The fate of our union, p.1
The Fate of Our Union, page 1
THE FATE OF OUR UNION
The Fate Series: Book One
Hildebrand Hengest Hermannson
The Bull’s LightTM
New Jersey
This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
The Fate of Our Union. Text Copyright © 2024 Hildebrand Hengest Hermannson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The Bull’s Light logo, Bull and Fates symbol, and this book’s cover © Hildebrand Hengest Hermannson. Bull head image © Pabkov/Shutterstock.com. Fire image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay. The seventy-six-word passage in Chapter 11 was used with permission from Tacitus’s Annals and Histories, Alfred John Church and Willian Jackson Brodribb translation, published by Everyman’s Library, 2009. Printed in the United States of America. Published by The Bull’s Light LLC, New Jersey. For information and permissions please contact Hildebrand at www.hhhermannson.com/contact
Summary: Sunu a Saxon poet, Rufus a Roman Stoic, and Keresaspa a Sarmatian priestess are brought together by a seven-headed winged stallion to discover the seven common gods in all their myths, who’ve mysteriously given them seven magic weapons to fight their common enemy and his minions while uniting his victims as the enemy lurks among them unseen.
Subjects: | Adult Epic Fantasy | Mythology, Indo-European—Fiction. | Heroes and philosophers—Fiction. | Unity—Fiction. | Fathers, sons, and brothers—Fiction. | Ancient Germany and Eurasian Steppe—Fiction. | Serpent and werewolves—Fiction.
ISBN 978-0-9970224-6-9 (hardback) | ISBN 978-0-9970224-3-8 (paperback) | ISBN 978-0-9970224-0-7 (ebook)
CONTENTS
1. The Chosen
2. The Obstacles
3. Father’s Fire
4. More than One Man
5. Out of the Pen
6. Into the Den
7. In the East
8. Attack on the Family
9. Fireproof
10. Lose a Fortune
11. Tale of Two Wolves
12. The Hound’s Return
13. Too Close to Home
14. A New Dawn
15. Fate’s Manifestations
16. A Higher Purpose
17. Outside the Boundary
18. Strife in the Fatherland
19. Prepared and Unprepared
20. Overly Attached
21. The Whole Truth
22. Facing Aversion
23. The Obstacles II
24. Self-Realization
Glossary
Author
To my mother Christy for her endurance,
my grandmother Fern for her frugality,
my cousin Lois for her self-denial
These are the weavers who spun my threads
Kóimos, Tauros Koryonos
1
The Chosen
Saxony, CE 109
they think they’re better than me. Sunu lay awake in the dark after a night of unrest, repeating bad thoughts. They didn’t even bother to look. Shifting irritably in his hay bed, he reached for the skull of a man-crippling ram, gripping its spiraling ridged horn. He’d proudly shown it to a noble’s son, Aðalboran, who he thought was condescending, “not impressive,” leaving Sunu embarrassed as Aðalboran strode away with the chosen hunters. Who chose you, the gods? The lingering impression made his head tighten and jaw tick. His younger brother’s snoring heightened his irritation.
Not a good time, Thau. Sunu nudged his brother with the butt of his spear, silencing him briefly; then he snored louder. Sighing, Sunu sat up, hitting his head against buck horns he’d forgotten to remount. His face was hot as the hearth embers, whose glow spread over his kinsmen’s peaceful sleep. Hoping no one heard his stirring, his eyes paused on the sunny face under his sister’s curly red hair, imagining if she’d seen him she’d burst into tearful giggles. Not a peep.
Quietly, Sunu remounted the buck and ram skulls, with space for one more at the top of a frame post. He wondered what could fill it better than what lay beneath it. That’s the best you can do, Aðalboran’s taunt repeated. Sunu’s face muscles began to flex, then suddenly relaxed when his acute hearing detected hoofbeats in the distance. He placed an ear against the wall of his longhouse. Focusing on the thundering gallop made him forget about his pains. Eyes on an oak club he’d used to kill his prey, he resolved. I can do better than this.
Opening his door to a reddening dawn, Sunu brushed off the frost of his fifteenth winter to hunt in the spring forest for his destined identity—a beast more impressive than the ram clothing his body that would be praised beyond the village of his Saxon tribe and gain the acceptance of the seven chosen hunters. They’re gathering this morning.
Sunu hastened outside, anxious to prove his worthiness. I’ll show them I deserve to be among the best. He’d always felt like a stallion among the sheep, who’d leap over their mass with the wind in his mane. His desire to be seen was strong, reactions swift.
Sunu ran barefoot on the cold dirt, past smoky longhouses into the forest of barren trees, heavy breaths in the mist. Swiftly traversing the hunting ground, his eyes were beckoned by the sun’s first rays as if the arms of the dawn goddess parting lovely red locks while he followed the hoofbeats of a mighty beast moving eastward. Eostre, show me the greatest. Reborn light, show me the most glorious!
A range of hills appeared on the horizon, luminous rays crowning their tops. Little Mountain. The tallest one, dimmed by the red sky, drew Sunu’s eyes to what lay closer to the ground. Is that gold? He raced across the dull gray pasture to the glittering gold images. Slowing his feet before Little Mountain, Sunu gazed up at two holes in its frosted side, pouring streams of gold liquid. He stepped between them, intrigued and delighted by the honey aroma, and extended his arms to touch. Mead. It flowed chill through his fingers, which he brought to his tongue. I’ve never tasted the likes—like sweet, warming sundrops.
Thirsting, Sunu placed his horn under the mead stream, highlighting the Baltic amber circling his wrist. Médhu. The drink of the gods flowed down his throat, giving rise to the image of heroes—their horses thundered over a wide pasture under a broad clouded sky, raining flint arrows on cattle raiders, bolts of bronze axes reddening their dog skins, splattering their wolf skins.
Chariot wheels cracked beneath their chief, his windswept red beard whipping his naked body, gold locks thrashing behind a chiseled face of judgment. He guided his swift yellowish horses toward colossal cow thieves; his goat-helmed passenger pierced them with a copper spearhead while he struck their skulls with a stone horse-head mace.
Kléwos ndhgwhitom! Sunu heard the chief’s poet sing the bravest deeds with the best words in an ancient language he found familiar, familial: phater, suhxnús, bhréhater. Fathers, sons, and beloved brothers fought beside the chief, Perkwunos. Bhréhater! a cavalryman cheered as his brother emerged from the battle riding in Perkwunos’s wagon of war. He boarded the chariot; then the chief spun his spoked wheels over the rolling steppe, along a river, and toward a mountain. “Kóimos.” Home.
Awed by the images galloping through his mind, horses flashing before his eyes, Sunu raised his horn with a rush of inspiration.
Fathers, brothers, behold the son,
the rising horse above the herd
of cattle, sheep, and humble goats
Son’s fate’s imperishable fame!
in the grove of the chosen, with the tallest evergreens, a brown bear cloak materialized from the misty dawn; matching claws became visible around the neck of a seventeen-winters-old youth, roaring through wolf’s fangs, “Aðalboran, Slayer of the Great Bear!”
“Hail!” A moose antler shield surrounded by sword-like tines appeared on the opposite side of the grove; a spear-length tine once attached came from the mist in a teen’s grip. “Giwinnan, Slayer of the Mighty Moose.”
They raised their sword and spear in a silent salute, then turned their heads toward footsteps.
A shaved head and shark’s teeth shone like a moon in the shadows. The light revealed a shark’s fin mohawk on the sea hunter’s dome, fiercening the teeth around his neck. “Unsculdig, Slayer of the Big Beach Shark.”
Upon seeing a shadow, all three raised their heads and caught a black-painted youth descending from the trees, his body covered with wolf heads. “Abolgan, Slayer of the Wolf Pack.” He landed, shining a white grin on his black face.
Wafting stench perked the hunters’ noses.
Boar fur, bearing wallow’s color and odor, lay on the shoulders of a blond-braided teen wearing yellow-stained boar tusks around his neck. “Suerdthegan, Slayer of the Three Grim Hogs.”
Ruffling underbrush raised the hunter’s ears.
“Sounds like a real animal.” Suerdthegan peered outside the grove into the surrounding oak forest.
“Maybe it ate the last two huntsmen,” Abolgan conjured the image as his wolf heads brushed against Suerdthegan.
Aðalboran revealed a sneering fang. “Then they’re unworthy or ill-fated to be among the best.”
Among the barren trees were moving bones.
Giwinnan gasped. “Imagine what beast could be clenching them in its teeth.”
“It’s Garmr or Fenrir,” Aðalboran barked, citing the bane dog and wolf.
“Or perhaps—” Giwinnan sighed, seeing all the details
. “—the best come last.”
What had appeared as a corpse was a whalebone corselet with a connecting spine on a bare hunter’s back. “Gewit, Slayer of the Mean Whale.”
Parting the evergreen leaves, a red-cloaked hunter with a long red-blond beard strode in, holding a three-foot-three femur bone, head-side up. “Hrôm, Slayer of the Small Giants.”
“Welcome, best and greatest, to the Grove of the Chosen,” Aðalboran addressed the six Saxons and the seventh Langobard standing in a circle. “We’ve gathered this Tiw’s day, dedicated to the god of oaths and the assembly, to challenge the greatest teen hunters.” They enlivened the quiet morn like a flock of fair-haired songbirds, each singing of famous deeds with inspiring words, raising his weapon to approve the current proposal, holding it still to disapprove.
“Let’s hunt a bull!” Giwinnan challenged his fellows, standing bare in their best skins and bones. “No one here has slain a wild one.”
Aðalboran shrugged, leaning against his lowered sword. “There’s danger in it, but slaying a bull’s not a big deal.” His bear was taller than two tall men when it stood on its hind legs, and its jaws were so strong they could crush a helmed skull. Cheerful were the wives made widows by the Great Bear the day they saw him with its severed head. Aðalboran exhibited his bearskin cloak and tooth necklace, encircling a raided gold torc. “It won’t make you famous.”
“What’s left that will?” Giwinnan itched, his freckled face scanning his fellows as he lowered his antler-tine spear. His moose was too fast to be seen by average hunters until they’d been impaled by its long, sword-length antlers. After Giwinnan had approached it, swift and silent, the Mighty Moose was found instantly lifeless.
“Successful raids will make you famous and wealthy,” Aðalboran, with his wolfish sideburns, tempted his unique and renowned lads. “In some lands, horse-mounted raiders are so powerful they evoke awe of races from sea to unknown sea.” His details held the hunters’ attention, though only Abolgan and Suerdthegan raised their weapons. Aðalboran sharpened, twisting his sword, “If you fellows don’t have the guts for that, you can try slaying a dragon.”
Giwinnan sniffed. “You couldn’t slay a dragon.”
Aðalboran snickered. “You couldn’t slay a bull.”
Giwinnan winced, pointing toward Aðalboran’s cloak. “You probably didn’t slay that bear.”
“How would you know?” Aðalboran spat at the distance between them. “You were too scared to go near it.”
“How would any of us know?” Giwinnan waved toward his fellow hunters, the mood becoming far from playful. “None of us were there to see it.”
Aðalboran frowned, stepping forward. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“You called me a coward.” Giwinnan glared, closing the tense air between them. “That’s certainly not the truth.”
“Prove it.” Aðalboran shoved Giwinnan.
Giwinnan punched Aðalboran in the mouth, knocking out the berserk’s wolf canines.
Aðalboran clenched his teeth and kicked Giwinnan’s bare stomach, folding his body.
“Enough.” Hrôm strode forth in his red cloak, extending his bone club between them. “We can compete while remaining united.”
The ground began trembling.
Giwinnan’s frown lifted, the earth quaking beneath him, the evergreens swaying above him. “What in Ymir’s world was that?” His gaze circled the grove, naming the primordial giant from whom the world was made.
“It’s a dragon,” Aðalboran baited, Hrôm’s bone preventing his bite. “He can smell your womanly fear, so he’s coming to make you his wife.”
“Ooh!” The hunters cringed, few cracking up, concern of the tremors in their tone. “Huh?” They vigilantly followed Hrôm out of the evergreen grove into the oaken forest.
“Something real is shaking the ground!” Giwinnan’s eyes and palms turned down. “And it’s not your tall-tale bear.”
“It’s Woden, leading the Wild Hunt.” Aðalboran mimicked a gallop ’mid the barren oaks, evoking the image of howling horsemen, barking dogs, and whistling ghosts in a sky of stirring winds. “Coming for the souls he’s marked as worthy.”
Mouth agape, Giwinnan stared above Aðalboran’s head.
“Look me in the eye.” Aðalboran jutted his face and closed one blue eye, widening the other.
Giwinnan waved his hand sideways. “You’d better run!”
“Or what? I’ll be swept into the Hunt?” Aðalboran flung his arms open. “Come for me!”
Staring at what was coming, Unsculdig, Suerdthegan, Gewit, and Abolgan panicked. “Unbelievable!”
The fear in their eyes was so real, the tremors in the earth so intense, that Aðalboran turned his smug face and saw a mountainous thundering bull, a white muscle mass with long golden horns, charging toward them. “Whoa!” His smile dropped between mutton chops, reckoning it to be five times the size of a healthy ox.
The hunters bolted as the bull thundered and bellowed between them, cracking its tail like a whip. They fell to the ground as if they were autumn acorns. Leaning forward to behold its flexing leg muscles, they laid back quickly to avoid its whipping tail. The bull plowed the forest, kicking up earth with its hooves, clipping oaks with its horns.
“That’s a big deal, Aðalboran.” Taking revenge through courage, Giwinnan stood quickly as the others rose slowly. “Don’t just sit there like frightful girls.” Staring at the galloping bull’s rear. “Let’s follow it!”
Dispute halted, the seven hunters pursued the bull under the red dawn over its path of massive hoofprints. The thrill of danger filled them like it never had before, knowing the bull could wheel around at any time to trample them or impale them with its golden horns. The fear of being shamed for leaving the chase kept them zigzagging through the forest toward imminent death.
The bull stampeded eastward over a sprouting pasture. Shepherds scattered like frightened lambs. Aðalboran seemed most fearless, leaping over their scattering sheep, barking at the shepherds to get out of the way, as fourteen swift and springing feet followed the bull toward the sacred hills.
Giwinnan strove into the lead, before Aðalboran. The hunters’ legs toiled behind them, through hill valleys, along a winding stream. The bull remained in sight with its pure white hide until it swiftly turned into a black cave. The hunters’ bruised feet halted before a hill so rocky and tall it was known as Little Mountain. They flanked the cave’s black opening, chests pounding and spears pointed, heads poking in and out.
“I can smell him.” Aðalboran sniffed as the hunters waited on edge.
On the opposite side, Giwinnan leaned into the darkness. “I can hear him.”
Deep, heavy breathing came from the cave, smelling of tilled earth and bull sweat.
Aðalboran’s provoking eyes fell on Giwinnan. “Go in. Lure him out.”
He squinted. “What? That’s suicide!”
Aðalboran lurched. “It’s daring!”
“You go in.” Giwinnan nodded. “If you’re so daring.”
“You have softer feet.” Aðalboran whisked two scarred fingers. “And I have stronger hands.”
“Bull dung!” Giwinnan glanced back at the anxious hunters, all hoping they wouldn’t be challenged. “You’re just as afraid as the rest of us.”
Aðalboran sneered, sinking his thick brows. “You are scared, liar.”
“Enough with the unmanly word-mincing.” Giwinnan’s ruddy, freckled cheeks became redder as he snatched three runic twigs from his pouch to cast a lot. “Fate will decide whether I go in this cave or you go in . . . and die.”
“Or live to tell of the great deed,” a new challenger urged.
The hunters raised their heads and saw Sunu weaving a song above the cave, wearing the beautifully ridged horn of the Fearsome Ram; its tip poked his left hip and curled around his back, up to his right shoulder. The ends of his golden locks flowed into its rim as if mead were flowing from his crown, while his long face dripped orange hairs thin as a honeybee.
A war oak’s fall O Wyrd will spin
How tough he lives no twigs can weave
For longer fame his limbs he’ll stretch
So root and branch will bear his name.
