It is a dark and powerful moment when a man first realizes that Death, the thing that will put an end to all that he is, was, or struggles to become, is not so very far off, over the next hill perhaps, the next series of hills, and that nothing he tries to throw in the face of it—love, war, endeavor—will slow its approach in the least, or alter the final outcome. It is then that a man must ask himself the question, What do I do with the time that is yet mine? Does he try to hide within the illusion of women, wine, or power, the greatest illusion of all? Or does he face death honestly and say, “Yes. Yours will be the final victory. But I swear that with every breath I take I will strive to make it a hollow victory, to pass on to those who yet live a better life, a better hope, that someday, the Dark will not prevail.”

One

“I am Krieg. In the language of my people that name means War. And that is what I am, a man at war with the elements, with my own countrymen, and with myself.

“It is a bitter road, but one which I did not choose. For an Evil has grown of our flesh, a demon seed planted in the wombs of our very wives and daughters. Like a vengeful child it has grown, suckled at the breast of German motherhood. Now the Beast, hideous and strong, slaughters in the name of all we once held virtuous and true, and lays waste in the name of our most ancient gods.

“Yet my own people, blind with the blackened eyes of the dead and the dying, cannot see this. They walk in a dream of righteous conquest. They sleep in eternal Darkness. Only I have wakened, to see the Horror that we have become.

“And only I, a man of war, can stop it.”

So wrote the man named Krieg, in the upper margins of the great scroll given him by Jacob the rabbi, the leader of a band of Jews who had somehow escaped the carnage. Now they, like his own, gentler nature, were forever sundered from him. Now there was only pain, obsession, and the grim task that lay ahead.

He had come upon the secluded cabin, the two women within, after three days’ ceaseless ride into the cold and bitter hills that skirted the easternmost Pyrenees, the passage to the North. He had seen the smoke of their fire from a distance, and after no small trouble, found the isolated homestead, nestled deep among the shelter of pines. Even then he had not stopped to rest, but only because his horse was exhausted, and he himself needed food.

So he pounded on the door with the hilt of his broadsword. And when no one answered, he kicked it in. There he had found the sisters, their husbands and children gone, more probably dead, cowering in a corner at the sight of him.

For he was the first man to come upon their mountain refuge in many months, since the Vandals first came, and began to lay waste the countryside. Of this man they need not have feared. Thoughts of rape and pillage had long since failed to stir passion in his barbarian heart. But they could not have known this.

For his own part the warrior—tall, strong, face lined with the years and streaming blond hair shot with gray—hardly noticed them. The madness that had come over him when tortured, had slowly cooled into the fixed purpose, the hard resolve that now drove him, and left little room for compassion. The required food and drink had been brought, then cleared away. And now he wanted peace.

“Not peace,” he said aloud, in the language they would never understand. “That above all else is denied to me. Until.”

His mind, too weary to write further, still refused all thought of rest. He turned instead to the mighty words which lay beneath his own, the words of the ancient Hebrew faith. The first words of the Torah.

“In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep.”

Darkness is again upon the face of the deep, he thought.

“And God said, Let there be light. And there was light.” The light is no more.

“And God saw the light, that it was good. And God divided the light from the darkness.” Divide the light from the darkness. Yes. “And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night.”

Night.

“And the evening and the morning were the first day.”

So he read, for what seemed hours, oblivious of the women who remained behind him, watching his every move with fear.

As the initial shock of his presence, his hard commands had slowly left them, the instincts of cornered womanhood returned. And they began to whisper among themselves, What must be done? The older, Mora, a fading woman of thirty, kept a dagger hidden beneath the straw mattress of their bed. And together, some time before, they had moved furtively to sit on the edge of it. But each time the elder’s hand began to reach beneath its yellowed covering her sister stopped her, and whispered imploringly in her ear.

“He will kill us.”

“He will kill us anyway,” was Mora’s bitter reply.

“Look at him, a Vandal, like the rest.”

“Not like the rest,” said Lana, still young enough to hope, if with her heart rather than her mind.

“Look at the cross, burned into his forehead. He is a Christian, and has been tortured for his faith.”

“And what of that? He is still a man.”

“Yes, he is a man. And you know that we need meat, and someone to protect us. Perhaps he will stay, if we give him what he needs.”

“Yes,” whispered Mora, her mind working as feverishly as the man’s. “You lure him to the bed, and I will—” Again her sister’s hand stayed her.

“No! I tell you I cannot live like this! You go outside, care for his horse. I will try to soothe him.”

“And if you fail?” said the elder harshly. “If he plunders your flesh, and kills you after?”

“Then you can take his horse, and ride away. No, Mora! I tell you we must do it!”

So the elder, grinding her teeth, at last relented. She rose slowly, and with a hard look at the younger (and fairer) Lana, began to move laterally toward the door.

“I will care for your horse,” she said as she reached it. The man looked across at her briefly, said nothing, then returned to the mysterious scroll before him. Mora went out, leaving the younger woman alone with him.

Lana’s heart pounded, torn between hope and terror. The man before her filled all her thoughts, as she studied him, trying to understand.

She recalled his every action since he arrived, neither kind nor cruel.

And the fierce eyes, of pale and penetrating blue. When for a moment he had turned them full upon her, that look had gone through her like a sword.

There was a devouring hunger there, but not of lust. Nor did it seem a longing that could ever be satisfied. Almost it seemed a thing not of this world. What was it he so desperately sought, with all the maniacal power of obsession, and of a will so strong it stirred her to the root, even as it terrified her?

And the cross on his forehead. Had he been tortured as a Christian, or by Christians? There was no puzzling it out. And there was no time. He might rise at any moment, and leave them forever. Them. Even as the thought occurred inside her, she knew that in all her feelings for the man, her sister had no place. And though she felt guilty for it, this was a thing which concerned herself alone.

She stood up, and walked partway towards him.

Because she needed him. Through all the swirling doubts and questions, of this alone was she certain. And not merely to survive. The loss of her husband (or was it her father?) had stabbed her to the heart, with a pain that felt like dying. But also it had left her empty, a hole in her spirit that gnawed her like a cancer. For on the deepest, most primal level, woman needs man, and man woman. And thrown into this helpless corner, surrounded by hunger, fear and death, the presence of her sister was worse than useless. It only showed her what she herself would become: barren, bitter, hateful and afraid.

She needed him.

So putting her hands to her heart, imploring it to be still, she turned again to face the most important decision of her life: to give herself to this man, or drown in fear and emptiness. For a moment fear overmastered all, and she stepped back, denying. But with that single step, and the thought of all that she might lose forever..... She came forward, and began to unlace the front of her simple peasant dress, watching him.

The broad shoulders stiffened, as if sensing her presence. Then the man released a heavy breath, and leaned forward wearily.

And with that single movement, she was sure. Some grievous hurt, that went beyond the physical pain and exhaustion he must be feeling, was in his heart as well. She took the final steps, and reached out a trembling hand. And set it lightly on his shoulder.

But immediately he stiffened, then whirled to seize her by the wrist. For a moment his eyes betrayed rage and confusion, as if he did not at first remember who she was, or where he himself had wandered. When he became aware of the woman before him, the long dark hair, the deep, Spanish eyes that looked with such emotion into his, he relaxed his grip. But he did not let go.

“It’s all right,” she said gratefully. For she knew that she had at last stirred him from the waking nightmare. And now, beneath the fanatical devotion to some obscure purpose, she saw the man. And she knew, with a catch at her heart, that he had seen her, too. But he began to turn away.

“No,” she said, almost fiercely. “Look at me!”

He did not want this. Her voice, her whole bearing. He did not want her to need him. But the truth was, in that moment at least, he needed her too. For he knew that nothing else could calm the fire within, could bring him back from the physical crisis to which the madness had driven him. For all his bitter determination, if he did not turn away, and rest..... He would die of it.

“Look at me,” she said again. He did. The brown eyes beneath arching brows, the large and sensuous cheekbones, which spoke of the breasts below. The red lips, parting expectantly. Hers was not the first glow of young womanhood, but what of that? Her face was deep, mature, like rich and full bodied wine. Intoxicating.

“Turn away from me, Eve. You do not know your peril.”

“No,” she said again, putting a hand to his face and gently stroking it. “I know that you will hurt me. But that is what you need.”

And releasing his face, she brought her hands to the front of her dress. And pulled it open. Then over, and down across her shoulders. And though perhaps he wanted to, he could not look away.

The long hair fell about firm shoulders, framing her neck, her collarbone. The breasts beneath were full and round, the nipples a rich, dark pink. And as she raised her hands to the back of her head to allow him greater freedom, they rose and firmed slightly, turning upward.

The animal inside him would be caged no longer. He stood up, pulled her against him. Seized her by the hair and bent her back across his arm. His mouth attacked her throat, her shoulder, the top of her breast. As she moaned in pain, and also in desire.

He caught her up and carried her to the bed, dropping her roughly onto her side. Then his hands were upon her, tearing and pulling off the dress, the torrents of his soul now focused with all consuming need upon her living flesh. She was naked, and helpless, and cried softly as she said,

“Yes. Take me.”

He rose to tower over her, and slowly took off his own clothes. His shadowed skin was like an angry father, his will so strong, so ruthless.

And then he was on top of her, forcing her legs apart with his own, as she felt the growing wetness of her vagina. He was inside her! And though his thrusts were hard and deep, stabbing her like a sword..... He was inside her, filling the emptiness. Filling, and now he was hers. A man, her man. Her arms engulfed his hips, pulling him tighter even as she pleaded against the biting at her shoulders.

His thrusts became deeper still as he moved suddenly to hold her down. His head shot back, as he uttered the primal cry of orgasm. Again he moaned, and within that sound could be heard the pain, the desire, the despair of all he was. He collapsed upon her, breathing hard, his penis still thrusting as with the last, desperate efforts of a lifetime.

His face was beside hers on the pillow, his body full upon her, inside her still. He did not weep, but uttered broken phrases, coming from the depths.

“I’m sorry. Elise. Forgive me. Franzi!”
He took several deep breaths, rolled off, and away from her. And knew no more.

Again the warrior felt the light touch upon his breast, stirred woozily. Then opened his eyes suddenly, seizing hold of the hand that was making for his face.

A lovely, brown haired woman sat on the edge of the bed beside him. Slowly she detached the hand, then with a visible effort to master her emotions, continued to apply some kind of salve to the wounds on his bare chest, his abdomen.
“Who are you?” he demanded, fighting to regain some measure of control.

“Don’t you remember?” she said, looking hurt.

... “I remember. What is your name?”

“Lana.”

He closed his eyes again, turned his head from side to side. It ached, his body throbbing dully in unison. And the pain of his skin, where the hot iron had been applied..... He did not know how he had ignored it before. He could not now. Every inch of scarred flesh felt as if a thousand tiny needles danced upon it, tormenting him.

“I must be hideous,” he groaned.

“No,” she said passionately. “You’re not.” And the hand he had once restrained, made its way again to his cheek. Its touch was gentle, and soothing, a luxury he could not afford. And when he opened his eyes again, the expression of womanly concern troubled him.

“Why did your sister not kill me?” he asked flatly.

“She tried.”

“Why did you stop her?”

“How can you ask me that? I sent her away.”

“You should not have done that!” He tried to rise, but was immediately engulfed in debilitating weakness. His head fell back onto the pillow, as she quickly put a moistened cloth to his forehead.

“You must not do that,” she said reproachfully.

“Aahh. How long have I been unconscious?”

“Three nights and two days.”

“Two days?” he said angrily. “But I must—” Her fingers were upon his lips, and she shook her head firmly.

“You must rest, or whatever it is you carry inside you, will be lost along with your life. You have been tortured. You may tell yourself that is nothing, but it is not. And you have not eaten or drunk for days, along with the other deprivations you suffered in coming here. You must rest,” she repeated, “or you will die.

“Here,” she said, filling a cup from the clay jar she had moved beside the bed. She lifted his head a little, and helped him to drink. The water was cool and sweet, the bed beneath him, soft and comforting. To say nothing of the woman. But all these things chafed against his purpose.

“I must leave here.”

“When you are strong you may do whatever you like. Until then, you will listen to me.”

Again he closed his eyes, released a weary breath. “This is the second time that I have been left defenseless in the hands of strangers. God either protects me, or mocks me.”

“God,” she said in her rich, Spanish contralto.

“You speak as if I had nothing to do with it.” He took her by the hand, this time more gently. And looked her full in the face.

“No, Lana. It was you, and I am grateful. You are a fine woman, and it pains me to see you left alone in this forsaken wilderness. But I tell you again, you do not know your peril. A terrible battle looms before me, one which must be fought alone. Do not begin to feel this. What I see in your eyes. . .can never be.”

“I am not your child, Krieg. I will do what I will do.”

Again he sighed, released her hand. “How do you know my name?”

“I read it on the scroll.” At this he looked over quickly, to see if that treasure, so deeply interwoven with his purpose, was still safe. It had been put back into its thick leather covering, then set carefully in a corner by the fire.

“You know then?” he asked her.

“I do not speak German,” she replied, rising to prepare a meal. “Your name was all I could read. But I have heard the word before. Krieg. Your Vandal brothers liked to shout it, as they tore our lives apart. As they killed my husband, my sister’s family.....”

“Then you should despise me,” he said, feeling again the bitter shame that would not let him rest. “As she does.”

She stopped in the middle of the room, turned to face him. “I am not my sister. And you are not a true German.”

“On the contrary,” he said, his eyes just as intent in return. “I am the only true German in all of Spain. And I am the only one who can stop the madness.”

With a sudden qualm at her heart, she understood. So that was it. He was a Christian, and had taken the sins of an entire people on his head. He saw the evil of what they had become, and was determined to stop it. Alone.

“How will you do it?” she asked, disbelieving. “Will you charge into battle, one man against ten thousand? Or do you think you can sway them with words?”

“No. They are beyond words and reason. My wounds should show you that.” He paused, not wanting to tell her, not wanting to care what she thought. But the truth was, he did.

“You may scoff, to see me here flat on my back. But I am a warrior, a leader of men. In younger days I was the Lord of my tribe, and in times of war, the Fighting Marshall of all the Vandals, second only to the King. And in battle, not even he rode before me.”

“But your own people are against you.”

“Yes, the Vandals have turned from the Light, have become as the Darkness itself. But the Visigoths have not. I know the tribal leaders. They will follow me. They must, or I will strike them down.”

Lana was silent, her emotions a whirlwind. To make him stay, she had been prepared to offer him all that she was: home, hearth, gentle pleasure and the filling of dark and empty places in his soul. Perhaps even a family.

But this. Vengeance, ambition, she might have been able to refute, weighing them against all that she could give, and all that would be lost if he failed. But justice, and an end to the holocaust?
Obsession, or quest? She understood now how it had taken such complete hold of him, for it appealed to every aspect of his nature. To the spiritual side of him it was noble, forthright and courageous. And to the animal within it required the fierce determination, the lust for battle that were so deeply ingrained in his people.

“I am not interested in your obsession,” she said, trying to remain calm. But in truth she was shaken, as beneath the strength she had tried to show him, she felt again the hopeless insecurity of her position. Somehow she mastered it, somehow found the words.

“I refuse to believe that that is all you are, an instrument of righteous vengeance. There must be something more inside, some thought for yourself. And for me.”

“Because I raped you?”

“You were not gentle, Krieg. But it was not rape.” And instinctively she felt that she had struck upon the right course. There was no arguing with obsession, no contesting his fierce will. Only gentleness, and her own sorrow, would move him in the least. “And after, when I lay in your arms?”

“There was no after!” he said harshly. “Do not tempt me, Eve!”

“Yes, there was an after. And still is….. Your supper will be ready soon. Save your strength. I intend to sleep with you tonight.”

Three

“And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.”

Two days and a half night later, Krieg sat again at the table, the scroll spread before him, reading the dark and powerful words of the Torah.

“And the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept. And He took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof. And of the rib, which the Lord God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto him.”

But did God bring this woman to me? Is she my redeemer, or my temptress?

He turned and regarded Lana as she slept. So innocent in her belief in me..... Though he had tried to resist her, in her quiet and gentle way she had crept very close to his heart. Deaf to all talk of Quest, honor and duty, she had patiently but persistently asserted through her every action that she wanted him, even loved him, and that he needed her just as much.

“Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.”

And this was the hardest thing to defend against. Every tender embrace, and each time they made love, he felt the long denied loneliness of his soul cry out to her, for her, and against the fixed purpose, the sworn battle of the years that remained to him. “And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed.”

We are all naked before God, and truly there is no reason to be ashamed. But the question remains: which is truth and which deception? What does He ask of me now?

“Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made.” The Devil: more subtle, but ever-present. Why is it that we see his handiwork so clearly, but cannot find God or good counsel in the hour of our need? There was the Torah, certainly, what Christians called the Old Testament. And yet, when it rails against my own judgment, or simply fills me with foreboding.....

“But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die.” And ten thousand innocents die alongside you. It must be stopped!

“And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her, and he did eat.”

Krieg released a weary sigh. These words could be interpreted a thousand different ways, and brought him no closer to the decision at hand.

Was it really too late to start again? Must he surrender the years that remained to him in bitter confrontation? Must he listen to the ruthless logic of his mind, and try to release Spain from the crushing yolk of the Vandals? Or listen to his heart, and love Lana? Though he had tried with the returning strength of body and spirit not to yield, she had roused in him the strongest impulse that any man of his age can feel: the desire to form a second bond, a second family. A second chance.

All these thoughts, and many others, worked their way painfully through him in the half-light cast by the dying fire. But above all else that he felt in the aching stillness, the thing which made all thoughts of hearth and home impossible.....

“And the Lord God said unto the woman, What is it that thou hast done?” What has she done, to bring me so close, in an age of treachery and violence? “Unto the woman He said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children.” Bring forth children, into such a world as this?

Children. What if he was unable to feed and protect them, or was himself killed in the attempt? Innocent babes, alone, exposed, waiting only for the razor’s edge of Fate. There were so many ways that he might fail! So many ways the darkness could overcome him, through age, or illness, or violent death. “For dust thou art, and unto dust thou shall return.” Dust.

No. It was impossible. And that grim and relentless truth, was in those interminable hours the sharpest sting of all: the realization that no such choice lay before him: that all his latent emotions were but the folly of a sapling which sprouts in Winter, to be frozen, and crushed, and obliterated.

With the rising of the sun came an indistinct light beneath the door, a subtle but implacable summons, calling him away. The fire of obsession had left him; his rational mind had returned. Only the grim realities of the task remained. His horse waited beyond that door, as his last duty, his final futility, awaited. What he was. All he was. A man of war. He turned away from her, and rose to do what he must do.

Lana stirred in the empty bed, reaching for the shelter of his body. And as he turned slowly at the sound she realized he was not there, and her eyes opened wide. She sat up quickly, looking scared.

“Where are you going?”

“Where I must go, Lana. But I will never forget you.”

“I don’t need a memory,” she said, with the last of her strength. “I need an honest man.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling lost. And he started toward the door.

But as he reached it she rushed up behind. “No!” she cried, and her arms closed hard about him.

“Lana, please.”

“Stop! I don’t want to hear it! There is nothing noble in this. To run away from love, to leave me behind. Alone..... Oh God.” And the fear of it was like a cleaver through her heart. She fell back, staggering as from a blow, to the hard earthen floor. And covered her face and wept like a child.

Then Krieg knew that his heart was truly dead. For he did not go to her, and lift her up, and ask her to be strong. Did not take her to him, for once and always. He only turned. And walked out of the door.

He walked, through the sterile snow, the empty husk of a man who had lost his soul. Coming to the makeshift stable, he approached his restive mount and set the bridle upon it. “You at least will come with me,” he said, not knowing what he meant. And led it out of the flimsy gate.

Remembering the scroll..... But no, even that was now meaningless. He lifted up his face as for a sign from the heavens. Nothing greeted it but the silent snow, falling endlessly, blanketing all in softness and stillness and death.

But when his gaze returned to earth, a living body was there before him, trembling with life. Lana had come out, and now fell to her knees before him.

“There are no words I can say,” she began, broken. “I know that you must go. Only remember.....” And the pain of it doubled her to the ground. She embraced his ankles, kissed the soft leather she found there, washing it with her tears.

“Lana, don’t,” he said, feeling her pain as if it were his own. He tried without conviction to move away from her. But she only crawled closer, beside the horse, to the place where he would mount. And still on all fours, she offered her living flesh as an instrument, a stepping stone to whatever lay ahead.

“My Krieg,” she cried, her face wet, her lovely hair draggled in the snow like a weeping widow at the grave. “Only place your foot upon my back, use me as you would a stone, or a beast. If only you will remember.”

Till at last his will returned.

Then he came to her, and lifted her up, and held her in his arms. And kissed her beloved cheek, this woman who had given him all that she was.

“My Lana,” he said to her, his own tears flowing like blood from a mortal wound. “My wife,” he whispered, and the sword went through his heart. And when his strength returned a little, he knew and without questions where his real duty lay. And the thing which but an hour before had seemed impossible, was now and forever more the only reality. He bent down and lifted her up, and carried her inside. And laid her in the bed.
And as she wept, stunned and grateful he kissed her face, and lifted off the nightdress. And tore away his own garments. To be close to her, inside her, was all there was and Lana, Lana, Lana.

“You are my woman, mine.” Oh, hold me tighter, let me feel myself inside you. Her mouth had found his nipple and sweetly, lovingly suckled, like a babe at his breast. “Yes, Lana. Yes. Like a little girl..... Lana!” And the orgasm came, not diminishing but pumping again, and yet again, almost painfully, almost more than he was.

But then as all was spent, all lost, a warm and living body lay beneath him still. As she stroked his back, kissed and caressed him, and no less moved than he, told him that she loved him. And he had no desire left but to lie with her, and surrender, as she kissed him gently.

“My wife,” were the only words that would form. “My wife.”








Four

Lana let him sleep far into the morning. And when at length he awoke he found her hard at work, kneading dough, and baking fresh bread beside the fire. He sat up slowly against the headboard, at peace with both himself and his decision. She was a fine woman, and would make a good wife. Seeing him up she put aside her work, and came and sat on the edge of the bed beside him.

“That is good,” he said, no other words needed between them. “Bake all but one loaf twice. We may be gone for some time.”

“You mean to search for your grandson,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” he answered solemnly. “And also, we must find your sister. I would not begin our life together with her death on my conscience.”

“Do you think she is in danger?” asked Lana, with more than a little guilt and remorse.

“Any woman, alone in this dark time, is in danger. Your sister is no longer young and fair, which may afford her some measure of protection. Or it may only make those who would attack her more savage in their cruelty.”

“Is it the Vandals you fear most? Are they still the greatest threat?” No sooner had the words left her mouth than she regretted them. Would this not rouse again the dragon of vengeance, which slept so fitfully inside him?

“Yes, Lana. They are still the greatest threat. There is no reason, perhaps, for them to venture North to these cold and cruel mountains in Winter. But reason and my people parted ways long ago. My own tribe…..” He could not say the words without bitterness. “May decide to come after me.”

“But why? Haven’t they done enough? My God, they nearly killed you.”

“Yes. And no doubt they believed they had, or they would never have let me go. At the least they believed they had broken my spirit, unhinged my mind, and that the body must soon follow.”

With this he put an arm across her and drew her near, her face and hair sweet comfort against the bare skin of his chest. “I did not realize until this morning how very nearly they succeeded. You must forgive me, Lana. The man you have known these past days, is not the whole man. I am not proud of what I have lately become.”

“Of course I forgive you,” she said, drawing back to look full into his eyes. “You are my—” But at this she colored and looked down, not wanting to push him too far.

“I am your husband, Lana, if you will have me. Rest easy on that.”

Her countenance clouded, the tears came again, and she hid her face against him. He held her gently, feeling warm, a man returning to his better self. At length she drew back, and only then did he ask her.

“Do you know where your sister may have gone?”

“I think so. She probably went back, to the cluster of cabins that was once my home. It is only by chance that she was there at all. . .when we were attacked. She lost her husband and three children. Her two sons were killed, and the little girl carried off.” With this she fell silent.

“How did you escape?” he asked. And he knew by the sudden qualm that came over his heart, she had come very close to him indeed. In some ways like his own child.

“Mora and I were gathering berries,” she replied, still reluctant to speak of it. For though the attack had taken place more than a year before, the memory of it was still too clear—like an unhealed wound, painful to the touch. “We were gathering berries, for the harvest feast. Roland, her husband, said that if the food were plentiful it would be a good omen, and increase my chances.....”

“Of bearing a child?”

“How did you know?” she asked quickly, embarrassed.

“This is my forty-third Winter, Lana. I know what I know. Also, yours is not the body of a woman who has borne children.”

She stirred uncomfortably, deeply insecure. Then simply asked him. “Is there something wrong with me, Krieg? I was married for two years, and never.....”

“Became pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me ask you this. Did you love your husband?” At this she flushed more deeply than before. “Forgive me,” he said, bringing her close and holding her as a father would a troubled daughter. “I know this is near to your heart. I speak plainly, as a husband to a wife, because this is one of the things which must be understood between us.”

She nodded, let her fingers stray across his breast. But there was no simple answer to give him. It was a question she had asked herself a thousand times, and never brought to resolution.

“I don’t know what to say. I wanted to love him. He wasn’t. . .a bad man. But something always held me back. It was an arranged marriage, but that isn’t why. There was no one I loved more.” Again she asked. “Is there something wrong with me?”

“If there is,” he replied truthfully, “I have seen no sign of it. But to answer your first concern, that of bearing children, I must ask you one thing more. It is a deeply personal question, but one which you should find less difficult to answer.”

“Go on,” she said intently.

“When he took you to his bed, did you feel pleasure?”

... “No,” she replied honestly, abashed. “I wanted to. I blamed myself. . . for not giving myself more fully to him.”

“That is not something a woman can choose,” he said simply. “Or a man. And there is your answer. Your flesh was not ready, because your heart was not. Some may scoff at that, but my experience has shown it to be true.”

“But Krieg. I am twenty. I’m not too old?”

At this he could only smile. “That is a question which I will ask myself every day, and for the rest of my life. Perhaps we will answer it together.”

And being so close to her in the bed, still naked though partly covered by the blanket, he could not help leaning closer and stroking her cheek, the side of her neck, and opening once more the laces of her dress.

“You will bear me a child, I think, a daughter. And she will be lovely, as you are.” He ran his fingers across her lips, and as they parted, put the tip of one inside. And after she had gently sucked it he pushed himself off the headboard and lay back, inviting her to taste his flesh again.
Understanding, her fingers lightly massaged his breasts. Then bending down, her mouth again found his nipples, first one, and then the other. She kissed, licked gently, then suckled like a new-born babe, as her fingers stroked, and lightly pinched at the other. At this his head leaned back and his chest rose, filling with sweet breath in answer.

“No woman ever did this,” he said, stroking her hair and basking in the pleasure. “What made you think of it?” he asked, pulling aside the blanket to allow her unlimited freedom.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, her hand sweeping down to encircle his hardening penis, feeling her own blood begin to stir. “You make me feel—” Again she flushed, but in a very different way. “You make me feel safe and warm. Like my father, before he died.”

“And when I take you to my bed,” he said thickly, first lifting her dress from below, then pulling it down from above. “Do you feel pleasure?”

“You know I do,” she said, heart quickening. “Though sometimes you frighten me.”

“Yes.” And with the wisdom acquired of the years, he set loose the animal inside him. He gently urged her head lower, lower. Spiritual love was needed. But without this.....

And she licked and sucked his phallus with her beautiful mouth, her fingers cupped beneath, gently stroking. He moaned in ecstasy, knowing that now the rush to ejaculation was passed he could at once take his time, and slake his thirst more deeply. In time he moved over her, spreading her legs, and found again the honeyed sweetness of her vagina. He held down her arms and rose up, looking down at her shoulders, her breasts, feeling proud, and possessive, and achingly alive. And continuing to watch their lovely fullness, highlighted and shadowed by the firelight, he bent down and licked, then bit gently at her mouth, her throat, her sweetly firming nipples. And thrusting deeper he watched her face: head back, mouth open, giving him everything and startled by the pleasure it brought her.

Then coming too close to orgasm he lifted her up, to kneel upon his seated form. And put his arms about her back, feeling its smooth skin, finding pleasure again in the strong and rounded muscles of her shoulders, the well formed shoulder-blades. And let his fingers slip down, to the dip and curve of her spine as it entered her buttocks, knowing that all these things would be passed on in their child.....

His fingertip gently patted her anus, the consummate intimacy. Then feeling the strength of his own arms he pulled her close, felt her breasts full and tight against him. Then cupped the one in his strong right hand. He squeezed and sucked, long and hard, though careful not to hurt her. And as she moaned in pleasure he pushed her back down and pinned her arms behind her head.

“You are mine,” he told her.

“Yes,” she answered, the love and trust mingling, increasing their intimacy, the stunned and all encompassing pulsation of her abdomen.

“You are my slave,” he said to her.

“Yes.”

“You will do anything.”

“Yes.”

“Be my little girl.”

“Yes.”

“Make love to other women in my bed. Kiss them, and suck their nipples.”

“Oh!” And as his thrusts grew suddenly hard and deep she groaned, and cried out in a voice not her own.

“Oh, God. I’m dying!”

And she felt the orgasm she had only known once before, forbidden, and there was nothing in all the world but his penis thrusting and her vagina throbbing and Oh and Oh and Oh.

And when he again lay still on top of her she pulled him closer, not wanting him to stop, and the throbbing wetness continued as she felt her womb drink deep of his seed. And she just kept pulling him to her and writhing beneath him, wanting more. Wanting more.

And Krieg lay on top of her, pumping gently, his strength gone for the moment, but he knew now that it would return. And he would know again, and fully, what it was to be alive.

Krieg allowed himself that one more day to rest. And when night again interposed he held her warmly until she slept, soft and peaceful against him. And while it felt good to hold her, and to feel as he had not for many years the sense of possibility and hope, sleep again eluded him.

For he could not escape the anxieties and troubled thoughts of what he must do in the morning. And as always now he was haunted by the question, Am I too old? Will the strength that remains to me be enough, or will I weaken, and fall along the way? For though his objective had changed, from mortal War to mere survival for himself and those he loved, this too was a long and difficult road, fraught with peril.

And while for Lana’s sake he tried not to show it, it was not easily that he surrendered the Quest, nor was his conscience entirely clear on the matter.

All his adult life, he had lived with the knowledge that his people were slowly being seduced, corrupted, and that one day their ruthless drive for new lands must sprout the dark blossoms of true Evil. And all his life he had tried to dissuade them: to find uninhabited lands they could settle and make their own, and alternative battles that would slake their need to conquer, without trampling innocents before them.

But in the end..... He had failed utterly. And failure is not a thing that the German mind can accept.

For even the best of men have their demons, voices inside that will not let them rest. Krieg was tormented by the mere thought of surrender. How could he simply walk away, turn his back and let an evil pass unchallenged? What his people were doing was wrong and unforgivable. And despite all the love he held for the woman, and for his grandson..... Still this grated against him, and left him no lasting peace.

He had no second thoughts about leaving off obsession to take Lana as his bride. That was the right thing to do. But to surrender all of Spain to vile and merciless marauders, his own people….. Of this he was far less certain.

The first part of his new plan—protecting the older sister, Mora—was relatively simple, and gave little cause for emotion. Lana had told him that her ransacked home, as well as those clustered loosely about it, were not more than a half day’s ride to the north. Surely one of them had been missed by the invaders, and would provide her shelter. They should be able to find Mora, come to an understanding, and bring her to the relative safety of the more secluded cabin in a single day.

Weighing far heavier on his mind was the second, more dangerous, and infinitely dearer objective. Thoughts of his grandson had never left him, had in fact tormented him from the moment lucidity returned. It was only in the brutal throes of torture, and the soul-seared madness of the days that followed, that he would ever have thought to part with him.

“Franzi,” he said aloud, the word a standing judgment against him. “What have I done?”

What he had done, under extreme duress, was to leave him in the care of Cassius and Ariel, his adoptive parents, and the wandering colony of Jews. Good people, but not his flesh and blood. Cassius, the disillusioned Roman soldier who had become their leader, should prove a strong and protective father. He believed in nothing false, and would therefore take nothing for granted. And Ariel, the beautiful young Jewess, would give him love and womanly compassion.

But they are not his blood kin. Would they love and nurture Franzi as he would, placing his life above their own, and willing to die to defend him? That was his responsibility now, and his alone.

And with this stark realization, he knew and with absolute certainty that they must search for the boy first, and to the exclusion of all else. Understanding this, all indecision left him. He now had a clear objective, and could turn the full weight of his determination upon a single goal. This he could do, would do, and leave all other questions for later.

So he began to search more recent memory, much of it distorted by torture and despair..... No. I must think. Cassius meant to escape Vandal Spain by sea. But how he meant to take them there, to the sheltered cove where his boat lay hidden. . .of this even the man himself had not been certain.

So he tried to reckon the number of days that had passed since they parted. It was impossible. For though his fevered mind had told him to ride for three days and nights, just as Jesus had done in descending into Hell, the endless grey passage, darkened and illumined as much by delirium as by the motions of the distant orb of fire, had blurred day and night together into a meaningless procession, an endless trek through the heart of Death’s Kingdom. The real miracle was not that he had found Lana, and escaped the mad whisperings of Doom, but that neither he, reduced to mere Spirit, a wandering wraith among the black and winnowing trees, nor the weary horse which carried him, had fallen dead beside the way.

There was no escaping the horror of those days, or the other black passages of his life. They were real; they had happened. But the years that came before, and after, told him that he would survive.

All right, then, remember.

He had left the Roman, and the weary pilgrims he led, by the banks of the frozen river, where they had no doubt continued north, trying to elude the Vandal horde. Had Cassius said something about making for a cave, several miles north, and a little east of there? Or was that mere fancy? No, he must have. Must, because he himself had nothing else to go on. He knew something of that country—stark, sharp foothills before the mountains began in earnest. He remembered no cave. But with luck, and his hunter’s senses.....

No, not luck. What then? What was it that he used in times of greatest need—the undercurrent, the unseen force that had led him to the meaningful events of his life, both good and ill? What was it called, this unnamable thing? God?

No, for that implied a God of action, of direct intervention in the affairs of men. And though at one time—it seemed years instead of days—he had sought such a being, it was like pursuing clouds upon a mountaintop, or trying to hold a river in your hands. Perhaps there were only the clouds, the river, the blood in his veins.

“But I am still alive,” he said aloud, though careful not to wake the sleeping woman. “Why? What do you want from me? To have led me through so many forests, across such mountains and valleys as would kill a lesser man?”

And how many times that unnamable thing had abandoned him in the end, when he had come so far, and endured so much. And with this came the slow but inexorable rise of rebellion in his heart.

“No more shadows, do you hear? No more smoke. I will do what I will do because my heart tells me it is just. Ride with me, or abandon me forever, it will change nothing. Not the lessons I have learned, or the things I do in answer.

“My life is my own. I am a man, and I accept responsibility for my actions. So help me God, or no God.”

Toward dawn the woman woke, to again find the bed empty. She rose quickly, but he was still there, looking out of the open door. And becoming aware of her, he closed the door and came and sat beside her.

“Lana,” he said in deepest earnest. “We must search for my grandson first.” She nodded quickly. “I have thought for many hours whether to bring you with me, or leave you here. I find the danger equally great, and so you must decide—”

“I will go with you,” she said firmly, almost angrily.

“Lana,” he said with equal firmness. “Do not make this decision in fear or in haste. It will be a difficult and dangerous journey.”

“You said yourself that I must choose.”

“Yes. Now and always.”

“Then here is my decision. I am your wife, Krieg. Where you go, I will follow.” And in her eyes he read such loyalty and courage..... He leaned over and kissed her forehead as a sign of love, and respect, and all the things he could not say with words.

“All right, Herschen. Can you be ready to leave in an hour?”

“In less time than that.” And she set to work, packing all that they would need along the way.

And so they set out, as every man and woman must, sure of their love, but knowing nothing more of the road before them than that it must be traveled together. And as they mounted his proud grey and took those first steps along the path, Krieg knew that in this, most ancient and noble of human endeavors, they would be resisted.

For with his years of experience, the warrior knew how little was the time allotted to lovers: the eye of the hurricane, the calm before the storm. And he was grateful for that brief interlude, spent soft and warm among sheltering walls, as the wars of the world raged beyond them. For he knew as surely as the blue sky vanished before the onslaught of storm, it could not last. Such tender moments were as the wildflower that opens trembling in the Spring—just as precious, just as fragile, just as fleeting. Like feminine beauty itself, they must pass with the fading sunlight into seasons longer, more callous and less fair.

The horse stepped heavily through the knee-deep snow, bearing now the burden of both their lives. Again the man was poignantly aware of both his blessing and his curse: a strong and willing mount, and the long hard journey which must inexorably drag it down. For what is the body but the horse which the spirit rides, to an end as sure and final as Death?

But such thoughts, to an honest and introspective man the breath of life, could not long shield him from the unrelenting reality in which they were now placed. The wind had turned square from the North, laden with snow. And he knew, as together they rode among the sullen stones and frozen-hearted pines, that he now fought the grimmest foe of all, and one which had never, since the dawn of Time, been beaten.

Age.

For in recent years he had felt in bitter cold the pain and stiffness in his joints that he knew to be the death-knell of his warrior’s skills. And though galled by the thought, it seemed clearer with each passing mile that the one true impossibility of his life was that he would ever again lead men into battle. And still the voice tormented him, denying all peace.

You are running away, giving up without a fight. He silenced it in time, but not easily.

So the interminable hours wore away, in the grey light, the growing cold, and all too soon, the near despair that both had come to know so well. Lana held him tightly, for warmth, and hope. And in so doing, she realized with equal poignancy the thread upon which a woman’s life hung. She had not the strength to fight the brutal world alone, and so must cleave to a powerful and aggressive man, his strength, like the throbbing muscles of the horse beneath them, the raw animal force to which she must tie all life, all hope. And in the wisdom and naïveté of her sex, she thanked a caring God that the strong man who had chosen her was also kind and gentle—the rarest gift of all.

With the fall of true darkness, Krieg could find or construct no greater shelter than a bower of pines which turned its back against the wind. So laid upon a crude bed of bough and fur they clung to each other for comfort, and for the desperate warmth that is Man’s only shelter from the Universal cold. This, and the guttering fire before them.

Sleep was fitful at best, and even the small refuge of dream was invaded by the cold. For Krieg, it was being dragged beneath the ice of a freezing stream, by a serpent whose blood was colder still. For Lana, being held down, soon to be raped, by a white bear from the heart of Winter’s fortress.

And with rising came no other choice than to take what sustenance they could, reassure each other as best they might, and face the same unerring path again.

So passed four days more, with the fire inside them burning ever lower, the hope and peace they had known in the cabin seeming an ancient and unreal memory, obliterated by the cold, the distance, the indifference of Nature all around them.

But all the while Krieg looked, and listened, and employed the skills acquired of a lifetime, reading what signs could be found, and seeking again the invisible path, the unnamable force. The way that could not be seen.

On the fifth day since setting out, the clouds began to break. A patch of clear blue sky appeared, widened. And then the piercing and radiant gold fire of the sun. As reading the high hill before him, his eyes were drawn to the meeting of earth and stone, where the clinging pines failed against sheer granite. And he saw. . .the cave: the place where Cassius had led the wandering Jews, and his grandson along with them.

“Lana,” he said, turning to her. But her shivering was now so intense, her face so pale..... There was no time for gladness.
So urging his mount to the last of its strength, he climbed the wooded slopes on horseback as far as he was able. Then coming to a last, level clearing he tethered it quickly. And took her in his arms and carried her the remaining distance himself, more ruthless still with his own trembling limbs.

The cave. He carried her through the opening, his heart pounding from the strain, lungs screaming for air. And his need was too great to be thankful for what he found there: dry firewood stacked in a protected niche, flints and straw to ignite the flame. This had been Ariel’s parting gift, though the company itself was gone.

So silently acknowledging them, and beseeching the bastard God on behalf of his wife, he lay her down upon his heavy cape of fur, and hastily constructed a fire. The walls of the cave illumined, and the bitter wind could no longer rape them.

“Lana,” he said again, feeling her burning forehead with his open hand. “I must fetch our blankets. Wrap yourself in the fur, as near to the fire as you safely can. Then rest easy, my love. I will only be a moment, and the worst is behind us.” And he quickly descended, only wishing it were true.

The hunt.

They needed meat. That was all. There was no thought, no philosophy. There was only need, to keep body and soul together. Bread and wine might sustain a man and woman in gentler times and peaceful surroundings. But it did not fuel the fire within, or offer the least resistance against the deadly cold of Unlife. They needed meat. That was all.

So after seeing to the woman’s needs as best he could, and assuring her that true sustenance was forthcoming, he set out. He had neither bow nor javelin, and the two-handed sword that he had carried since adolescence was of no use to him here. And for all the strength the years had forged in him, and all the weight of despair they carried, he knew that his one hope of success lay in the arrows that Lana had found, hidden in a nook of the now distant cabin. Kept there for some final need by her sister’s husband, they brought home yet again the lesson that was so difficult for the German mind to accept: that no man, or tribe of men, is so strong and independent that they can survive alone, and without the aid of others who are different from themselves. The most basic human truth, and yet the one so many proud men resist. We need each other. Krieg did not resist. He only knew that it was not enough. They needed meat.

So after but the briefest thought he headed down, to lower elevations where he might still find wood strong and supple enough to form a bow. For in this the sullen pine was truly worthless, its living branches too soft, its dry bones too brittle. He needed rather the dormant resilience of the leaf-bearing trees, and for that he must descend.
He had not gone far when he heard, at some distance….. A low growling sound that spoke of opportunity unlooked-for.

Somewhere ahead and to the right, he knew that two wolves must be met in deadly confrontation. Nor was he wrong. Too late in the year to be dueling over a mate or pack dominance, these two animals, driven by the same cruel laws that govern all flesh and blood, were now met in the ancient arena. To live they must eat, and to eat they must kill. One of them had killed, and the other sought to wrest that hard-fought sustenance from him. And in this the man realized grimly that Nature held forth no hero, no villain, no moral consideration of any kind. Only survival for one, and death for the other.

And as Krieg came at last to a broad clearing by the frozen stream, he saw their confrontation laid out in classic strokes. A young male of good size, silver grey to black about the head and shoulders, stood some forty yards in front of him, a large hare at its feet. While facing it at a lesser distance to the man’s right, an older male, neither quite so large nor strong, was nonetheless advancing steadily, head low, dark hackles raised, teeth bared and snarling.

As he paused to catch his breath and decide upon a course of action, Krieg sensed that in this timeless struggle the older male still held the advantage. Why? Because with the desperation born of the years he was willing to die, then and there, for possession of the carcass. While perhaps the younger animal was not.

But now they had become aware of him, and the ritual was disturbed. The slightest shifting of the wind had carried the man’s chilling scent, and the sound of his breathing to them. As they turned in surprise and alarm to face him.

But if there was a wolf in Europe that was willing to stand against an armed and desperate man, Krieg had never encountered it. And pushed to his own final need he drew out his sword, spread his arms wide, and let out a cry of rage more bestial than either of his foes were capable. And he did not stop there, but lunged heavily through the snow, directly at the older animal.

And in this he chose correctly. For the seasoned male knew of Man and his terrors, had seen other wolves killed or captured by shepherds and their dogs, knew of arrow, spear, and Fire. He snarled only enough to cover his own fear, then slunk off toward the shelter of trees and deep forest. While the younger male hesitated, startled and unsure.

And at the moment it regained its senses, and would have snatched up the carcass and bolted, Krieg whirled, and in a single motion turned the hilt of the sword in his hand and hurled it blade-first directly at him. The wolf lunged to one side to avoid it, himself gave a snarl of anger and dismay, then moved a short distance off as the man continued to advance, no longer armed with steel, but with something far more powerful: Fear, and the knowledge he was Master. As the younger animal, stripped of its prize, could only growl in impotent wrath. Then as the deep-seated fear of Man that the other had displayed began to infect him, the wolf turned again, and moved off in earnest.

Though hardly in the way he anticipated, the man had achieved his aim.....

Krieg sank abruptly in the snow, dismayed. Then looked around him, trying to understand. What had happened? There were no wolves, no hare waiting to be taken. No chance to simply display his courage and be rewarded. There was only the snow, the cold, the intolerable distance.

“Am I losing my mind?”

No. But as he paused and tried to collect himself. . .he realized that the ravages of torture, and of the days immediately after—spent more on the far side of Death’s door than the near—had taken a greater toll on him than he cared to admit. He could not just shake it off, another difficult experience.

And such a bitter illusion. For when had anything ever come to him easily, and at the time of need?

Lana had come. Yes, there was that. It made no sense.

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” came a voice that he knew to be his own. “It simply is.”

Shaken, but not yet daunted, he took a handful of snow and rubbed it into his face: clearing the senses, challenging the will. For in the other hand, clenched tightly now in sullen determination, he still held the arrows. And his woman still waited, needing him to succeed.

So he trudged on, downward through the deep snow, knowing that any kill he made must be carried back up the same brutal slopes. It did not matter. It must be done.

At last he reached a place where the land leveled, and a half frozen stream flowed less swiftly. And by its bank was a copse of bare trees, their leaves long since fallen, blown by the wind and buried by the snow. But of the kind he needed, resilient and strong. So cutting several branches from one that grew at the water’s edge, he slit and peeled away the bark. Then tested each shaft by bending it hard against the ground. The first cracked; the second bent too easily. But the third, roughly the same height as himself, would serve his purpose. So he began to strip long fibers from the bark, then weave them together to form a bowstring.

Many hours later, as the woman began to despair of his return, the man entered the cave quietly—hunched forward, an immature doe, little more than a fawn, wrapped about his shoulders.
But no sooner had he stepped into the clear light of the fire than he let it fall, and himself collapsed against the reeling dirt floor, breathing hard and tearing weakly at the warm garments that now tormented him. His face, like hers, was pale, his forehead dripping with sweat.

“Lie down, lie down,” she urged him. And knowing that the time had come for her to be strong, she helped him slowly onto the same bed of fur.

For resting quietly by the fire, warmth and determination had begun to seep back into her. She loosened his garments, then wiped the sweat from his face and neck, and brought him cool water to drink. Then as he at last lay back and surrendered to illness and fatigue, she wrapped the heavy cloak about her once more, took out a long knife from her pack, and began to prepare the carcass.









Eight

Krieg rose the next morning, determined to go on. And though Lana tried to dissuade him, he told her plainly. “I grudge every waking moment. If Cassius and the others reach the cove before I do, and take Franzi out to sea, then he is lost to me forever. And if something should happen before I find him, if he is killed or captured, then my own life is meaningless. It will be the end of my line, and of all chance to mend the damage I have done.” He said no more, lost in some labyrinth of the past.

“But Krieg,” said Lana at length. He cut her short.
“I know what you would say to me already. And in other circumstances it would be true. But woman’s wisdom cannot help me here. I must find my grandson at all costs. If you are unable to travel I will leave you behind, and return when I may. As before, the danger is equally great.”

“I will come with you,” she said, shocked and hurt that he could speak to her this way. His sudden resolve frightened her, as again she felt herself competing with obsession. As all her fear and insecurity, never far beneath the surface, returned with a vengeance.

Did she overreact? Perhaps. But she could not, as the more fortunate can, distance herself from her emotions, and objectively decide upon a course of action. Her physical reality was real, and pressed in on her from every side at once. She only knew that she loved him, needed him, and felt herself brushed aside like so much unwanted snow from his garments. What hurt most of all was to realize that one of the ‘costs’ might be her own life, and any chance of a family between them. For all she had tried to give him. . . she was still second.

One thought only sustained her, a bit of floating wreckage from their sinking ship, that might yet save her from drowning.

“I am your wife.”

At this he looked across at her strangely, as if shaken from delirium. And realized what he had done. Again he had let the endless struggle blind him to what should have been closest to his heart—her life, her needs, her emotions.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking down. “I did not mean to choose between you.” He struggled for something more to say, but it was not words she needed. Soundlessly he came closer and embraced her. She cried softly. But only for a moment. Then she drew back, wiped away the tears and asked simply.

“How should I cook the deer? We must have meat along the way.”

“Yes,” he answered, the word itself a weary sigh. For it must still be done. “Cut and smoke long strips, ten pounds or more. The stew you have made will serve as a meal before parting. Then I will hang the carcass, hidden as well as may be among the rocks above. That will keep it from the wolves, and the cold will preserve it until we return.”

She could not help asking. “Do you mean to return?”

“I don’t know, Lana. Whether we should go with the others in search of their island, or bring Franzi back to the cabin with us..... I cannot see the end of the road. I know only that you are my wife, and he is my grandson. I must care for both of you, as best I can.” His eyes looked searchingly into hers. “You know that I would die.....”

She nodded quickly. There was nothing more to say. It must be done.

There followed four of the most difficult days and nights that either of them had ever known. For though the killing snows were gradually left behind, as they entered the more habitable regions of the lower elevations there was considerably less cover, and their danger increased many fold.

For as Krieg had warned her, the Vandals were on the move, determined to wipe out every trace of their lesser cousins, the Sueves, who had occupied this land before them. Small bands of horsemen were everywhere, leaving desolation in their wake: twice pillaged towns, trampled fields and blackened orchards. They seemed to grudge the very earth, leaving behind a withered Wasteland to starve even the most pitiable survivors of the carnage. Soon the lovers were forced to travel only at night, even then at their peril, and to hide like hunted animals by day. They spoke little, each thinking their own dark thoughts, and calling upon what lay deepest in their souls, just to continue.

For Lana, the one thing that made it bearable was the realization that it was yet harder for Krieg. For he had invested in this last attempt to save his bloodline. . .everything: the knowledge, determination, and emotions of a lifetime. In a rare moment of commiseration—for he kept much to himself—he told her that he felt the fear of failure like a phantom rider forever at his side, endlessly whispering the litany of despair.

How did he endure it? She had not known that a man could be so intense, so fixed upon a single, irrefutable purpose. Though her own faith had all but died inside her, she prayed for him, for both of them, that in this lesser, yet infinitely dearer Quest, he would not be denied.

At the weary last, after pushing straight on through the bitter night, with the reluctant dawn came the sound of surf in the distance, and the first unmistakable tang of salt air. The breeze that carried it to them was damp and cold, a final assault on their threadbare resistance.

But for Krieg it was like arriving at the last, desperate strokes of a battle, exhausted by the roads that had brought him to it, but ready to throw his whole soul into the fray. If only it was not too late.

“The cove should be just beyond those cliffs,” he said with animation, trying perhaps to rally her spirits as well.

From the high plateau across which they now rode, the land fell sharply in a series of slopes and sandstone cliffs, roughly following the outline of the wedge-shaped inlet below. Krieg dug his heels into the horse’s sides. Startled, it fell of its stride, then recovering, made one last gallant charge to the edge of the abyss.

But there it stopped, and Krieg did not urge it forward.

For there, far below, was a sight that seemed to freeze the blood inside him. As the dreams of a lifetime lay crumbled at his feet. Two horsemen were there on the shore that he had reached too late, brandishing their swords, and shouting curses at the sea. They might well turn and spot them.

But this was not what crushed the heart inside him. A small boat floated like a tiny chip upon the waves, three hundred yards or more out to sea: beyond the murderous reach of the horsemen, but beyond his reach as well. Though too far for him to see clearly..... A bearded man was seated in the stern, his woman beside him. Cassius, it must be, and Ariel.

He strained his eyes to identify the others, thought to cry out to them. But even as he rose in the stirrups to do so. . .caution silenced him. He would only endanger them both. They could not turn back, and he could not follow.

“Franzi,” he said quietly, as despair overwhelmed him.








Nine

If clearer in his mind and in his heart, Krieg would probably have turned, and ridden away. But he had come so far, and to so little. He must at least be sure that his grandson was with them, and safe. So giving the horse a few moment’s rest, and patting its proud neck to reassure it, he turned toward something of a path that angled slowly down the steep incline. And began to descend.

The riders below soon became aware of them. But aside from the general hostility they felt toward all life, aggravated perhaps by the weary pilgrims who had escaped their wrath, they took no particular notice. Even from this distance they could see the man’s Vandal accouterments: the strong horse, streaming hair, stout sword and shield, the body of a warrior. Just another, like themselves.

But as the pair drew closer, several details began to arouse their predatory instincts. First, the woman behind him was fairly young, Spanish and attractive. Also, the man himself was fairly old. And lastly, the final consideration of sharks who would attack..... He was only one sword, and they were two.

Coming at length to a level not far above them, Krieg saw all this in their eyes, felt a qualm of remorse for exposing Lana to the very real danger they posed. But it was now too late to turn back, and he knew that for both their sakes he dare not show weakness or hesitation. So without checking the horse, which was restive and exhausted, he descended the last uneven distance. Until reaching the sand, he rode directly toward them.

But as he came closer he found them both staring, when not at Lana, directly at his forehead. The cross. But again it was too late, and he knew that he must show no weakness.

“Was there a boy on that boat?” he demanded. “A Vandal, five years old.”

But the taller of the two, an arrogant man of twenty who would have been handsome but for the malevolent sneer of his narrow, almost Oriental eyes, ignored the question, asking instead one of his own.

“A Christian?”

Krieg nodded grimly. At this the two exchanged a look: an outcast, with no brothers or sons to avenge his death.

“I have heard it said,” the man continued, “that as a Christian you must bear the cross of your beloved Savior. But burn it into your forehead as well? Or had some poor pagan like myself the pleasure of doing it for you?”

With one hand Krieg reached back and gently tugged at Lana’s skirts: dismount. But if she understood she did not obey, clinging to him tightly instead. With the other hand he firmly grasped the hilt of his sword, not yet drawing it from its sheath, but ready to do so, not caring if they saw.

“I have not come here to be mocked by children,” he said icily. “I asked about my grandson. Was he on that boat!”

“I believe those Jews,” said the second man with disdain, “may have had a German brat with them. Perhaps they will mutilate his penis as they do their own. Would that make you happy, Christian?”

“But not being Christians,” added the first, as if he had thought of something particularly clever. “They are not entitled to rise from the dead. His little prick might never—”

“SILENCE!” cried Krieg, with a rage that would not be abated. “And unless you want to die today, take your filthy eyes from my wife!”

“Your wife?” sneered the tall man, uncowed.
And with this Krieg knew that it would come to violence. For this strong and aggressive man, with all the gods of cruelty behind him, was not, as most bullies are, a coward. Not breaking off his ugly and malicious stare, he circled slowly to place himself on the opposite side of his prey, forcing Krieg to defend in both directions at once.

“An old man like you,” he said, brandishing his naked sword. “Your voice gets hard, but I doubt your cock does. You will never butcher that bleeder. And what would be the point, since you have no balls to stir the mongrel seed inside her?”

In a single motion Krieg’s sword was out, and the shield raised from its catch on the saddle. And now, understanding, Lana slipped from the horse’s back. Her own mind racing she moved toward the lesser man, who had hesitated, if only for a moment. And as Krieg raised his shield to meet the blow of the first man, and answered it with one of his own, she ran toward the other crying, “Save me!”

Perhaps displaying too much confidence in his friend’s ability to despatch the older man, this poor second lowered his sword, and smiled to reveal a set of rotting teeth. “Oh, I’ll save you,” he said, reaching down an open hand. But as he did she seized his sheepskin jacket in both hands, and with desperate strength, pulled him to the ground. And before he could rise in a rage to destroy her, she had drawn her sister’s dagger and thrust it imperfectly into the side of his neck.

All this happened in but a few second’s time. But when Krieg heard her mock cry for help, and believed it to be real, he turned quickly, giving the brutal man the opportunity he needed. His opponent’s upper body being turned away and his eyes averted, the younger Vandal raised his sword and aimed a terrific blow at his thigh. Only an instinctive dip and recoil on the part of his horse kept Krieg and his left leg companions. As it was the blade struck high and with less impact, fracturing his hip, and spilling his blood upon the sand.

Krieg turned with a howl of rage and pain, dropping the shield and taking his sword in both hands. And having seen that Lana was all right, he turned back upon the younger man with a vehemence in which even that dull savage could not fail to see his own undoing. And after a series of thundering blows, blocked by his shield but foretelling defeat, the marauder put vicious heels to his horse’s sides, and pounded off through the sand without looking back.

And at this Krieg had to turn again. For the lesser man, in a violent frenzy and with the dagger still protruding from his neck, had seized hold of Lana’s hair and was groping wildly for his fallen sword. Krieg ended this final attempt at murder with a single thrust between the man’s shoulder blades. He fell forward, and looked out across the waves with unseeing eyes.

Then Krieg dismounted, to see if his woman was hurt.

At least that is what his mind told his limbs to do. But to his shock and dismay, he felt them respond in a movement altogether different. His left leg, sustained to that point only by instinct and dire necessity, twisted unnaturally as the weight was placed upon it, while his whole left side, convulsing with pain and weakness, collapsed, bent under, and he fell from the saddle. Only the giving sand and the startled reaction of his horse kept him from further injury.

Seeing the blood, and the tortured expression of her husband, Lana rushed forward with a cry of alarm.

“Help me off it, help me off it!” he exclaimed. She did as he asked, with all her strength lifting him onto his back. Then gasped as she saw the deep wound, the jagged edge of bone showing plainly beneath.

“Bind it Lana,” he said to her, fighting to maintain consciousness. “Pressure first, with a heavy cloth. Then bind it!”

With trembling hands she tore the wanted cloth from her skirts and, rolling it into a bundle, pressed it against the wound as hard as she could bear. For the pain in his face from the fracture. . .he was driven nearly into unconsciousness.

“The wound should be sewn,” she urged him, as with an added length of cloth she bound the crude bandage to him.

“Not yet. We must be off. Can you bring the horse?”

“I’ll try. But Krieg— ”

“We are exposed!” he cried, fighting again the rush of blackness. “The bastard who did this. The two. May have been wilding alone. Or not. Anyone above can see….. Can you bring the horse?” he repeated. And using the great sword as a crutch he tried to rise.

At first he could not, falling back to a crumpled sit, and fighting off her angry imprecations. “Then help me! A crippled man, a beautiful woman. We’ll be dead within the hour!” And as he began to rise again, she had no choice. She put her head beneath his arm, and helped him to stand.

Their horse had not gone far. It was exhausted for one thing, and confused by the sand and sea, which it had never seen. It moved tentatively toward the water, and tried to drink. But as the foaming end of a wave surged soundlessly beneath its hooves, a whoosh of sand and sea entered its nostrils. It snorted and choked. Then shook its head, and looked back at them.

And something else Krieg saw as well. The slain Vandal’s horse, trained and accustomed to fighting and violence, was not much disturbed by its master’s demise. It too had run but a short distance off, and now studied not the two of them, but the strong and unfamiliar horse.

“Good,” said the warrior weakly. And he looked about him. The first man was now past the southern bend of the cove, and gone from sight. Upon the encircling hills he saw no one. “Get our horse,” he said to Lana. “Very gently, and doing nothing to frighten the other animal. We’re going to try to take it also. We will need it, now that I am..... We will need it.”

Ten

They rode North. There was no thought in this, no conscious decision. They rode north because the cruel man had ridden south. And because they must find shelter. And because neither the weary horse nor its wounded rider were capable of ascending by the path they had come down. They rode in the morning chill of what soon became an overcast day, the penetrating breath of the cold, indifferent sea. Along the coast, as near to the cliffs, slowly diminishing, as they possibly could. They rode north.

If Krieg had been able to think clearly, he would probably have turned and ridden up into these lesser hills. But he could not think clearly, and must concentrate all his energies on remaining conscious, and not falling off his horse. And this he very nearly did, several times, always saved from that dark swoon by the ever weakening shock of physical alarm.

Finally he did fall, and this time not even his horse’s quick reaction could save him from further injury. Landing on his side as it tried to elude him, he was struck by a hoof in the ribs, breaking one, and waking him to a bitter pain not lessened by the knowledge of what had come before it.

Lana began to dismount. But with an angry “No!” he checked her intention. She put her leg back across the slain man’s horse with some difficulty, as it seized the opportunity to be free of its new master and began to gallop, and turn, at once. Fortunately for the woman it was no more intelligent than it was determined, and turned the wrong way, throwing her weight not off, but onto its back. And after a further, half-hearted attempt—the beast did not seem capable of sustained loyalty to anything, even its own freedom—it was again brought under control.
Somehow, with the hilt of the sword burrowing into his armpit, Krieg managed to raise himself, and look about. There was little natural cover. The hills to their left had been reduced to mere craggy knolls, the toes, as it were, of the foothills now rising stark and stony behind. Still farther north, at a distance at once both temptation and torment, he saw the broken crown of an ancient beacon tower, set upon a point of land jutting hard against the sea. Erected by the Romans in days long forgotten, no bonfire had been lit within its turret, to serve as a warning to Imperial ships, in well over a century. Even at his distance, the man was sure of this.

So with his voice he tried to calm the sorely tested animal, and to approach it. But in the end it was Lana, still mounted, who must retrieve it for him. And holding tightly to the reins of her own horse, she helped him back into the saddle. Though in the end the result was the same. They rode north, his breath now coming in tight and painful gasps, which alone kept him bound to the world of conscious suffering.

“And for this,” he muttered to himself, “I must be grateful.”

The beacon tower.

The horses were tied just outside its northern face, to a beam which had fallen across the broken door-frame. Krieg lay upon the hard ground within, in the lea of a curving wall of stone. The spiraling staircase which had once clung to it had long since failed in its use, and lay rotting and in ruin all around.

And there was nothing. No feeling for the woman who tended his wounds, no feeling for the pain her ministries caused in him. No feeling for the love that lay behind her actions, or the silent tears that rolled down her cheeks as she saw all this in the pale blue eyes that had lost their proud luster.

“I have failed,” he said ominously, as Lana felt her heart sink. “Do not blame yourself, for anything. The fault, the failure, is mine..... Franzi.”

This word alone seemed to generate emotion, and that of the blackest. She had no more words to give him, and could only listen, and hope. He lay back and closed his eyes, speaking as to himself.

“I have failed,” he said again, “in every meaningful cause I have ever undertaken. All these years, through all the bitter struggles..... Nothing. All my hopes and dreams, slowly altered, dismembered by the passage of Time. Ending in this blank despair. And though the commonest mind would have shown me the futility of trying to be more. . .better than the killers of this world….. In my arrogance I thought the cruel Universal law did not apply to me. But it does, and there is no other. Flesh tears down flesh, to be in its turn torn down. I thought that because my heart was true..... What a fool. It is Nature’s unchanging law, and Man is not immune, not elevated to some higher plane by his belief in good and evil, and his yearning for the light.

“The sun rises, the sun sets. The seasons come and go, weaving their dark tapestry of pain and loss.

“Behold! A child is born, a son. He grows—to struggle, to stagger, and to die an old man. Or to die a young man. Which is more tragic?

“A child is born, a daughter. And from her little girl’s flesh, a miracle! A young woman blooms forth: beautiful, poignant, doomed. She is taken, and used, and cast aside. Left to wither on the vine: knowing she has lost her beauty, yet completely unable to accept it. No matter. In time she will fade to wretched uselessness. Old women, old men. They know their lives are over, yet still they cling like drowning sailors to the mast. To what? To hope. That they may struggle, and suffer, a little longer.

“And God, the greatest illusion of all. In our image we created Him, out of our fear, our wretchedness. We cannot face the endless night of Death, and so imbue it with non-existent stars, the ‘spirits’ of those who have gone before us, into the silent Void from which none shall ever return. And what is more, we give it an immortal sun: God. We neither see nor feel His perfect light, yet hope against hope it will be there when we die, to guide our disembodied souls. To what end? To Paradise. Again, we find no trace of it here, and so must create it beyond the grave, a reward for our suffering, a reason to be here.

“But there is no reason. All our shimmering dreams, our vainglorious Quests are mere trickery, the self-inflicted mockery of hope, to keep us trudging down the road to nowhere. Because the judge has already passed sentence, and the sentence is always the same: a life imprisoned, pervaded by the cold and certain knowledge of Death. Tormented by desires, never realized, and ending, always the same, in oblivion.....

“Oblivion,” he ended grimly. “At least there is that.” His voice, like the primal hunger, trailed off in silence—to the wailing of the wind, and the weeping of the woman at his side.

“It’s not fair,” were the only words she could find, given not for his comfort, nor even her own, but spoken because she could no longer deny the hard truth. “Fair,” she whispered bitterly, as all the beliefs that rested upon this illusion, crumbled in the gloom of the oncoming storm. There was the rumble of distant thunder, and soon the rain came slanting down, the horses wet and dispirited beyond. She lay down by him forlornly, alone in this darkened world but for his body, which might never rise again.

In time he slept. She got up with difficulty, and gathering bits of broken and rotting wood, lit a small fire to warm them. It was all she could do. And after a long, miserable pacing to and fro in a small uncluttered space, unable either to face or to deny the despair that now confronted her, she lay down again, but could not find the hiding place of sleep.

Eleven

Krieg slept the remainder of that day, and far into the night, so deeply that Lana was torn between letting him rest, and waking him to be sure he did not slip into a coma. What dissuaded her in this latter course was that at times his eyes moved rapidly as if in dream, and he spoke angrily to some demon of his past. These did not seem the harbinger of resignation and death, as even in sleep something of his proud and determined expression had returned.

But surely the physical wounds, the doom he had pronounced, were not passing. How would the loss of his grandson, and the potentially crippling injury, affect him when he woke? Would he become bitter, even hard and cruel? Her father had not done so. . .but her husband.....

And try as she might, she could not entirely still the desire to leave him there. Just leave him. To find some other man, who could better provide for her needs. Clearly the Vandals had found her attractive. And while she was not such a fool as to go looking for them, surely there were others.....

And this infidelity of the heart, even in that desperate corner, terrified her. Because Krieg, like all men who idealize the women they love, knew only part of her, and not what she was capable of.
At last, exhausted, she closed her eyes and finally fell asleep. Unlike the man she did not dream, even her fertile subconscious too weary to waste the least effort in its instinctive need to survive. Just survive.

Krieg wakened the next morning before her. He did not try to rouse her, though he was capable of little movement without her aid. Instead he held her close, lying on his undamaged side, and warmed her struggling flesh with the heat that remained in his own, even then, and with caresses which sought to comfort them both. This woman who had given him so much, and was now his only reason for living. He was ashamed of the weakness he had shown, and felt, and with the returning strength of his spirit, now strove to amend the damage he had done.

He felt a pang as he thought of his grandson, but knew that he must somehow push through it, must never again yield to the blackness that had taken him the day before. With Franzi gone beyond his reach, it took no deep introspection to see where his duty now lay.

“Duty,” he muttered. After all I have been through? Yes. You are what you are, Krieg, and no use trying to change now. Perhaps, hope glimmered, the fault is not with you, but with the world. No, not the world. The fault lay with men, and human nature.

Perhaps someday, if those like himself refused to surrender to such vicious and soulless beasts, their kind would slowly die out, while the more enlightened..... No, there would always be black-hearted men, and women who were twisted by their lust and violence into cunning and treachery. No use denying that.

“And will you bring another child into such a world, to struggle and suffer as you have?”

This brought him up short. There was no getting around it. But there was no denying it, either. This much faith he must retain, or all was meaningless: that somewhere, beyond the brutality, lust and greed, there must be something just and eternal. God? Perhaps, but not as something external: an omniscient and all-powerful being, rewarding good and punishing evil. He had seen the reverse far too often. No, it had to come from within.

Then there could be no miracles, no use in prayer. In forty-three years of searching, he had found no trace of the metaphysical. The truth, the light, must be inside: in the slow and painful awakening of conscience, the knowledge of good and evil, life and death. He thought of Genesis in this new light, and felt its somber wisdom. For surely that is what had doomed, even cursed Mankind: his knowledge of good and evil, the certainty of death. And the mystery of what lay beyond.

Lana stirred beneath the caresses which were now instinctive to him, and because of her honest sensuality, required no prodding of the conscience to perform. He touched her face, and found that she was crying. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I must feel my despair, or be drowned by it. But a woman must not live in such a world. I will not speak of it again.”

“I live in the same world, Krieg. And whatever else you think of Spanish women, we are not so weak as to hide behind a fantasy. Something of the man, lives within us too.”

“Are you angry with me?” asked Krieg.

“With myself, with the brutality of men.” She became quiet for a time, and truly thoughtful. Without realizing it, now that she had found a man who did not always seek to dominate and control her, she was becoming more assertive, forming her own thoughts and opinions, which would not now be silenced. She felt an irritation which she could not suppress, a rebellion against the dominion of men, and the endless pain of womanhood.

“Listen to me, Krieg. The one thing I ask, the one promise I must have from you..... This grand and noble life you have tried to live. . .what has it accomplished, but to crush the heart inside you? Why waste your emotions, and your energy so? It is not upon your shoulders to protect the innocent. They must protect themselves, or perish.” She felt that this was too much for him, but could not now take it back, or change her course. The words seemed to come of their own accord, in response to sufferings he knew nothing about.

“Who protected you, or myself until you found me? Even then, if I had not acted as I did, had not asserted my own need, you would simply have left us, and I would be starving along with my sister. This bleeding endlessly for the sins of your people….. They are animals, and not worth the air they breathe. Care for me. Just do the best you can! Then let it go, Krieg. Let it go.”

He was silent for a long time. Then he said. “You have grown, Lana. There is wisdom in what you say.”

She sat up to contain her own emotions. “We cannot stay here.” And she rose and went outside.
Though stung by her words, Krieg knew what he must do: take them to some place of safety where they could both heal, in body and in spirit. Looking down at his bandaged hip, he felt for a moment the debilitating sorrow of all who are crippled by illness or injury. But he would not allow self-pity. If he had lost the use of his leg, so be it. He had not lost the use of his mind or his will, and must turn all his faculties, in any case, to protecting those he loved, present and absent, born and unborn.

He knew of only one place that he could take her in his present state. And toward that end he directed all his thoughts.

Lana returned to find him standing, and nodding to her solemnly. All her womanly emotion returned, overpowering, as she moved toward him, and embraced him desperately.

“You have not lost me,” he said quietly, holding her as best he could. No words would come to her, only blinding, strangling tears. She loved this man, she thought, and would never be whole without him. That was her gift, her curse.

“I need you,” she finally managed. “Don’t give up.”

“Never,” he said passionately. Then knowing he had not the strength for such emotions, he added. “Perhaps there is something wrong with me.” As she looked up at him, puzzled, he answered. “I don’t know how to quit. Too many swords to the helmet, I think.”

“But you don’t wear a helmet.”

“Exactly.”

She laughed a little through her tears, punched him in the chest perhaps harder than she’d meant, held him again and then straightened.

“Where will we go?”

“The place from which we started, not knowing what I had.”

“You had to search for Franzi.”

“Yes,” he said gravely. “But he is gone, beyond my help or harm. You are not.”

So they tended the fire, and ate and drank in silence, grateful for the smoked meat that gave their bodies strength and warmth, and for the wine that they had found along the way. Looking down at them, Krieg saw that Lana had mended her skirts, though with what fabric he could not guess. Nor did he try. For he knew that when it came to home and family, a good woman was part angel, part sorceress. Somehow, some way, she would always find what was needed.

And while he did not feel for his new wife the white-hot passion he had experienced with Elise, perhaps even this was for the best. Lana had earned his deep respect, and implicit trust. And a feeling entirely new, even to a man of his years, began to grow in him. This woman that he quietly loved, was perhaps the greatest ally he had ever known. And the value of that was not to be underestimated.

When their things were packed and loaded onto the horses, Lana helped him to mount. And imploring him to be careful, she herself took the lead. Again there was only one direction, this time west. Up into the hills, there to find a way, however it might come, back to the home they had abandoned but a short time since, all hope, all energy, bent upon the task of simply finding what they had lost.

This did not prove an easy undertaking. For though in the course of a hard and simple life Lana had at odd times been perhaps a hundred miles from her home, and knew the country of her birth as well as could be expected, like many women of that era she had been most often kept at home, not asked, or even permitted to participate in matters of travel or trade, or anything else that required decision and tact. And while none of this was her fault, the fact remained that she had never traveled among the high passes in which she now found herself, and as such could not find the way that they must take. Added to this difficulty, the cabin of her sister’s husband had been conceived with foresight and craft, against the very dangers which had been realized despite all his precaution. Try as she might, Lana could not much aid her own husband in finding it now.

But Krieg’s skills as a scout were not diminished by his crippled state. If anything they were heightened, his determination redoubled. And in time he brought them home.

Home was not a place of bliss now, or even of sustained happiness. But the man and woman both knew that for the time at least they could hope, and therefore ask, for nothing more than day-to-day survival.

In the cabin. In the pine forest. In the deeps of Winter.

Twelve

One morning, when deep snow again kept Lana from checking the traps they had made and set, and his injured hip still kept the man indoors, she asked him the question that had been so long on her mind.

“Krieg,” she said, lying with him in the bed. “Who is Elise?” The question seemed natural enough, as in both dream and passion he sometimes said her name.

… “My first wife.”

Lana’s fingers closed more tightly upon his breast.
“Is she still alive?”

“No.” Nothing more.

“Are you angry with me for asking?” The man released a sigh, as if trying to settle less uncomfortably beneath the weight of a burden long carried.

“No, Lana. It has been many years.”

An awkward pause followed, during which she tried to keep silent. But she could not. “Won’t you tell me about her? You know that I love, and try to please you. But sometimes I feel as if she is here in the bed with us. I don’t grudge you that,” she said, as if speaking to herself. “I’m just trying to understand.”

At these words Krieg felt the old struggle break out anew in his heart: to forgive himself—to let her go—or to carry the weight and knowledge of his guilt to the grave. And also, for more selfish reasons, he wanted to keep those memories which were good, hallowed, locked away in a place that none, even Lana could enter.

But as she rose, by some sixth sense knowing that he needed it, to fetch the salve that had been so essential in healing his tortured flesh, he felt that he owed her some explanation at least.

“Will you understand?” he asked, as she sat beside him and began to apply it gently to the wound. “Will you understand if I tell you only part of the tale, withholding that which is too painful, or too precious?”

For a moment the woman’s hand faltered, but she forced herself to continue. “She was your wife. I am your wife. Of course I will understand.”

Her words would not have convinced him, had his full attention been upon her. But even the mention of Elise’s name, in the softened moments after love-making, had caused his mind to drift back to that time so long ago, and yet so vivid in his memory.

He began to speak, almost unconscious of the woman who listened so intently, and with such strong and conflicting emotions. And despite his own admonition, that he would not tell all, once he began to speak and to remember, he found that he could withhold nothing from her. For there is a subtle difference between remembrance alone, and the telling of a thing. And though this ground had been covered a thousand times before in his mind, still the simple act of relating these thoughts to another, gave him a new perspective, which he did not wish to lose by telling her only part of the tale.

And so at last the long chain of thought—of love, lust and guilt that he had worn like a shackle, controlling his movements and shaping his actions— began to unwind. He told her.

“I knew her from the time she was a child. She was of my tribe, but lived in another village, just a few miles away.

“When she was eleven years old, her father sent her to live among us. This because her mother had died, and he was spoiling for the heat of conquest. This man, whose attitude towards her I will never understand, seemed to care for her only in a possessive way, and never gave a thought to what she needed, the day-to-day attentions which constitute real love. Enough to say that he did not love her as a father should, and sent her to stay instead with his brother’s family, who lived in our village.

“His brother was not much pleased with the charge. And as always, the actions of the father set the tone for the rest of the family. Elise was neglected, even abused. Such harsh treatment, coming hard on the heels of her mother’s death, would have broken the spirit of most girls her age. But not Elise. She locked it all inside. It was not until years later that I would realize just how deep resentment had shot its dark and poisonous arrows into her. At the time I saw only that it made her hard, and sharp, though inside she was bleeding.

“I knew something of her, living in a close village where few secrets could be kept. I had even come to her aid on one occasion, setting myself between her and her cousin, as he rushed out of the hut in pursuit of her, leather strap in hand.

“When I stood before him and blocked his path, he gave an involuntary start. At the sound, his father also came out. But he did not challenge me. For even at fifteen I was large and powerful, destined to be the Lord of our tribe, as my father had been before me. He had then been dead some four or five years. But he died proudly, in battle, taking scores of our enemies with him to the grave. Through this legacy alone I was a man of some stature, and with powerful relations. Also, I had been trained in combat from my earliest years, and already acquired the reputation of a fearless warrior. In my very first battle I had rushed headlong to the front of the charge, and despatched the Alan chieftain.....

“I do not say this to flatter myself. At all events, her uncle did not challenge me.

“So it was that I knew of her, and she of me, that fateful day when I came upon her in the forest. I had, from the first time I saw her, felt drawn to her somehow. Not attracted, as she was yet a child. Only drawn. I cannot to this day explain why..... So that when I came upon her, it was not lust I felt, but the organic stirrings of compassion.

“It is the great irony of my life that this moment, with this hard girl, was the beginning of the gentler feelings in my breast. . .which would in time sever me so irrevocably from the life, the people I had known. I, who had never suffered ill use at their hands, would reject them. While she, whom they had scarred so deeply, sought her revenge in ruling over them.

“But there she was, sitting on a large stone in the middle of the forest, arms crossed in bitterness, biting her lower lip to keep from crying. It was only then that I seemed to see her true beauty: the long and tawny hair, streaked blonde by the sun, the lovely, child’s face, and angry eyes of emerald. Her eyes,” he said, as if the final stroke which had sealed his fate, “were green.”

He paused, took a breath to gather himself. “She did not run at the sight of me, remembering perhaps the small kindness I had done her. Trivial enough, and gladly done, it was nonetheless of some importance to a girl so completely alone, and at a time of mourning..... Whatever her feelings, she did not run, but only remained in her former attitude, looking at me as if to say, ‘Well, and what are you going to do about it?’

“That I already felt drawn to her, knew something of her story, and now had seen the beautiful woman that would blossom from her child’s flesh, all played their part. And oh, you should have seen her run, when playing with the other children of the village. They had set a kind of obstacle course just at the edge of it. And though many who ran it were older and taller than she..... The way she attacked that course, fearless for her own safety and determined to be the fastest, which she was..... I only want to show, somehow, what can never be said in words: why she meant so much to me, even then.

“All these feelings may have run on for some time inside me, like a river whose surface only is seen, its true depth unrealized. I do not know. Only that when I saw her sitting there, so angry and hurt, I felt something stronger than I had ever known before. I did not want her to be alone in her grief. . . or to be alone in mine.

“I came closer and sat beside her, hardly knowing what I said, or did, feeling only the physical closeness to her, which she did not protest. I knew that in the depths of her wounded heart she wanted, needed me to be there. And when she looked into my eyes.....

“It just came out of me: emotion so strong I felt as if my heart would burst. I have never, before or since, felt such a rush of unconditional love. I reached for her, enveloped her in my arms, and told her..... The words did not matter. She knew what I meant. In my awkward and halting way, and never saying the word, I had told her that I loved her—as a friend, a guardian, and perhaps someday, much more.

“How could that be wrong?” he asked the Heavens, the question that had so long haunted him. “I loved her with all my heart and soul, and yet it was wrong. Why?” For a time he could not continue, brought up short by this brutal, impenetrable question.

“It wasn’t wrong,” said Lana, reading the anguish in his face, more dear to her now, despite the pain, than before. For the underlying mystery of his life had just been revealed to her: his need to prove himself, his ability to focus all the determination of a strong and aching heart upon a single purpose. Whether noble or misguided, who could say? Even the Quest itself she now understood, if feeling no more sympathy towards it. All could be read between the lines of that first, all-consuming love. “Don’t stop,” she said to him. “It hurts me to listen, but don’t stop.”

With this the man looked down at her, seeming to realize for the first time that another was hearing his words, and felt them, in her way, just as deeply.

“Am I wounding you, Lana?” His large hand stroked her forehead, lifting aside a stray lock of her hair.

“No.” And while this was not quite true, she was sincere in her wish that he continue. For like the man, she was, when survival did not dictate otherwise, unselfish in her love, and not so very different in her own needs and desires. “Go on.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded quickly, snuggled closer to his chest that he would not see her tears. “I’m afraid of what you will say, but more afraid of the chasm between us if you don’t.”

Krieg, too, felt the distance between them. For all the shared purpose of their self-proclaimed marriage—for who was there to marry them but God?—and the physical intimacy they shared, the past remained a vast and uncrossable barrier, not unlike the Pyrenees themselves. The Vandals had overmastered this obstacle by the strength of their greed, lust and hate. Could he overcome theirs with love? He did not know. He tried to be a good and honest man; she was his wife, and so he told her.

“Nothing more was said between Elise and I. But it was not words that she needed.

“I walked back to the village with her, her hand in mine. Straight into her uncle’s hut. I told him flatly, and in the presence of his sons, that if any of them laid a hand on her again, I would kill them all. And I would have done it then and there, my rage had so completely transformed me.

“They made no answer in return, and never struck her again. Though their coldness towards her, the feminine cruelty of the wife, in its way more telling still, was no doubt redoubled.” Lana shifted uncomfortably, remembering some demon of her past. But wholly absorbed in his tale, Krieg did not notice.

“Months later, when this became clear to me, and when her father had returned from his raiding, I took Elise back to him, and told him of the abuse she had suffered at his brother’s hands. And while this angered him, I believe the lion’s share of his resentment fell upon me, for telling him, and forcing him to see what he did not want to face: that his daughter was becoming a young woman, with all the male attentions (and dangers) this would bring upon her. That she had been abused already, because of him. And that he must one day lose her.

“I had by then made my intentions known to her: that I would love and protect her, and when she was old enough, take her as my own. I made this known to the father as well. He said nothing. And though he was himself a warrior of some renown—remember, he was her father—he did not at once declare his opposition to the match. For I was the future Lord, so long as I continued to earn that title in combat, and as such had powerful friends. My father had been the strong right arm of the King himself while he lived. And though he had since died, his sons young, and one partly crippled….. For all her father’s courage and subdued rage, he could not yet openly oppose me.

“Elise saw the forced discipline in his gaze, read the thoughts which lay behind it. Think how this must have affected her: her father, who in her eyes had always represented supreme power, was afraid of me, and what I would become. It was then, perhaps, that she began to realize the possibilities of such a match, wholly separate from her feelings for me.

“Given her past sufferings, it must have tested her young heart sorely: to see that the man who had chosen her continued to rise in strength and stature, and showed every sign of securing his birthright as Lord of the Tribe, and Fighting Marshall of all the Vandals.

“I do not say this, Lana, to glorify myself. In my rise as a warrior I did many things I am not proud of, not least among them the killing of men I then called my enemies—in truth, merely those who were not Vandals—and who either encroached upon our lands, or resisted when we encroached upon theirs. To say nothing of what this did to their families, left defenseless behind them.” He stopped, pushed back his long hair ruefully.

“I simply say it that you will understand. Two years later, at seventeen, I had established myself as a fell warrior, and fearless leader of the Charge. It remained only for me to claim the title that had by now been won in battle, and which all who fought beside me—save the inescapable rivals, along with her father and his kin—already acknowledged.

“But even then,” he said thoughtfully. “Even as a young man who had tasted triumph, and the animal gratification of the Charge: of Victory, and the trodding underfoot of our enemies..… There was, even then, a vague feeling inside me that the way of our people was wrong: that our lives, our victories, should not require the death and defeat of others. After taking a town and slaying the men—and I should say in our defense that in those days, at least, we were as often called to defend our own lands as to plunder those of others—I took no part in the rape and pillage that often followed. This does not lessen my guilt. No one knows that better than I. Again, I only tell it that you will understand.

“This abstention from lust and greed was a mystery to my fellow warriors, which they no doubt answered, if they thought of it at all, each in their own fashion. I would hear men speak of it afterward in two very different ways. To some it was a further show of strength, a way of establishing my superiority, and therefor, the right to rule.

“But to others, who spoke in seditious whispers, there was resentment. Misery loves company, and so does guilt. In my way I was like Adam: seduced by Eve, but refusing to partake of the forbidden fruit, as those all around me had done.

“Jealousy there would always be, as it had been for my father before me. But the true depth of their hostility I would not know until many years later. . .until I was taken, and tortured, by the sons and grandsons of my rivals, for the crime of not selling my soul. Good God, that such hatred could span the generations. Or perhaps the bitterness of their fathers was just the excuse these wolves needed to bare their own fangs and forsake all humanity. God knows they have done it to others.

“But what my people have become you already know. Let me return to the tale of my youth, to the time when the die was not yet cast, and we were still capable of some higher feeling, some better destiny. For now there remains only to tell you of the day I took her from her father, and made her my wife..... You may find it painful,” he said to her.

“Yes,” replied the woman. “But it will hurt us both more if you don’t.” He saw the wisdom of this. He continued.

“The Vandal right of marriage, barbaric as it may seem, had its roots, at least, in the good of our people. In order to win a woman to himself, a warrior must first take her from her father. This insured that only the best and bravest among us would bear children, and the bloodline remain strong.

In the event that the father was dead, or too old to test the mettle of the would-be husband, a brother or cousin—more than one, if the match was not agreeable—might be chosen to defend her.

“How can I tell you the feelings that stirred in my breast on that glorious Winter dawn? Riding toward her village through the virgin snow, alone upon my magnificent stallion, strength and determination coursing through every limb..... I knew that I would be opposed. And not only by her father—who had by then decided that his possessive, even lustful feelings for his daughter outweighed all else—but by her uncle as well, who had never forgiven me for shaming him in the eyes of his sons, and by those sons, who would not have their family disgraced. They had all gone to stay with Elise and her father, for no other purpose than to see me fail. And to see me dead.

“But my rise to power had been marked by such daring, even reckless deeds. I did not fear them. And while I could easily have chosen a second to fight beside me—in fact, my father’s brother was quite angry that I would not grant him the honor—I was determined. These wretched fools stood between me and all the world: the woman I loved with a fire that burned yet whiter for the desire she had since aroused in me. For she was beautiful, Lana, in a way that was almost unnatural.”

Again she stirred uncomfortably.

“They were nothing to me, dust to be scattered by the wind of my Charge. I was a Warrior, her sworn Protector, and soon to be Lord of my Tribe.”

As Lana rose on one arm to study him, she felt again the devouring hunger that had stirred her so deeply, without knowing why, the first time his tortured gaze fell upon her. Again she felt moved, but also frightened by his strength, his German blood. Because now, though they were so close, the penetrating gaze she knew so well did not even see her, but only stared with fearful intensity into a world that was beyond her experience. As hers would always be to him.

“I stopped just beyond the village, on a hillside overlooking it. I remember thinking, ‘My heart, my soul, my desire lie within.’ Truly she was a gift, and a Challenge from the gods, a reward for my courage, and my father’s before me. All the martial feelings of old, the Pride, the Rage, the Lust for Battle, rose up in my heart like a consuming fire.

“And then I saw her, standing alone before her father’s hut, looking up at me. And now, a young woman, she too felt the fierce pride of what I was about to do.

“You must understand, Lana.” And with this his gaze returned suddenly to her, becoming not only human, but almost pleading. “I loved her, and would have ridden down a dragon’s throat to save her. Such was the strength of my emotion, and my illusion. And so I was seduced.....”

“I know,” were the only words she could find.

He sighed. “I drew my sword, let loose a savage cry, and rode down the hill as if a thousand men rode behind me.

“And for all her family’s foreknowledge and preparation, my fearlessness as I pounded through the village unnerved them. As well it might. For their first sight of me as they ran out of the hut was one which had not been seen in recent memory, since the days when my father was young. For I held the great sword in both hands, swinging it in hard circles above my head as I clung to my horse, saddleless, with my legs alone, and with a strength and balance that no one save my father had ever been known to possess. In that moment I was not, in their eyes or mine, a mere mortal, but as one of the gods, ridden down from Valhalla to smite a disbelieving foe.

“Of her father, his brother and two sons, only her father could gather himself in time to mount, as at such a bold attack some within the village cried out in anger or fear, as others cheered, and rushed forward to watch. For I was known to all—if not loved as the heir apparent, then hated as the same. And in that moment, that was exactly what I wanted.

“The brother and his eldest son, were slain before they could even draw weapon against me. The younger son ran for his life, and I did not pursue him. For by then her father, himself a fierce warrior, had ridden only far enough to wheel his horse about, and mount a charge against me. Then he was upon me, as swiftly as I had been upon his kin.

“His strength and determination are not to be underestimated. He was her father, and the fire that burned within her came from him. And he was fighting for his life, for the daughter he coveted, and the brother I had slain. It was perhaps the most deadly combat I have ever known.

“But I would not be denied. In time I broke his sword with mine, seized hold of him as he looked at it, disbelieving, and flung him bodily to the ground. Then dismounting swiftly, I stepped on the arm that yet reached for the shattered blade. Then I raised my great two-handed sword to take his life, and end forever any claim upon Elise save my own.

“Yet for all the reasons I had been given to kill him, and the fierce, almost savage approval I saw in her eyes..... I could not, would not do it. I cannot claim that my motives were all of a higher order. The passion, the lust for Power, Pride and Possession were so strong in me.....

“Though I struggled within my own breast, I could not let others see that I hesitated. I cannot truthfully say which part of me took the stronger hand in what I was about to do—the desire to crush his spirit, or spare his life. But I did not kill him, and turned even this unexpected action into power.

“‘No, Galic,’ I said, standing over him. ‘I will not give you the honor of a noble death. The greater punishment shall be in letting you live, disgraced, my sworn enemy, whom I no more acknowledge than the dust beneath my feet.’ By then all the people of the village, and many from my own who had heard of my going and followed, stood gathered about us. There was no better time to declare myself, and so I did.

“‘I am Krieg!’ I cried, the name my father had given me, the battle cry of our people. ‘I am Krieg: the Lord of my People! the Leader of the Charge! the Hammer of the Gods! Is there any man here fool enough to challenge my Birthright?’

“And though I stood in the midst of a village that was not my own, and over a foe not yet vanquished, the wild pride and sheer audacity which had marked my rise to power, and was so evident here, could not help but stir their Vandal blood. And for every man who maintained a surly silence, two and three more declared for me, shouting my name again and again. And as her father tried to rise to kill me, for the unspeakable shame of being allowed to live, I knocked him back down with the flat of my sword, breaking his shoulder. He never regained the use of his sword arm, and shortly after took his own life.

“The leader of the village stepped forward as Galic was dragged away. A man of some years and much pride, this chieftain nonetheless went down on one knee before me, acknowledging my rule. At this I raised my sword to the heavens, and set loose a cry that came from some primal depth unknown to me, and secretly frightened me with its power.

“I brought the sword back down to shoulder level, drew a slow circle with it, encompassing all, as some gladly, some with bitter faces they dared not show, bowed before me as their Lord. All save Elise, who came forward with a fire in her eyes, and a savage passion in her heart that even in my moment of triumph, awakened in me a premonition…..

“But this doubt passed over my heart like the shadow of a cloud on a hillside, quite overwhelmed by the pride and relief of having protected her, won her love, and taken her to me forever. She stood perfectly still as I took the sword in both hands and made one final, swift stroke, stopping the blade only inches from her neck. She then took the sword submissively from my hands, and put it hard into its sheath. I crushed her to me, as the crowd roared its approval.

“Then I lifted her, and carried her through the path that opened before us, and set her on my horse’s back, subduing the tears of joy and gratitude that I could let no man see. Then mounting behind her we rode off, to the cheers of those we left behind, as well as those who rode ahead to herald our coming.

“Returning to my own village, a great feast and celebration was held in my honor, though in my heart I wanted no part of it. Nothing else mattered in all the world except that she was finally, undeniably mine. I ate and drank without feeling, my eyes never leaving her, though I could not help but see that she reveled in the attention, the fierce adulation of the people. And being not only a warrior, but also a man, I was on some deep, half acknowledged level, hurt that she could have any thought for them, when it was I who had taken her from a poor, misused girl, to the heights of what I then called Power. I could not know that even then she longed for—nay, craved—a power greater still. To be the wife of a Lord was not enough. She would be the wife of a King.
“But I was still young, and as full of illusions as she. I believed myself to be standing on the threshold of greatness. My Destiny had been realized, my father’s pride and faith in me justified. And she was mine. Mine. I would have killed anyone who even hinted, by the slightest look of reproach, that she was not.

“When at last nightfall came, I took her into my hut. And there in the firelight I commanded her to take off her clothes and stand before me. Her perfect young body, shimmering in that golden glow, will haunt me till the day I die. Truly I had entered Valhalla, and become as one with the Gods. I took her to me with a fire that seared my soul, a love and longing for which no words exist.
“It was only afterward, when I held the treasure of my heart safe and warm in my arms, that I wept with all the overflowing passions of the day. And told her I loved her, and would gladly die for her…..

“‘Not die,’ was her answer, which long after left a shadow of disquiet on my heart. ‘Not die, my husband.

“‘Kill.’”

Thirteen

For several days after that Lana kept very quiet, lost deep in the mazes of herself. Or if she did speak it was only of surface things, and to assure her husband that nothing was wrong.

But something was wrong. The fear and awe that she had felt when he first came upon her, lessened perhaps by the intervening knowledge of his humanity—the ordinary needs, wants, and even weaknesses he possessed—all swept away by the power of what he had told her, and the aura of the man himself.

Just as she had felt threatened by his obsessive devotion to the Quest, now that she knew it was not mere fantasy, but within his grasp, she felt equally reluctant to try to keep him from it. Most of all, she felt unworthy: of his love, his attentions, and of standing between him and the destiny that still awaited.

For however changed by the years, however softened and made whole by sorrow, futility and loss, Krieg was still meant to lead. Of this she was certain. And while it was true his recent wound had left him something less than formidable, she knew in her heart that he had borne, and overcome many other hurts in the course of a long and trying life. Even the grim and grotesque burns he had received but two months before (and for which she was secretly grateful, in that they bound him to her), no longer wore an aspect of tortured flesh, but had begun to fade to mere scars.

And these were not the only scars he bore. A gash across his ribs, and in nearly the same place that the horse had kicked him, various marks upon his arms, legs and shoulders, all bore testament to a man who had risen above greater obstacles in the past, and whom the current disability seemed incapable of daunting. For it had not cowed his mind, off which the body feeds.

She managed to hide most of these feelings from him. But on the day that he was able to walk again, albeit with the aid of a stout stick that he had carved for the purpose, she felt herself not only unworthy, but unneeded as well. After checking the traps and finding nothing, he told her that he wished to hunt alone, and to scout the area for any fresh signs of danger.

And this he had done, to her amazement and further dismay, returning with a good-sized deer, slung across his horse’s withers. Despite the injury, the cold and snow, despite the grim fatalism which must have dogged his every step..... Somehow he had done it. Somehow, she knew, he would always do it, quite without her aid. She withdrew before him, and lay down in wretched tears upon the bed.

Krieg, who had seen only the desolate look as she stood in the open doorway, first secured his horse, then carried the deer safely inside. But when he saw her lying prostrate on the bed, her face streaming with tears, he came to her in sudden alarm.

“Lana, what is it? Are you ill?”

She shook her head, unable even to look at him. And though the man might have wished it otherwise, for several moments all he could feel was irritation at her feminine weakness. For he had just spent all the energies of body and spirit alike, providing them with the meat they needed to survive. And instead of gratitude he got this: unwarranted female emotion, wholly unconnected to the reality, the pressing need at hand. He no longer had the strength to skin the deer alone, yet he saw that the promise of rest which had sustained him through the long and torturous hunt, was in vain.

But the honest character born of the years, and the patient love that in better times healed and uplifted him, rose stubbornly. He went to the bed, sat down beside her, and soothed her back with the touch of his strong hand. At first it was cold, but slowly warmed with the friction of another human body. She turned and looked up at him, ashamed. This he wanted even less.

“Don’t cry,” he said to her. “I’m home now, and I’m not going to leave you. Don’t you know that I could never leave you?” And in this he spoke, and found, the truth.

“That’s not it,” she said weakly.

“Then what?”

“I don’t deserve you,” she sobbed, turning away again.

“On the contrary, Lana. I don’t deserve you.” To this she made no answer, so he continued. “I know how insecure you feel at times: the loss of your father, the low opinion your mother and sister held of you, most probably through envy. The unhappy marriage, to a man who did not know or appreciate what he had. Most of all, perhaps, what my own people have done to you, to any feeling of safety and permanence you may have constructed for yourself. But Lana, don’t deserve me? It just isn’t so.”

“But you are a warrior,” she said wretchedly, “a Lord. You are born to lead, and to rule. If I try to deny you that, sooner or later you will hate me for it. It will destroy this affection, that you have for me….. I’m not good enough.”

Again, for all the love and respect he held for her, he knew that a woman should not undervalue her love, as a man would begin to do the same. But he took a deep breath, gave his throbbing body a chance to calm. Then spoke to her, perhaps not of the world as it is, but of the world as it should be: the world in which every woman’s heart lives. Just as every man has this choice of fidelity before him.

“Lana,” he said quietly, shedding his soft leather boots, his heavy garments, and lying down beside her on the bed. “You are reacting, I think, to the story of my youth. But that is only part of the tale. Bright promise does not always yield bright destiny. Of that, my girl, I am painfully aware. Bitter potion that it has been to swallow, nearly all the visions I had of myself, and of my people..... Swept away, Lana, by hard reality. Dust, scattered to the four winds.” He sighed, continued.

“Of the future, who can say? But I do know this. Before I found you, or more truly, you found me, there was nothing left. Any future I have, is only there because you have restored it to me, have rekindled in me a quiet faith that all is not wrong in the world—that love, home and family are still possible. Don’t you know yet what a priceless jewel that is, and just how much you’ve given me?”

“But Krieg,” she whispered, so close to him, the words like knives, stabbing her heart anew. “Elise was so beautiful, and so strong. How can I possibly compete with her memory?”

“You can’t, Lana, and you shouldn’t try. But I tell you again, you know only part of the tale. When you have heard the rest, perhaps you will be glad to be the woman, and I the man, that we are now.”

With that he rose, trying to shake off the body’s despair. “But for now, my sad Lana, there is work to be done. Do you think you might rouse yourself to help me? I am exhausted, and every joint aching with the cold. I need you, Lana—right here, right now.”

At this gentle chide she sat up, wiped the tears from her eyes with the hem of her dress. And rose to perform the task at hand. For this she could do, would do, under any circumstances.

Because unknown, or simply undervalued in herself, she was for all her human frailty, actual and perceived, a woman of tough fiber, physically strong, and emotionally willing.

“Lie down,” she said to him. “Yes, under the covers. I will be all right. I can prepare the carcass myself, and you can tell me. . .if you want to. . .tomorrow.”

And as he surrendered gratefully to the fatigue of both body and mind, she set out to do what she had promised. And more than idle words—for such was the strength of her heart—she did it.

Fourteen

Krieg slept soundly all that long, winter’s night. And when he woke it was to the smell of hearty stew, simmering steadily over the fire. Lana stood before the hinged iron arm which held the bubbling cauldron, stirring, and looking back at him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, when she was sure he had fully wakened. “For yesterday.”

“As I am, for the weakness I showed when I was wounded. Such things must sometimes pass between a man and woman.”

“I hung the carcass in the stable. The meat will freeze quickly in the bitter cold. A wolf or black bear may catch the scent before it does, but the doors are barred, and the horses should be able to defend themselves. Are you content?”

“Yes, Lana. It was a good decision. Smoked meat, glad as I am to have it, becomes tiresome day after day. It feels less like a home, and more like an army on the march. And I have had enough of that to last a lifetime.” Their eyes met.

“Do you still want to tell me?” she asked.

“Do you still want to hear?”

Lana nodded slowly, deliberately. She had recovered herself, and now reached almost eagerly for the tale, and for the hope that it might bring. The man rose as she did, urged her back and away from the fire. And while he experienced mixed emotions at the request, they had come this far, and would do as well to finish. If such a thing could ever be finished, such a shadow ever pass from his heart.

“All right, Lana,” he said, enveloping and caressing her from behind. “But first I’d like a taste of that stew.”

“And nothing else?” she asked slyly, looking back at him.

“Do you never grow tired?” And though his look in return was disparaging, in his heart he was quietly reassured by the change that his patient love had wrought in her. Her body was now ready, and with any luck at all, she would soon be with child.

She turned in his arms, put hers about his neck and gave him a long, wet kiss. “Well?” she said mockingly. “Are you going to do it?”

“Do I get to eat something first?’

“Only if you’re quick about it.”

“All right.” He smiled at her, broke free of her grasp, went outside for a moment then returned and sat to table.

When he had partaken of the stew, then of the woman, his body needing the first, his spirit, perhaps, the other, they lay as before, as if the intervening days were but a dream.

“The second part of the tale,” he began, “is much more difficult to relate. Not because you won’t understand. I think you will. But it is not easy for a man to tell anyone, let alone the woman he loves, that he has failed. And Lana, it was so many more times than once. You have your doubts and insecurities. I tell you truthfully, there is a part of myself that worries you will soon grown tired of me: of dreams never realized, and heights never reached.”

“I won’t,” she said gently, her fingers stroking his chest, then sliding down. “I know you’re just a man. That’s all I want.”

“Then you are wise,” he said to her. “But you must stop that with the fingers, or we will never start.”

She kissed him in answer, settled more comfortably against his chest. He lightly stroked her hair, the skin of her back. Then began again.

“Elise and I were married, quite happily at first. Her goals and mine, save that of my being King, were then much the same.”

“Why couldn’t you be king?” she asked quickly. “I’m sorry. I won’t interrupt.”

“No, Lana. It is a reasonable question. But it was not a realistic hope, for several reasons. My tribe was not one of the largest. Though we had earned a reputation as fierce warriors—thus my father being named Fighting Marshall, and myself after him—our king had traditionally been chosen from among the two largest clans. This kept them in fierce competition, our way of insuring that neither side ever gained too much power.

“Though Gaiseric,” he mused darkly, “brother of the King, and ruler in all but name, drinks power like blood. And despite his excesses, and the fact that he is malevolent and ill-formed. . .still the people follow him. He promised a ruthless drive for new lands, and that is what he has given them. But at what cost? How could anyone fail to see that his heart is as twisted as his spine? Or maybe they just don’t care.

“Forgive me, Lana. There are times when I think I should have listened to her, and taken the throne by force. Perhaps if I had. . .none of this would have happened.”

“But it did happen, Krieg. And from what you’ve told me, what I’ve seen with my own eyes, I think it must have been coming for a long time, and there was nothing any one man could do to stop it. And if you had taken the throne, you would not, in your own words, be the man you are now.”

“The man I am now,” he said thoughtfully. “But what am I to do with him?”

“What you have to do,” she said quietly.

“Do you know what you’re saying?” he asked sternly, looking down at her.

“I only know that if I try to keep you from it, from yourself..... I will lose you.”

For a long time Krieg was silent. For the truth was that he had never, in the light of love or the darkness of despair, lost sight of what his German conscience told him he must do. The Quest! To rid Spain of its human plague, to cleanse and restore his own people.

But was it possible? And more than this, did he want it to be? What of Lana, and the chance for a new family, before he was too old?

“Thank you, Herschen. But the truth is. . .I don’t know what to do.” His large fist clenched, then slowly released, behind her. “I just don’t know.”

“You will know when the time comes,” she said, terrified to hear herself speak, but knowing there was no other way. “Perhaps you’ll find your answer in the tale. For now..... Just hold me.”

He did as she asked, as love and duty, the longing for peace and the need for war, struggled for control of his heart. He had never felt so torn.

But she was right. The answer lay not in the future, but in the past. And he would never find peace in hiding, or trying to deny who and what he was.

“Let me tell it then,” he whispered, as much to himself as to Lana. And though he felt the weight of the task redoubled, for the hard choice that lay at the end of it, it must be done. And he must do it.

“Elise wanted me to be King,” he said gravely. “But she was not, as a weaker soul, impatient in her vice. Ambition is a ruthless master. It then required her obedience, just as later it would cause her to abandon me.

“She seemed to realize she had said too much that first night, when she spoke of my killing for her, and so began to bide her time. But in every subtle word and action she implied it, expanded the thought behind it. She tried to prepare me for the task, just as in everything that happened around us she sought for the opening, the moment that, with blood and savage cunning, would make her Queen of all the Vandals.

“But the world moved no more to her bidding than it did to mine. Quite the contrary. We were then living in the plains of Hungary, protected, as we thought, by the curving line of the Carpathian Mountains.

“Still the Huns swept in from the East like a plague of locusts. And in the face of this new threat, we must band together as one people or be lost, not divide ourselves between potential rulers.
“And not the Vandals only. The Visigoths, Ostrogoths and Lombards joined forces, an alliance which could not but make us uneasy. For the Visigoths were strong already, twice our number. And though Roman power was on the wane..... Enough to say that we were deeply troubled, and with good reason. For if together they held off Rugilas and the Huns without our aid, what was to prevent them from turning on us afterward? Nothing.

“Because of this, we formed an alliance with the Visigoths only. For the threat posed by the Huns was by far the most deadly, the most immediate. We must fight off the Eastern invaders, and let all else come after.

“The Huns. Sweet Savior. Their barbarities exceed even those to which the Vandals have since fallen. And as warriors? Let me say only that I misspoke, when I said the struggle with her father was the most ferocious fighting I have ever known. Before the Huns, perhaps, but not after.

“Their numbers were staggering. They had swept across the steppes of Asia like wildfire. If they had not overextended themselves, and fought a war on many fronts at once..... Thank the God in whom I no longer believe, they had. As it was it took all our efforts—Ostrogoth, Visigoth, Lombard and Vandal—to drive them back.
“But the writing was on the wall. This had not been the first time we were checked in our migrations, even driven in another direction, and it would not be the last. Nor had Rugilas himself been daunted. And we had lost over forty thousand men, nearly half our fighting strength, a number which could not be replenished for years to come. The proud manhood of an entire generation had been gutted. As a single force, we simply could not survive.

“Only the weakness of Rome, and the loose coalitions we had formed, gave us the least reason to hope. For many tribes had come together under the shadow of the Huns, and once joined, set their sights on Italy.

“Enough to say that these were desperate times, and forced desperate alliances. We felt no sympathy whatever for the Romans, who had been our nemesis, and the nemesis of every Germanic people since the time of Julius Caesar. And so we let Alaric, who had united the Visigoths—as much by chance as by foresight—persuade us to join him in his vision of a Gothic Italy. We could then settle wherever we wished, with the unconquerable Alps to protect us.
“Understand, Lana. If I seem to tell this as a thing which happened in a few months, or even a few years, it was not so. Events of this magnitude move slowly, too slowly even for the spider-like patience of my wife.

“By this time we had been married for six years, and she had borne me two sons: Josef, my firstborn, and Franz, who would later turn against me.” He paused as at the memory of some tragedy, perhaps more than one.

“As proud as she was to have them, as heirs to whatever she and I might accomplish together, she was mortified by the change it had wrought in her body. By now she was twenty, no longer in the bloom of young womanhood. And she had carried, and nursed, two boys. These changes meant nothing to me. How could I love her less, for giving me my sons? But to one who had achieved her high position through beauty and cunning—for this, alas, is how she saw it—the ravages of time were wholly unacceptable.

“She never understood my love, perhaps because she had never known it as a child. But in her eyes, her wounded heart, she believed that sexual desire alone had brought me to her, and was the key to all power: a weapon to be used. And when she felt that power slipping away…..”

Lying close against him, Lana felt his body tighten and his breath come short: the pain of what he was telling her, and the choice that lay ahead. . .were now so near. She almost asked him to stop, but knew that he could not. For this, she then realized, was the dark essence of his life: inner conflict, insoluble problems, and time running out.

“She lost all patience with me—with my concern for all the Vandals, my insistence on caution, and putting the survival of the tribe above her personal ambition. Most of all, of my trying to turn aside her blood-lust, which could only lead to chaos and civil war.

“This desire, so much stronger than any feeling of love or gratitude toward me, consumed her utterly. She was still beautiful, a woman of rank and influence. She could not let go. . .and so forswore my bed and seed.”

“How could she?” asked Lana, though a part of her understood all too well: a woman’s twisted instinct to survive.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “A true Vandal would have killed her for it, and taken another wife. It is the lasting mark of her cruelty . . .that she herself told me this.” He looked away, into a world she would never understand.

“Elise,” he whispered, desolate, a wound that would never heal. And he would have stopped, closed the book forever, but for the woman that lay beside him. And the decision that still lay before him.

“The years passed. Alliances were formed, and broken. Campaigns were fought, migrations made. The one constant, aside from hunger, fear and violence, was the ever-looming threat to the East. And so we kept moving, always west and south.” He released a heavy breath, turned back to her.

“Rome was in chaos. Nearly half its armies were by then made up of German mercenaries, many of whom deserted to join Alaric, rather than be slaughtered by him. The fate of nations was in his hands. And for all our misgivings—he was an ugly man, with a twisted heart—we sent a large contingent of our own to join in the invasion of Italy, and the final confrontation (we thought) with the shrunken and staggering Roman Empire.

“As Fighting Marshal, I must of course be there. And to Josef, then fourteen, strong and idealistic, he must be there beside me. He was too young….. But he was his father’s son, and would not be denied.

“On the morning that I was to leave, he sat proud and erect upon his horse—the horse that I had given him—determined, and with a look of defiance I knew all too well. For it had been mine before him.

“I let him come. The mistake of my life. Josef.....” Remorse overwhelmed him, and for a time he could not continue.

“For Elise and I, it was the final parting: hard and bitter words, on both sides, and in the presence of our sons. By this time Franz was ten. I had been too often away, and never knew or understood him as a father should. He was deeply devoted to his mother; and too often had she etched my failings in his mind. On that day he fixed me with a look of such hatred, that above and beyond the sting of a thankless child. . .I realized the awful strength of his resentment, like that of his mother before him. I honestly believe that if he had been but a few years older, she would have tried to use him to ascend the throne: been the mother, rather than the wife of a King. As it was, she would try something even more desperate. I would only learn of it years later.

“I have said that I was too often gone. But no separation could have prepared her for this. Alaric, for all the power that lay within his grasp, was, at the core, a fool. Pillage he understood. Mass migration he could just manage. But organize the kind of campaign needed to unseat the Romans in their own country? Coordinate and control a force of two-hundred-thousand men, gathered from half the tribes of Europe? Never. What should have taken six months, took eleven years instead.

“Perhaps bitterness clouds my judgment. It would have taken a great man to do these things. But Alaric was not that man. He was cold and ruthless enough to maintain his position, but not shrewd enough to subdue our reeling opponent, the shadow of Rome. Years of bloody warfare ensued. Attacks, counter-attacks, one year the Romans holding us at bay, the next our forces driving them south. Such idiocy, on both sides, as can hardly be imagined.”

Again he became thoughtful.

“How do the years run away from a man? It is a question all men must ask, when they find they are no longer young. I do not have the answer, even for myself. I did not squander the time. I always knew that life was short, and each day a precious thing that would never come again.

“Yet still the years passed me by. How? Dreams of youth slowly changed, reshaped by the hard realities in which I found myself. Yet always they remained, just out of reach. Another month, another year and it would be mine: peace, happiness, the knowledge that I had served my family and my people.

“But it never happened. And by then the greatest tragedy of my life….. The death of my strong and single-hearted Josef.”

He rose from the bed in anguish. “Dear God, the emptiness! To lose the one I loved beyond all others, the mirror of my soul, for whom I would so gladly have died, and passed the torch to a far worthier man….. Forgive me, Josef!” And he took his face in his hands.

She rose to comfort him, then stopped and drew back. He was sobbing—his sorrow, like his passion, frightening in its intensity.

At length he looked up at her, and said in deepest earnest. “I swear to you, that if ever again a child of mine walks this troubled earth, I will give thought to nothing else. Neither war, nor quest, nor any earthly pursuit will blind me to the solemn duty of caring for it alone. And for you.”

Lana’s face contorted with emotion. Her trembling hand caressed his cheek as tears blinded her, and she laid her head against him. “Thank you,” was all she could say. He nodded, embraced her gently. Then after a moment he went to the door.

“A walk in the snow to calm me,” he said. “Then I must tell you the rest and have done.”

She watched him go, then lay down on the bed and wept. Though not all her tears were of relief and gratitude.

Fifteen

Again they spoke, Krieg sitting up against the headboard, Lana lying next to him with the covers pulled high.

“I began to search for peace,” he continued, trying to overcome the awkwardness, “in the midst of war. I sought a permanent home, for a people who knew no other life than that of nomad and conqueror. I sought cooperation between the tribes, rather than personal gain.

“All these things, made me in time an outcast. My voice lost its former weight at the councils, and even among my own people. They had been too long in the company of Alaric and others like him. They had begun to enjoy, nay, to live for rape and slaughter. Torture of prisoners became commonplace, so horrible that I could not watch, or even think of it. I would not allow my own men to participate, but soon learned they were doing so behind my back, and cursing me as weak and foolish.

“For who was I, but the unwanted voice of conscience? What were my words, but the echo of a time forever lost?

“Honor? What was that in the face of victory and plunder? Loyalty? ‘We are loyal,’ they cried, ‘to ourselves, and to our families!’ And the families of the victims? ‘It is their own fault, for opposing us in a just cause!’ By whose authority did they do these things? ‘It is the Order of the Gods! The strong must conquer and supplant the weak! And we are strong, the Master Race, the chosen of the Gods!’ Perhaps your victims also think they are Chosen? ‘Blasphemy! Kill them first, and worst!’” Krieg lowered his head in despair.

“But still I held on, like a drowning man to a sinking ship. I kept thinking that somehow, some time, better minds would prevail. They would see the futility, above all the self-destruction of charring the earth beneath our feet, poisoning the rivers with rotting carcasses, and the sky with the smoke of our burning. A child, a fool could have seen this.

“And yet these so-called conquerors could not. So long as it wasn’t their children being slaughtered or left to starve. So long as it wasn’t their land being left black and treeless, their water impure, and filled with disease.

“All the ills that you have seen and suffered here, horrible and unforgivable as they are, are not unique. For if there were no precedent to atrocity, who would allow such things to happen? The righteous would rise up, cry ‘Stop!’ and overthrow the murderous villains. But the history of my people for centuries, nay, the history of all peoples since the dawn of Man, runs red with the blood of innocents. This is not the first holocaust, and it will not be the last.

“Until we learn,” he concluded grimly, “there is no hope. All the efforts of good men are wasted.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said to him, as his eyes misted and his breathing grew tight. “You did what you could. You tried. Don’t bear that cross any longer.”

“Did I?” he said, lost among the desolation of a life unfulfilled. “It did not feel that way, when we finally reached the walls of Rome.

“That great and terrible city, once the Capitol of the known world..... Reduced to this. What should have been cause for rejoicing, the culmination of a long and bitter campaign, was instead the last, mortal blow to my illusions.

“You should have seen him—Alaric. We laid siege. For the walled City was still a formidable obstacle, defended by an army and a people both proud and desperate, with nowhere left to run. Nothing unusual in Alaric’s tactics, even a wise precaution.

“But oh, the way he fed on Rome’s suffering! The pestilence, starvation, and unbelievable stench of decay. For Alaric had come not only to conquer, but to torture and humiliate. Poetic justice though it may have been—and where is the justice, when the innocent perish along with the guilty?—there was something obscene in the spectacle of a once proud, if corrupt civilization, dying such a death. It made me wonder what would replace it. The answer, as all of Europe now knows, is Chaos.

“More obscene to me was Alaric himself. He reveled, nay, he wallowed in the filth of Rome’s suffering. How could I have failed to see his insanity before? How could anyone fail to see it now? No good would ever come of this man. For all our talk of dark times and strange alliances, Evil springs from evil seed, where no clean thing will grow.

“I wanted to kill him, to rid the earth forever of his stain upon it. But by then it was too late. His private guard surrounded him always. And what would be the use? His tactics had won the day! Unnamed riches lay at our feet! Had I succeeded in killing him, another would have risen to take his place, and been, perhaps, a yet more lethal foe to humanity.

“Why did I follow him for so long? Why do others still follow his kind? These are questions which greater minds than mine will be asking for generations to come. The best answer I can give, and it is not a good one, is that the German spirit, nay, the human spirit, holds an instinctive respect for strength. A leader who is strong may possess a thousand other faults, and still retain the loyalty of the people. But one who is not strong, though he possess a thousand other virtues, will be despised and overthrown.....

“What do I know?” he said bitterly. “I am as guilty as the rest.”

“But only to that point, Krieg. You turned away from him,” she urged. “You saw what he was, and you turned away.”

“Yes. And by that one moral act, I forever alienated myself from my own people. None would follow me home. Men I had fought with, and bled for, and carried off the field of battle. For whom I had not spared my beloved son.....”

“Peace,” she said, though she did not feel it. She sat up beside him and tried to soothe him, but the bitter tears would not stop. This man who could endure so much. . .could not endure the spectre of his own failure.

“I faltered in re-crossing the Alps, fell from my horse and nearly froze to death….. But I was rescued, my life restored, by a family of Christians. They opened their hearts, their home to me, sustained me and brought me the message of love and forgiveness taught by Jesus Christ. I truly felt myself to be born again….. It was like a new beginning.

“But when I returned to Rhetia, filled with the light of this new hope, the light that I thought would sustain me, free my people, and heal my family..... I found that Elise had given herself to Gunduric.”

Lana looked at him, not understanding.

“Our King, older brother of Gaiseric, and every bit as cruel. She had gone to him, and offered herself to him. She honestly believed she could seduce him: that he would fall under her spell, and take her as his wife. That was her brilliant plan,” he said bitterly, “to become Queen.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lana, understanding her rival perhaps more than she wanted to.

He shook his head, the emptiness bleeding away all other feeling. “He used her for his pleasure, so long as it amused him, then threw her to his personal guard, like a table-scrap to loyal dogs..... She lasted three days.”

“You mean.....” The thought was terrifying.

“They raped her to death.”

He broke down at the sheer horror: the lonely, troubled child he had tried to save, but could not save from herself.

She put her arms around him and drew him near. He wept.

Sixteen

The bitter months of January and February passed without further incident, for which they were both grateful. And while Krieg could not rule out some smaller part in driving the Vandals from Spain, he told her plainly:

“I tried for twenty-five years to turn my people away from the darkness that has finally consumed them. In that time I lost my youth, my family, and my self-respect. But never once did I slow their descent into madness. They did not listen, they will not listen, until all has been lost. And yet I feel goaded to spend the rest of my days in raising an army to defeat them, at great peril to myself and to you, and with little hope of success.
“Could I rouse the Visigoths? Perhaps. But it is at least as likely that I would only stir the ire of some proud and bitter Lord, who would have us put to death for trying to tell him where his German duty lay. And even if they would follow, I must be honest with myself. The days of my prowess as a warrior are past. Perhaps my sword and my wrath might be of some use to the Visigoths. But if together we won a decisive battle, yet my life was lost..... Do I have the right to leave you alone and bereft a second time? No, I do not.

“Let future generations judge me harshly if they will. They do not know how long and fruitlessly I fought, and what a terrible price I have already paid, trying to insure the safety and well-being of others. At some point a man must say, ‘Enough! I have done all that I can do! Now I must protect myself and those I love, and trust others to do the same.’”

While all of this was to the relief and satisfaction of his wife—that he had chosen her over obsessive dream, and vowed to love and care for any child she might bear him—she remained in torment because no such child had begun to grow inside her. Krieg spoke often now of putting his family first. But what if there was no family? However he might love her, if he found her childless. . .and if some further horror rose to fan the embers of his wrath..... What then?

And of late these questions had been given greater urgency, as the lingering fear that she was barren, seemed to be confirmed. And while she hated such show of feminine weakness—which she knew had the power to bring him closer, or drive him away forever—she found herself on an early morning in March, sitting up in the bed as he slept, and crying uncontrollably.

He woke slowly, then turned and rested his face, warm with sleep, against her thigh.

“What is it, Lana?”

“I’m so afraid. . .that I will never give you a child.”

“Why do you say that?”

She flushed deeply. Then she gave a deep, despairing sigh, and hid her face in her hands. “I have not seen the blood for two months. My womb has become barren.”

“Lana,” he said softly, rising to sit beside her, putting his arm across her shoulders. “Did no one in your family instruct you in the ways of childbirth?”

“No one but my sister,” she said, puzzled and dismayed. For now with the other hand he was gently feeling at her breasts, as if examining them, and her. “She said only that I would know when the time came. And that, when my fertility was passed…..” She cried silently now. “The blood would cease forever.”

“But Herschen,” he said tenderly, kissing her. “It has not stopped forever—only for a little while.”

“Then do you think?” she asked, eyes pleading, “that it will come back again?”

“Yes,” he said, eyes shining. “But not until the child is born, and you have finished nursing it.”

“The child?”

“Yes, Herschen. Our child, that you carry inside you.” And he embraced her. For she had given him the greatest gift that anyone ever could: fulfillment, a second chance, a comfort in his old age. A future, a hope. A new life.

“Oh, Krieg, is it really true?”

He said the words, though his forehead nestled against her neck, the loving touch of his hand upon her stomach were enough to tell her.

“I thought so some weeks back. But I didn’t want to raise your hopes in the event. . .if your breasts had only grown firmer from hard work. But though they are soft again, they are growing. It won’t be long now before your womb begins to swell.” At this he was overcome, and held her as he had never done.

“Thank you,” were the only words that would come to him.

For a time neither wished to break away from that embrace. But for all her joy, Lana also felt the awe, uncertainty, and even fear of what was happening inside her. Slowly she pushed him back, and looked full into his face.

“Will you know what to do when..... Oh, Krieg, please say that you won’t leave me.”

“Does a drowning man refuse the lifeline, or a new-born babe spurn the breast that gives it life?” Then more quietly he said. “I was there for the birth of both my sons, and near at hand when Franzi was born. Some thought it strange, and unmanly in me. But Elise, and even my second son. . .were grateful in the end.”

He did not add that his first grandchild was stillborn, or that Franzi’s mother had died in giving birth to her only living child. These were the harsh realities of the day, and there was no use frightening her further. Indeed, he now seemed to realize just how deep her trepidation went, despite her love, though he did not understand its source.

“I will be there, Lana, at every step.”

“And the Quest?” she said, her eyes suddenly sharp and penetrating. He met her look steadily, and simply spoke the truth.

“I have a new Quest now,” he said. “And thank the merciful Savior—”

All at once he bent double onto the bed, as burning tears convulsed him. He felt her fingers at the back of his neck, and could only just manage,

“I love you.”