Adam Lofthouse [Lofthouse - Oathbreaker

ONE

It takes years to build a legend. To turn fear into reputation, and reputation into immortality.

It takes mere heartbeats to shatter it to dust.

Back when I was young, when my beard was more black than grey; my muscles still firm; my face unlined and void of old scars, I was building my legend faster than Rome was conquering cities of fine cut stone.

From east to west my men would ride, the endless expanse of grass and forests our home. We slept where we wanted, ate what we wanted, and fucked who we wanted. No man would stand in our way, even if he possessed the finest mail, the sharpest blade and a war host at his back; all men knelt in the mud when Alaric and his Ravensworn rode past.

And what did they see, these lords and chiefs who knelt in the dirt and prayed to the Allfather that the dreaded Ravensworn would ride past their hovels and leave their sour ale, stale bread and ugly daughters untouched. They saw a lord of war. A cold faced killer at the head of a horde of men and metal. They saw a blood red banner, streaming in the wind with a black raven swooping through the claret. They saw a man in his prime, flowing locks of dark hair, Loki-cunning eyes framed by a scowl, above a long, thick beard. Gleaming mail, beneath a deep blue cloak, pinned with a brooch of silver. Boots of the finest leather, pillaged from the cold and lifeless feet of a slaughtered Roman officer. A black pommelled sword, well-oiled and freshly sharpened, in a scabbard of wood lined with the wool of a new born lamb. When the blade was freed from its sheath, the length of glimmering iron ran from hip to foot, four fingers wide, there was no sword to match it in all of Germania.

When that weapon was bared, men died.

Chieftain killer, battle turner, mercenary, pirate, Wotan wise, Loki cunning, Oathbreaker. I have been called them all. I revel in the names whispered in the hearth flames; timid tribal leaders and their retainers, speaking half in fear and half in reverence. For all men knew, it wasnt Rome and her emperors who settled land disputes and wars of honour in the far reaches of the wild lands, however much they thought they controlled us with their frumentarii agents creeping through our forests, the senate installing client kings whenever and wherever they saw fit. It was Alaric and the Ravensworn that turned the tide when German met German in the storm of blood and iron.

For the right price, of course.

And so it was on that glorious midsummers day, as I sat atop my horse with my war host at my back, a grovelling chieftain at my feet; I felt the breeze tickle my beard, the sun caress my face, and I knew I was destined to carve my legend in blood. Men would speak of my deeds for generations.

And what is in it for me? I asked the quivering chief, whose mouth moved like that of a fish, his whole body trembling under the weight of his rust-pitted mail.

We will pay lord, and pay well. I liked it when men called me lord. I had no right to be called it, not really, but men did anyway. Even chiefs, like that wet trout who grovelled at my feet.

What will you pay in? I asked sceptically, looking at a collection of scrawny mud huts with patchy thatched roofs and half naked children ducking in and out the canvas flaps that passed for doors in this part of the world.

We got no coin lord, but we can pay you in cattle, even offer a few horses. He said in more hope than expectation. It was evident in the quivering of his voice, plain as porridge in his wide, hopeful eyes.

The fuck do I need cattle for? I scoffed. If me and my men need food, well just eat yours! This was greeted with a roar of approval from those of my men within earshot, just as I had intended. And as for horses, well, look around. Does it look like we need them? I swept my arm in a grand gesture, indicating the five hundred sworn men behind me, each on horseback and with a remount in tow. Now, what are you going to offer me?

He knew what I wanted, had known all along. Hed known as soon as hed sent a runner east to beg for me and my men to visit his village. Did I say village? I meant shithole.

I watched as his heart sunk, his shoulders slumped and he stood leaning forwards, his head drooping as he studied the holes in his boots. Wait here lord, he said with a sigh. I might have something more to your liking.

He went off into the collection of huts, a woman approached him and the two spoke in low tones. Their conversation took a turn for the worse it seemed, as she began to shout and scream whilst slapping the chief repeatedly over the head. She was his wife, I guessed. I also guessed he was reluctantly going to grab some chest of silver or precious jewellery he had either hidden in his hut or buried underneath. Clearly, she didnt think us worthy recipients of such a gift.

But, we got it anyway. He scurried back with an object wrapped in cloth. I felt my men move closer, drawn in by the potential of gleaming silver or precious jewels. Each man in the Ravensworn knew they were to get a cut of whatever we were paid, and whatever they pillaged on the job would be thrown into a pile at the end for each man to take their equal share, depending on his rank and importance. Of course, some men thought to hide certain wealth from their fellow Ravensworn. Well, all of them did. In spite of the fact all knew that any man caught would be flogged then sent packing without so much as a coin. But men are greedy, heartless and selfish. When there are gold or silver coins on offer, or intricate links of gleaming metal hanging from a womans neck, no man thinks of sharing it with his brothers in arms. I am no different, just not afraid to admit it.

The chief staggered as he rambled towards me. I still sat atop my horse, a fine brown and white mare, Id named her Hilde after an old lover. She tossed her head and snorted as the man edged closer. Id had a retired Roman auxiliary cavalryman ride with my warriors for a while. Hed taught a few of the lads the basics of training a horse for war; it had been by far his most useful contribution to the Ravensworn. He only lasted a few months before taking a spear in the belly on a raid against the Cimbri in the north. I was reaching into the depths of my mind to remember the mans name when I noticed the chief on his knees to my left, hands extended and offering the cloth wrapped package. I looked down at him and smiled. Aristides, I said and the chief looked up at me and frowned.

Lord?

Aelius Hadrianus Aristides, I muttered in guttural Latin. I had a basic understanding of the language; it came in useful when trading amber for silver. The gods only know why these Germans and Gauls give themselves such stupid names when they scurry over the river to take Romes money for murdering their own people. Again, the chief looked at me then my men in confusion, for I still spoke Latin. The Aelius Hadrianus part of the name, in case you were wondering, symbols that Aristides entered Romes service during the reign of Emperor Hadrian. Aristides would just be some shit Greek name his officers threw at him when he had made his mark and agreed to sixteen years service in an auxiliary unit. Thats how Rome treated people. They couldnt give a fuck who you were or where you were from; just as long as you could make a mark on a wax tablet and shove a spear into a barbarians neck, you were in.