Maroboodus: A Novel of Germania (The Goth Chronicles Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

number of sturdy Goths to serve under Father’s bear claws banner, but Aldbert would make a song of the battle later, and he would remember every man that was there. He would bring glory to all the standards on that hill, and the lords that owned them. He’d honor some, who weren’t there, if they were influential enough.
    ‘Delayed?’ I asked him, eying Grandfather who was spitting new orders to some of his warlords, but especially to Ludovicus and Osgar, his champions and warlords. ‘No shit? Did anyone tell them we are expecting them to be on time?’
    Aldbert snickered dutifully, and so did many of the oaths men of Father’s champions and the champions themselves. Dubbe, the rotund terror of a shieldwall quaffed and nearly choked on some watery mead, and Sigmundr and Harmod both rolled their eyes while they enjoyed the nervous, clumsy joke. I liked the champions, men who led Hulderic’s war bands on raids and reprisals, and they liked me.
    The Saxons were late, indeed. But that was better than early when it came to battle.
    The chosen men of the three warlords shivered, draped in animal skins, double layers of tunics and trousers. The shields that were oblong and rectangular were glistening with water and some had paint running on the surface, creating strange looking puddles of red and yellow at their feet. Even the spears, mostly thin, iron tipped framae, that was a useful weapon for both throwing and melee, looked sad and slick in the brawny hands that clutched them. ‘Do they move?’ Dubbe asked, growling the question for eleventh time, and meant the half-hidden scouts below in the wooded valley.
    ‘They are picking asses, still,’ Sigmundr stated laconically.
    ‘Each other’s?’ Harmod spat.
    ‘Yes, of course, still,’ Sigmundr said, as he had the best eyesight. ‘They are using their spears.’
    ‘I hope it’s spears,’ Hulderic, father and second son of Friednot stated. His wide shoulders heaved with silent laughter as his champions mocked the simple scouts deployed down in the shrubs and his eyes flashed at me from under a helmet of leather and chain that hung on his shoulders. ‘Patience. We won’t remember this misery when they bleed at our feet.’
    ‘Shit terrible to fight in this damned weather,’ I breathed to myself.
    ‘They’ll be fine, the men,’ Father rumbled and winked me over. I sighed and picked my way to him, at the end of the line, not far. He was right. The men had an impatient, but deadly glint in their eyes as I reached Father, sitting on a sturdy warhorse with a shaggy mane. His beard was blond where mine was red, and I shaved my beard, but we resembled each other in face and mood. His bear hide armor stank and steamed as he ruffled it. ‘The Saxons won’t mind the weather. It’s an opportunity for them. Always has been. They love this shit. But there is no need to mention that to the men. If you would lead them, always give them a good amount of hope.’
    ‘We outnumber them,’ I allowed. ‘They’ll bleed like pigs.’
    ‘That’s my boy,’ he chortled. ‘But stay close when it begins. You’ve never fought in a shieldwall. It’s going to be different from hunting cow thieves in the woods. There will be widows, and let’s hope most will weep across the straits this coming week.’
    ‘Yes, Father,’ I stated with a neutral voice. There was something about Father that always bothered me, the weighty mantle of a leader he carried, a trait that I hated, and that was the great care he always gave to decisions regarding feuds, war, life in general. He carefully weighed many ills against the good, and often left me desperate for action. I think I knew he was wise, but sometimes, I thought, such wisdom made us look weak. Especially since his brother Bero wore Draupnir’s Spawn, the family’s ancient ring, a golden, flower-etched treasure the god Woden had given to Aska and Esla when they were born, long before in the island shore of Green Gothonia, the island