Re: Forgotten Tales of Germania
Breaking of the Leaguer
“What happened after that? Were the brothers punished?” the young rider asked.
The old man took a swig of his drink, lips pursed and looking thoughtful. After another swig, he replied, “No. Is the cold affecting your mind? How would the next string of events come to pass if they were stopped? Fate had planned another doom for the tribe…”
‘But the brothers remained in the village, smiling secretly at their deed. And though Baldovin suspected much of what may have happened, he did not say anything about it. To a mind that was as high as him, it seemed a deed done in kindness and not in glory. That the deed was done to secure the village. But he had no idea of what was waiting to come next.
It came one day in form of a strange visitor. Two hunters of the village supporting a tired man indisposed to walk without his support. But he was no stranger as everyone soon found. Baldovin’s wife gave a cry and ran towards the man, her brother. He was given food and rest and bid to present himself to the council the next day.
The council met early morning, with all elders and warriors gathered there. The brothers stood sombre and silent, for they perceived that this was not the time to jest. The visitor entered the hall and walked towards Baldovin. He took out an arrow, splattered with blood and handed it to the chief.
Baldovin, his heart heavy with foreboding, spoke, “What is this kinsman? I fear that something bad has happened.”
The visitor spoke, his voice choked with emotion, “Yes my lord, but what had my people done? First the Romans, and now this. But we were content to live a peaceful life, with our fields and herds.”
“Speak plainly, brother! For we had no news of anything that happened.”
He then spoke of the fate of the Cimbri. After the ancient defeat by the Romans, the remnant of the people had settled in the north, minding to their fields and herds. But then, a tribe came to their nearby lands, a people called the Angles. Though they left the Cimbri alone, it filled them with bitterness that the Cimbri never took them for their masters. And one day they came down upon them, in full arms and fury. The arrow that lay on Baldovin’s lap was the one that struck the chief, and ere he fell, he bid his son to take the arrow to their kin and bid them avenge the injustice. Depravation followed the raid, and none was left alive.
A long silence followed the tale. Then Karl stood up and kicked his seat in anger, with a frightening yell. Gerulf sat with his head bowed, and Clovis sat with his eyes closed, remembering his fallen kin. But Adalbert stood and walked amidst the council. There he spoke long, his words potent and fell, seeking to rouse his people with wrath. And for the first time he was not to be stopped. All it took was Baldovin to glance at his wife, seated pale and rigid on her seat, tears streaming down her face.
Baldovin, resigned and torn between his wife and honour, gave a silent sigh and assented. He then proclaimed his decree, that they would avenge the wrongs done onto their kin and friends. He ordered a host to be prepared, to be led by his sons. And continued by telling of their deeds against the brigands to the village, to prove their worth. All were astounded, as it seemed that a wind from the north had come to shake their tribe. Some were hopeful, eyes shining with dreams of adventure, and there were some with hearts heavy with foreboding at the breaking of the leaguer.
Few days later
Near the ruins of the Cimbri village
The ground shook with the rumble of a large host. The warriors marched on with vigour, fuelled by the promise of a fight and plunder. The brothers had divided the host among them, choosing to them warriors of their like nature. Clovis marched with a band of men in heavy armour wielding spears, Karl with a band of brutes wielding heavy axes that would soon hew men instead of trees, and Gerulf with the band of hunters that prowled the village’s woods. And Adalbert marched with a dozen men of no less renown; oathsworn warriors of his father.
Day and night they marched, without any stops save for some few hours to rest. But they saw no trace of their enemy, only wilderness and an uneasy silence. They even came to the ruined village, smoking from the charred remains of the huts and strewn with bodies of the fallen. But there was nothing else to see there, only the desolation of the village. After yet another day of fruitless search, they came to the stream that flowed near the ruined village. The men’s rigour was starting to come-off, and some had started to think about turning back. But the enemy was there, having rested the night on the other side of the bank.
At dawn, one of their scout crossed the stream and was overpowered by the brothers. And they now knew where the Angles were. To lure the enemy to battle, the scout’s head was cut-off and hurled amidst where his tribesmen sat. And that achieved the end, for the Angles were so roused by the deed, that they armed themselves and marched, without even thinking of any tactics. And they marched into the trap that Adalbert laid for them. As the Angles waded into the shallows of the stream, the brothers charged the host fell upon them.
Three brothers fought at the front, their bands mixed together as a host in frenzy and wrath. The Angles soon knew that they had met their match. Their men fell one after another, as the brothers fought as men burning with heat of their wrath. And this spurred on their warriors to fight with such ferocity that the Angles had never seen. And any that tried to flee were shot down with flaming bolts shot by Gerulf and his men. In less than three hours, the stream ran red and it was finally over.
By evening the brothers reached the village of the Angles. They had followed the handful of wounded survivors who fled from the battle, but shot down before they could warn the village. The village was peaceful, having received no warning of the attack, and the few sentries at the palisade were overwhelmed by hail of arrows before any warning could be sent. The host crept inside the village.
The host paused behind the outer houses, waiting for orders from their commander. The brothers looked at Adalbert, wondering what he was thinking. But Adalbert merely stood watching the villagers. A strange mood seemed to have come into him, his face contorted in wrath but his lips curled with an evil smile.
He turned back to the host, raised his sword high in the air with one hand, and the pointed to the village with the other. He yelled in a hoarse fell voice.
“Behold, great warriors! The spoils of your victory awaits!”
He turned back towards the village, and picked up tankards of ale that were perched on a barrel outside the hut. The warriors rushed yelling into the villages, but Adalbert merely stood, and offered the ale to his brothers. Karl and Gerulf took a tankard each, too cowed to say anything to their brother in a perilous mood.
But Clovis took no ale and went inside the hut, barring the door and windows to shut out the screaming of women and yells of rampaging men.’