The archers on the palisade sent fresh volleys of arrows into their midst. But Baldemar’s warriors with their blackened faces were difficult to see, and now the archers slew Wido’s own men by the hundreds. As the archers were not of native birth, this did not matter to them overmuch—a barbarian was not truly a man—and so they continued to slay five of Wido’s for every warrior of Baldemar’s for as long as the fighting remained within arrow shot.
The scattered forces of Wido mounted a desperate and disoriented resistance. Auriane saw only by the torchbearers’ uncertain light and so witnessed but fragments of the whole of the struggle. Once a disordered group of legionary soldiers rushed at them; half had not had time to fasten on their armor and were clad only in the woolen tunics soldiers wore beneath. A soldier near her balanced a javelin in hand, ready to fling it into the Chattians’ midst. She slowed, took aim without thought, and cast her spear, killing him with fluid ease; then she retrieved a fresh spear from the ground. On either hand, great numbers of Wido’s allies bolted like startled herds before them while others dove into their tents to shield themselves from the horror in the heavens—the swift-vanishing moon.
To her amazement all fear had fled; she felt only rage bursting forth in a roaring torrent, bearing her up and sweeping her off, quenching at last the fire of her burning hall, a joyous, rampant wrath that cleansed the blood. Animal cries came from her throat. The boar’s heart pumped its dark angry blood. That freedom in the blood was stronger than Roman wine—she lost all belief in defeat, in her own death.
Intoxicated by this festival of vengeance, Baldemar’s forces put torches to the rows of soldiers’ tents, the storehouses, the animal sheds, chasing down Wido’s Companions, who fled from them like geese from slaughter. Bolting horses blind with fright trampled their handlers or galloped in frenzied circles, dragging overturned carts behind them.
As they drove into the camp’s center, a heavier resistance was formed; the best of Wido’s Companions joined the Roman cavalrymen and a detachment of the Fourteenth Legion in a hastily made version of the rectangular formation commonly used to repel an attack from all sides. Auriane saw the dull gleam on the iron bindings of legionary shields, heard frantic orders barked in their harsh, alien tongue.
Surely, Auriane thought, this is where Wido and Odberht will be.
Using their spears as lances, the Chattians bored into the detachment before its ranks were sufficiently closed and swiftly divided it in two. They then surrounded the shattered formation with their greater numbers.
Auriane never thought she fought singly; she felt herself one limb of a great angry beast that lashed out with hundreds of stinging points. And there, in the midst of the enemy, with iron striking iron, death a breath away, and the underworld yawning open at her feet—paradoxically she felt safe. Dark ecstasy flooded her heart until she knew no fleshly bonds. She had bristles and tusks and small glimmering eyes as she struck and killed, impaled and brought down. Her marriage to war was consummated then. Her divine husband bathed her in blood; they lay together and brought forth corpses. Each strike was a blow against helplessness, each wound she inflicted healed a wound. She raised Arnwulf from the dead. She washed clean with blood the vile insult done her mother.
In one night, she thought, we drive the Romans from this land.
Much of what passed was lost in the dark of the moon, and in future days legend overtook truth. The tale-singers claimed Auriane entered the fort as a raven, taking human shape once more to throw the bolt. Some told the tale as though Baldemar had been present, his injury magically healed, his eyes molten iron as he galloped before Wido, demanding single battle—the battle that in life they never fought but that all longed to see. Others claimed to have seen the Choosers of the Slain, those fiery sylphs that hovered over battlefields, as they waited to take up the bravest of the fallen to their starry halls. And there were tales that Grimelda was transformed into a troll woman with glowing red eyes and multiple arms, shrieking and laughing and hacking off heads with her axe until the warrior-woman Serihilde felled her with a spear thrust to the heart.
By the time they gained the camp’s center, Wido’s forces were broken. Sigwulf looked vainly for Wido and Odberht, his contempt and amazement growing. Their place was with their men. Had they secretly fled?
Few saw the moon return simultaneously with the dawn; weak, sallow light poured on a scene of torn bodies strewn about as though wolves had already come. The scent of terror and blood was thick as smoke.
Great numbers of Wido’s allies fled on foot and on horseback toward the East Gate. Auriane and Thorgild found the prisoners’ cages and began throwing them open with desperate speed, searching for Witgern.
They found him at last. Thorgild pulled Witgern from his wicker cage moments before it caught fire. Auriane gave a cry of delight at the sight of Witgern unharmed.
Witgern knew the camp well enough to make a reasonable guess where Wido might be. At a limping run he led them past the blazing tents of the ranking Romans. When they reached the covered stables where the cavalry horses were kept, they came at last upon Wido and Odberht.
Wido, black eyes afire with rage, was pulling himself onto a wild-eyed skittish mount. His flesh was drained of color, his marten-skin cloak badly askew, baring one bony shoulder as he looked furiously from side to side, shouting sharp staccato orders to his men.
Odberht was more composed, almost surprisingly so; his look was contemptuous and self-satisfied, as though he had played some grand joke and bested them all. The stately stallion he rode, with its disapproving snorts and proudly bowed neck, seemed to echo its rider’s contempt.
Both horses broke into a slow canter with Odberht in the lead. Their bridles were plated with silver; their saddlecloths were studded with precious stones that flashed tauntingly in the first light of the sun. Slung over each horse’s withers were sacks laden with treasure. Wherever they intended to flee, they did not plan to be poor. Wido’s Companions kept close about father and son like a loyal dog pack, protecting them and hampering their progress at the same time. Their destination was the East Gate.
Baldemar’s Companions fell in step with them, vying with each other to get close enough to Wido to bring him down. It would be a deed told of in song for generations. Wido and Odberht leaned far over the horses’ necks while the Companions nearest them held up shields to protect them from the spears of Baldemar’s men. Auriane knew if they were not taken before they galloped beneath the gate, the pair would be lost to them forever.
Auriane was close enough now to hear Wido shouting, “I’ll see them roasted alive!”—he promised grisly deaths to the sentries who had failed him. Spears arced up, aimed at Wido; all were deflected by his Companions’ shields.
She realized they were more intent upon Wido than Odberht. Baldemar’s warning sounded in her ears—If Odberht escapes Wido will live again, and in monstrous form, for this will be a Wido without shame.
She sprinted ahead until she was abreast of Odberht. To her surprise he seemed to know her in spite of her blackened face, and he grinned, his look suggesting they shared some shameful secret. That supremely confident grin did not fade even as she took aim with a spear.
She measured her motion against the horse’s rhythm and put all her mind on her target. Fatigue was overtaking every muscle. Then she summoned all her strength and flung her weapon.
The throw was skillfully aimed, but it did not have enough power. Her spear arced down too soon and struck not Odberht but a Companion who ran alongside him. As the man fell, she heard a cheer raised by Baldemar’s men. She looked back briefly. Before the man sank down she saw a face that was startlingly young—a distressingly familiar face.
Ullrik. Let it not be. But it is.
A heavy misery swamped her. How could the Fates let her slay Ullrik, to whom she had promised sanctuary?
And why had they not given him a horse? Then she would have known him. To the end, Ullrik was more thrall than son.
&nb
sp; Auriane nearly foundered with swift-gathering despair. The two horses lengthened their strides as they approached the gate; now she could scarcely keep pace. Sigwulf, Thorgild, young Coniaric and the better runners slowly pulled ahead of her.
And then she saw a thing that would haunt memory for years.
A length of netting flared up against the sky, the sort of net young warriors used to trap small game. It was impossible to tell who had thrown it, though it seemed to come from one of the warriors who ran alongside Odberht. The net settled over the head of Wido’s horse, entangling its forelegs, causing the beast to thrash frantically. Wido slashed at the net with his sword, but it was no use. The horse bucked once, then reared sharply, twisting its body to the side; the saddlecloth slipped and Wido was thrown hard to the ground.
Odberht never looked back. His mount passed beneath the gate and burst into a full gallop, racing out onto the plain. He was free of everything—his father’s loathing, the contempt of his tribe, all sacred law. The fir-clad hills were his.
As for Wido, his life was done, and he knew it. Baldemar’s men cut their way through the last of his loyal Companions and surged over him. A dozen swords gutted him; so many were Wido’s slayers that it was a kill no man could claim. Vengeance was taken, it was said, by the great spirit of the wild mountain cat itself, against whom Wido had so offended.
Many of Wido’s men killed themselves with their swords at once, for to survive him would have brought the greatest shame. The ones who did not mind the shame fled after Odberht. Baldemar’s men did not pursue—they were too exhausted to care and too jubilant over the slaying of Wido.
None heeded Auriane’s frantic shouts—“Odberht! He gets away!”
She picked up a spear from the ground and gave chase, though she was so fatigued her legs could scarcely carry her. She cast the spear at Odberht’s fleeing back; it arced bravely but fell short. The horse’s gay upraised tail mocked her, fluttering like a victory banner.
She slowed and turned, leaden with defeat.
I know well Odberht will go straight to his Roman masters. They will give him men and gold, and he will raise another army.
She averted her eyes as she moved past Wido’s slashed and bloodied body. The net lay nearby in a heap. She heard excited speculation among the warriors grouped about the corpse, and many voices demanding to know who had thrown that net.
Whoever cast the net, Auriane thought, was the true slayer of Wido.
All supposed it must have been one of Wido’s own Companions. But why would a man sworn to him commit such an outrage after remaining loyal for so long? Surely men ready to give their lives for their chief would not have pulled him down to such a humiliating end. It remained a troublesome riddle, and Auriane reflected that rarely did the Fates allow vengeance to be perfect; always they tossed some shadowy ingredient into the cauldron, as if to keep the avenger from becoming too drunk on certainty when he tasted victory’s brew.
Auriane threaded her way through the dead and dying, looking for Ullrik’s body. She encountered a young Roman soldier dying in slow agony, crying like a babe for his mother; without a thought she stole up behind him and gave him a merciful spear thrust to the heart, sending him to the Mother of All. Behind her came sporadic shouts—“The betrayer is dead! Long live Baldemar! Wodan shines with might!”as the Companions cheerfully climbed over bodies to reach the storehouses that had not burned so they could loot them. Only the soul that is part blind could revel in this wretched scene, Auriane thought angrily, then began to worry that perhaps her own soul saw too much. I must hide my revulsion. For surely I am wrong and the death of enemies is beautiful.
The sun shed a thin sickly light on the field while the moon held on stubbornly. Clouds of flies appeared from nowhere, busy over the dead. Now every stiffened face was a reproach—each of the slain had the features of poor Ullrik. She quivered in every limb. She realized her moon blood had started to come. It was comforting and warm; she shed life onto a field of death. She looked up to meet the eye of that phantom moon before it faded in the full light of day.
Beautiful watcher, merciless and bountiful at once, she thought as she wondered at its awful power to raise and lower the tide of blood in her body. She made no effort to conceal it—there was so much blood everywhere, who would recognize the sacred blood and become afraid?
Finally she found Ullrik, and knelt beside his body. Her spear leaned from his back like some heavy quill. A dozen or so of the Companions gathered round her, their eyes alight with pride in her.
“A fine trophy!” Thorgild said as they regarded her with pride, then nodded among themselves with approving smiles. None noticed her eyes glistened with tears.
“Can any doubt she has the war-luck of Baldemar?” young Coniaric proclaimed, giving her his flashing smile.
Sigwulf offered grudgingly, “That is good, Auriane, very good. He was not important, of course—but he is a son of Wido. A fine kill!”
She looked at him. He was not prepared for the bitter sorrow in her face, the leaden voice. “Sigwulf, do not speak so. He was my brother.”
Baffled silence followed these words. Sigwulf broke it, always ready to tread where others would not.
“Words not unlike what a breaker of oaths might say, Auriane. You might as well have married into that family after all if you want him for a brother.”
The silence became sharp. Coniaric’s smile vanished. Auriane replied without rancor, “Sigwulf, you know only one sort of kinship.”
Thorgild looked hard at Sigwulf. “Unsay those words—you’ve grievously insulted one the gods love. She gave us victory.”
“Thorgild speaks the truth!” came a cry of agreement.
“Pay her a ring price for that, you rogue, or fight us all.”
“It’s envy, Sigwulf—she shone more brightly than you!”
And Sigwulf was silenced beneath an avalanche of abuse. He shrugged and relented, but said nothing to Auriane to make amends.
Then they moved off to resume stripping weapons and treasure from the dead. One Companion came upon the mead casks in Wido’s stores, and the warriors progressed from battling to drinking with hardly a pause. Auriane still hugged Ullrik’s side.
Ullrik, I made a mockery of my promise. Once again my evil rises up, fulfilling Hertha’s words.
And then she thought of a way to give comfort to the dead boy.
I promised you we would take you in, and we shall. I doubt Wido wants you any more now than he did while he lived. Your ghost can come with us.
She smoothed back Ullrik’s hair, and, using her moon blood, which all the tribes believed had the power to give new life, she traced on his forehead two plain crossed lines, the sign that worked the magic of rebirth. All the while she uttered the ritual words to invite his ghost to inhabit the next child born to a kinswoman.
Be born among us, be born among us, live again! she prayed, and felt a stirring behind the membrane that divided the worlds. Drink our mead, eat meat from our board, she intoned—and sensed a quickening behind his lids.
She looked up to meet the eyes of a young Companion who paused, amazed, in the midst of stripping a corpse to watch her. She met his eyes calmly, refusing to explain.
Then she rose and left Ullrik where he was, consoled by her belief that she would see him again one day, in the body of one not yet born. With the others she wearily worked her way back to Baldemar’s camp. Witgern kept close by her side, remorse in his manner as he silently offered renewed friendship. Those too drunken to walk were loaded into the carts with the treasure. The Roman dead and Wido’s Companions were left for the ravens.
Baldemar gave the order for a great bonfire to be built on the ridge so the spoil could be dedicated to Wodan. It seemed to Auriane, when she embraced him on her return, that his eyes shone fierce and alive as the eagle’s as it falls on prey. She was certain his vital strength had grown greatly in the span of this one night.
Already, she thought, vengeance has begun i
ts work of healing.
It was not until Auriane sought an herb woman to treat her wound—a sword cut that penetrated the collarbone—that she realized the aurr, that amulet of earth she had worn all her life, was gone, cut off most likely by the blade that made the wound. A fearful grief seized her. It could not be. But it was.
I have lost the protection of earth. Surely, it is because I have given myself to battle. Ramis is the great enemy of war, and so she took back her birth-gift to me.
“Never forget the power of hair,” Ramis warned, and I willingly let mine be shorn. But I cannot so easily let it go! Tomorrow I’ll search among the corpses until I find it.
No. That would be to no purpose. She has taken it from me. She will not let me find it. I must travel on without it. What need has one given to Wodan for the protection of the earth?
The victory festival was so joyous and abandoned she forgot for a time the amulet’s loss. They shouted praise-songs to the god in loud, lusty voices as Roman legionary shields, swords and javelins, horse trappings and leather armor were thrown into the bonfire as thank-offerings. And because the god had a great love of horses, thirty cavalry mounts were sacrificed as well, after one fine black Thessalian stallion was saved out for Baldemar to replace the horse killed beneath him. As the celebrating went on through the night, Auriane managed to conceal two legionary short swords before they were given to the flames, so that she and Decius could practice with them. This was a brazen theft from the god, but a small one, she reasoned hopefully, and her fascination with them was stronger than her fear.
The victory festival went on until the mead and wine ran out. For four days and nights, sword dancers performed their stalking dance round the fire, their blades sparking as they were struck together to the accompaniment of pipers and drummers who played hard to be heard over the flames. The ground was swampy with spilled mead. Horse races were run, and cock fights staged. The Companions roasted a whole ox, and listened to the tellings of seeresses who gazed into bowls of blackened silver filled with water from divining springs. Traveling songmakers came into camp with their gaily colored cloaks and battered harps, and sang familiar lays to slowly plucked strings or composed new ones in honor of the battle just won. They sang that the victory was Auriane’s, for hers was the hand that opened the gate.
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