Twenty-Three

The next day the camp was moved to the place that Krieg had found, and where the fortress would be built: a shallow, cloven valley, where a hidden spring gave birth to a cold and clear rivulet. There were pine forests roundabout, and if constructed as Thule and his uncle intended, except at close range the walls would be all but invisible among them.

Construction was begun at once. All members of the tribe joined in the labor willingly, knowing that the future, their very lives depended on it.
A rough circle was drawn about the stony, grass-covered spring, spanning both sides of the tiny stream which flowed from it. These would be the borders; and thus their water, the very essence of life, could not be fouled or cut off. Then boundary stakes were planted at ten foot intervals about the circle, and straight, narrow ditches dug between them. These would serve to hold the bases of the sections of wall which were then constructed of felled tree-trunks. This was done by sheering off the branches, and lashing the resulting poles together with rope. A mortar of mud and pulverized pine needles was used to fill in the gaps between, while the bark, which had not been removed, formed a natural camouflage.

But the laying of mortar stopped short three feet from the top, where the outer poles would be lashed to their counterparts in the adjoining sections, the inner poles sharpened to bitter spikes.

Three days later, as the last section was raised into place and the stout gate completed, the company that would venture North prepared to set out. Dorlas’ riders would form nearly half of it, together with Thule’s, his personal guard, and various members of his extended family, trusted companions, and the Vandal scout, Krieg.
Knowing him as they did, Dorlas’ men were up before the dawn, saddling and loading their horses, with the others not far behind. Wives, children, friends and relatives looked on stoically, or cried quietly to themselves. For such partings were often the last they would ever see of the men they loved. Yet without some measure of detached fatalism, even for those most dear, the pain and anxiety, life itself was unbearable. Such is the grim signature of dark times upon the human heart.

Krieg stood beside his trusted mount with Lana, chafing the shoulders of her dress, as she shivered in the early morning cold, and tried in vain to still her racing heart. Everything was happening so fast, and she did not know what to do.

Alone in their tent, Thule said his brief farewells to Thengol, Joseppa, and their young daughter, Nar. Kudric, they knew, had spent the night in his own tent with the slave-girl, Katera. When the Lord emerged last, as was proper, he came forward confidently and clasped forearms with Dorlas, the captain of his guard, and Krieg, then moved to the side of his firstborn’s tent to rouse him.

“Kudric,” he called, quietly but firmly. “The King does not wait upon your pleasure.”

But the young man had not lingered because he wasn’t ready. When this summons was made he immediately threw back the tent-flap, and emerged with the girl hand-in-hand. All done with a theatrical air, and never once looking at his father.

From where he stood, Krieg could at first see her only from the side. He noted once again the lithe, athletic body and tousled, dirty-blonde hair. Then Kudric’s servant came up as if on cue, and the attention of all was directed towards him. For the man was leading not only his master’s horse, but another as well, a slender white yearling.

“And what is this?” asked Thule with his narrowing eye.

“Katera rides with me,” he said plainly. His father was about to answer harshly when Joseppa, who had waited a short distance off, stepped swiftly beside him and took hold of his arm. The eyes of lord and wife met solemnly, and as Krieg had witnessed once before, some silent message passed between them, though this time he could not read it, and Thule did not immediately consent. Instead he turned back to his son.

“Why?” he asked flatly. “Are you so undisciplined that you must bring a woman on a journey of men?”

“She is mine,” replied Kudric hotly, “and rides as well as any man. She will be no hindrance on our way. On the contrary, she can cook and sew, and help in all the labors of a company on the move.”

Thule restrained his anger with difficulty. Something was happening here that he did not understand, and he could not allow his son to openly defy him.

“That she belongs to you, all here know. But if the attachment becomes too deep, then I must act.” Kudric said nothing, only glared angrily, and at last his father exploded. “You are the son of a Lord, heir to the King! It is not fit that you should marry a slave-girl.”

As this exchange was taking place, Krieg studied the girl. Her face was averted, and partly obscured by her hair. But when she became aware of him, when she turned her eyes to meet his. . .he let out his breath with a gasp. For while she was not the living likeness of Elise—her eyes were larger, deep blue instead of emerald, her face fuller and more androgynous, though her body was anything but….. Their expression was so similar: strong and defiant, yet undercut by secret pain. And the look Katera gave when she became aware of this—for she had caught him in an unguarded moment—said as plainly as words:

“Well? And what is my slavery to you?” All of which, had she known it—he could not help thinking that somehow she did—was calculated to stir him to the core of his being. His phallus, already firming as it rested against the gentle swell of Lana’s womb, throbbed with sudden life.

He looked down at her quickly, saw to his dismay that she had witnessed the emotional exchange, and knowing him far better, understood what the girl had roused in him: pity, desire, temptation and inner torment. Her eyes shone with sudden tears as she stared up at him, hurt and disbelieving.

He brought her to him, and kissed her forehead passionately. Then whispered in her ear: “Yes, she reminds me of Elise, and a part of me could not help reacting. But only a part. It changes nothing, do you understand?” She nodded tearfully, but would not look at him. He released a tortured breath and held her tighter. “Lana, please. I would not have us part this way.”

All this the slave girl noted, along with two other people. For Thengol had moved to stand beside his mother—who missed nothing—and now studied the woman who had moved him so strangely. As Lana became aware of the young man’s gaze and turned toward him, he again looked at her with such a wistful longing….. Then seemed to read the hurt in her eyes, and to blame the older man for it.

All this time the subdued confrontation between Thule and his heir had continued, sometimes in silent glaring, at others with hard words that Katera must pretend not to hear. But this changed abruptly as Kudric shouted:

“I have no intention of marrying her!”

At this the girl’s eyes, as if they had been her whole being, snapped toward him. And the look of shock, betrayal, and even hatred was unmistakable. Clearly she had thought otherwise, and based all her hopes of freedom (and power) upon the assumption, perhaps even the promise, that he would one day take her as his bride.

Kudric was aware of her reaction; but far from being rebuked by her astonishment, seemed rather to take a twisted satisfaction in it. He looked back to his father and said calmly, “She is a sexual obsession, nothing more, and I would not be without her on the road.” As Katera’s face burned in rage and shame.

At this final exchange, Joseppa gave her husband’s arm a knowing squeeze. He sighed heavily, understanding that she had read all this in her son beforehand, and knowing now the crisis was averted. For Kudric was a man now, the son of a Lord, and was entitled to such trophies, so long as they did not turn his head. As clearly she had not.

And reading the sense of bitter duplicity in Katera’s face as her gaze returned to the dirt she knew too well, Thule nodded grimly. Perhaps his son would learn something from this temptress, after all. So long as she did not kill him in a fit of passion. But no. She had not struck him, or even pulled away, being too well disciplined for such an outburst. Just as she knew that any violence against the heir-apparent would bring nothing but swift and merciless death. No doubt she would form some other plan to win the freedom she so coveted.

But still he would watch her closely. For now he contented himself with approaching her, taking her chin in his hand, and forcing her to look at him. He found there the anger he expected, but also the fear of him she had known since childhood, when he had abducted her in the aftermath of battle, and made her his family’s slave. Yes, he thought, he had trained her well, though nothing could submerge forever the vengeance of a determined woman.

“Hurt my son in any way,” he said, in a low voice that only she could hear, “and you know there is no place on earth that you can hide.” She nodded quickly, knowing this was no empty threat. For he had been her feared and all-powerful master from the time she was a girl, and she knew what he was capable of.

“Very well,” he said sternly, releasing her face and looking again at his son, trying not to show the relief he felt. “If you must have a whore then so be it. We are wasting time.” And he turned to the others.

“Let us be off.”

Those not yet mounted lept up into their saddles. Krieg had no choice but to do the same. Yet he reached down again to give his wife a last embrace, and told her with an aching heart, “It will be all right.” Then rode with the others down the shallow hill, and east into the rising sun.
As Lana watched him go, she could no longer contain her despair. Like a great beast it rose up on its hind legs before her, a pitiless predator, bent on her destruction. She covered her face with her hands, and wept uncontrollably.
But when the paroxysm had passed she felt a gentle arm encircling her shoulders. She started, not knowing who…..

“Peace, Lana.” Joseppa’s face looked calmly into hers. “We won’t let anything happen to you. I only wanted to ask if you would stay with us while he is gone. That way I can protect you, and see that you have everything you need.”

She looked into the older woman’s eyes, could read there nothing but maternal care and affection. The fact that her own mother had been quite different—cold and cruel—did not yet warn her against this growing intimacy. On the contrary, in a way she longed for it. Perhaps here, in a less desperate situation, she could work out those old fears…..

Then she looked out quickly as the younger son approached them, and her face flushed with embarrassment. But Thengol only nodded gently, reassuringly. Almost, she thought, in grateful invitation.

“All right,” she said to Joseppa, knowing the offer might be withdrawn (and even bitterly resented) at any moment. The older woman kissed her cheek, squeezed her warmly, then smiled at her son.

And after those who remained behind had made their cooking fires and eaten a Spartan breakfast, Lana collected her meager possessions and carried them shyly to the tent of her new-found matron, where Joseppa again welcomed her, and strove to make her feel safe and protected.

Twenty-Four

Thule and his riders went east only a little way, till they came to another pass which he and Krieg had explored, then turned due North. This way would take them higher, and expose them to greater natural hardship than the now familiar eastern passes; but Thule had no wish to be discovered along the way. And even as they rode up it, a special party from the camp worked to obscure the trail they had already made.

The path they had chosen was narrow at first, little more than the natural crease formed between adjoining slopes, and never broad enough for more than two horses to jog side by side. This forced the riders to spread out into a long, uneven file. Thule had called Krieg forward to ride beside him; and while there was some grumbling about ‘precedent’ and ‘outsiders’, that was where the Lord wanted him, so there he remained. Dorlas rode just behind, and Kudric, as if to make a point, rode beside him, forcing the girl to follow alone, and leaving careful instructions not to let the ‘Vandal slut’ wander off.

The effect of these orders, and of her abrupt return to the role of slave rather than mistress, even bride-to-be, was plainly written on her sixteen-year-old face. While she said nothing, and made no outward sign—indeed, she seemed to have shrunken into herself and barely moved—at intervals her cheeks burned with shame, and her eyes, when raised in answer to a question or the rough jeers of others, blazed with open hatred. And when, during a rest Krieg glanced at her, their look was again eloquent, challenging.

The words churned through his mind, inescapable. For he had not needed the arrogance of Kudric to know she was a Vandal. The way she sat a horse was unmistakable, as were the golden hair, tanned skin and intense, sapphire eyes. The emotions this roused in him, the memories near as well as far, were strong and immediate. His first, all-consuming love for Elise. The horrible death she had endured. Searching desperately for his grandson when his father, the embittered Franz, had been slain in battle.

Perhaps these feelings, in retrospect, he could rationalize and control. The girl was not of his tribe or his kin, and therefore not strictly his responsibility—though this pull at his heart, among those of a spiritual nature, had the deepest hold on him. But his aching desire for her, as for Elise before her, made the other feelings impossible to ignore. For the emotions of a man are inseparably linked to his passions, as a woman’s are to her emotions. This does not make a man, of and by itself, good or evil, any more than does the sex of a woman, but is simply the way that nature and instinct have programmed our minds to work. Krieg must force himself to turn away, his heart in turmoil.

Why couldn’t he control it? He had been down this road before—forever drawn to the victim, the tragic beauty who needed hi, thinking (or simply wishing) that if he rescued her she would be grateful, and love him in return. He knew that this misguided longing—arising perhaps from the childhood struggle to save a distant and emotionally disturbed mother from herself—led nowhere but to pain on his part, and resentment on the part of the women he tried to love. For the one thing no man or woman will ever forgive, is a debt of gratitude.

Yet in her presence his emotions were not his own, his mind not master. Why now? he thought bitterly. Now, when Lana so desperately needed him, and he at last had the chance to make things right?

And in this he struggled, uselessly as always, against Nature itself. For when a man once possesses a desirable woman, his instinct, far from being content, tells him to take another as well; and monogamy, fidelity, are the creation of society alone. In simplest terms, the harder a man tries to control his sexual desire, the more overpowering it becomes.

He felt he had never wanted any woman the way he wanted Katera. Her very name inflamed him, and that she needed him. Which in a way, perhaps she did. And as the company began to remount, she remained standing beside the beautiful yearling and gazed at him openly, pleadingly, until Kudric moved her roughly away.

Thule, whose face at such moments revealed nothing but a wary watchfulness, was aware of the feelings and desires of both Krieg and his son, both of whom were vital to the success of his mission. Though what he should do about it was clouded by his own emotions, and by a past that neither knew….. He shook his head to drive back the sounds and images, forced himself to return to thoughts of the future.

Krieg could speak to Theodoric as one whose memory touched the same years, while Kudric had long been a favorite of the King. Theodoric loved the boy despite his excesses—perhaps because of them, as their underlying natures were much the same—and would grant him almost anything he asked. Thule could not help but wonder at the outcome, should Kudric’s enmity toward the Vandal flare upon the road. While he liked Krieg, and was drawn to his quiet strength, there was no question where his first loyalty lay.

And he wondered something else besides. He knew his wife well enough to understand that she did nothing without purpose, always seeking to advance the interests of her family. So why, aside from a natural sympathy for her condition, had she taken such an interest in Lana?

These were not idle musings. For while an ordinary man may pass over the day-to-day relationships of those around him, fearing no serious consequence, the leader of a proud and warlike people could not.

After riding on again till dusk, the company camped for the night just below the timber-line of the first truly massive range, among the shelter of a few last hardy pines. For the next day they must ride across its high shoulders, bare and open to the skies above. And though Spring had come to the lower elevations, here Winter was eternally master: a world apart, a cold Valhalla of stubble-grass, wildflowers, and ever thinning air.

But while some grumbled at the prospect as they pitched their tents and made their campfires, this was the way their Lord had chosen, and therefore they must take.

Krieg slept alone for the first time in many nights, wrapped in his sewn double-furs. His heart beat hard against the earth as he lay on his stomach and listened to the dismal sounds of Kudric and the girl, whose tent, as if to taunt him, had been erected beside the place he himself had chosen to picket his horse, and sleep beneath the stars.

At first Kudric and the slave-girl quarreled like lovers, the girl’s voice low and bitter, the Visigoth’s at first condescending, then angry, and finally, firm and threatening. There was the sound of a blow, and a stifled gasp of pain.

“No,” she pleaded, at the sound of something being dragged across the floor. “Don’t bind me!”

But apparently Kudric’s small patience had expired. For again came the sounds of a struggle, followed after a brief interval by grunts and guttural moans: of pain on her part, sadistic pleasure on his, as he cruelly sodomized her.

Krieg could stand it no longer. Too clear were his memories, and dark imaginings of what had been done to Elise. But this time he could not play the part of deliverer. He could not burst in upon them with his sword drawn, and threaten to kill Kudric if the brutality did not cease at once. For this crude upstart, barely seventeen, was the son of a Lord, a grandson of the King himself; and the safety of his wife and unborn child remained firmly in the Visigoths’ hands. He mounted the grey bareback, and rode up onto the high margins of the world.

The night was cold and clear, with a sickle moon like the Scythe of Heaven. The few clouds visible were low and thin, as if the ghosts of armies that had passed this way before them. How many, he wondered, as the rising wind stung his cheeks, and he found to his dismay that he was crying.

It was all so unlike his visions of the Quest—leading a proud and noble people against his fallen Vandals, the enemy of all—or of the peaceful, secluded life that he had promised his lover. Lana. How he wished she were here, to release his pent-up passions, and soothe his tortured soul.

He stopped his horse at the crest of the great shoulder, the land opening hugely before him. Then looked imploringly to the stars.

Yes. They were the same he had known in Youth, feeling they watched over him, and guided his destiny—the Staff of Odin, the Hammer of Thor, the Womb of Freya—all gods he had rejected in favor of the teachings of Christ. And now even that mighty Trinity was gone from him.

“What do you want from me?” he cried to the Nameless. “Where are you!” But the wind only tore the words from his mouth, seeming to fan the stars to a greater brilliance, but making them no less cold and unreachable. He lowered his gaze wearily, and nudged his horse on a little further.

After perhaps another hour he stopped again, sighed as he looked at the barren snow all around him, then slowly returned to the camp. Gratefully, no sound came from Kudric’s tent as he lay down again in his sleeping furs, not knowing, but somehow feeling that Katera lay in silent wakefulness just a few feet away.

As indeed she did. Her garments torn, the back of her legs and buttocks exposed, she was unable to cover them because of the binds at her wrists and ankles. The only way to warm herself would have been to nestle closer to her sleeping tormentor; but now that she knew how he had used her, she felt she would rather die. Who but another who has been so abused, can know the black thoughts of a girl so enslaved?

And this is what men can never understand. We look to our lovers as we once did our mothers: for praise and encouragement, compassion and reassuring love, expecting them to be our help-mates and angels of mercy, never dreaming that the oblivious cruelty of our sex has often rendered them cunning, manipulative, and all but incapable of love.

For the hard truth is, the inner woman is seldom the outer, and while we may penetrate their bodies, thinking it brings them only pleasure (or that we somehow have the right to bring them pain), we will never penetrate their bleeding, confused, and often self-destructive souls.

Krieg tossed and turned restlessly in the cold. While Katera planned and plotted, and felt no human warmth of any kind.

And the next day they all rose, determined to go on.

Twenty-Five

The first several days after the riders departed were largely uneventful for Lana, though not for the others who remained in the mountain fortress. Construction continued all around, as the ditches which held the sections of fence were filled with mortar and stone, and more permanent dwellings begun within the enclosure. Real homes were built of logs, with stout rafters set in a V above, and thatched with rough planks two inches thick. And while these impromptu cabins could not rival for comfort those which Lana had been raised in, the broad stone hearth was warm and welcome, the solid walls a last line of resistance against trespass and violence from without.

Thule’s family slept communally on beds of bower and moss, covered with sheepskin blankets, and spread at night to either side of the long table that ran down the center of the enclosure. And this alone made Lana uneasy.

Their household consisted of Joseppa, one male and one female servant of middle age (Joseppa refused to call them slaves), Thengol, and the little girl, Nar. These knew each other so completely with the passing years that the ways and habits of each were well-known, and no discomfort to the other. She alone was new, and therefore unsure of her place, and purpose within. She sometimes helped to forage, and prepare the food for cooking. But Joseppa claimed this last task for herself, of long and cautious habit: more than one Visigoth lord had met his end through poison. The building was left to soldiers and subordinates, and the growing of food to the servants. Thengol sometimes went out to hunt, or to practice at arms with the other adolescents. But Lana could not help noticing that he showed little enthusiasm for either, and from the talk of the other boys, not much skill. Joseppa often had to prod him into going, and he seemed to have few close friends.

Also, he would not stop looking at her. When she caught his gaze upon her he would smile shyly or turn away, as Joseppa watched and said nothing. But it was the way she said nothing that troubled her. She never chastised him for it, but on the contrary, looked to Lana with a knowing expression, even—was she mistaken?—a just perceptible nod of approval and encouragement.

Perhaps a week had passed. Now that she was entering the middle term of her pregnancy, Lana was feeling better overall, if still not master of her emotions. The morning sickness rarely came now, and Joseppa had given her a pouch of nuts and berries, constantly replenished, with instruction to nibble them when she began to feel nauseous. This was caused, the older woman explained, by the stomach being empty, and could be allayed by small and constant quantities of food.

Her unquiet about the other members of the camp had eased somewhat, as with the swell of her womb now clearly visible (and Joseppa’s obvious protection), she was seldom approached, though men of all ages continued to regard her with interest and curiosity.

This had troubled her at first. But now, as her thoughts slowed and her sense of well-being increased, she felt more and more flattered by it. And when the men who paid notice were young and attractive—there were several she found particularly handsome—it was a warm and satisfying experience to feel their eyes move across her, and to fantasize….. Sometimes at night, as the others slept, she would recall their hungry gaze, as her hands under the nightdress seemed to move of their own volition, and she imagined them there in her bed.

On this night she slept soundly, dreaming of Krieg (or was it Kudric?) gently parting her legs, and putting himself inside her. She moaned in pleasure, then woke with a start.

For someone was there on the bed beside her, and had placed a tentative hand upon her shoulder. She turned quickly to find Thengol looking plaintive and unsure, his puppy eyes bright in the firelight. He breathed deeply but said nothing, neither moving closer, nor farther away. Again his hand reached out, gently touched her shoulder. As his eyes moved across the anxious rise and fall of her breasts.

Her confusion reached new heights. What was she to do? She felt neither attracted nor repulsed by the youth, little more than a boy in her eyes, but knew all too well the realities of her position. And now the hand was moving again. It brushed her cheek, and she turned her face away. But she could not do more without waking the others…..

“I love you,” he said in a trembling voice. Then all at once he moved away with a groan. Or was it a sob? And when she at last mustered the courage to turn again and look, she saw him studying her from his bed with the same wistful sadness she had come to know so well…..

The next day she tried not to look at him. But she found in turn that Joseppa, whom she had begun to think of as a second mother, seemed to have little time, and no affection for her. Her answers to the younger woman’s queries were brief and strained. And when together the women of the household went to forage in the surrounding forests, Lana could endure her coldness no longer. She sat hard on a fallen trunk, and broke into wretched tears.

Joseppa sent her daughter away with the servant, then came and sat beside her.

“What is it child?” she asked, her arm about her protégé’s shoulders.

“I….. I don’t know what to do.”

“About Thengol?”

Lana turned to face this mysterious woman, who evinced not the least surprise. “You know?” she asked, dismayed.

“I carried him in my womb,” she said calmly, “nursed him at my breast, and have been with him every day of his life. His feelings toward you are not difficult to read.”

“But. . .I’m married. And with child myself.”

“No one is asking you to make love to him,” said Joseppa plainly.

“Then what….. I don’t understand. You’re not angry with him? Or with me?”

“Of course not.” She lifted a stray lock of hair from Lana’s eyes, and brushed away her tears.

“Then….. What am I to do?” And her face flushed with embarrassment as the older woman moved closer, and kissed her on the cheek.

“You are a woman, and he a young man. He is shy, as you have seen, and somewhat daunted by the girls his own age. As his mother, I only want him to continue to grow, and slowly come out of his shell. Surely it does no harm to let him kiss and caress you. I would think you’d enjoy it.”

Lana stood up suddenly. “But my husband.”

“How simple you are, child.” And the Lord’s wife rose, brushing the leafy residue from the back of her skirts. “Men are men, and always will be. Do you think you are the only woman he will ever lie with?”

“But…..”

“Quiet,” said Joseppa, her earlier coldness returning. “We have had our little talk. The rest is up to you. I have no doubt you can find someone else to take you in. Charic seems to like you, and he shouldn’t be too rough.”

“No, please!” Lana moved closer, took her by the arm. “Mother, please.”

Their eyes met. Joseppa looked at her gravely. “I would like to be a mother to you, and a friend: there to guide you through your pregnancy, and help with the birth when your time comes. You must know that as Thule’s wife I am both matron and midwife to the women of the tribe. But the welfare of my own children comes first. You do understand that?”

Lana nodded helplessly.

“I love my son,” she continued firmly. “And his father, our Lord, has entrusted me to guide him on the road to manhood. To touch you gently, to sleep beside you until the others return. . .can’t you do this much, in return for all the kindness shown to you, and to your husband?”

Lana moved back a pace, shaking her head in denial. But when Joseppa turned from her, and began to walk resolutely away….. “All right! All right!”

Joseppa hesitated, then moved closer. “We have an understanding then?”

“Yes.”

Joseppa embraced her sweetly. “You should rest now. Come on, I’ll help you back.” And again she put her arm across the small of the younger woman’s back, the hand sometimes straying…..

Together the two women returned to their cabin, where Thengol held open the door, and smiled ruefully.

Twenty-Six

The night was dark and silent, the thin air still and expectant: snow was not far off. After a hard journey the company had camped near the summit of the great Divide, from which all rivers flowed north or south, but never mingled. The next day, as they crested the massive range, they would be able to look north to Gaul, or back upon the wilds of Spain. If the snow did not trap them here first.

They had made their camp, more substantial than most, at the base of a sheer and craggy rise of stone. Above it the mountain’s high shoulder was bare and laced with deep snow, the ground frozen solid, bare and treeless.

Here too they were above the timberline, exposed to even harsher wind and cold. Yet by luck, fate or skill, they had found a welcome and unexpected shelter. Some ancient split in the rock had caused the ground at the base of the cliff to be strewn with boulders, but also exposed a great hollowness within, a large cave into which most of the company had moved, picketing their horses outside, and building bright fires within.

And just beyond the cleft, taking advantage of the tumbled rock, some ancient people had shaped and piled the stones into rough dwellings on either hand. And though the various walls, unsealed by any mortar, had worn, weathered, and in places fallen down—if they had ever been roofed, no trace of it remained—there were, nonetheless, a number of rude shelters beyond the cave for those who sought them, preferring solitude to a crowd of men. And true to his nature, Krieg was one of these.

The structure he had chosen was little more than a half-circle of stone built against a backleaning rockface. It could be entered only by a low opening, just a hole that one crawled through. He had stretched and bound his thatch of furs across the gap that remained above, a singularly primitive dwelling. Within he lit his fire, and tried to nurse his brooding soul.

Though the cold of out-of-doors had seldom troubled him in the past, still he heaped more and more wood upon the fire and sat hunched before it, lost in thought.

He had chosen the hut because of its isolation, yet placed his fire where it could be clearly seen from the mouth of the cave. Why? He slowly mulled this over while cooking the large hare he had shot with bow and arrow that morning, riding ahead, alone and wary. But either he could find no answer, or did not like the answer he found.

That he wanted to be alone was neither unusual or troubling. He preferred solitude when he could find it, riding ahead to scout the company’s way, returning to tell Thule what he had found, and trying not to observe the hostility of Kudric, or the continuing tragedy of Katera. Though tonight, with the stars blocked not only by the rough canopy, but by a thick blanket of lowering cloud, almost upon them, the stark loneliness of it all oppressed him. He felt at once cruelly exposed, and buried alive.

Was that why he had chosen an opening that faced west, and burned his fire more brightly than he must? Did he, in fact, crave human companionship, preferring it to isolation and dark reverie? He had never feared loneliness in the past. But most telling of all: why could he not stop thinking about the girl? The slave. The hardness and cruelty of life.

Kudric’s treatment of her had not improved with the rigors of their journey. In fact it had grown steadily worse. The previous night she had apparently done something to displease him (or simply failed to do something he desired), and so as they prepared to ride forth that morning he had slung her rudely across the yearling’s back, then faced her backward, and with the help of a jeering friend, tied her ankles below the horse’s neck, and her hands beneath its abdomen.

Uncomfortable in the extreme for both animal and rider, this bizarre act could serve no other purpose than to further punish and humiliate the girl. Even Thule, who was used to his son’s excesses, had been embarrassed by this mockery as they set out, and finally, as it hindered their progress, furious. He made Kudric cut her down, only to see his son bind Katera’s hands instead at the end of a length of rope—just long enough to avoid the horse’s exasperated kicks—to the base of its tail, and force her to jog along behind.

Krieg’s emotions, like the young woman’s, were rubbed raw by these senseless acts of brutality. And when they stopped for the night, when she went into the cave to prepare Kudric’s bed, she had looked back at her fellow Vandal with true and bitter tears upon her cheeks.

Now, at the memory of it, he lifted his sword like a dagger, and thrust it angrily into the heart of the flames. Damn it! Pity and desire. His everlasting weakness.

He heard a sound, felt a shadow, something. He looked over to see a bowed head, fair hair tumbling, crawl in through the opening, followed by a distinctly female form. His heart leapt inside him. It was Katera, and she was crying now as she looked up at him.

Without a word he went to her, took her beneath the arms and lifted her up. She was shivering, and he embraced her.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. Was he more moved by compassion or desire? It did not matter. She was one of his own, and he should have protected her.

She squeezed him hard as he chafed her back to warm her, then gently moved her to sit beside the fire. And though he himself sat but a short way off, she moved closer, and laid her hand upon his breast. He spread his heavy cape about them both.

She remained thus only long enough to regain a living warmth, then moved as with a purpose. Though the movement and friction must have hurt her wounded wrists, still, without hesitation she untied his tunic, and slipped her hand inside. Her fingers were cold, and he shuddered as they sought, then found, his most sensitive regions.

“Help me,” she said imploringly, looking into his eyes. He kissed her forehead like a troubled daughter, murmured soft words of reassurance. Then she reached her hand down, began to rub gently. She opened his leggings, found what she sought.

“Katera, no,” he said, despairing. But already she had cupped her fingers around him, and now bent down with lips and questing tongue.

“I can’t,” he said, though his phallus throbbed, hard and aching. She rose and, her gaze never releasing him, lifted off her dress. She let him look at her, felt his eyes move across her: felt her own power, and her need. Then moved to straddle him. He pushed her away half-heartedly, but she persisted.

“Please!“

He could fight her no longer. And after a lost, blissful time of heartbreaking softness, intimacy and desire, he felt the approaching climax that would seal his betrayal. And when it came, he moaned in heart-wrenching orgasm,

*            *           *

The night was dark and still, the family dwelling hushed and expectant. Lana slept uneasily on the bed of furs, her closed eyes moving rapidly, lost in a tumbling dream of sadness and separation. She lay on her side, seeming to see what in fact she could not: the dirt floor, the table, then Thengol, half man and half child. The little girl had taken to sleeping near her, and this was some comfort: the proximity of a sexless and non-aggressive being. That Thengol also moved his bed a little closer each night she knew, but it was all part of the taut confusion of those nights within Joseppa’s home—or was it a lair?—and was she sorry, or glad to be there?

She stirred slightly and the dream changed. A column of smoke rose slowly from the ruin of what had once been her home, then dipped down again as the wind cleared the hill behind, and became one with the trailing mists. Except that it stung her eyes, and burned in her throat. Mora, no longer able to sob, sat beside her, pulling idly at her sleeve. Or was it her bodice…..

She woke with a start, to find that part of the dream was real. She froze, like a deer suddenly aware of an unseen predator. A body was behind her, a bicep across her waist, as a trembling hand sought to free her breasts from the nightgown.

“Thengol?” she whispered. The hand stopped.

“Yes. Lana…..” He gave a despairing sigh and let go of the laces, his hand cupping her quickly instead. Then something confused and desperate took hold of him and made him squeeze the breast hard. She clenched her teeth, but dared not move away. And when he became aware of this his panic subsided, though his remorse increased ten-fold. He nestled closer, his face against the side of her neck. She could feel his tears as he held her gently, then tremulously kissed her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

There was something at once so plaintive and yearning in his voice….. Lana wanted to cry herself, to comfort them both, to run and keep on running. Instead she looked across through the legs of the long table, could see Joseppa watching her. Intent upon the woman before him, lost in the blind, ecstatic misery of his heart, Thengol could not. But his mother, perhaps because she wanted to put Lana at her ease, or for some other reason, turned away.

Time passed slowly, and his caresses became quite gentle. Lana had never felt so confused. While the young man’s presence had at first been a shock, and the hard grasp made her shrink into herself, he had stopped short of hurting her, and his touch and nearness to her now were not repulsive. There was something forbidden, and therefor strangely compelling, in the feelings thus aroused. I mustn’t. It’s wrong. Closing her eyes, she thought of the youth she had sometimes dreamed of before her marriage.

So many complex and contradictory emotions. This was her new family, after all. She was safe among them. Her father had sometimes fondled her like this, even when she was quite young. She could not fight them all.

“Do you despise me for it?” asked the youth sorrowfully.

“No, Thengol.”

“Did I. . .hurt you?”

She sighed, surrendering. “Not badly. Just be gentle, all right?”

“I’ve never— ” He seemed to choke on the words. “Could you ever. . .feel as I do? I want so much to make you feel my love.”

As Lana looked again to Joseppa’s sleeping place, she found the woman watching her once more. Firelight reflected dully in her eyes, making them appear like those of the predators she feared, just at the edge of her father’s dying campfire. But did she sometimes want them to kill her?

She breathed heavily in and out. Then conceding to despair, she turned to face him, and unlaced the front of the gown herself. He pulled apart the fabric desperately, groaning aloud. He kissed the top of each breast lovingly, then took the nearer in his hand, and began to suckle longingly. To protect herself, Lana tried to imagine it was the little girl, her own child. Then to her dismay, went wet between her legs.

Twenty-Seven

Katera did not let him sleep long. “Krieg,” she urged quietly.

He stirred. “Lana?”

“No,” she whispered impatiently.

He felt groggy, confused. For a moment his heart whispered, “Elise,” but knew it could not be….. And then he remembered his betrayal. He groaned aloud.

“Krieg,” she said again. “What are we going to do?”

We. As much as the pronoun wounded him, he knew she had the right to use it. He had taken her to him, a lovely and needing child, and was now responsible…..

“I don’t know,” he said at last.

“You bastard!”

“Be still. I know you need my help, and I will do what I can. But do not think me a fool. I know your heart, for I have known another like it.”

“You’ve got to help me get away!” she pleaded. “He’ll kill me if he finds us. We’ve got to get out of here!”

Krieg looked about him, not unmoved by her words. While he saw no lightening of the darkness all around, he knew the dawn could not be far off. “You know I can’t abandon my wife.” And though he could not see her eyes, he felt their mockery.

“She will abandon you! You don’t know that witch, Joseppa. She’s already scheming to take her from you.”

Krieg’s eyes narrowed, unseen. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because it’s true.” Was it panic in her voice, or disdain? In fact, it was both. The sleeping herb that she had put in Kudric’s wine would not last much longer.

“But why would Thule’s wife—”

“Are you blind? To cure her impotent son.”

Krieg was silent, stunned. Was this the fanciful creation of a disturbed mind? Or was it true? He had witnessed, without suspicion, Joseppa’s interest in his wife. Was it only sympathy, maternity, or something darker? It was all too much, and there was no time.

“You’ve got to go back to him.”

She started to raise her voice in anger and dismay, but he cupped his hand firmly over her mouth. “Listen,” he said. “We cannot escape the Visigoths from here. Kudric and the others would come after us.” He lowered his hand slowly.

“Coward,” she hissed. He raised the hand and slapped her before he knew what he had done. She began to tremble pitifully, her mind jarring back to some terrible trauma. “Don’t leave me here,” she sobbed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, ashamed. “I shouldn’t have done that. And I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you escape.” The words dismayed him, but now, doubly, it must be done. Why had he struck her, as he never had Elise? “But if we are to have any chance, it cannot be here and now. There isn’t time, and I must think it through first.”

“What….. What do you want me to do?” He sensed no manipulation now, only childlike sorrow and need. And his own weakness in the face of it.

“Go back to him for another day, perhaps two. I will use my influence with Thule to see that you do not suffer.”

“I could kill him,” she said bitterly.

“You must not. They would pursue us to the ends of the earth.” Us.

“We could go to the Vandals.”

“Think what you are saying!” He knew a part of him was speaking not to her, yet he could not stop himself. Too well could he imagine her awful death at the hands of Gaiseric’s soldiers. “I am an outcast,” he urged, “you, the debauched slave of a hated enemy. The Vandals would only make you a slave to them, if nothing worse.”

“We wouldn’t have to tell— ”

“There is no time for this! Go back to Kudric, now. Come back to me in a day or two, but only when you safely can.”

“…..you won’t betray me?” Her fear was tangible.

“I won’t.” He kissed her forehead gently, like a wayward, chastised daughter. She pushed him away, but then instantly regretted it: deeply troubled, if not outright disturbed. And no wonder, thought Krieg sorrowfully.

“I’m sorry,” she said, kissing him quickly on the mouth. “I’ll do anything; just help me.” Then went to the entrance, and scrambled out of the enclosure.

When she had gone, he prayed with all his heart that she would do nothing rash. And as he looked up at the canopy, and saw the snowdrops stealing in, and knew he could not take her as his own, that she had never once thought of him that way…..

All he could feel, was loneliness.

Lana stirred in her sleep. Something wasn’t right. Her chest felt cold, and faintly wet.

She opened her eyes suddenly. Thengol was there before her, sleeping like a baby, nestled against her bare breasts. Oh God, she thought in panic. Krieg. What am I going to do?

She gently eased herself away from him. He did not wake. She turned away, quickly covered herself and began to re-lace the nightgown.

She stopped suddenly. The little girl was there at her feet, looking up at her.

“It’s all right,” said Lana reassuringly, as though to herself so long ago. The girl got up and walked around the table, lying down again before her sleeping mother.

Joseppa stirred, put her arm lovingly, protectively about her real daughter. Then smiled faintly, and went back to sleep.

Twenty-Eight

True dawn never rose. With the lightening of the unseen sky came only thick and blinding snow. When Thule emerged from the cave to look about him, he saw that the decision to wait or move on had been made for him. There was no crossing the Divide like this. All his men looked at him with the same expression of inquiry and foreboding: they were in a place of shelter, a day or two would make little difference, and to set out over the whitecaps in such a storm would be madness.

“We wait,” he said coldly. And went back into the cave. 

Krieg, standing dutifully with his mount a short way off, had seen and heard this, and was grateful for the small reprieve. For he must somehow think things through. He crawled back into the ruined dwelling, threw more wood on the fire, wrapped himself in his furs and tried to calm his racing heart. Several hours later he emerged, his face set, and went to speak with the Visigoth lord.

But Thule was neither in a position nor a mood to talk to him there in the cave, surrounded by his men, who were restless and irritable from the cold. Kudric was there, too, and regarded Krieg with open contempt. To one side he saw Katera—sitting hunched in a corner, wrapped up to the eyes in a dirty skin—but dared not turn to face her. He looked at Thule as impassively as he could, and said simply.

“May I speak with you outside?” The Visigoth saw and felt the intensity beneath his words, and so nodded tersely and went out.

“What is it?”

“Could we talk by my fire? Please. It’s important.” Thule sighed, clearly uneasy. Together they walked to the ancient dwelling, and passed inside.

“We have a problem,” said Krieg, when they had seated themselves before the flames.

“We?”

“If you are my friend, yes. If not, then the problem is mine.”

“Stop talking in riddles.”

“All right.” Krieg summoned all his courage, knowing that if he stumbled he would not be the only one to feel the Visigoths’ wrath. “I can’t accept what your son is doing to the Vandal girl.”

Thule’s eyes narrowed in the now familiar expression of anger and distrust. “Can’t, or won’t?”

“Either.”

“You are on dangerous ground.”

“If you value your soul, so are you.”

“Are you questioning my faith?”

“No. I’m putting it to the test.”

Thule rose angrily and began to pace. Whether he was building himself up to a rage of violence or trying to calm himself, Krieg could not tell. He suspected the other did not know himself. He plunged on.

“Jesus said, ‘You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.’ But he also said, ‘I bring not peace but the sword.’”

“I summon one-hundred thousand Visigoths to conquer Spain, and free it from the Vandal scum. That’s not enough for you?”

“That’s not what I mean. That’s not what you have to decide.”

“No more games! Tell me plainly what you mean.”

… “Katera came to me last night. She asked me to take her away from your son’s abuses. She is terrified, of both of you.”

“And devious,” said Thule, with a strange quality in his voice. Denial? Guilt?

“Yes, but I am not a fool. And you are not blind. You know that what Kudric is doing is wrong, a sin against God and Nature. And if you condone it—”

“She is a slave, a Vandal!”

“So am I, Thule.”

“But you have rejected them, and embraced the true Faith.” Though Krieg could not show it, his faith in that moment was at its lowest ebb. He said:  

“Give her the same chance.”

“She wouldn’t take it! She has given herself up to cunning and seduction.”

“What choice did she have, Thule? She is trying to survive, in the only way she knows how.”

“It was woman who succumbed in the Garden of Eden, and brought about the downfall of Man!”

“That is a story, Thule, a myth, created by men just like you and I, trying to understand their world.”

“That is blasphemy! I could have you burned alive!”

“You could. Or stoned, along with the girl. But remember what Christ himself said. ‘Behold, I bring you a new Commandment: love thy neighbor as thyself.’”

“She is a scheming slut, an adulteress!”

Krieg now saw clearly the raging guilt in his friend’s eyes, and understood with sudden clarity. . Thule’s passion, and his shame. “With you?” he asked gently.

Thule drew his sword and moved closer. “Enough!”

“And so, like the woman caught in adultery, you place the blame entirely on her?”

“You will be silent!”

His bodyguard scurried in through the entrance, rose and drew his sword.

“Leave us!” cried Thule. The man hesitated, looked hard at the Vandal, then reluctantly obeyed.

“Why do you speak to me this way?” asked Thule. Righteous anger had deserted him, leaving only the bitter truth.

“I’m sorry, my friend. But to keep silent in the face of evil. . .is perhaps the greatest sin of all.”

“What are you telling me?” said the lord in a sunken voice, despairing.

“I am not judging you. I too have fallen, more than once. But in dark times I do try to remember the words of Jesus, whether you call him a God or not. ‘Let he who is without sin, cast the first stone.’ ‘Judge not, lest you shall be judged.’ And most of all, ‘Suffer the little children to come to me. For unless you become as one of these, you shall not enter the kingdom of Heaven.’ She is, in so many ways, still a child.” Thule said nothing, stared at the flames.

“I do not judge,” Krieg continued. “And I am not asking you to choose between our friendship, and the love you bear your son.”

“What are you asking?”

“To remember this much from the Old Testament, which seems to me wise in its foreboding. “The sins of the father shall be visited upon their sons.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Of course not. Thule, please. Look at me.” He did. “She was taken in battle, and became a slave to your family when she was but a child. That much is easily read. But to have this beautiful and lonely girl, bereft of her father and struggling with young womanhood, around you always, and completely in your power….. It proved too great a temptation. Am I wrong?”

Thule’s answer was made by his silence.

“You love your wife, but like all men, feel yearnings and desires that fidelity cannot contain. And so in a moment of weakness you did something you are ashamed of. That too is plain. But blaming the victim, treating her ever since with a cold scorn your son could not help but perceive, and now emulate…..”

Thule seemed in that moment a broken man. “What can I do to heal the hurt that I have caused? How can God ever forgive me?”

“You alone know the answer to the first. But I will tell you this much. I cannot in good conscience continue to act as your scout, or go with you to convince others of the rightness of your cause, when one of my own, a helpless young girl, is so brutalized along the way.”

“What does one have to do with the other?”

“Everything, Thule. ‘By their fruits shall you know them,’ remember? My vision, my Quest, foolish as it may seem to you, was to lead a righteous army into Spain, to deliver the land and its people from an evil so black….. I would not displace one darkness with another, perhaps the greater, because its violence is done in the name of religion.”

Thule leaned weakly against the wall. “Say it.”

“The Vandals rape and kill in the name of greed, lust, and a twisted dream of racial supremacy. If you do the same, but in the name of God…..”

“Do you think I’m proud of what I did to her?” He took his head in his hands, groaned in anguish. “I love my wife. In my way, I loved Katera…..”

“But you are a man, and you fell to her then unconscious allure. So have I, Thule, but without the same excuse.”

“You raped her?”

“No. But I took advantage of her need. ‘The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.’ My lust took me in the name of compassion. I told myself it was to help her. . .but it wasn’t. Which of us, then, committed the greater sin?”

Thule turned away. “How can I face what I have done to her, a mere child? How can I make it right?”

“Give her up. Let her go, as I must, and truly help her.”

“For you?”

“No. Nor because of me. Do it for yourself, and for your family.”

“You speak in circles again.”

“No, Thule. There is a serpent in your house to be sure, but it is not the slave-girl.” He stopped, fearing to say too much. And while he hated himself for it, he knew that he had been as honest with this man as he could be. Thule would bear no more of the truth, without harm to Lana and the unborn babe. And so, when the question came, he lied.

“What serpent? Whom do you accuse?” said the Lord, rising again in wrath.

“The same serpent that is in every home, including mine: the one between our legs. We are all slaves to it. It creates life, but also kills. Look what it has done to you, and to me.”

“And now. . .to my son.”

“Yes. If he is allowed to continue in this abuse, these brutal orgasms, he will soon crave, and live for nothing else. His heart will become twisted, like those of the Vandals we seek to overthrow. He will long for nothing but brutal domination. He will fall into Darkness.”

“…..I can see nothing clearly in this. It is too near my heart. If you are truly my friend, then tell me to do.”

… “Send her away. Back to the others, until you can find some more permanent solution. No face is lost before your men to say she hinders us on our way. It is true, and she is better gone. Send someone you trust, but don’t need in the coming journey, to take her back.”

“And if she seduces him, and runs away? She has tried it before.”

“Then the fault, the responsibility, are no longer yours. You did what you could. But you must separate her from your son at all costs. Surely you see that.”

“…..yes.”

“Then I will leave you to decide.”

He started to move past him to the entrance, but Thule clasped him hard on the shoulder. Krieg turned swiftly, half expecting violence, but found that tortured tears were running down the Visigoth’s face.

“I’m sorry for it,” he said. “There is no excuse…..” Then, fighting to regain control. “You know that as Lord I can say no more.”

“Yes,” said Krieg, relieved for both of them. He placed his hand on Thule’s shoulder in turn, and gave a gentle pressure. “You’re a good man, Thule, who a did terrible thing. You are not alone in this, but you must make amends. Here is your chance for redemption.”

Then he turned, bent down, and left the enclosure.

Doing the right thing is sometimes difficult and dangerous, at others easier (and far more pressing) than not doing so. When Thule returned to the cave, he found that sending Katera away was not only necessary, but inescapable.

For Kudric, in his boredom and meanness of spirit, had made her stand upon a stone in the midst of his men, and slowly take off her clothes. It was not long before the situation got out of hand, as lustful and frustrated men began seizing hold of her garments from all directions and tearing them off her, or even slashing at them with their knives. Soon she was nicked in several places, screaming in terror, while those who wished to protect her—few enough, in all conscience—had come to blows with those who would ravish her on the spot.

For in placing her before them, wanting somehow to demonstrate his own manhood, Kudric had only unleashed the beast in all: men on the march, going into what dangers they knew not, with a beautiful and seductive young woman constantly in their midst, and a brazen brat to goad them with envy and resentment.

With a cry of rage Thule drew his blade and lept among his men, striking with the flat of his sword and shouting: “Leave her! Get back you filthy dogs!”

And when he finally broke through, pushing and pulling them apart like wild animals, they moved back sullenly, and seemed to remember themselves. All save the good men who had tried to defend her, who came forward to stand beside their Lord, and form a defensive ring about her. Kudric himself said nothing, secretly dismayed by the violent reaction to what he himself had done, and unsure of his own emotions. While he could not feel remorse, which was beyond him, he nonetheless had found the scene disheartening, like a sated shark witnessing the feeding frenzy of others.

Thule took off his cape and wrapped it about the girl protectively, as she wept and shriveled in his arms. To his own surprise he kissed her temple, and whispered in her ear. “It’s over, Katera. I’m going to send you home. No one will hurt you again.” She looked up at him quickly, afraid to hope. But he nodded gently. He used a far different tone with his men.

“Are we Christians, or mindless barbarians? You should be ashamed!” And to Kudric. “This is your handiwork. You call yourself a grandson of the King? Theodoric would cast you out forever if he saw this!” His son seemed on the verge of some bitter reply, but the righteous rage he found in the Lord’s eyes daunted him. He, too, knew what his father was capable of.

“Thalic!” shouted Thule. A man of perhaps fifty, who had taken the girls’ part in the fray, stepped toward him. While hale enough on his own ground, he moved now stiffly with the cold, breathing hard with exertion. He had been struggling against age and arthritis for months, ever since they first came to the Pyrenees. His former mentor and master-at-arms, Thule trusted him implicitly. His voice became quieter, respectful.

“Take her into my tent and get her some decent clothing. Then pack whatever stores you need, and take her back to the encampment. She will act as your servant, living under your protection, until I can find something more permanent.”

“But father,” began Kudric.

“You will be silent, or I will disown you here and now! You shame your family, your Faith and your tribe! Out of my sight!”

To the surprise of some, and to his own consternation, Kudric lowered his flushed face and obeyed, walking out into the snow and wondering how it could all have turned so quickly. For he knew that his father’s tolerance had its limits, and his anger could be fell when aroused. The bastard wasn’t bluffing.

Perhaps thirty minutes later, Thalic emerged from the cave with Katera, who remained close beside him for protection. The others were gathered outside it at Thule’s order—both to calm them, and to reassert his own command. With the help of his son, Thalic saddled and loaded his horse and Katera’s, then helped the girl to mount. Unfettered now, the swirling snow seemed to act as a veil of sanctity, cleansing, and even canonizing this lost and lonely child. The name of Mary Magdalene, who in time would become the patron saint of Spain, played upon the minds of more than one there gathered. Without a word Thalic nodded to her. Both prodded their horses, and together they rode carefully down the long slope, fading quickly into white, and the shelter of pines beyond. As standing outside his own small shelter, Krieg said a silent prayer of thanks, tears constricting his heart. For men are what they are, but not all hearts are rotten.

As Kudric glared at him in hatred. As Thule watched all, and tried to sort out his own feelings and loyalties, lost in his own dark world, like the rulers of Spain for centuries to come: that beautiful and tragic land, that terrible Catholic altar, which would in time span three continents, its golden chalice filled with the blood of innocents. And all in the name of Christ.

Twenty-Nine

Lana stirred uneasily in her sleep, disoriented. She opened her eyes slowly, but the sense of unreality remained. Thengol was there beside her, as always now, sleeping with the expression—there was no denying it—of a child safe in its mother’s arms.

She carefully disengaged herself from his embrace. He rolled toward the place where she had been, murmured something that sounded like, “Angel,” then began to breathe evenly again.

She was desperate.

She rose and looked about her in the gloom. The fire had nearly burned itself out: nothing remained but hissing embers. This would not do. She felt trapped in the web of a great widow spider. Joseppa. Must get out!

She already wore her long dress, the one that Krieg had torn so long ago. Krieg. “Where are you?” she whispered forlornly. North. North.

She moved furtively to the door, lifted the latch, and opened it partway. Then whirled with a start. Eyes! Was Joseppa watching her? Lana could not be sure. Her lids were open partway, the shining slits beneath. But that was the way she slept.

“Joseppa?” she whispered, not knowing which reality she feared more. Then a little louder. “Joseppa.” The older woman did not stir.

Lana felt her heart cloven in two. She thought of Thule’s protection. . .and of her own lord and master. Krieg. She slipped out into the night, closing the door quietly behind her.

The camp was ill-defined in the twilight. The place itself was recognizable, but not the structures or the gate. Surely it must be south. The full moon, breaking free of cloud, lit something….. Yes. There it was. The gate. She went to it.

She dared not try to lift its massive cross-bar, held in brackets of iron, and so took hold of it instead, and began to climb. She moved painfully, struggling for footholds wherever she might find them.

One leg hooked awkwardly upon the bar, she reached up the corresponding hand and caught hold near the top of the sharpened summit. Such a bitter spike. She pulled herself upward, set both feet upon the stout timber. And stood up, looking out at the forests beyond.

There was no other way over but to set one foot between the bases of two sharpened spikes, holding hard, and then the other. One slip and she would be impaled, the unborn child a bloody pulp. She steadied herself above the central stake, lifted her dress as high as she could with one hand….. And lept down.

But the back hem caught, and twisted her. She swung down hard against the far side, gave a stunned gasp of pain and fear, then heard the dress tear like a wolf’s snarl, and tumbled hard to the ground.

When full consciousness returned she lay still, afraid to move. She strained her ears for any sound of alarm from within, but after several minutes, realized no such sound had come. She was alone. She gathered herself up, winced at the pain in her side. It was badly bruised, but the rib was not broken. She thought of the baby, but there was nothing else for it. The pain was too near, the need to escape herself too terrible.

She ran into the forest till she could run no more, then walked as fast as her cramping legs would carry her. Ran and walked. Was it minutes or hours? For herself or for him? She continued North, on and on, until she found herself in a steep ravine.

The creature watched her from the saw-toothed edge of the flatiron, a gruesome sight to look down upon. The back of its head was gray and porous, as it grappled the rock with the hooked fingers of its leathern wings, the long neck arching over the side, watching her. Seen from beneath—though she did not look up—the red eyes, like those reflected in firelight, glinted of their own inner malice in a way that was hauntingly familiar. It knew its victim, if unable to speak her name, by the scent of warm soft flesh, so erotically charged with fear and despair. Her death would be terrible, rich and satisfying. The gargoyle leapt out into the void, spreading its wings just enough.

Lana looked up, blanched and unable to scream as the demon-shape swooped down upon her, knocking her to the ground. It pinned her arms back with grappling wings, seizing her ankles and spreading her legs with its hard, clawed feet. Then savagely tore away the dress with its hands, inserting its bitter iron shaft as the fangs sunk deep into her neck. She screamed in red pain and terror.

Krieg woke with a start. Snow swirled about him in the small enclosure. It was deepest Night. He squirmed, fought, and threw off the sewn furs that were now like a strangling snake. And rose, sweating and trembling.

“Lana,” he said passionately.

Lana.

When morning came he went to speak with Thule. But the grim Lord, still smarting from the events and confessions of the day before, was in no mood to hear about dreams and premonitions. Krieg read this clearly in the forbidding expression as he tried to approach him. That look said as plainly as words:

“No more drama. Ride with us or remain behind—alone and without aid.”

So the Vandal withdrew, more in turmoil than ever, and with far fewer options. He wanted to leave and return to his bride, whose torment he sensed, but knew it would mean the end of all safety and shelter from the Visigoths.

He woke again. The first had been a nightmare, the subconscious mutation of his darkest fears. But the second, a dream of waking. . .had never happened. Reality, twice removed. What was he to do?

Should he go to Thule, and ask his leave? Would Lana even want him to? No. She had said as much herself. A woman in her condition needed shelter and companionship. And though Katera may have believed it herself—her life had been tragic, her heart grievously wounded—wasn’t her depiction of Joseppa’s household distorted by her own suffering and need? Was it mere fancy, the product of a disturbed mind? Or worse, a troubling lie to help her escape, and to the ruin of his family?

There was no time to ponder. These thoughts passed through him as he hurriedly packed his belongings, left the enclosure and loaded his horse along with the others. And there was still. . .if not the Quest. . .then the thing which he must do.

Thule emerged from the cave on horseback, rode up and regarded him sternly.

“Well?” he said coldly. “Are you coming?” This was no dream. The stark choice was set before him.

It didn’t feel like the most important decision of his life, only yielding to the inevitable, and going on. He released a troubled breath, the vapor pouring from his mouth like a departing soul.

He nodded, mounted the grey. And rode up with the others toward the great Divide. The point of no return.

And on the other side, Gaul.

Thirty

Lana’s dilemma was not so easily resolved, her choice even less clearly defined. For though they had lived as man and wife on terms of such physical intimacy, and despite Krieg’s knowledge, and even wisdom in other areas, like most men, there was much he did not know about women: the secret lives they share with no one.

In truth he knew little more about her past than what she chose to tell him; and this was far from all. Like all egocentric creatures, however well intentioned, he had listened only enough to fill in the blanks with his own thoughts and experience. Hers was a life and reality he could not begin to understand.

For Lana had been born and raised among rough mountain folk never subdued (or enlightened) by the Romans. They were, for the most part, wild and rustic, descended (and not much changed) from ancestors more primitive still. They kept to themselves, living a sort of guerilla existence, hiding away as the storms of Europe raged about them. Characteristically dark-haired, dark-featured, aloof and mysterious, they formed yet another of the scattered peoples of the Earth largely overlooked by time and progress, not much advanced, in any meaningful way, from the wild nomads of the Bronze Age.

Lana had been born the second daughter of a man who wanted sons, in order to establish a higher social standing among his people. He was a tall and hard-headed man, outwardly cold and distant, never quite fitting in to his loosely joined tribe of woodsmen and hunter-gatherers. At the birth of his first daughter he had been disappointed, though his wife was secretly glad. She clung to the plain and willful Mora, unwilling to sell her as he wished, whispering to the girl instead all her bitter frustrations, and hatred of men. For she too had had a father, and of the lowest kind.

When Lana was born some years later, the last emotional bonds between man and wife fell away. He thought of leaving her and taking another; but he was not, at heart, a dishonorable man, and had neither wealth (as it was counted among his people) nor position to attract a second wife.

Strangely, even to himself, he did not blame Lana, as her mother and sister seemed to do, for the unsatisfactory state of his family. On the contrary, he felt drawn to her. When she was not much more than a babe, he felt something when he looked at her little face that he could not begin to articulate. She was dear to him in a way he would not have thought possible.

For like all men, even those who strut like kings before the world, he was secretly gnawed by disappointment and a sense of failure: a wife who had not only failed to give him sons, but also lost her looks far too quickly for one of his passionate nature, and a firstborn who was not only female, not only plain, but possessed of all the shrewish and unsavory characteristics of her mother. Mora seemed (and in fact was) her weapon, and instrument of vengeance upon the ugly world of men. Nor was his wife unaware, but rather, insanely jealous of his feelings toward the younger, and far more appealing daughter.

Forlorn little Lana was raised without the least hint of maternal love and affection. Bullied and dominated by her sister, cuffed and ridiculed by her mother for the very love she inspired in her husband, she grew up, as all abused children do, incapable of finding fault with the cruel and heartless parent, left to wonder instead what terrible flaw she herself possessed, that made her so unlovable.

Her father, though slow to perceive the cause, was not blind to Lana’s condition, or unaware of her suffering at the hands of the two hateful women. And so, when she was perhaps six years old, he stepped in and delivered her from their rages in the only way he knew how. He savagely beat his wife, held a knife to her throat and forbid her on pain of death to ever touch, or even raise her voice to the child again. Mora he only glared at, though the message was clear: you are not my daughter.

He then took the grateful, but shorn and bewildered Lana to live with him in a second cabin he had built deep in the forest. There he hunted, trapped and foraged, often leaving her alone for days at a time, to carve out their precarious existence.

But though mother and sister were no longer there to torment her, the new conditions in which she was placed were lonely and confusing in the extreme. Denied any semblance of childhood, she was cast instead into the role of cook, housekeeper, emotional nurse and only companion of her father, a strange and stubborn man who, though in his way he loved the girl, was equally unqualified to develop a healthy mind and spirit within her. Himself raised in a primitive society where the needs of women, beyond food and shelter, were scarcely thought of at all, it seemed to him that his pretty young daughter existed only to care for him, a salve for (and slave to) his tormented soul.

This is not to say that Lana didn’t love him. How could she not? He was her whole world, the one person who cared about her, who had taken her from a Hell so complete she could not begin to cope with it, and from which she would never recover. He was her father, in that culture, her literal lord and master, in some ways, even her God. For such was (and still is) the male-dominated culture of many primitive and backward peoples. She cared for him with all the forlorn and subservient affection her wounded heart could muster, calling upon a courageous will and strength of character remarkable in a grown woman, let alone a young girl. She loved him desperately, and she knew (or merely wished, so that she constantly sought signs of it), that he loved her just as much.

But Nature makes us what we are, to survive and procreate at all costs, with little thought for the emotional protection or stability of individuals. And society, however altered by time and circumstance, is still built around the hearth, the nuclear family, and the tribe. Where such balances and restraints are absent (or twisted, as they were for Lana), the primal drives and longings of the man, the emotional endurance and stability of the girl, are sometimes pushed far beyond the limits of convention or rationality.

Who can say how such things begin? The man had no conscious wish to harm his daughter. On the contrary, he loved her, if anything, too much. But shut up together on the endless long nights, the normal and natural embraces, pats and caresses between a father and his daughter, not restrained by the presence of others, or the social taboos of more enlightened society, may have crossed into the realm of aberration largely unnoticed by either. Certainly the girl would not know it was wrong, having no other life or example to compare it to.

They often slept together for warmth; he had no satisfactory lover; and so, with the hapless girl neither understanding man’s passions or her own emotions, she found herself at the age of eleven, and the bare beginnings of womanhood, sharing conjugal relations with her father. And who but another victim of incest can begin to imagine what this did to her psychologically?

In time the confused and melancholy man had realized (as so many others do not, clinging to their unnatural relationship in the face of all reason), that the situation could not go on. And so, harried by his wife—whom he rarely saw, but who suspected the truth nonetheless, and had threatened to expose him to the tribal counsel—he consented to marry the girl to a friend and fellow hunter when she reached true womanhood.

The marriage took place with little ceremony, and less affection. For Lana it meant only that one confused life had ended and another begun, with little promise of peace or happiness.

For if her father had meant to establish her in a more natural relationship, he could hardly have made a worse choice. Though there was nothing drastically perverse in the new sexual contact she had with her husband (it was impossible to think of his frenzied intercourse as love), neither was there anything gentle, affectionate or reassuring. He was a hard man, a good provider, perhaps, but one with little conscious awareness of, and no respect whatever for the female condition, sexually or otherwise. He took his pleasure on her as it suited him, never once thinking (much less asking) how she felt about it, or him, or anything else under the sun. She never once felt comfortable or at ease in his presence, and his promiscuous advances, albeit those of a husband, and therefor uncontested, were emotionally tantamount to rape.

And then her father, who had attempted a reconciliation with his wife, was poisoned by her and died in agony—though Lana could not consciously know, or even let herself suspect it. The balance of her life and sanity were too precarious, and would endure no such further blow.

And a year after that, as if on cue from the forces of Darkness, the Vandals had invaded with such cruel swiftness that even these crafty and reclusive wood-folk were caught unaware. They slew Lana’s mother, her husband, and killed or captured her sister’s entire family.

And so she was left, alone and terrified, with the bitter and all but raving older sister who had tormented her from earliest childhood.

But then the strange miracle had occurred. How else could she think of it? Krieg had come upon them, strong but not brutal, obsessed at first, but not insane. He was in so many ways the answer to her unspoken, even unthought-of prayers.

Once she had seduced him, and cast out Mora (the one self-protective act she had ever been able to perform with regard to her family), and after the first terrible days when she was sure that he would leave her—and she did not forget that he had in fact tried to, and only relented when she utterly debased herself before him—another miracle had occurred. He loved her, or at least said that he did.

From that day forward he had replaced both husband and father in a gentler, and far more wholesome way. Perhaps the forest gods, or even the Christian God, of whom her people had been told by a courageous missionary they had later killed, had at last realized their mistake, leaving her alone and in torment for so long, and sent the fair-haired, fiery-eyed Warrior of the North to deliver her. This was how she sometimes thought of it.

But was it too late? The abuses of her mother, the open hatred of her sister, the loving but incestuous caresses of her father, the cold and callous predations of her first husband—all had left their mark. The wounds were deep, the understanding limited, the underlying resentment, unknown even to herself, overwhelming.

So finding herself in the here and now, reality and fantasy both pressing in on all sides at once….. If somewhat dismayed by the subtle webs of Joseppa, she was in no way surprised by them. They seemed, in fact, more normal, certainly more comprehensible, than the lofty and naïve aspirations of her husband. This reality, these hidden motives and meanings, she understood all too well. It was the world of brute survival, maternal cunning, dealing with the mad hearts of women, and the twisted lusts of men. This, to her, was Nature and hard reality, while Krieg lived in a fantasy world of Gods, Quests, and higher feelings that simply had no place in the world as it was.

She did love Krieg, and this in itself both surprised and alarmed her. In some ways she even worshipped him, as she had her father. But the truth was, she simply did not know what to do with him, or the sometimes overwhelming emotions he aroused in her.

And what if he found out about her past? It was not reticence that kept her silent, but dread fear. How could he begin to understand about her father, let alone forgive her for it? She had cringed when he spoke of Elise’s father, “his possessive, even lustful feelings for his daughter,” much as she had at other elements of the tale. That he had not noticed was at first a relief, but like all other resentment, had resurfaced and grown over time like a choking weed from the unseen roots below.

Again, only one thing was certain—or so her mind had conceived. She could not live alone as he proposed, always on the move and without permanent shelter of any kind, naked to the violence of the world, living only on love and good intentions. She needed a home: sustenance and protection. Especially now, when she was with child. The very thought of it terrified her.

As for the baby itself—that new life, sure to be as tragic as her own—she could not hope or wish for any such child, at least not yet. Clearly it meant the world to her husband; but what he meant to her, now that there were other options….. She knew only that she herself needed security: someone to help her with her pregnancy, and to deliver it (and her) safely when the time came. For death in childbirth was no idle fear.

In her cunning (and being of the same sex), Joseppa had read far more of her troubled soul than her husband. While she could not know the specifics, like any other predator she sensed weakness and vulnerability; and like abusive men, she planned to take full advantage.

And if the dark perversities of her present society seemed normal to Lana, what else did she have to compare them with, but the brief and unreal interlude in the cabin with a strange and passionate man who said he loved her? It was a love she wanted to return (if such things existed), but not at the cost of a brutal death like the one which had taken her sister, or even (had she been willing to admit it), of confessing to him the incestuous horrors and unnatural emotions of her adolescence. Few women (or men) possess the courage to face the things they are most deeply ashamed of, no matter the circumstances which lead to them.

And now Krieg was gone, off on the wars and migrations these powerful northern tribes seemed to live for. And she was here in the dark hut, with Joseppa and her troubled son, left to her own devises.

She must make the best of it. She must survive. Therefor the thought of running away was, if not the farthest thing from her mind, certainly the one that filled her with the greatest dread. What would she do, alone and exposed in this terrible time, and where on earth would she go? Who would protect her from the mindless rape and murder all around her?

Of course she felt guilt, doubt and confusion when she thought of her husband, and the strange relationship with Thengol. But with the same twisted reason she had known as a child, she could not blame Joseppa’s family (it was impossible to think of it as Thule’s) for the way they were, only continue to search desperately for her own place among them.

Her self-esteem—or any feeling that she deserved better—if it existed at all, was, like everything else beyond her understanding, dark and permeated with fear. And though she could not have known it, could not begin to articulate the thought, she suffered from her own peculiar form of abused child disorder. Simply this. She yielded to, and obeyed those who used, manipulated and tormented her, so long as they claimed to love her.

Outside her father, who confused her most of all, she did not trust or understand, even secretly resented, those few who had truly cared about her, and treated her with respect. On the contrary, she subconsciously wanted to hurt them, as she had been hurt, punish them, as she had been punished: passive-aggressive revenge. And not against those who tormented her—for these, she knew, would retaliate and hurt her—but against those whose kindness and compassion would not allow them to do so.

In truth there was only one such person: Krieg, her husband. Did she love him or hate him, want to bear his child, or cut his throat as he slept? She herself did not know, and time alone would tell.

She was no more capable of putting these questions to herself in any reasonable or rational way, than she was of accepting the love and true shelter he offered, if only she would open her heart to him. Why? Perhaps, as the dark master wrote, she had not the skill.

But she did have a choice.

At present, she only knew what she felt: cornered, desperate, but among people and circumstances she understood. She had returned, as she knew she inevitably must, from the dream-world in which her unfortunate husband lived. Love was a thing she could not understand. Raw survival she knew, and it was all around her. In truth, she both loved and hated Krieg, as she had loved and hated her father. As she loved and hated herself.

And all the while, Thengol’s caresses became more knowing and confident. And though he could not yet become hard enough in her presence to penetrate her, his organ, at times, now stirred of its own volition. Once he had even ejaculated in her presence, to the wonder (and confusion) of them both. For it had not occurred during sexual contact, but after, when they merely lay naked in each other’s arms.

In the house of Joseppa, and the absolute power—for she would not resist it—of the tribe, the hearth, the twisted family.

Thirty-One

Again the women foraged among the mysterious lights and shadows of the primeval forest. Lana had known them since childhood. The day was surprisingly warm and pleasant. Her pregnancy was going well and Joseppa, for several weeks now, had been truly kind. The nights with Thengol were no longer frightening. On the contrary, even as his mother had said, she was beginning to enjoy his touch and nearness. He was so gentle, so grateful. It was almost like having a son of her own, but without the taboo of incest.

He had begun to bloom under the combined affections of both mother and mistress, becoming more confident, more manly. While he could not yet penetrate her—or perhaps chose not to out of deference to the unborn child—his young phallus now became erect with little help, and he was capable of conscious orgasm in her presence. It would not be long….. He was so kind and affectionate, even fair to look upon, and his caresses had become a true pleasure. Also, if she had been able to understand it, sex with a younger, almost childlike partner was what she had learned from her father, and so, subconsciously emulated.

This was how the passive, and would-be happy part of her nature viewed the case. But there were other times, too painful to face, when she saw her current relationship in all its unnatural horror. There she was, carrying the child of her husband, forgetting, even betraying him, and in the worst possible way.

But conscience is not the same in woman as it is in man—though both sexes are equally guilty of ignoring it. For man, with his mind so strongly affected by testosterone, becomes under pressure angry and violent, either turning that chemically induced courage against his oppressors, or, if he is too weak or too far gone, against those he claims to love—his wife and children—because they are, tragically, within his power. Thus, his choice between good and evil, though never simple, is at least definable. Face his true enemies outside the home, to defend and provide for his family, or bring that rage home and turn it against them.

But woman, her moods and reactions so deeply affected by estrogen, has not the same biochemical courage to call upon, and is, therefor, more deeply terrified by thoughts of pain and loss. And because of this, she is far more adept at rationalizing, or even justifying, an abusive, subservient relationship. What in the man becomes anger and aggression, in the woman becomes fear and submission. And in her denial, her need to survive, she is, as are men, capable of anything.

Lana stopped, forlornly set down her basket. She was so confused. Finally she leaned against a tree to hide her tears, then turning her back to it, slid to the ground and covered her face.

Joseppa, a shrewd, if jaded observer, had long read the underlying conflicts within her, and realized now they had come to a head. She moved stealthily toward her, and when the younger woman became aware of her, held out both her hands invitingly.

Lana hesitated only briefly, then took hold of them. Joseppa helped her up, and she at once embraced this second mother, weeping piteously on her shoulder.

The elder said nothing for a time, only stroked her hair, murmuring soft reassurances. The young woman’s body felt good in her arms, her tears warm and comforting in a way she could not explain. After a time she drew back a little, stroked her cheek, and kissed her gently.

“What’s wrong, little Lana?”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You know you always have a place in our home. Perhaps you and

Thengol…..” She stroked Lana’s neck, let her hand rest upon the lovely woman’s heart, felt its beat quicken. “…..could even marry.” She had not meant to say this, in truth had thought otherwise. But now her own passions were aroused.

“But the baby.” Lana took the hand nervously and placed it on her swelling abdomen, not yet large, but clearly visible. At this Joseppa drew back, becoming thoughtful.

“Yes, of course. But you know, Lana. It doesn’t have to be born.”

“Mother? What are you saying?”

“There are ways to cause a miscarriage. Didn’t the women of your tribe sometimes take herbs, or allow another woman to probe—”

“But Krieg! The child is everything to him.”

Again the matriarch took the troubled girl in her arms, kissed her forehead, hesitated, then let one hand stray across her breast. And as she searched the other’s eyes, she saw that Lana was scared, but did not pull away. Just give her a little more time, the woman thought. She lifted the hand to Lana’s shoulder instead, and took hold of her chin with the other as the younger woman bowed in despair, and lifted it gently. Their eyes met.

“But not to you?”

“It’s just…..” For the woman had struck upon her darkest fears. “If the child is a girl….. There are so many ways she could be hurt. . .abused. So many dark temptations, for men and women alike.”

“Like a father’s lust?”

Lana’s face flushed deeply, ashamed. How had Joseppa known? How did she always know? This woman who seemed at times her matron and protector, felt at others like some kind of familiar demon, able to read her thoughts, twist her mind, and turn her will to jelly.

So I was right, thought the fading temptress, and another piece of the puzzle fell into place. She had known from the start that the girl was a victim: scared, vulnerable, and therefore pliable. But the reason for this, which Lana’s husband could not see—men were so blind when they wanted to be, even to their own passions—had remained hidden. Until now.

So. Because of a mother’s jealous hatred, a father’s forlorn molestation, she had been robbed of all self-empowerment, and the ability to say no, to anyone. Again Joseppa became aroused, thinking of the possibilities. But first she must understand completely….. This utter defenselessness was what made her useful, even desirable. She ran from love (Joseppa found the sentiment absurd, but did not know how else to shape the thought, and so let it pass)….. She ran from love, which only confused and frightened her. . . back to manipulation and control, which at least she understood.

Taking her from Krieg would not be difficult. Aside from Thule’s friendship, which could be ended by well-directed lies and innuendo (Thule was such a child, and so easily roused to envy), Krieg had no status, no real place among them.

But did she really want this woman for Thengol? Clearly he adored her— A cruel pang of jealousy shot through her, and her first impulse, heightened by her own passions, was to throttle the scheming bitch here and now.

But no, her calmer self intervened. Taking Thengol to herself—she moved the tip of her finger in a slow, circular motion across Lana’s lips—would be gratifying to her, but not good for the boy. And if Thule ever discovered the full depths of her depravity….. She shivered involuntarily. For Joseppa was not without fear. And the shark which has seen and been a part of so much ruthless killing, has a deep and secret terror of such violence being turned upon itself…..

But surely the Vandal would need something to release his hold, and leave them forever. While she could always have him killed in an apparent accident—more than one man in the camp would do anything she asked—this might ruin the girl for life. Give him the child perhaps? If Lana did so willingly, it would end any claim he might make upon her. But who would feed and care for it? Even one so paternal and protective as Krieg was bound to be—she felt a grudging admiration for the man, which only made her hate him more—could not care for an infant alone…..

At that moment the lookout gave a hail from the watchtower. Someone was approaching. They had not strayed far from the fort, and now she released the girl and rushed back to it. Passing in at the open gate, which the wardens had made no attempt to close, she looked up at the tower guard and demanded peremptorily,

“Who is it?”

“Thalic, Lady.”

“Alone?” Why would Thule send him back? She felt a momentary pang, for she had loved this man as a girl. Still, if he was unwell, let him die on the road and make an end. They couldn’t possibly feed every old and useless…..

“No, Mistress. A woman is with him. It looks like. . .yes. Your slave, Katera.”

How she loved that word. Slave. Joseppa smiled to herself. She had seen Krieg react to the clever slut, and knew Katera’s power to twist a man’s emotions. Better to get her away from Thule anyway. She had revenged herself on the little minx many times over—of course she knew what her husband had done—and had known before they set out that Kudric would make her life a living hell, and drive her to something desperate…..

Lana and the two slaves came running in behind her.

“Trouble?” asked the man-servant.

“No,” replied Joseppa, and smiled openly at Lana. “Help at a time of need.”

She put her arm about her protégé’s lovely, questioning form, and guided her toward the opening.

Thirty-Two

Perhaps a fortnight later, the company of riders reached the top of a last hogback, and prepared to descend into the unprotected woods and valleys of true Gaul, what men now call the south of France.

Their first sight of it was anything but auspicious. Great columns of smoke rose slowly in the distance, bending as the upper airs caught them, like cobras ready to strike. And though it pierced their hearts like the icy blasts they had hoped to leave behind, each man knew that these grim pillars of fire led not to the Promised Land, but back into the living Hell of war. For they were too thick and high to be anything but whole towns and fortresses burning. Burning.

As his men hesitated, shocked, Thule called the Vandal quickly to his side. “What can it mean?” he asked in a shrunken voice, his face pale with worry and dread. Deep down he knew, but still grasped at this last straw—that the more experienced soldier might have seen or known something else that would explain it.

“It can only mean one thing,” said Krieg gravely, his own hopes scattered like dust in the wind. “Invasion.”

“But forest fires…..”

“Would not ignite simultaneously, or burn so intensely in one place.”

“But who would dare attack Visigoth Gaul? We have over one-hundred thousand fighting men!”

“There is only one way to know.”

“Yes,” said Thule grimly, cold reason returning. “Dorlas!” he cried, but his captain was already there beside him.

“You came for battle. It seems we have found it.”

“Who can have done this?” asked Dorlas in dismay, no coward, but stunned like the rest. For home and family lay below.

“We will know soon enough,” answered Thule. “We must ride to the nearest town—straightaway, but on our guard. You know this country better than I. Do you recognize the place?”

“Yes,” said the captain, his face whiter than Christ’s on the cross. For to adventure with Thule into Spain, he had left his wife and daughter behind, trusting in Theodoric’s protection. Oh, bitter irony! He had thought it safer than bringing them, taking only his son instead. “It is Tarasco, where I was sired, and lived half my life. Let us go swiftly!”

“Yes Dorlas, but with caution. Do you mark me? No charging in till we know what we are dealing with. We help no one by riding to our own destruction.”

This command, which at another time might have seemed a rebuke, Dorlas accepted in spite of his emotions. For Thule’s words contained a savage truth he knew too well. If they arrived unprepared, or against an overwhelming force, their deaths would not only fail to save the innocents already in harm’s way, but leave others—perhaps his own flesh and blood—unprotected as well.

The company quickly ordered itself, and set off at a controlled gallop, weapons at the ready, senses trained for any sight or sound of the enemy.

This proved no easy task, even if their hearts had been calm. For the sounds of their own moving, the patching forest and glade, made vision and hearing a maddening strobe of light and shadow, hoofbeats echoing near and then far, real glimpses and dark imaginings of death and carnage.

Dorlas took the lead. Indeed, it would have been impossible to stop him. Born a Frank, later to be assimilated among the conquering but not vengeful Visigoths, these were lands as familiar to him as childhood memories, and just as dear. He led them unerringly forward, up hills and down, quickly but cautiously.

Because for all his bravado, Dorlas was no fool. He knew the danger of riding into a trap, or against numbers they could not hope to overthrow. They were but two hundreds. They could not contend against thousands, even—he shuddered at the memory of the locust-like invasions of his youth—tens of thousands.

But when they came to the bluff overlooking the village itself, so inseparably woven with the joys and terrors of that time, he could restrain himself no longer. For the thrice-familiar gates were thrown down, and bodies strewn to left and right. Some had fallen in the attitude of flight, looking back in terror: old men, women and children. Thule moved quickly forward to seize the reins of his horse, but too late. Dorlas gave a tortured cry, and pelted down the hill toward the breached walls of his home. His men followed after him. Thule, and therefor Krieg, had little choice but to do the same. They charged down the hill with swords raised, shocked battle cries ringing. And passed in at the Gates of Delirium.

What lay beyond, even to one who had seen the sack of Rome, as Thule had, or the Vandal invasion of Spain, as Krieg had, was truly appalling. The burning homes and random corpses both expected. But not like this.

The women had been raped and killed—before, during or after, it was impossible to say. But so had children of both sexes. Their naked and bloody abdomens bore stark testament to the fact. Nor had the men been killed quickly, but mutilated, castrated, and left to die slowly, their testicles eaten or shoved down their throats, their penises, when the proper tools were at hand, nailed to the doors of what had once been their homes. Some still groveled in the dirt, begging for death.

As Thule and the Vandal rode slowly up behind him, they found Dorlas and his son hunched over the naked bodies of wife and daughter, mother and sister, inconsolable. And when he became aware of them, the Frank glared at them both with such open and bitter hatred….. But even this expression faded, sinking back into despair, crushed and obliterated.

Thule turned away and rode to the kicked-in door of another dwelling, where the shaft of a black-feathered arrow still protruded into the sunlight. Apparently it had been too deeply embedded to be retrieved by the ruthless but efficient raiders. He dismounted, and gently but firmly pried it back and forth. He gave a cry of frustrated rage, and finally managed to extract it with the point intact. He looked at it in disbelief, then turned and handed it to Krieg. There could no longer be any doubt. The point was of sharpened, human bone.

“The Huns,” said Krieg blankly, as the Visigoth echoed his words in dull horror.

“The Huns.”

But then they saw something else, and it brought them up short. For though the rest might be attributed to the lightning raids of Rugilas and his ilk, this was something more atavistic still. A rude plaque had been nailed to a pike shoved hard into the wounded ground, a human head impaled upon it, a bloody hand protruding from its mouth. It must have been left, or at least written, by someone who had been educated in Rome. For the words, the warning, were in Latin.

“Can you make it out?” asked Thule.

“Give me a moment,” said Krieg, whose own Latin was far from perfect.

… “Well?”

The warrior hesitated—not because he hadn’t been able to translate at last, but because he was appalled by the all-encompassing brutality of the words, backed up as they were by the Horror all around them.

“Where my horse has trodden, no grass will grow.”