. I contemplated on resuming my looting activity, but then I saw something more important.
Cuthbert was in the midst of the group going for north.
Dubbe ran after him. I saw Sigmundr struggling with fatigue as he tried to give chase. Black Goths pointed at the tall Saxon lord, standing still in the palisade, a heap of corpses before them and Hrolf, son of Hughnot was screaming harsh orders for a chase under his raven wing standard.
But we were the fastest, closest ones.
There was no cohesion in the rainy pursuit. Men ran after men, all tired, many wounded and rocks, spears, clubs, and axes hacked into men’s backs. Warriors fell, theirs and ours. There were perhaps sixty of us chasing, thirty of them and then I saw Cuthbert dragging at the fine, incredibly beautiful woman. I ran his way without thinking about it twice. I dodged fighting men and unhappy prisoners, stumbled on the wounded, and saw Hughnot trying to catch the enemy king, perhaps unaware Friednot was hurt.
Cuthbert knew his danger, his best men milled around him and he pulled himself on the fine horse of his. He dragged the struggling woman before him, spat at us and hit the flanks of the fine beast. He turned to spit our way and screamed defiance. ‘Friednot, son of a pig, a pig yourself, die, if not today, then soon!’ Spears and rocks flew around them. A Saxon fell with a howl, holding his face, and a small shieldwall they had erected to cover their lord’s escape was bowled over and ripped apart by enraged Goths.
I flipped my sticky spear in my hands, and saw how Cuthbert would have to cut left to avoid some fleet footed Black Goths. He would have to turn , I thought, and I’d be ready , I decided, and waited for the opportunity.
Cuthbert’s horse steered to the left.
‘Woden, let it miss her,’ I breathed, and threw the missile.
My spear flew. It thrummed and spun in the air, rain touching it. It went over men’s heads, nearly hit another flying spear and then went down.
It sunk in the lord’s side, and he slapped at it, instinctively, breaking the shaft, his eyes huge with surprise.
Then Cuthbert shrieked and threw his hands to his sides. The woman fell heavily, the bald chief of the Saxons fell forward and clung to his horse’s mane and then slid from the horse’s back and landed with a splash and a muted, pained scream. I grabbed my sturdy club, raised my shield and charged.
Cuthbert cursed on the ground, he cried with terrible pain, and his bodyguards, his sworn men, his last surviving oaths men streamed for him. So did the Goths. Dubbe killed a man. Hrolf was near, stabbing repeatedly at a man’s belly, and Ludovicus was ripping a shield off a thin Saxon. We tore into the enemy and most of them died around Cuthbert’s writhing body. We swarmed them, the brave Saxons dying for their lord’s honor as they had sworn
He ran straight into it, let out a small, child-like moan and fell like a sack of leeks on his side.
Maino looked at me incoherently as I stooped over the man, reaching for his furs and ring mail. ‘His gear is mine,’ he hissed.
I spat at his feet. ‘Does the Sunna shine when it is night? Can you possibly understand what I’m asking? No? It is like talking with my ass. You did nothing to deserve anything of his.’ I hissed and stepped on the corpse and stood there defiantly, feeling strangely brave and fey.
‘He was afraid of me !’ Maino roared. ‘Me, not a pup of a lesser brother!’
I shook my head at him, the spear pointed his way and that was not lost on him as he gaped at me in disbelief. ‘Probably thought you were an ugly troll out to hump him. I killed him. You can go and impale yourself.’ He stood there, indecisive and then waves of men pushed into us, most Saxons bent on running. I slashed and stabbed around me and then, suddenly, there were none to kill and wound. The last of the Saxons streamed past us and ran along the coast for north and south. I contemplated on resuming my looting activity, but then I saw something more important.
Cuthbert was in the midst of the group going for north.
Dubbe ran after him. I saw Sigmundr struggling with fatigue as he tried to give chase. Black Goths pointed at the tall Saxon lord, standing still in the palisade, a heap of corpses before them and Hrolf, son of Hughnot was screaming harsh orders for a chase under his raven wing standard.
But we were the fastest, closest ones.
There was no cohesion in the rainy pursuit. Men ran after men, all tired, many wounded and rocks, spears, clubs, and axes hacked into men’s backs. Warriors fell, theirs and ours. There were perhaps sixty of us chasing, thirty of them and then I saw Cuthbert dragging at the fine, incredibly beautiful woman. I ran his way without thinking about it twice. I dodged fighting men and unhappy prisoners, stumbled on the wounded, and saw Hughnot trying to catch the enemy king, perhaps unaware Friednot was hurt.
Cuthbert knew his danger, his best men milled around him and he pulled himself on the fine horse of his. He dragged the struggling woman before him, spat at us and hit the flanks of the fine beast. He turned to spit our way and screamed defiance. ‘Friednot, son of a pig, a pig yourself, die, if not today, then soon!’ Spears and rocks flew around them. A Saxon fell with a howl, holding his face, and a small shieldwall they had erected to cover their lord’s escape was bowled over and ripped apart by enraged Goths.
I flipped my sticky spear in my hands, and saw how Cuthbert would have to cut left to avoid some fleet footed Black Goths. He would have to turn , I thought, and I’d be ready , I decided, and waited for the opportunity.
Cuthbert’s horse steered to the left.
‘Woden, let it miss her,’ I breathed, and threw the missile.
My spear flew. It thrummed and spun in the air, rain touching it. It went over men’s heads, nearly hit another flying spear and then went down.
It sunk in the lord’s side, and he slapped at it, instinctively, breaking the shaft, his eyes huge with surprise.
Then Cuthbert shrieked and threw his hands to his sides. The woman fell heavily, the bald chief of the Saxons fell forward and clung to his horse’s mane and then slid from the horse’s back and landed with a splash and a muted, pained scream. I grabbed my sturdy club, raised my shield and charged.
Cuthbert cursed on the ground, he cried with terrible pain, and his bodyguards, his sworn men, his last surviving oaths men streamed for him. So did the Goths. Dubbe killed a man. Hrolf was near, stabbing repeatedly at a man’s belly, and Ludovicus was ripping a shield off a thin Saxon. We tore into the enemy and most of them died around Cuthbert’s writhing body. We swarmed them, the brave Saxons dying for their lord’s honor as they had sworn
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