Strontium-90

by Vaughn Heppner

  A mighty roar of approval shook the rafters.

  Attila quaffed, and he witnessed another vision of coming victory.

  Then the feast of the ages truly began. Hot meat, flowing wine, rare cheeses, fruits, spiced ale, the barbarians consumed vast quantities as they slammed their cups on the boards. They tore with greasy fingers and wiped their hands on their golden cloaks or on the naked flesh of trembling maidens. The debauchery began—the orgies, the shouts, the maddened laughter and the shrieks of deflowered beauties. Few noticed the deathly pallor of Ildico as she watched from the dais. The men cheered Attila, their deadly sovereign as he staggered among them. They vied to fill every lust, to gorge themselves with food, wine and unrestrained rutting.

  In the midst of this riotous feast, Ardaric the Gepid King sat morosely. His giant frame hunched over his uneaten slabs of beef. His massive hand, made for the wielding of weapons, idly fingered his silvered cup. He seemed immune to the laughter, immune to the feminine fingers that in passing brushed his broad back.

  He grunted, however, when he noticed that tall Gudrun sat beside him.

  “You have cursed me,” he muttered.

  “How so, my king?” she asked.

  “Do you wish me to damn myself with my own words?” he asked.

  “You led a host, you said.”

  Ardaric shook his head.

  “The cup of Victory never lies,” Gudrun whispered.

  Ardaric’s frown deepened. His corded neck twisted slowly as if rusted. He regarded the regal Gudrun.

  “Your words are lies,” he whispered. “In my vision, I led a desperate host against Attila’s eldest son, Ellac. I destroyed the Hungvari Horde.”

  “Ah,” Gudrun said.

  “You smile like a cunning cat, witch. Yet I am the khan’s most loyal king. It was my counsel he sought at Chalons. My courage cut a path for Attila’s retreat. I will never betray him.”

  “If it is any comfort to you, king. I believe you.”

  “You heard the khan,” Ardaric said. “He will ride through Rome and Constantinople. You acclaimed him the King of the World. His visions and mine cannot both be true. Therefore, your cup only brings enticing illusions.”

  “Look at your khan,” Gudrun said with scorn.

  Ardaric glanced over his broad shoulder. He shrugged.

  “Have you ever seen him so drunk?” Gudrun asked.

  Ardaric glanced again. “…No,” he whispered.

  “No,” Gudrun said. “And yet he still swills from the cup. In his strength, he refuses to stop.”

  “Is that some riddle, witch?”

  Gudrun’s long fingers grasped the Gepid King’s wrist. “Do you have any idea who I am?” she whispered.

  “A foul sorceress,” he muttered.

  “I am the daughter of Ermanaric.” And her strange eyes shined as she whispered it.

  “I have heard that name,” Ardaric said with a frown.

  “Fool!” she said. “Of course you’ve heard of it. Ermanaric King of the Ostrogoths ruled a mighty empire, from the Don River to the Volga. He was the Alexander the Great of the Goths.”

  “That was long ago,” Ardaric said.

  “Ermanaric lived an astounding one hundred and ten years and was still vital in his great age. In his youth, none could stand against him. In his last year, the Huns first appeared from the East. As the Romans reckon time, that was A.D. 375. In that year, Ermanaric gathered his Ostrogoths and allied tribes and fought a bitter battle. The Huns defeated him and slaughtered most of the royal Amal line.”

  “You’re mad,” Ardaric whispered. “That was eighty years ago. You do not appear as a hag, but a lovely maiden.”

  “Look into my eyes, king. Then tell me I am young.”

  Ardaric gazed into her mysterious green eyes. With a cry of loathing, he twisted his wrist out of her grasp and lurched away, making to stand.

  “If you value your life, O king, you will stay.”

  The giant Gepid glanced at Attila far down the hall. Beads of perspiration had formed on Ardaric’s cheeks. He wiped them away, and spoke to Gudrun without looking at her:

  “If you are of the Amal line,” Ardaric said, “you should speak to your cousin Walamir. He is the Ostrogothic King and an Amal from the line of Ermanaric.”

  Gudrun spat onto the table. “My father would have cut out Walamir’s heart. He is a puppet king to a demon-spawn khan.”

  “Yet you gave Attila the cup of Victory,” Ardaric said.

  Gudrun’s eyes flashed with rage. “Do you have any idea what I’ve done? Do you know how long I’ve endured hardship and fearful toil to accomplish this deed?”

  “You’re mad,” he said.

  “Yes,” she hissed. “I’m mad. I fled my father’s kingdom. I endured many rapes and beatings because I was a beautiful and willful young girl. Look at Ildico on the throne. I was not as weak as she is, but I was that young then. I vowed a terrible vengeance against the despoiling Huns. I yearned to find a way to destroy the stunted race and wipe its kind from the face of the Earth. I sought the gods, but they refused me. So I traveled east because I had heard the secret legends of the wizards of the Himalayans.”

  Ardaric asked, “Who?”

  “You would never believe me if I told you of their hidden kingdom and the journeys it took me to reach them. There in the snowy wastelands of Tibet where each breath is a hard-fought victory I learned occult lore. They are fell wizards these Tibetans and are little concerned with the affairs of men. I bewitched their ancient master.”

  “I thought you went there to learn spells,” Ardaric said, “not practice them.”

  Gudrun laughed unpleasantly. “I used the oldest sorcery in the world, my feminine beauty and wiles. I despoiled the master of his secrets. I learned to preserve my youth. And with his aide, I forged the cup of Victory. It is a mighty talisman. In my blinding hate, I created something far greater than myself. It still awes me.”

  “Your words ring with truth,” Ardaric said slowly. “I could almost believe you. Yet why give unlimited victory to him you most hate?”

  “Why? Why?” Gudrun asked. “Are you so simple? Do you know the power it takes to hold victory? Do you not realize that it isn’t wine Attila drinks, but blood?”

  “I did not taste blood,” Ardaric said.

  “You wandered away as one dazed,” she whispered. “You had supped on the blood of Ellac and his Huns. It boiled in your veins. It is what gave you the vision. Look at the mighty khan. He tasted defeat at Chalons and it frightened him. He invaded Italy the next year. But the cost in his horse herds—tens of thousands of the choicest mounts are now dead.”

  “That’s true,” Ardaric said. “We ride wearied beasts and old nags now. The khan’s wars have slain our best mounts.”

  “Marcian’s raid into Hungvar frightened the khan more than he will admit,” Gudrun said. “Three years ago, Attila stood astride the Roman world, its worst terror. Now that power has become a brittle thing. Thus, he swills the cup of Victory. He drowns out his fear and knows again the heady feel of raw power. But think, Ardaric, do you believe that any man can sup on so much blood without paying a terrible price?”

  “Your words are a mystery to me,” Ardaric said.

  “He boils his veins, king. Yes, he is a great khan and a greater magician. Attila is strong. And in his strength, he drinks repeatedly, more than any man could. He should have slumped down sodden long ago. But still he swills from the cup.”

  Gudrun laughed with wicked glee.

  “I will warn him,” Ardaric said.

  “And thereby you’ll become the biggest fool of all,” Gudrun whispered. “Tonight, he dies, slain by his own hand.”

  “Suicide?” whispered Ardaric, amazed.

  “King of Fools should be your name,” Gudrun said. “You hear my word but cannot fathom them. He is the Great Magician, much greater than I. But his greed and vaunting ambition are his bane. Listen to me carefully, O king. Tomorrow, when they burst down his
doors and find him a-sprawl on his wedding bed, drowned on his own blood, you must hunt for the sword of War. The sons will fight over the cup. Let them. You must take the sword and ride for the Netad River.”

  “It is near,” Ardaric said. “The khan has herded the wagons of the Ostrogoths and Gepids there.”

  “Yes, yes,” Gudrun said. “This is all known to me. Take the sword. Wield it, and you will slay Ellac and send the rest reeling back to the steppes.”

  “Even without Attila, the Huns are mighty warriors.”

  “This is the propitious moment,” said Gudrun, her wise old eyes shining. “The death of their khan—”

  She gripped Ardaric’s wrist a last time, squeezed as if branding his flesh. “Remember what I’ve said. If you would be king indeed, search tomorrow for the fabled sword.”

  Ardaric gazed upon the stumbling khan, and the chants and roars of the feasters made it difficult for him to gather his thoughts. He turned to Gudrun, but the witch was gone. Troubled, the Gepid King, most trusted of the khan’s councilors, sipped from his chalice and remained hunched over his uneaten portions of feast.

  ***

  Hours later in the royal apartment, Ildico trembled as she sat on the edge of the wedding bed. She was like a frightened doe, trapped by the greatest wolf of all.

  Attila swayed on the other side. His glazed eyes raped her loveliness.

  “Disrobe,” he slurred.

  Ildico began to unlace her gown. A clunk startled her. She looked up.

  Attila had slammed the cup of Victory onto a nightstand. He swayed and blinked. With a groan, he toppled onto the bed. He struggled and managed to shift onto his back. His eyes closed and in seconds, he began to snore.

  Ildico’s shoulders sagged. She sighed. Soon, she removed her gown and timidly entered the great bed. In her silken slip, she lay near her edge, dreading the moment Attila would awaken. Yet his snores continued and she, in time, faded into slumber.

  Sometime during the night, Attila shuddered. He moaned and a vein burst in his nostrils. Blood poured out of his nose. It ran in a torrent. Much of it gushed into his open mouth. The Great Khan began to gurgle. But such was his drunkenness, that not even drowning could awaken him. At last, his gurgles ceased. So did his snores. Attila, the mighty khan, lay dead in his wedding bed.

  ***

  It was only far into the afternoon of the next day that the Hungvari guard burst through the barred doors. The khan lay dead and Ildico sat on a stool, her face buried in her hands as she wept.

  Soon, Attila’s three most powerful sons gathered in the room. Ellac was eldest, Dengisich was the middle son and Irnac was youngest.

  They whispered together until the guard dragged Gudrun before them. The tall witch bore welts across her cheeks. Her ripped garments revealed firm breasts, snowy-white shoulders and a bloody back. The savage Hungvari guard forced Gudrun onto her knees.

  She spat onto the wooden floor and cried victoriously, “Attila is dead! He choked on his own black blood. Good riddance to the beast and let all rejoice.”

  Ellac who looked most like his father struck her across the face. “Your spells slew him,” he snarled.

  Gudrun made a fey sound and a strange wildness glittered in her green eyes. Blood dripped from her nose and her lower lip had already turned puffy.

  “He swilled from the cup of Victory and drank copious amounts of fiery blood,” she said.

  “It was wine,” said Irnac.

  “What does a stripling know of great magic?” Gudrun jeered. “He drank the blood of his foes and it became fire in his veins. It gave him visions. And because the beast was strong—” She laughed. “Let us all admit it. The beast was mighty among men, the most powerful in an age of great warriors. He became drunk on his visionary conquests. The blood of thousands, no, tens of thousands cried out for vengeance. Not even the Black Magician could absorb such fiery swill for long. It boiled in his veins and his body was too weak to hold it. The blood flowed and he drowned to death on his victories.”

  “You will not profit from it,” Ellac shouted.

  “I rejoice in Attila’s death,” Gudrun said. “May he rot in Hell.”

  With an oath, Ellac drew his sword and rammed it through the witch.

  Gudrun shrieked, and she slumped as the guards released her. Then she shivered and before their astonished gaze, she dragged herself upright. From on her knees, she faced the sons. The sword had pierced her back and blood dripped to soak her dress.

  Gudrun took a wheezing breath, and whispered, “Thrice damned fools of a doomed race.” Her arms trembled until she clutched the sword’s hilt. “Great spells demand blood, the greatest demand death. Do you think I only strove for Attila’s end?”

  “Hiss while you can, serpent,” said Irnac, the youngest. “Soon we will drag your corpse to the kennels. The hounds will feast on your cold flesh.”

  “Ardaric will feast on yours,” she whispered.

  “Where is Ardaric?” Ellac asked the guards. One of the Hungvari ran from the room.

  “I will tell you where,” Gudrun whispered.

  The three regarded her.

  She grinned, her teeth stained red. “Blood and death to power the greatest spell I know,” she whispered. “First the khan must swill from the cup and drown to death. Then one of Attila’s sons must stab me. My dying ignites the vengeance.” She closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath. Then she opened them and seemed to see into another place.

  “The Huns destroyed great Ermanaric. They slew my mother, my sisters and most of my brothers. I vowed vengeance against the entire race. Attila gathered you into one great horde. He conquered and kept his foot on the neck of kings. By drinking from the cup, by swilling the blood of tens of thousands, he created a gigantic desire for vengeance. Now humanity will rise up and obliterate you Huns.”

  Gudrun released the sword and raised a trembling hand. She pointed at Ellac. “You will die in the valley of the Netad River. Ardaric has the sword of War. He leads the Gepids and the Ostrogoths. They will shatter the Hunnish Horde. You,” she pointed at Dengisich, “lack Ellac’s courage. You will live longer but your end will be worse. In your rage and sorrow, you will march on Constantinople. You will lose and the East Romans will take your head and display it in the Hippodrome where men race chariots. And you, Irnac, will march with the last remnants to the East, back to the Scythian Steppes. There new hordes will destroy you, and the last of the Huns will perish in the swamps that first bore your ill-begotten race.”

  “Words cannot harm us,” Ellac said.

  “From now on,” Gudrun whispered, “people will call those they hate ‘Hun’ and all will know it means the most wicked of despoilers.”

  Then Gudrun daughter of Ermanaric looked up a last time at Attila’s three sons. Blood gushed from her mouth as it had earlier from Attila’s nose. She slumped to the floor, dead, her spell complete.

  She left Ellac, Dengisich and Irnac standing mute, their bitter fates fixed by her evil and their father’s vaunting greed and ambition.

  The Dialogue of Kong and Socrates

  In 415 B.C., during the night after Athens sent its massive armada on the ill-fated Sicilian Expedition, an invisible gorilla named Kong who wore a strange, humming helmet quietly crept into Socrates’ home.

  When the gorilla finally found Socrates asleep on his mat, he unlatched from a belt several three-inch silver nails and pegged them into the floor around himself and the sleeping philosopher. Next, he pressed a stud on his belt and a hazy cone of seclusion flickered on. Then Kong turned off his invisibility shield and turned on a floating light; the flattened bulb soon hovered at the top of the cone.

  Kong’s humming helmet was a bulky stainless steel affair that began in the middle of his hairy head, leaving his ears exposed but flaring backward like a large bundle of tied hair. One section in the back of the helmet was stained with soot. Every minute or so it hissed, sending up tiny wisps of gray smoke. At every hiss, Kong winced, pulling his l
ips back to reveal large, yellowish teeth.

  “Socrates,” Kong whispered, gently touching the philosopher’s shoulder.

  Socrates groaned and turned the other way while softly sweating at the huge, hairy hand.

  “Socrates.”

  The philosopher was snub-nosed and balding, though he had a full, brown beard. He turned toward Kong, opened his eyes, blinked several times in rapid succession, then opened his eyes very wide and sat up with a start.

  “Hello, Socrates,” Kong said in his low growl. He sat, his thick, hairy legs bowed and his toes entwined together.

  Socrates stood quickly and picked up the cloak he slept in, wrapping it around himself in complex folds. Noticing the light and the hazy cone, he proceeded to touch the wall and jerked his hand away as he was zapped.

  “I mean no harm, Socrates.”

  With a frown, the plump philosopher faced the sitting gorilla. His eyes flicked to the helmet and widened minutely as the helmet hissed and sent up a tiny wisp of gray smoke.

  First clearing his throat, Kong said, “I am the avatar of men’s souls and have come from Mount Olympus, from Zeus himself.”

  Socrates squinted and pulled at his beard. Finally, he stepped forward, bent and touched Kong on the foot. Immediately, he stepped back. “An avatar, you say? Perhaps you could explain what you mean. For as you surely must know, I am an ignorant old man.”

  Kong frowned, and then winced as his helmet hissed and this time crackled. “I thought you were the wisest of men.”

  Socrates frowned severely, his bushy eyebrows pulling down and his high forehead crinkling thick with wrinkles. He sat cross-legged while idly letting his finger tap the stone floor. “We are still in my house, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you set this thing around us?” Socrates gestured at the cone.

  “Yes.”

  Socrates nodded. “Yet you are not from the gods.”

  “Incorrect. I am the avatar of men’s souls.”

  “What is an avatar?”

  “Surely you know.”