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? While the gentler side of her being told her that the followers of Jesus would never inflict such pain upon another, her experience told her that where fierce and desperate men were concerned, all things were possible.

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 recall 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 as well. 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 breasts.

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.









Two

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?”

“Two days and three nights.”

“Three 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 ladle 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 door.

“You know then?” he asked her.

“I do not speak German,” she replied, rising to prepare a meal. “Your name is 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.”

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, duty and honor, 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.”

“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 hands closed hard upon his arms.

“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 stool 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 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 lay on top of 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 arose 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 before him.

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

“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 shoulders 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. An awful chance. 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, sweeping the hand 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 something break loose inside her, beyond her control, as the first orgasm of her life blocked all else from her mind, 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 knew that he was right. 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.









Five

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— 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.

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 will 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 saw 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.









Six

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 naiveté 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, 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 not 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 may. 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.









Seven

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 was 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, like a sleepwalker called back from troubled dream. And realized what he had done. Again he had let the endless struggle blind him, to what should be 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 leg: 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 among 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 de