B007IIXYQY EBOK (12 page)

She summoned a mildly haughty glare—she did not want him to think himself capable of upsetting her overmuch—but he only broadened his grin.

Then from above, they heard the wail of a child, the quavering singsong cry of one who has given up all hope of help and given in to a world of dread.

“Mother, that is Thusko. He is alive!” Thusko was the child of Theudobald and Charis, and her own cousin. He had somehow escaped the attack on his home and wandered to the one other place familiar to him. From the sound of his broken cries they guessed he ran stumbling and falling toward the abandoned hall, thinking he fled to safety.

While Auriane cast about for some means of safely signaling to the boy, Athelinda shot from her place, scrambled up the dirt wall and dragged aside the wattlework hurdles, not even pausing to take Arnwulf from her back.

“Mother, no!” Auriane called out softly. She tried to grasp Athelinda’s foot but lost her hold.

Hertha roused herself from her fiercely private meditation. “I command you, Athelinda, come back!”

“Ignorant barbarian sow,” muttered Decius. Fortunately for himself he spoke in Latin—or Auriane would have been at his throat with a hunting knife.

But Athelinda was gone. She followed the white-blond head of Thusko as he ran in a ragged path beyond the feed-troughs.

Auriane now had such a strong sense of the enemy about she imagined she smelled their sweat and blood.
Mother,
she cried in her mind,
you walk into the open jaws of a serpent
.

She heard her mother’s fast footsteps grow fainter.

And then the silence was pierced by a single trilling war cry, penetrating as an iron needle thrust into the brain. It ignited others, and the air was chaotic with cries. Then abruptly the war trill ceased and from every side came the sound of bodies crashing through brush to the accompaniment of soul-shredding shrieks as hundreds of warriors climbed the low palisade and broke in on the yard, entrapping Athelinda in their midst. Auriane heard cracking pottery, the snorts and neighs of terrified horses, and the pitiful yelps of guard dogs as the Hermundures killed them with clubs.

Soon after came the crisp crackling sound of fire eagerly devouring brushwood. The sound gathered force quickly, erupting into a hot rush of noise as though a pillar of fire were sucked up to the sky. And Auriane knew the hall of Baldemar was burning.

Then she heard Athelinda’s scream. It was full throated at first, then became a stifled moan, as if someone covered her mouth. It sent wildfire through Auriane’s limbs.

She withdrew Baldemar’s sword from its sheath and sprang to her feet. Swiftly she began to climb out, struggling a little with the sword’s awkward weight.

But a man’s hand shot over her mouth and an iron arm encircled her waist, holding her firmly. She writhed furiously, but gradually her captor succeeded in dragging her back.

It was Decius. “Crazed whelp,” came his casually commanding voice in her ear as he spoke between gritted teeth, half in Latin, half in badly pronounced Chattian. “You can throw your
life away if you want, but you’ll not throw away mine.”

Hertha rose stiffly. “How dare
you lay a hand on a free woman.” Her voice was a cat’s spit-and-hiss. “I’ll see you dragged to the lake and drowned beneath hurdles.”

With great effort Decius wrestled Auriane down and pinned her arms behind her back; then he eased himself on top of her, using his weight to hold her down. Above them a horse’s hoof tore through the brush; instinctively all covered their heads. Decius recovered himself first. Long ago he learned to cover panic with calculated glibness. “The minds of savages,” he said with elaborate amusement between gasps for breath, as Auriane thrashed beneath him, “I’ve given up trying to puzzle them out. By Jupiter’s thunderbolts, they fairly lust
for the chance to throw themselves on each other’s weapons.” He added, grinning down at Auriane, “By the way, my pugnacious pet, that’s a sword,
not a garden hoe.”

Auriane nearly succeeded in pitching him off, but he kept his seat. “My apologies, venerable old woman,” Decius said to Hertha, but chose a word that gave the meaning “venerable ogress” in the local dialect. Hertha withdrew as though Decius had flung poison in her face. Then she advanced on him, counting stick brandished. Decius went on easily, still grinning, “But surely
you see, as long I’ve still got most of my wits, I cannot be expected to idly sit by while this battle-crazed filly reveals our hiding place.”

He looked down again at Auriane. “And as long as we’re on the matter, here’s another bit of badly needed advice. A smarter bitch would have picked up the spear,
not the sword—then you wouldn’t have to get in so close.”

Hertha’s counting stick cracked against Decius’ back. As he wrenched about to fend her off, Auriane bit his hand down to the bone.

“Daughter of Hades!” Decius cried, shaking Auriane off as he might a rabid mutt. She got free and clambered up again, sword in hand. This time she managed to force her head past the wattlework frame before Decius recovered himself and got a secure grip on her ankles. But in the moment before he succeeded in dragging her back again, Auriane saw a scene that would shatter her peace forever.

At first she saw only the fire. It was some torch wielded by Giants, thrust into her face, searing her skin. A great yellow column of flame snaked as if to underworld music, unashamedly devouring the seat of the chief of chiefs as though it were any other dwelling, gathering all the more power because of the great spirit that lived in that hall. The furious yellow demon ate her cradle, her mother’s loom, her father’s high seat, the wood floor where she took her first steps.

Then she saw the Hermundures. It seemed all three bands converged upon this place—this must have been their destination from the start. They were a plague of red crawling things, swarming everywhere, seeming animated by one mind. Their dirty yellow hair swung free; their faces gleamed with sweat. Some rode wild-eyed horses with boars’ tusks affixed to the bridles; bulging sacks of treasure and rich pelts were slung from their shoulders. Others threw fresh brands on the fire or cast spears at the fleeing sheep, slaughtering them for sport. One led a captive thrall woman by her hair. Some sang drunken war songs while performing a clumsy loping dance. At a distance a group of them whipped a great herd of cattle amassed from several homesteads.

Then a low-rolling coil of dense smoke was chased off by a gust of wind—and she saw Athelinda.

Her mother lay on her back on the ground. Arnwulf was nowhere about. Athelinda’s hair had been torn from its plait and it fanned out about her like a silken coverlet. The linen shift she wore had been slashed open down the front with one stroke of a sword. Her bare legs were startlingly white against the dark soil. White legs, black earth—this was a picture that ever after would intrude on Auriane’s mind at unexpected times and she would try to hold the image, to keep at bay the memory of what she saw next.

One of the warriors approached her mother on all fours like some stealthy wolf; then he lowered himself slowly over her limp body. A hard knot of nausea formed in Auriane’s stomach as she realized he meant to lock together with her as animals did. Her mother’s legs, pale as bleached bone, and the warrior’s, tawny and muscular, were pressed together. He sank into her, making her flesh his flesh, stabbing at her center, befouling the temple that was her mother.

Where were the gods?
The demon-warrior’s mouth was fastened to her mother’s neck and Auriane imagined he sucked the blood from her, drinking in her nobility, taking the elixir that would give him the luck of all her ancestors. He would leave her a husk, with nothing left in her but his poison seed.

Auriane struck out, blind and crazed as a dog with the mouth-foaming disease, her mind shapeless with rage as she raked rigid fingers over the ground and grabbed at roots. She longed to put out her eyes, to snuff out every torch, to stamp out all life and to return to chaos. She hated all weakness, even Athelinda’s.

The sight melted her mind into a new shape. If her mother was prey to whatever comes, then so was she. Readiness for battle would follow her even into sleep.

Decius was braced for her struggles, his hands tight about her ankles. Gradually he dragged her down once more. Then exhaustion overcame her and she collapsed next to him in a limp heap. Though it ceased to be necessary, he kept a secure grip on her.

Hertha’s eyes were glassy as though she would not touch the world more, even with her sight. She gazed with a vaguely accusing look at the torn place in the wattlework hurdle, as if it were a living thing responsible for their plight.

For long moments all was still in the souterrain. At last the shouts above became more infrequent and they knew the raiders retreated, ebbing off like a storm tide, leaving sad wreckage in their wake. Finally there was only the roar of the fire and woeful silence.

Auriane drew herself up by force of will, pushing Decius away when he tried to help her climb out.

The bodies of animals were strewn everywhere as if blown about by a powerful wind. The hall of Baldemar was a raging furnace. Auriane ran over broken crockery and fell down beside her mother.

She covered Athelinda’s naked legs with her cloak. Her mother turned her head weakly, and her lips moved. Auriane felt she leapt from bottomless cavern to sunny meadow. Her mother lived.

She pressed her cheek to her mother’s, shaking with hard sobs, not realizing she moaned aloud, “I should have come…I could have saved you…I am cursed!”

From behind her she heard Hertha. “Auriane.” That voice was a serrated blade sawing at Auriane’s heart. “Do not touch her. She must be cleansed by sacrifice.”

Auriane looked round. Thusko stood near Hertha, hiding his face in her cloak. The boy was unharmed. But Arnwulf lay lifeless in her grandmother’s arms. The warrior who attacked her mother, she quickly realized, must have first hurled the child to the ground, and to his death.

Auriane tore Arnwulf from Hertha’s arms and turned round, fearful Athelinda would see him.
She must not know yet,
Auriane thought. Let her be stronger before she knows.

She crushed Arnwulf to her chest, as if her body’s warmth might restore the small body to life. There was so little difference between those eyes shut in sleep and in death. It could not be. The mercilessness of the day was unending. She sank to her knees holding him, and seasons might have passed full of unvoiced shrieks of fury, and pleas to the gods to give her back her brother, her home, her childhood.

She was aware that Decius paused, lingering behind the other thralls, watching her for a time. She had no words for him. And she knew vaguely that behind her, Hertha was slowly, deliberately unbraiding her hair, while uttering a prayer commonly spoken during rites for the dead. But Auriane cared for nothing more in the world. Her mind was reaching for her brother’s soul and finding only emptiness.

As the sun sank, flaring at the tops of the pines, twelve Oak Priestesses from the temple-lodge below the Village of the Boar came soundlessly from the forest. These priestesses were skilled medicine women, come to see who lived and who needed their ministrations. Fearful pity showed in many faces. Their long hair, never cut in their lives, were so many lustrous manes of bright gold, dark gold, chestnut and sienna, nearly sweeping the ground. The bronze sickles, strike-a-lights, multiple knives and balls of crystal slung from their belts made a delicate music. They looked at Hertha with alarm, whispering purposefully among themselves. But they dared not interfere with a woman of her rank.

Hertha stood facing the flames, palms outstretched, her hair loosened and streaming down. Auriane in her misery made nothing of this.

The Oak Priestesses flocked around Athelinda. Thrusnelda, their silver-haired first priestess, had tears in her eyes as she smoothed the hair from Athelinda’s forehead. Then four of them gently lifted her and laid her on a straw mat. They meant to carry her to the Oak Lodge, where they would heal her with herbs and ritual magic.

They took Arnwulf from Auriane with difficulty; her arms were locked about him. He must be prepared for the rites of cremation and the urn burial of his ashes. Thrusnelda tried to get Auriane to follow her, but she could not move. Her soul was cold and heavy as a standing stone. She sat very still, fascinated by the fire.

“Daughter, there will be wolves,” Thrusnelda said, all intrusive benevolence as she put her padded hands on Auriane’s shoulders, sheltering Auriane with her motherly bulk. She smelled of the thousand herbs dried and stored in her lodge. “This ground is unhallowed, and night comes. You must come with us.”

Auriane gave no sign she heard. “Auriane,” Thrusnelda tried again, gently still, but with more urgency. “Your grandmother prepares to do a thing you should not see. Come with us now, I beg you, in the name of the great ghost of the Oak.”

“What can I see more horrible than what I have seen already?” Auriane said then. “Let me be, please. Wolves will not come while the fire burns.”

“I knew your mother and grandmother as babes and I do not know what is best?” Thrusnelda allowed herself the smallest display of irritability. Then she shrugged. “Stay then, and come when you are ready.” The old priestess left bread and mead for her, then removed her own cloak and put it about Auriane’s shoulders. Four of the holy women then lifted the mat on which Athelinda lay and bore her off.