The Gathering of the Fyrd
Author: Wulder Yngling - Date: Dec 11, 2004 - 19:07

(This story continues from Widsith's Meodoheall)

In the courtyard of my fortress, my new Cempa Thidrek sits tall upon Hengest, the noblest of my steeds, for Sleipnir was his grandsire. The Goth's raiment is rich. His hacele flows behind him like a chieftain's banner, held by a great golden brooch. Depicting Three Calves, the Waetling device, the jewel-encrusted brooch is of Weland's crafting, and bestows great status to Thidrek over my army.

Each of my soldiers is outfitted with fresh new weapons from Witege's smithy and warm, fur-lined cloaks and helmets. The Eckisax has been polished to a menacing luster, and it grimaces from Thidrek's scabbard, hungry for blood.

The Fyrd regard their new Cempa with a salute, in perfect unison, and the standard-bearers raise the Waetling colors high. Thidrek returns the salute. Great is my army; any one of my soldiers has a tome's worth of heroic tales to be told of him. Glad I am to finally have them all gathered together once again.

From the great door of the outer wall, I stroll down the thoroughfare and meet the champion. Perhaps for the last time, the Goth and I take each other's hands, and I secretly pass a dragon's scale into his palm. "This is a link from Fafnir's mail," I reveal quietly. "Wear it near your heart, for it will tell you when you are near to his hoard. And don't forget, your first destination is Habsburgh, the Hawk's Castle. There dwells the mysterious Lord Alberich. He will be helpful to you, but he is treacherous and must not be trusted wholly."

Taking my leave, the roar of my men sound loudly and then silence quickly when Thidrek sends his fist to the air. We have never been friends, Woden, but I ask your ravens to watch this one. I take a great risk to bring peace to the houses of Thetmar and Earendil. Thetmar's son is powerful and capable, but he is young and angry. May the stroke of his blade find giant, dragon, troll and any other but my brother Amleth.


Departure
Author: Thidrek Amaligg - Date: Dec 13, 2004 - 16:36

The soldiers's shouts quiet down at my signal, and we are ready to go. This time there is no need for encouraging speeches; not yet, maybe. All has already been said.

My left hand reaches for the brooch on my shoulder. The metal is cold under my fingers, and the chill of doubt creeps through my bones. Not a doubt about my mission, no. Just a question that I cannot avoid. I followed my instinct to do this - as usual. I have to believe that my father's hand has guided me somehow. So I cannot be betraying his memory. Can I?

I have always felt that the company of a horse is a good medicine for a warrior's weary and glum spirit. I lower my hand and twine my fingers in Hengest's mane. The good beast lifts his head to my touch as though reassuring me. In my right hand, I still feel the rough edges of the dragon's scale. It feels familiar, somehow. I open my hand a crack and look inside. Such a mystery. I put my hand inside my tunic, under my byrnie, and slip it inside the lining. I do not doubt that Wulder is right. More powers are at work here than I know as a mere mortal.

As I watch Wulder step back, I am silently glad that my helmet hangs almost to my eyes and hides my cheeks. Sudden tears sting my nose, thinking of what could have been of our houses if there had not been the weight of sin on both our families - my father's death, and his suspected crimes... We would have been stronger together, my father would be still alive and king, and I would be free from these feelings of helpless guilt...

I turn my eyes towards the low sun, pretending to squint against her red glare. Then I swallow my gloomy thoughts and lift my hand. With a hoarse yell, I set my Fyrd in motion, maybe towards redemption - certainly towards doom.


Guile & Guise
Author: Wulder Yngling - Date: Dec 15, 2004 - 01:54

Returning to my private chamber, I throw back my cloak to reveal my hand-less left arm. Though it was ages ago, the edge of Hagen's sword still stings. I took his eye, so the trade was an even one. I laugh weakly, to myself, recalling the days when we had called one another "brother". How fickle an oath. How easily alliances break!

Still, I was at fault. My love for Hildegyth was stronger than I, and our new life together was to be built on the the Waetlings' treasure. How dare Atli give it the false name Nibelung Hoard!

I swiftly change garb, donning the raiment of a foot soldier. A thick, blue hacele over my hauberk should conceal my missing left hand well enough. My helmet and hood adequately hide my face. In the hills, by night, I will steal into my Fyrd's camp and become one of them. And now to choose one of my many names... Uller. Waldere. No, Waltharius, I think. That has the sound of an Alemannic warrior cultured by the Roman comitatus. Of some rank, but not a lord. I look at myself in the glass and smile. Like a thief, I disappear out my chamber window, escaping the watch of my attendants.

I am no longer Eorl Wulder. I am Waltharius the Wayfarer. A spy within my own Fyrd, I mean to protect my brother Amleth, learn of Hildegyth's fate and act as Thidrek's lucky shadow. As much as I would like to trust my Cempa, I cannot help but distrust Hagen and his cunning father, Alberich.

(This story continues at The Quest for the Rhinegold.)


Awakening
Author: Thidrek Amaligg - Date: Jan 26, 2005 - 06:32

I open my eyes. My eyelids feel like lead. The air almost burns inside my lungs.

The room is warm and dry, and the sun slants in through an open window. We are far from the damp murky banks of the Rhyne. I would think I am dead, but I do not remember being embraced by the Valkyrie, and if this is not Valhalla, certainly it is not Hel either.

I try to raise on my elbows and every bone hurts. A particularly sharp pain pierces my left shoulder, just above my heart. My hand goes there and finds fresh bandages and clean linen. I frown, struggling to remember.

"Rest now, Lord Thidrek," a voice says, close by. "All is over."

I lift my eyes to the figure that stands beside my bed. Wulder - or should I call him Waltharius? My lip raises in an amused grimace, but even my face hurts.

"Eckisax?" Like a child, I add: "I have broken my sword," as though it were a wooden toy, and not one of the highest products of dwarven skill.

"Alberich has it," Wulder replies. "He will reforge it, when his wounds are healed. He has sworn he will send it back to you."

I lay back and close my eyes. "I have failed," I whisper through dry lips.

"Why do you say so?" Wulder asks. "You have accomplished your mission. The Rhinegold is now restored to its legitimate owners."

"No thanks to me, but thanks to the maiden; and maybe I just went there to seal a destiny that was already written. But what did I do, in truth?"

I turn my face away from the sun. On the nightstand, on a small silken pouch, lies the glittering dragon scale that protected me... or did it? Did it not reveal something inside me that I would have rather left hidden, even to myself?

"It was not I who killed the dragon; I did not manage to save Hagen; and all I accomplished was to be wounded by his sword." A bitter laugh. "Quite a feat."

"Rest, now," Wulder says again. "The bond between our families is strong again. This is a feat indeed, son of Thetmar."

"It will be good for my people," I whisper, strength fading. Inside me, I know that nothing has changed for me. Wulder and I may have a mutual debt of gratitude, now; but my need of revenge towards Amleth has not been sated, and his brother knows it. But how can I endanger the delicate trust that is slowly building again between our peoples?...

It is too much now. My brain hurts. I will think about it another day. Tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow...