The Hallowed Isle Book Two by Diana L. Paxson

fire, he began to sing.
    Eormanaric, noblest of Amalings,
    Great king of Goths, who got much glory,
    Fought many folk and fed his people,
    Lost land and life to Hunnish horse-lords.
    Hengest beckoned, and Oesc joined him on the broad bench. In a few moments one of the thralls brought him a wooden bowl filled with savory stew, and he began to gobble it down. The first bowl took the edge off his hunger. He held it out to be refilled, able to listen now to the mingled honey and gall of the tale of the great king who a century earlier had led the Goths to create an empire, and when the Huns invaded, lost it. From the Pontus Euxinus to the Northern Sea he had ruled, and from the Wistla to the great steppes, conquering tribes whose names were lost in legend. He had defeated Alaric, king of the Heruli who had made a kingdom north of the Maiotis, and controlled the trade routes to the western lands.
    Mightiest among his warriors, Eormanaric had been a man of evil temper, who had the young wife of a chieftain who had deserted him torn apart by tying her limbs to four wild stallions. Her brothers sought to avenge her, splitting the Gothic forces at the moment when they most needed unity. And so the Huns had rolled over them and the Goths who survived fled westward, some to cross the Danuvius and seek service with Rome, and some to push all the way to Iberia, where now they ruled.
    Fierce to his foes and to the faithless,
    Betrayed by trampled traitors’ kin,
    In old age he embraced his ending,
    His blood in blessing fed the ground. . . .
    In the end, ran the tale, Eormanaric had taken his own life, seeking by the offering of his own blood to placate the gods.
    â€œIt is said that one should not praise a day until it is ended,” said Hengest, when the last note had faded to silence. “I suppose that the same is true of a king. He lost his empire, but perhaps his blood bought some protection for his people, since they have prospered in their new land. At least his death had meaning. . . .”
    â€œThat is what King Gundohar said—” answered the shope.
    â€œYou knew him?” exclaimed Oesc. He had been aware that the man was a Burgund, his accent worn smooth by years of wandering, but he had thought that everyone close to the royal clan died when the Huns attacked them a quarter-century before.
    â€œHe taught me how to play the harp,” said Andulf, his voice tightening with old pain. “It is he who wrote this song.”
    â€œBut you don’t look old enough—” Oesc broke off, flushing, as the men began to laugh.
    â€œI was a boy, younger than you,” said Andulf smiling, “serving in his hall.”
    â€œAnd now the Niflungar themselves are becoming a legend,” added Hengest, shaking his head. “And yet I myself saw Sigfrid when he was only a child and I scarcely older. Who, I wonder, will the heroes of this time be?”
    â€œThe deeds of your youth are meat for the bards already, lord,” said Byrhtwold.
    â€œDo you mean the fight at Finnesburgh?” growled Hengest. “To keep one oath I was forced to break another, but it is not something I remember with pride.”
    â€œYou will be remembered as the leader who brought our people to this good land!” said one of the other men.
    â€œIf we can hold it . . .” someone said softly.
    â€œDoes that matter?” asked Byrhtwold. “Hunnish horses pasture now in the land where Eormanaric died, and the heirs of Gundohar have found refuge in Raetia. Sigfrid left only his name behind him. But in death they triumphed, and they are remembered.”
    â€œDo you mean that if we succeed in winning all this island it will be Uthir and Ambrosius about whom men make the stories?” Guthlaf, one of the younger warriors, laughed disbelievingly.
    â€œIt may be so,” said Andulf, frowning, “for the winners will belong not to legend, but to history.” He began to