Soldiers rushed in like a river that has burst its dam.
There is little left to do, she realized, but die nobly.
Auriane and Sigwulf struggled to form the surviving tribesmen into a wedge formation, to face the enemy ranks pouring in through the opened gate. Then this ragged band of four thousand and more, all that was left of the barbarian army, charged at a half run.
But the palisade walk was thick with legionaries now—and they had the advantage that comes with high ground. Their javelins did terrible damage. Then, at a flag signal accompanied by two short trumpet blasts, every second soldier dropped into the yard and these began to form into ranks. The timbers reinforcing the wall caught fire, and a brisk wind blew pine smoke into the yard, mercifully veiling much of the bloody spectacle.
Javelins rained on the Chattians. When the smoke parted, Auriane saw that the bodies of her tribespeople lay in mounds. Once she vaulted over two still-living men pinned together by a single, powerful javelin thrust. When the iron wall of Roman shields was close enough so that Auriane could see the thunderbolts embossed on them, the Chattian warriors let fly their spears. But these were no more than irritants to that advancing wall of steel.
The legionaries then drew their swords. Frantically, desperately, Auriane struggled to pull injured warriors out of the path of those heavy, tramping feet, trying to put her Companions’ wooden shields back into their hands. Through the smoke she saw Witgern doing the same; he dragged a badly wounded man by the feet, removing him moments before he would have fallen beneath the soldiers’ boots. The legionaries were one faceless, pitiless, many-legged beast, their swords a row of spiked tongues thrust from that darkly gleaming shell of shields.
The two forces met. Auriane felt the tension of a sword engaging her own. In the next instant her tribesmen flooded in around her. She was lifted from her feet by the surge of men. A legionary shield-boss badly bruised her side, and knocked her to her knees.
It was as if a great iron hand pushed them back. Beside her, Sigwulf slipped in gore and fell on his back.
“Sigwulf!” she screamed unheard. “No!”
But Sigwulf fell beneath the line of Roman shields, ready to be consumed by the beast’s spiked teeth. She protected him as long as she could, frenziedly deflecting the sword blows aimed at him.
But his end was inevitable. Their eyes met once. Even through his terror she knew he recognized her effort to save him. Then he was trampled underfoot, and a sword came down swiftly, efficiently, on his neck.
Sigwulf was dead.
Sigwulf! she cried with all her mind. All that raw animal courage availed you nothing. You end your life as a scrap of food for a beast that is never filled. The Fates played a cruel jest when they gave you the name “Victorious Wolf.” So much for the magical protection of names.
Auriane fought defensively, crushed among her tribesmen, her eyes blurred with tears. First singly, then by dozens, her fellow warriors broke and fled. Some sought death by running to the wall, purposefully putting themselves in the path of the javelins. Others leapt into a thatched hut that was aflame, immolating themselves.
Auriane saw numbly that among these was Thrusnelda. The old priestess’s robes caught fire first, and she paused, glorious in a corona of flame like some minor deity. Then she shrieked a curse and flew into the inferno. Auriane’s capacity to feel horror was dulled by the day’s steady assaults on it, and she watched with an odd, mute detachment the death of the old priestess who had patiently explained the world to her as a child.
But the majority of the Chattians ran like stampeding beasts toward the far end of the fort’s enclosure; they were a swift-flowing current of men in which she refused to be caught. She cried out, she imprecated, desperate to rally them one more time.
The gods see us. We must die fighting.
But now few cared. The Chattian defense was utterly broken. Coniaric and a small cluster of warriors caught hold of her cloak and cried, “Auriane. Die with us.” She could scarce comprehend that they still believed in her holiness.
“Leave me be,” she shouted as she struggled away from them. “I am a curse.”
Now she ran against the tide of fleeing men, not even attempting to dodge the hail of javelins, protected somehow by her own madness, meaning first to find Athelinda and wondering if her mother still lived. She passed men trying to conceal themselves behind the heaps of dead; the legionaries found them and cut them down. Slowly she fought her way to the animal pens where Berinhard was tethered.
She meant to perform one last rite.
Long ago Baldemar had offered her in marriage to the god as an appeasement gift, and good fortune had followed for many years. What if today she made another appeasement gift, this time ritually offering her life? Perhaps it would soften some of the Fates’ anger toward her people. It would have to be done in the proper way, beginning with the prayer of sacrifice…..
Somehow Fastila found her and half ran to keep apace. “Auriane!” she cried. “Let me die next to you.”
“If you wish to,” Auriane shouted back, “then you shall. Come!” They had not made much progress when Fastila saw Witgern, face down in the dust.
Together Auriane and Fastila pulled him up. Witgern was stunned but without fatal wounds. Life flowed back into his face when he saw Auriane, and he smiled the careless, mischievous smile of a boy who has played a joke that has come off badly—a grin absurdly out of place. He managed to walk, leaning heavily on both of them.
“However you end your life, Auriane, that way I will go too,” Witgern said after a time.
“I would be greatly honored, Witgern.” She found herself cheered by this offer of company—it seemed less desolate to sacrifice her life with friends. She looked about for Athelinda, wondering if her mother had kept her promise to take poison. Then at last Auriane saw her, near the entrance to the horse sheds. Athelinda seemed strikingly composed as she looked out upon world’s end.
As Auriane made her way toward her mother, she heard the shrieks of children as the Roman soldiers found the warriors’ families. She prayed they would consider what a handsome price that hoard of young, fair captives would bring in the slave markets, and let them live.
Sunia is among them. And I can do nothing for her—except hope my appeasement gift betters her lot too.
Auriane was seized by a need to hurry. The battle was nearly ended; the slaughter was slowing. The soldiers were more concerned with taking captives now, herding the women and children into groups of ten so they could be chained and put into wagons.
When the party of three came to the animal sheds, Athelinda flung herself on Auriane. “Child! You are alive!”
“You did not take it, thank all the gods!”
Athelinda held out the leather pouch that held the dark herbs. “Five and ten times I started, and stopped. I could not leave you.”
“Mother, what will become of you?” They locked in a desperate embrace. After a moment, while still holding tightly to her mother, Auriane said to Fastila, “Go, and bring two horses from the stalls, one for you and one for Witgern.”
Without questioning this, Fastila darted off to get two horses.
“Auriane, what are the horses for?” Athelinda asked.
Auriane said only, “Mother, you must not watch.”
Through the confusion and dust, a lone Roman cavalryman approached them at a gallop. He pulled his mount to a rearing halt before Athelinda and Auriane. “You are Auriane,” he shouted down to her.
Her right hand moved slowly toward the grip of her sword.
“I am,” she answered. She looked up into a face that was rough-carved but not unkind. The cavalryman removed his plumed helmet and leaned closer, speaking rapidly, keeping his voice low.
“I have come to release you from your fate, if you would have it so. I am sent by one you will never know, who wants only to see you live free. Come quickly. I have a horse ready for you outside the gate—you must not ride your own. Put on this hoo
ded cloak. The camp is surrounded by cavalry but I have leave to pass. There is a fresh horse waiting at a station thirteen miles to the east. Hurry. I bring you safety and long life.”
She stared at him, at first not quite believing what she heard.
“What is this? You would set me alone free?”
“Not I, actually, but another.”
“This lone sample of kindness after you’ve put whole villages to the sword must be amusing to your gods. Are you mad?”
“No, lady, and you must hurry.”
Auriane stepped away from him. “You should have come with a thousand horses.”
She saw the barest sign of offense in the cavalryman’s eye. She realized he was not an evil man, amazing as that seemed at that moment.
“Tell whoever sent you I am grateful to him,” she said in a gentler voice. “I do not hate life. I truly wish it were possible to live. But my answer must be no.”
“Auriane, go with him!” Athelinda wailed, shaking her head. “One of us can live.”
“I cannot do it, Mother,” Auriane said softly.
“Lady, you are foolish,” the cavalryman replied. He wheeled his horse about and galloped off into the smoke.
A distant horn sounded a fanfare of arrogant notes; it was the signal for the Roman retreat. Now the soldiers gave themselves up entirely to reaping this fine harvest of captives, most of whom were so stunned they hardly needed bonds. As Witgern and Fastila led two bony horses from the sheds, Auriane looked about the fort one last time, that smoking remnant of the world she knew. Everywhere was a too-sudden stillness that was almost awkward. The fruits of conquest—the dead—were strewn everywhere. Thoroughly finished and harmless now, they seemed to mock the ferocity of their conqueror. Silent, gaped mouths cried out: Is this, then, what you wanted? You have it then. The strong can destroy the weak. Rejoice in that, murderers.
She turned away from Athelinda, grasped Berinhard’s mane and pulled herself with difficulty onto his back, for she was near exhaustion.
Athelinda seized Berinhard’s rein. “Auriane, what is this? What are you doing?”
Auriane’s eyes filled with tears and she could not answer. Instead, she turned her face to the sky and began saying the ritual words of offering.
“Lord of the Sky whose bride I am, receive me on this day. Fria, great Giver, raise me up to your sky-domain, for I perish in your name….”
Witgern and Fastila understood now what Auriane meant to do. They mounted their horses—Witgern with noble confidence, Fastila with some hesitancy.
Athelinda shouted “No!” in a desolate howl that trailed into silence, shredding Auriane’s heart. Berinhard reared in fright. Auriane tried to wrench the rein away from her mother—what more could be said or done?—but Athelinda gripped it tightly. Those fists had hardened to stone.
The three turned their horses toward the open gate, positioning them so that they stood abreast. Auriane and Witgern drew their swords; Fastila raised her spear. Auriane saw Fastila’s fright and misery—too late the young woman discovered that dying with Witgern did not appeal as much as living with him.
“No!” came Athelinda’s protest, weaker now.
“Mother, stand away!” Auriane spoke through streaming tears. “You will draw their attention to us. Listen, please—no matter how we die, by this day’s end we will be together. I can undo the fact that Baldemar lies unavenged. I beg you—let me go!”
Athelinda understood the rightness of this, but at the last mother-love ruled; it was a primeval flood tide that bore off all the flimsy housings built by the mind, older and wiser than all man-made laws of vengeance. She kept her fierce grip on the rein.
With her sword Auriane indicated the distant legion in reserve, visible through the open gate; the soldiers stood at quiet attention, a dark band of men on the brown earth mottled with old snow, half hidden in a grove of firs, their upraised signal flags whipping in the wind. Grimly Witgern and Fastila nodded.
“There is the enemy. We will die striking them down and give ourselves back to the earth.”
They kicked their heels against their horses’ sides. Witgern’s and Fastila’s mounts burst into a gallop. Berinhard followed at a frustrated canter, dragging Athelinda.
Auriane saw then a party of soldiers within the fort had recognized her. One nodded curtly and an order was barked. Auriane shut her eyes; this was past enduring.
She raised her sword. “Beloved mother, forgive me.”
And she brought it down on the taut rein. It snapped; Athelinda stumbled forward. Berinhard capered sideways as if surprised by his sudden freedom, then shot forward like a bolt from a catapult.
Auriane guided him with her hands. By the time he streaked through the open gate, Berinhard was hurtling past the slower mounts of Fastila and Witgern.
“Auriane!” Athelinda’s shriek pierced her like an arrow.
Athelinda dropped to her hands and knees before a muddy pool that bloomed with blood. She scooped up a handful of mud and smeared it over her face, still moaning ceaselessly, “No…no!” One of Thrusnelda’s surviving apprentices caught her shoulders and steadied her.
“My lady, it is her fate,” the priestess said urgently. “The great Lady who birthed us all loves her still.” But Athelinda was past hearing.
The poison. Take it now, you’ve lost all reason not to take it. Quickly!
Athelinda struggled to her feet, fumbling for the pouch of poisons at her belt.
It was knocked from her hand with the butt of a javelin. Then hard, swift soldier’s hands caught her from behind and dragged her toward a line of chained captives. She did not struggle or scream.
Athelinda accepted it as the Fates’ will. She was meant to live.
None in the line of old women with whom she was chained recognized her mud-smeared face, and so did not know that Athelinda, daughter of Gandrida, wife of Baldemar, was manacled next to them like the commonest of farmwives.
Auriane, Witgern and Fastila bore down upon the legion, with Berinhard well in the lead. Raw cries were torn from Auriane’s throat; she could no more stop them than she could control her horse. He bolted forward in a furious, headlong rush, belly low to the ground, an equine storm with whipping tail and mane.
When the legionaries on the wall were alerted to this breakout, five whirled about and hurled javelins at the flying horses.
Fastila was struck in the back. The heavy missile penetrated through her and pierced her horse’s neck. The beast arced into the air, throwing up its head as a spasm of agony twisted its body, then fell heavily onto its side. Fastila died at once.
Witgern looked back in farewell, responding instinctively with the whispered words, “Fria, be gentle with her soul.” Auriane, far in the lead and intent on her quarry, did not even know. Her face was pressed close to her horse’s rhythmically surging neck; her spirit lived in his clamoring hooves. Her upraised blade was an exclamation of outrage at the Fates.
The javelins fell well short of Witgern. But moments afterward, his mount found a rabbit hole and cartwheeled onto its back. Witgern was thrown free; he lay stunned and motionless on the ground.
Auriane galloped on alone.
The first rank of the legion loomed close. They stood at stony attention, concealing well their alarm at the sight of this flying horse, this frightful vision of womanly thunder bearing down on them. Their commander, calm and dignified on his mount, spoke rapid instructions, and signal flags whipped about, relaying orders to the men.
Auriane knew only that she vaulted into emptiness. Life’s garments were torn off by the wind, piece by piece, as she sped from all she was: shame-ridden daughter, sorrowing mother, doubtful apprentice of Ramis, debtor to the Lightning Oak. Her spirit dissolved into solemn, active quiet; the world about became vastly barren. She was naked and wet in a gale, a shivering babe cast down to be reborn on the blasted plains of Hel, she whose cackle was like the crack of ice.
I know now why old Hel’s face is blue. It is th
e cold, the awful, eternal cold.
We are all motherless. My life was a cloak rent with a knife—slowly, as the years turned, it all unraveled. I struggled well and mightily, only to hasten the pull on the threads. Ramis is a clever liar—the stuff of everything is grief. Of what use were the god-blessed victories? I do not want to play any part, noblewoman or thrall, in a world where gallantry is punished and beasts with tearing teeth are loosed at the last.
The doomed bride rushes into the arms of her cruel bridegroom. I despise you, Wodan, for accepting this shameful sacrifice. I loathe you, Fria, for bringing forth this iron-cold world. Great Wolf, open wide your jaws.
When Auriane was so close the men of the first rank could see the fury in her eyes, one thought sprang into many minds—how I would disgrace the standards if I ran from single woman.
But was this a woman? Or a northern Medusa erupting out of the bogs, come to rend their orderliness with her wildness? She was the earth-born emanation of all they were disciplined to force back into the dark—primeval rage, impetuosity, ecstasy. She came not to judge but to destroy, simply because it was time—rational man had ruled too long, and nature was out of patience.
In the final moments Auriane forgot utterly where she was. Sky, earth and forest were stirred in one living cauldron until they blurred into lambent mist. She urged Berinhard on not to death, but to victory in the sacred race. The bristling wall of legionaries was her tribespeople, urging her on.
We have won! The rest are so far back I cannot see them. There is Decius, hailing me and complaining I’ve done it all wrong. There is Baldemar, standing before the Eastre fire, sword drawn to protect it forever. All is as it should be. I know I fought hard enough, by the mothering moon, the wheeling stars. No one could have fought harder.
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