HERULI

CHAPTER 1

LORASINTHE

Lorasinthe was ice.

Wind blowing in gusty tumult out of the north caused a shiver to race through her body. Coolness traveled from the tips of deerskin covered feet to the roots of long, loosened, hair. She drew a deep breath, alert at once to the smell of dampened wood, leaves and earth, a contrast to the visual sameness of the surrounding forest. She had thought to wear a coarse textured blue-dyed woolen mantle, with a hood attached, over her light linen dress. She had chosen not to raise the hood, a decision now much regretted.

It was not the coolness in the air or the more intense chill of a sudden gust of cold late afternoon wind that made her ice. It was her thoughts. Obey. Be still. Obey. The young and untried might listen but not participate. Such was Arnulf's command to her before this meeting.

Forbidden to enter into the warmth of the conversation which buzzed around her, Lorasinthe allowed the day's coldness and a familiar languor easy access into her mind. Only the old were not ice, she thought. They could speak and move. They could argue. They could decide. They would decide everything.

A beam of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the trees of the surrounding forest and momentarily lighting the faces of the four persons huddled around a low burning fire. Lorasinthe glanced upwards as the clouds swallowed the sun again, then returned her gaze to the scene where Arnulf, religious leader of the Germanic tribe of the Heruli, and Mittane, war leader of that same tribe, were about to reach a decision.

Mittanewod, the son of Mittane, raised a hand to the back of his head, scratched briefly, then lowered his arm once more. Lorasinthe watched him, knew the boredom he was feeling. She and Mittanewod were in the process of learning the ancient craft of Arnulf. They were permitted to listen only.

Lorasinthe was tired. She thought of the almost eight hundred men, women and children in the wagons stretched back along the road. This had been a wearing journey for all. Now, waiting while their leaders deliberated, some of the Heruli tribesmen had dismounted to huddle near low-burning smoky fires. Others remained in their wagons, keeping out of the light wind that was trying to blow the fires out.

Arnulf had been unusually talkative earlier. Lorasinthe had been interested, had questioned him. He told her that the road on which they traveled was a military road cut in ages past through primal forest in what the Roman builders had then called Southeast Germania. The Roman Empire - many were the questions she had asked about that now fallen entity in the past - had briefly dared challenge German tribal hegemony on the north side of the Donau River but were beaten back, in time even from the south side of the river, abandoning the road the Heruli now traveled.

Arnulf informed her the wagons had reached a known region of the forest at which the tribal leaders must decide whether to follow the road northeast to a crossing of the river or go cross-country along a track they knew until they reached a different, but as familiar, crossing point. The Donau was always a mighty barrier. The former Roman road skirted within sight of the river for some distance in this region, promising some comfort offset by an unknown degree of danger. The overland route promised hard travel but a safer passage and a more docile crossing.

Now, Lorasinthe tried to listen attentively to the men's deliberations. Soon, her relaxed and mind-wandering state turned close to the edge of boredom. To stave off the desire to fall asleep she shook her loosened hair first one way, then another. These movements, and the accompanying sounds made by the clack-clacking of the leather-tied amber beads she wore as color within the braided portions of her thick blond hair, were instantly noticed. Arnulf frowned, but did not look at her. Lorasinthe became ice once again.

“Do you wish to make comment, Lorasinthe?”

“No, Master,” she stammered.

“Then I bid you remember our talks concerning the need to show humility in the presence of the tribal leadership, and obedience to the need for attentiveness.”

“I . . .”

Arnulf's raised hand returned her to silence.

“Arnulf,” Mittane interrupted, obviously gathering his thoughts. “The Byzantines can not abide the Heruli, even those of us who have converted to Christianity. They have made that clear since Odoacer ousted the Roman Emperor Romulus Augustus and set up the so-named Kingdom of the Heruli in their precious Italy.”

“True,” Arnulf replied, sweeping his withered hand toward the south as if encompassing the entire world in that direction. “We conquered more than a land when we conquered Rome. We conquered a people with ideas too foreign to our own. We were a simple folk, they a complex one. Now the Heruli even measure time as they do. 557 Anno Domini is the five hundred fifty-seventh year since Christ's birth, not Wodan's. Many of our people are now Christians.”

“Bah.” Mittane spat toward their little fire. His disdain for those Heruli who converted to Christianity was a sore that would not heal.

“Save for this band we lead and those at our grove across the Donau,” Arnulf continued, “there are no Heruli followers of Wodan on the north or south sides of the river, nor east of the old Roman fortress of Castra Regina. Do you realize Mittane, the time of our rise to the time of our fall has numbered only seventy years?”

“We never had the numbers needed to hold power.” Mittane growled out the words, his hate-contorted face causing Lorasinthe to flinch inwardly.

“Nor the wisdom,” murmured Arnulf. “Had our chieftains remained loyal to Wodan . . .”

“Were it not for Wittha . . .!” exclaimed Mittane.

“No, my friend – no,” said Arnulf, reaching to touch gently the hand of the somewhat younger man. “Were it not Wittha, it would have been someone else. The Christian powers of organization were too great, the trappings of power too corrupting. Even the mighty Odoacer, whom we honor so greatly, juggled Wodan and Christ like a dwarf juggles balls at a Byzantine court festival.”

A smirk appeared at the edges of Mittane’s cruel mouth as the thought of such a scene briefly brought him amusement, then was gone. “True,” he replied. “Perhaps that is why I take pride in the fact that our revolt was over their attempts at converting us to Christianity. Our people fought them, and their god. There is honor again in the name Heruli.”

Arnulf nodded in assent. “The revolt was necessary, though we huddle in this wind-swept forest as a result. Enough of this talking. We must have the Runes decide the route we will take if we are to save ourselves from our pursuers.”

Arnulf reached to untie a white linen bag he wore at his waist, removing some pieces of wood. These he lay out before him on the ground in a small pile.

Lorasinthe was interested now. She knew the old stories surrounding Odoacer and the conquest of Rome, often relating the tales to others as part of her training. Still, she was never more entranced than when listening to Arnulf and other leaders discussing the lore of the tribe. “How great and wondrous are the stories they tell,” she said soundlessly, her lips barely moving.

As the two leaders continued their discussions, Lorasinthe's mind wandered backward from her thoughts of the glory and failings of the Heruli tribal past into her own. She tried to visualize a picture of her mother's face, but she could not. Lorasinthe had been very young when she last saw her mother. She tried hard to remember the name her mother gave her, but she could no longer do so. Lorasinthe was not her birth name. Lorasinthe was her Heruli ritual name. Arnulf had bestowed it upon her at her naming ceremony when just a little girl. She remembered him telling those assembled that the name Lorasinthe existed nowhere else than in her own small person. No other Heruli had that name. No other Heruli could take that name. No other Germanic tribal people knew it. The warrior-god Wodan had given the name Lorasinthe to Arnulf through a Rune cast. Arnulf had bestowed it on her.

Now, her eyes closed, she mouthed silent words. “Would you have believed, my mother, your daughter would be so honored as to hear such stories spoken in private by our tribal leaders? Did you consider at the time, my mother, that your blasphemy would be the cause of my rise to such a position among our people? Did you think of me at all when you bedded the Byzantine soldier? Did you know what they would do with your daughter?”

“Can you tell me what the center Rune is, Lorasinthe?” asked Arnulf. “My old eyes cannot make it out.”

The question crackled like a fire burning into her startled consciousness. Lorasinthe came instantly alert, her cheeks flushing lightly with embarrassment. She did not speak, being too startled by what had transpired. Arnulf had cast the Runes while she was wandering in her mind.

Gathering her wits, her eyes hurriedly sought the answer to Arnulf's question in the tumbled pieces of wood lying before him, their surfaces etched and blooded with the sacred symbols the tribe called Runes. “Raidho sees us,” she whispered - noting the position and attitude of the singular Rune-stave Arnold’s boney hand was pointing toward.

Arnulf, hearing her low voice for all its softness, grinned. “No other would serve us better.”

Mittane had not heard her answer. The warrior leader changed his position from standing to kneeling. He was now very close to where Arnulf had returned his attention to examining the other inscribed pieces of wood scattered before him upon the ground.

“What do the Runes say, Arnulf?” asked Mittane, his voice higher pitched than usual. “Dare we continue to take the road or not? Will we meet danger there?”

Arnulf did not turn to look at Mittane. His irritation with the question was obvious, although his voice remained calm. “Patience! The Runes are not to be overwhelmed with question upon question. Wodan will answer but one asking at a time. The Runes will not serve man more than this, for in multiple questions hurriedly asked lie the very seeds of disrespect.”

Lorasinthe laughed inwardly at Arnulf's response, but she also noted the tone in which these words were spoken. Arnulf was old, having spent over seventy years in service to the Heruli god, Wodan. His bones were brittle, his body weak, but the mind of the Master was strong. Lorasinthe looked down to where the wooden pieces lay before Arnulf on the ground. The blood-coated Runes, those twenty-four distinct symbols outsiders, especially Christians, said formed an alphabet rather than living sacred relics, had been carved on rectangular staves of ash-wood taken from the most sacred tree in the great forest grove of the Heruli.

These were Arnulf's most prized set. They were decades old, carved and filled with his blood in a time of which most now alive knew nothing. The ancient tools of the diviner's art seemed to shine more brightly than the moonless dusk should allow. The flickering light of the campfire's restless glow caused the deeply carved symbols to gleam red, as the firelight caught them, then black, as the fire danced away to light other places. Arnulf had set three of the Runes to the side. The center Rune, carved with the symbol for Raidho, shaped somewhat like an ‘R’, was the one she had read for him.

“Don't play at words with me, Master of Runes,” Mittane threatened. “I don't fear your recriminations. Wodan knows I must be answered, and quickly, or the whole tribe will be called forth by that ancient wanderer to answer for their slackness.”

Mittane snarled these words, but Lorasinthe knew they would not cause the old man to hurry one second more quickly to his duty. Mittane was a cruel man whose ways carried over into his speech. Most Heruli men were clean shaven and had short or braided and knotted hair. Long hair was easy for an enemy to grab in battle. Mittane held other beliefs. His bushy beard, scarred face, and long and loose hair were designed to frighten enemies. He did not frighten Arnulf.

Mittanewod, Mittane's youngest son, stood quietly before the fire across from Arnulf, listening intently. A young boy of sixteen, dark-haired, clean-shaven and neat in appearance, he was the antithesis of the father he feared. Not handsome, he had his father's younger days' face. Mittanewod, like Lorasinthe, spoke only when asked to speak. Unlike Lorasinthe, Mittanewod did not harbor resentment for his silence.

Lorasinthe was proud of the fact she stood next to Arnulf's right shoulder as he knelt over the Runes. This was her privilege for being the oldest of the group of three youths Arnulf was training. At sixteen she was only a month older than Mittanewod and but a few days older than Sigdonner. The latter youth was not present, he having remained at the sacred grove of their band of the Heruli.

“We once maintained tribal continuity with great care among the Heruli,” Arnulf continued, glancing upward to smile softly at Lorasinthe, then at Mittanewod. “Now we barely keep up the custom of the Nine; three to know, three to practice, three to learn the ways of the Runes and the knowledge of Wodan. I am one out of the past who knows. Lorasinthe, Mittanewod and Sigdonner are the future who must know. The Roman ways we have in part adopted must be shaken off and forgotten.”

“It was a curse we allowed Christ into our midst as we once did Donar and Tiwaz and Hulda,” snapped Mittane.

Arnulf nodded sadly. “Even a Christian or a follower of Donar could proclaim their faith and remain Heruli. That was the custom. But only if Wodan were not forgotten.”

“All that is now dead past, old man,” Mittane barked, impatiently. “It is only important to know what the Runes say now. Can our people go forward on this road or not?”

Arnulf glanced at the man, a look of half-unconcealed delight at being able to torment the ferocious war leader a little longer clearly showing in the toothless grin he gave him.

“Lorasinthe,” Arnulf murmured, turning to look at her, “tell this impatient one what the Runes say. Their meaning is clear, even to one so young a learner as you. Tell him.”

Lorasinthe nearly choked while trying to form words in response. Then, as quickly as it had gained its hold upon her, the ice in her mind cracked and her thoughts flowed free once more. The statue she had become moved, responded. “Master, I cannot. I would not dare to presume to read on such an important decision. I . . .”

“What dwarf's reasoning is this?” bellowed Mittane savagely. “Is this what the Heruli have come to, that sixteen-year-old female whelps tell us how we will wage our future? Why not ask my son Mittanewod? Maybe he will wish to advise his father of what he should do?”

“One day he will.” Arnulf grinned. “But that day is not today. Today it is Lorasinthe who will tell us. Come child, read the Runes as I have taught you.”

“I . . .” Lorasinthe began once again to decline. Then, after hearing something within her utter the words, “obey . . ., be still . . ., obey . . .” she objected no longer. Leaning forward toward where the Rune cast lay before Arnulf, she examined the three Runes he had selected.

“Tell us, Lorasinthe . . .,” Arnulf urged.

His gentle sounding voice melted the last of the ice covering her thoughts. She answered, “Master, I believe the Runes say we should not take the road north. I believe they are telling me to tell you to go over land, to cross the river in secret then avoid roads until we reach our grove at the white mountain.”

“That is as I would read them, child,” replied Arnulf, “and that is what we will do.”

Mittane threw up his hands. “But we can't haul all of our booty, wounded, old ones, women and children overland!” Mittane, who had been hoping the Master of Runes would not choose the route that he did, quickly found the other three staring at him in disbelief.

Arnulf proclaimed, “The Runes have spoken through Lorasinthe. Wodan has shown the way.”

Mittane growled as if in pain. He had allowed himself to go too far and now was not ready to assent. He turned his scarred face to glare at the young blond-haired girl Arnulf had used to humiliate him.

Lorasinthe's mind went blank as she returned Mittane's stare. Her hand lightly touched Arnulf's shoulder.

“We can handle any enemy we find in our path,” Mittane continued, his gaze still fixed on the girl. “Our worst foes are behind us, not in front. If we go overland, we will have to leave too much behind. I say no! We must go on the road.”

Lorasinthe gasped. Mittanewod stared in amazement at his father's contorted angry face. To question the reading of a Rune cast was forbidden to the tribe. To question the reading of a Rune cast was to defy Wodan. To defy Wodan was . . .

“You have grown careless, Mittane,” hissed the Master of Runes softly. Arnulf was no longer the toothless old man, the baiter of impatient war leaders, but the heart of the tribe of the Heruli, with eyes of fire and countenance of hardened oak. “Face me – not Lorasinthe!”

Lorasinthe stood very still, hardly able to breathe, her gaze fixed on the side of Mittane's cruel face as that warrior’s head turned slightly to glare at the old man.

Arnulf shook his head slowly back and forth. “For your words must the Heruli now pay a price. I fear for the people because of your defiance, Mittane. May Wodan not choose to let our blood flow upon the field of some soul-less battle where the maids of slaughter do not gather up our heroic dead. May Wodan not decree our young be forced to cry out in hunger and sickness while we stand helpless.”

“I am . . .,” began a still angry Mittane.

Arnulf waved him to silence. “You will ask to be permitted to step down as tribal leader before a week has passed. Wodan would demand no less of any chieftain who would defy a Rune reading. I don't know what Wodan's answer will be regarding your request. The Runes will answer at that time.”

The old man briefly stopped speaking after saying these words. Lorasinthe had tightened her grip on his shoulder. The boy Mittanewod stood absolutely still, staring in disbelief at his father. Slowly, as the reality of the depth of his sacrilege rent through the veil of his anger, Mittane's face turned pale – he said nothing further.

“In fear of the consequences of your words of disdain we, the Heruli,” Arnulf continued, “must now give our first captured of the enemy to Wodan and destroy all our booty before we move one more spear length toward home. With this offering, I pray Wodan will forgive your behavior in the presence of the sacred Runes and those who read them!”

Mittane knew he had defied Wodan, knew the price. Yielding to ancient power rather than ancient superstition, he knelt before the old man, his head bowed in submission. “I hear, and I obey.”

“Go, Mittane. Go and prepare the captive for the giving and the booty for the destruction. Wodan must be appeased for your words' sake -- do so quickly, so we might be on our way. Death pursues further delay. I see skulls bleaching in the sun if we are still here after tomorrow. They are ours.”

Mittane rose to his feet and without further comment went to do as he had been told.           Lorasinthe approached Arnulf, looked carefully into his eyes. She did not see the terrible wrath of the Master of Runes that had been directed at Mittane. She saw only the gentle and kindly eyes of Arnulf, her teacher and mentor.

“One must never flinch before any of the tribe, Lorasinthe.  They would surely lose respect for you and for the ways of Wodan and the Runes. Be bold, Lorasinthe, and forthright.” Arnulf winked at the girl, then grinned. “Perhaps Mittane will not be too badly punished for his fit of temper once mine has cooled.” The old man reached down for his walking stick, used it to raise his body to a standing position.

“I could not stand against my father, Master. I could not,” Mittanewod mumbled.

“You must,” replied the old man, swiftly raising his arm to strike the boy sharply on the back with his walking stick.

Mittanewod said no more.

Tapping Lorasinthe's shoulder gently with the same stick, Arnulf urged, “Come, young one, this is a great day for you, for this is the day of your test of courage. Today you step farther forward along the path.”

As they began walking, Arnulf eyed the brooding sky, a sky that promised rain and perhaps other blessings. He believed that on such days the gods were present in the forest to serve the Heruli. Such a forest was this one where they were stopped - immense and lonely. Only the ripped earth of the old Roman road broke the monotony of darkened tree-trunks, swirling branches and green leaves.

“Listen to the trees of the forest, Lorasinthe. They are alive with sound when the wind passes by, summoning our people into their vastness. They will part to let us pass in safety.”

“I hear them, Master.” Lorasinthe smiled, listening. “But will they protect us from the rain that hurries toward us?” She paused when he didn't answer immediately, remembering something. “Master, may I raise my hood now?

“Of course, do so now.” replied Arnulf. “What have you been thinking, not to have raised it before? Would you take cold? Perhaps I best raise my own also. The rain is near. I smell its coming on the wind. Smell, Lorasinthe. Smell the rain's first breath. It is a scent of Wodan in the air.”

“It smells wonderful,” she replied softly.

As they walked toward the front of the wagon train the old man placed one frail hand on the shoulder of the young girl. She looked into his eyes, pleased by this gesture of familiarity. “Yes, we will be safe now, Lorasinthe, for the forest is the only place where the Heruli have ever known safety.”

CHAPTER 2

THE SACRIFICE

Lorasinthe held Arnulf's elbow firmly as they walked toward the lead wagon of the long train. The old man was never very steady on his feet. As they walked a bolt of Lightning struck somewhere near the farthest wagons, a further indicator of the coming rain. Other flashes followed, moving ever eastward toward them, as if tracing the line of the road itself. Following each flash came a crackling sound, then a loud boom. Lorasinthe remembered teaching the children that the sound of lightning was a giant walking in the forest.

A bolt struck very close. Lorasinthe flinched, noticing that Arnulf appeared to pay the lightning little attention. The rain started - first one large drop, then two, then quickly in greater number - as they neared a small band of tribal leaders standing beside the yoked oxen of the first wagon.

“What say you, Master Arnulf?” asked a now humbled Mittane. “I have sent word to break camp. We will sleep in the woods tonight, if we sleep at all. The captive you asked for is here.”

Arnulf glanced briefly in the direction of a young boy standing off to the side fettered between two guards. He had the misfortune to be on watch at a small camp of Byzantine soldiers Heruli scout elements had surprised two days before. The Heruli slaughtered all except this boy, the first to be captured. Heruli tradition demanded that the first of the enemy to be encountered be taken prisoner.

“Look at him, Lorasinthe,” muttered Arnulf softly, motioning with his walking stick in the boy’s direction. “There stands the one whom Wodan has brought. Today he will be honored by you. You will be honored by him. Do not flinch in your duty, Lorasinthe, nor dishonor this warrior before Wodan by showing weakness.”

Lorasinthe's eyes opened widely and her lips parted. Tiny droplets of rain pushed over the brim of her mantle hood down onto her face to fall softly onto her lips, wetting them against a dryness that had come to her mouth. She looked at the face of the captive, that of a youth standing before her wearing only a ragged soldier's tunic. The cloth afforded as little protection from the initial droplets of misty water as it would from the oncoming downpour that the pounding roar in the air signaled.

“Today you take the white stone in your hand and bring honor to your people before Wodan.”

Lorasinthe was drawn to Arnulf's piercing stare as he said these words. Both knew how stunned she was at the saying of them. Both knew how unexpected the command was for her, as long ago it had been as unexpected for him.

Arnulf reached within his woolen mantle and pulled forth an object that gleamed white against the sparkling clarity of the rain and the gathering darkness of the lowering clouds. In his hand was a white stone dagger, an artifact revered by the Heruli. The dagger was found ages before on the side of a stone ridge far to the north, a ridge formed of white quartz. This dagger blade was a pure striking from the rock, having come to the tribe in no need of shaping. It was as perfect in its natural shape as it was perfect for the duties the Heruli gave it.

At the very moment Arnulf handed the stone dagger to her there came a startling lightning strike near at hand. An oak tree had been hit. Lorasinthe's whole body shook in reaction. She grasped the blade, instantly feeling its coldness.

“If you cannot do this, I can,” whispered Mittanewod, who had come up near her. “Say you cannot, and I will tell Arnulf you are too ill to do a proper duty today.”

Lorasinthe did not respond. Instead she looked away from the dagger. Her gaze crossed the quickly drenching ground to where the young soldier stood bound between his captors. He seemed to be looking at her.

“Does the captive speak our language?” Arnulf asked.

“No, old one,” replied Mittane. “He speaks only the tongue of the Greeks.”

“Just as well. What he cannot understand, he cannot know the outcome of. Have him brought to that tree, the oak that was just struck by lightning a moment ago. Through Donar's hammer, Wodan has made known his wishes concerning the site of honor. Of that there can be no doubt.”

The guards took the boy firmly by the arms and, half walking, half stumbling through the mud, forced him toward the still smoldering tree that stood some thirty meters away.

Arnulf, Mittanewod and Lorasinthe followed at a slower pace, silently. Lorasinthe could not speak. She had not uttered a word since the cold wet stone of the dagger had been firmly placed in her hand by the Master. She was aware the rain still stormed unabated. Her feet were cold, feeling almost frozen from exposure. She shivered uncontrollably whenever she had to stand still.

The great oak seemed to quiver in the wind as well, as if it were in terrible agony over the wound it had suffered. Sheets of water cascaded down from the branches. Smoke curled from the lightning-damaged limb, a large piece of which lay in tangled profusion upon the ground near the trunk.

Lorasinthe remembered the teaching in Heruli lore that only a life-scarred and ancient tree could serve as the site where the great spirits of God might be found. The damage to this tree showed it had lived, had suffered, was mortal, even as man was mortal and suffered through life. This tree was a symbol of life, an earthly sign of the presence of Wodan.

“Lorasinthe, I am pleased,” said Arnulf, his eyes raised to view the oak's spreading branches. “Wodan will save the Heruli this time. There is no doubt.”

The captive was led to the great trunk and tied securely with strong cords. This act was symbolic. These fetters would be released only when Wodan had released the mind of one so fettered. Thus, the ancient tale of Wodan having the power to break bonds through the Runes would be symbolically represented in the coming ritual.

The young boy knew nothing of what was happening around him. He knew nothing of the Heruli except that they appeared to be barbarian Germans who had taken him captive and were about to torture him. His drenched face could not be dried of the water that lay upon it. His hair was matted and tangled with wetness. Tears he shed over his plight could not be seen. His name was John, a Christian name, but none had asked him what that name was. None had asked him where he came from, how he got to this cold and damp land where rain always fell and one’s bones never ceased aching from wet or cold.

An involuntary shiver brought the boy's mind to a fully alert state. His fright left him. He pleaded silently across the distance, but his pleas were heard only by himself. His thoughts were clear. John from Tyre, that is who I am. Mother of God! Was there none who would come to help John?

The boy stared intently at the group of tribesmen standing a distance of about ten meters from him. He wondered if they felt as miserable as he did? They, who also endured the lightning cracking loudly near by, with Christ's own tears pouring over them all. He watched as one of the hooded ones broke away from the group and began to walk in his direction. As that one did so, a hand went up and pulled the hood from the head, causing an immediate cascade of water to fall onto previously dry, long, very light-colored hair.

“A girl,” John whispered, softly.

Had he been unbound, the boy would have reached out to wipe his face and eyes in order to get a better look. Still, he could not fail to see the obvious, even given the coarse clothing she wore and with her hair darkened in color and straightened by the rain. He saw she was young, like him. Perhaps because she was young, he relaxed. He did not speak or call to her as she came forth.

Some ghostly spirit out of the dark woods at her back played with the vision he had of the approaching girl. At first the young soldier could not see her eyes, hidden as they were by the wind blowing her loosened hair across her shadowed face. Then, as the gusting of the tumult swirled her hair away again, her face was illumined briefly by the light of a sparkling strike of lightning. As quickly, the dying lightning, the swirling hair and the wind combined to bring her face once more into shadow.

May God strike me! She has great beauty, he thought.

Lorasinthe was alert yet uneasy as she stepped closer to the shape tied so securely by heavy bonds to the oak tree. Her eyes met those of the boy. She tried to allow no thought an entry. One did anyway, a thought he might be called handsome and strong-looking for a boy his age were this meeting under different circumstances. He had a gentle face, with eyes that followed hers intently. She closed her mind, concentrated on the walking, moving her lips in practice of what she must say.

Her narrowing closeness did not change John's first opinion, so simple and stark was her attractiveness. Her eyes seemed of the palest of colors, perhaps blue. Her hair, when dried by the sun and swirling 'bout her head, would be of the softest shade, tinted by lightness. Her face, how could that be described? Not Aphrodite, not Isis, although perhaps the pink-cheeked offspring of the union of one of them with some pale northern god. Even in this dark moment, the boy delighted in the vision of her.

Lorasinthe approached to within touching distance of the captive. Her hand containing the sacred white stone dagger rose to stroke gently the material of his garment at the spot she knew so well from practice.

Lost in his innocence and her closeness, the boy looked into her eyes and held them with his gaze. Her beauty and the dampness of her smell blanked out the rest of the world. He looked at her in curious wonderment. Distance had not added an imaginary fineness to the paleness of her complexion, the rose-pink of her cheeks, or to the fullness of her lips. He stared so intently upon her he did not feel the gentle tingle in his skin or the soft coldness of the striking tip of the white stone. Her nearness to him was all he felt. She was very close now, and speaking words he did not understand.

“I give you to Wodan!” whispered Lorasinthe, her face close to his, cheek against cheek, so he alone might hear her speaking. Then did she push hard upon the hilt of the dagger in a quick upward motion as she had been taught.

John's mouth opened in surprise, pain making words unspeakable. His eyes seemed to sparkle slightly as the sharp point of the dagger penetrated. Then, as if fallen into sleep, their fast dulling brightness sought her face no longer. Nor did his thoughts, quickly fading, hold her image in further contemplation. No audible sound was heard by any save Lorasinthe, whose cheek still rested softly against his, her eyes shut.

In what seemed a long time but was only a brief moment Lorasinthe stepped backward, pulling the striking edge out as she did so. She did not see the heart blood that followed the blade. She did not note the slight look of surprise on the boy's face, or the presence of pain. She turned, whirling the arm holding the dagger blade upward toward the dark sky. Wodan must see. She then lowered the arm to her side, dagger point down, and walked slowly back toward the Master.

As she came near him, she stopped. She turned to face the already dead boy, the one she had just honored by offering his spirit to the Wanderer. The blade was raised once again in salute, this time to the victim. Blood mixed with water soiled her arm, reaching down with thin, red fingers to stain her mantel. Lorasinthe knew nothing of that.

“You have done him great honor, Lorasinthe,” whispered Arnulf to the benumbed girl now standing so still beside him. “Wodan will take him as a warrior to Valhalla and make him over into one of his own servants. There he will serve bravely in the battles of the spirits and in the wild hunts from which Wodan takes such pleasure.”

Lorasinthe stared at the crumpled body, now seeming so small against the girth of the great tree. She barely noticed that the sacred white stone dagger hung limply in her hand. The continuing rain seemed to be washing its purity of whiteness clean from the red which had so recently stained it.

“We must be gone,” Mittane exclaimed loudly. “Because of this rain there can be no fire built on which to burn this body. Nor can we burn the captured equipment and other booty.”

Arnulf turned to face him angrily, gesturing toward the body of the soldier. “We need not burn the body. By Wodan's clear and beautiful rain and by Donar's brilliant strikes are we guided in this matter. This boy is to be greatly blessed. He is to be hung from the great one, the lightning-struck oak tree, in memory of Wodan's hanging when the Runes were earned. The weapons, equipment and other treasure are to be destroyed by our warriors and the broken parts piled around the tree for any enemy following to find. Any that cannot be broken are to be buried. Do this quickly and we go!”

“Yes! Yes!” replied Mittane. “Arno, Brand, get the men started with the destruction. Be quick about it.”

“Mittanewod, Lorasinthe, you two will hang him,” said Arnulf to the pair standing next to him. “Be careful to use the proper ritual as I have taught you. Let none see you dishonor Wodan by an improper display of respect. Give me the dagger, Lorasinthe. Would you keep it as your own?”

The girl, startled by the words aimed at her, numbly lifted her hand and placed the white stone dagger back into the wrinkled palm of the old one. Like in a dream, she followed Mittanewod to the great oak. That tree was now soiled at the foot by rivulets of blood from the young soldier's wound. His head had sunk against his upper chest and his torso sagged forward as far as the constraining ropes might allow.

“I will untie the ropes and let the body fall,” said Mittanewod as he approached the tree. “You secure his legs with the end of the rope while I find a suitable branch from where we might take him up.”

“Yes,” mumbled Lorasinthe numbly.

She waited until the body was unconstrained by its fetters, chanting a prayer to Wodan to unbind the spirit of the soldier and let it be free to join Him. After doing so, she took the end of the rope Mittanewod handed to her and bent to perform the sacred tying of the sacrificed one. All this was prescribed ritual. She placed the rope three times around the legs then secured the special knot of the slain. When this had been done she waited for Mittanewod to climb the tree to select the strongest branch possible at a proper height. The body would be hung upside down.

How strange and small the body seemed now that life was no longer there. The rain had slowed and the clouds were dropping to the ground that they might provide the great mist and fog which would cover the forest during the night. Lorasinthe noticed how soaked the clothing on the body was, the face covered with wetness. The eyes were still open, but the light she had seen was not there. Where was he now, she wondered? Was his spirit still here as Arnulf said sometimes they were?

“Here, girl,” said Mittanewod in a teasing tone, while scrambling down to the ground after fastening the rope to a sturdy branch high in the tree, “to you the honor of the taking, to you should be the honor of the hauling up of the body also.”

As if she thought his words contained a command, Lorasinthe went and picked up the dangling free end of the rope, took up the slack, and attempted to hoist the soldier's body into the air. Only the feet were raised somewhat by her efforts. She could not budge him further. She looked upward into the branches as if imploring some spirit of the tree to help her.

“Wait!” cried Mittanewod, laughing. “Did you take me seriously? This one outweighs the both of us in his present state. I will go and get Brand and Gerd. All our strength will be needed to take this one aloft.”

Mittanewod soon returned with help and they quickly raised the body into the branches, where it hung, swaying back and forth, for a short while, until finally settling to a gentle roll governed by the capriciousness of the breezes. Mittanewod cut the rope then stood back.

“Start bringing that broken equipment and treasure here. Pile it around the tree,” Arnulf had come up to watch the last of the process. “We might yet get a fire going with some of it now that the rain has slowed.”

A fire was able to be set from the shredded remains of the military blankets, leather equipment and clothing they had taken. The metal weapons could not be burned. These were broken and scattered around the tree. The animals taken from the camp of the Byzantine soldiers were also brought forward and slain. The meat was not kept for Heruli use. That was forbidden during a sacrifice of this kind.

As the fires now burned brightly, Mittane gave the order to move out. He looked at Master Arnulf in hopes of one final reprieve. There was none in the old man's eyes.

“We move north across land. Lead wagon, take the broadest path you can find. Don't stick us in a ravine – You scouts, mark the best routes and keep good information coming back to us.”

An ox-drawn wagon passed the spot of sacrifice where the fires still burned and smoked below the body of the soldier hanging upside down in the tree. The darkened frame swayed back and forth gently. Lorasinthe jumped on board the wagon as it turned onto the mud-splattered path into the woods.

Only Arnulf and a few others remained at the sacrificial site. He was still saying the words that would bring the blessings of Wodan, and others the Heruli acknowledged, on the tribe's journey. Warriors of the rear guard worked to eradicate all trace of the wagon tracks, even going so far as to dig up and re-plant smaller trees, bushes and vegetation to hide the way. Later, a few wagons and an escort would be sacrificed to the perils of the road so that the many might escape. It was hoped the enemy would hasten to follow after them.

The thickening fog was closing in fast. Lorasinthe was tired, nearly exhausted. Looking back toward where Arnulf stood beneath the tree, she could barely see him for the gently rising fog brought on by the rain. Tribal legend taught that a Master had the power, through one of the magical Runes, to call forth the body of a hanged dead one in order that the spirit within might give advice from Wodan through the mouth of the dead.

As she continued looking back, Lorasinthe felt her breath catch in her throat. Through the growing mist she thought she saw someone standing in front of the Master. They seemed to be discussing something very intently. Who was it? The man had the stature and build of the young Byzantine soldier but had to be one of the Heruli warriors. The fog and increasing distance hid the details of his face no matter how hard she tried to see.

Lorasinthe looked upward into the tree and thought she saw no body hanging there. She rubbed her eyes to look again, but in that moment the cart turned away into the brush and she could no longer see anything. The young girl quickly discounted her strange vision, believing her mind to be playing tricks. It could not have been the boy, she thought. Laying her head against a bundle filled with some soft material, she quickly fell asleep

CHAPTER 3

THE SEARCH

Artagabalus let his mind wander as a soothing balm against the repetitive rocking motion of the horse he had been riding for hours. He settled his thoughts on the pursued, wondering what his mother's people had hoped to gain from their revolt? Did they think the Christian priests would leave them in peace? If they thought that, they were wrong. First had come the suppression of the almost trivial revolt. Now was the time of hunting down survivors and settling scores.

The one ordered to settle the score was Artagabalus, a mission that caused him much internal turmoil. As he reflected on this task he had been given and did not want, Artagabalus' attention was suddenly drawn toward something odd that loomed up before him a short distance down the road.

Artagabalus commanded mounted troops. The unit he commanded was of the size of a katalogos, or regiment, of Byzantine cavalry. The regiment was moving as quickly as possible along the same road the Heruli had traveled earlier. Had he been alive, the Byzantine soldier named John of Tyre might have detected their coming through the gentle quivering of the branches that was the tree's response to the touch of so many horses’ hooves upon the ground. John of Tyre was not alive, of course. His body still hung upside down from the tree branch where it had been placed two days before by Lorasinthe and Mittanewod. The rainstorm had moved on. The heavy downward pulling of the body upon the tree limb now allowed movement only with large gusts of wind. It was then the ropes creaked and groaned as the body turned or swayed.

“Look commander, off to the left! There appears to be some sort of object hanging in that tree.”

Ammianus, military aide to Artagabalus, broke ranks to have a closer look. So did Artagabulus, signaling for the cavalry column behind him to halt. As they approached the tree, the body of a man could be clearly seen, the sound of a rope twisting under strain clearly heard.

Both men looked upward with disgust. The condition of the body seemed to indicate death had taken place only a day or two before. Artagabalus stroked his beard - a gesture he often performed when deep in thought - then removed his ornamented, brass-covered leather helmet and tousled his hair. “Who was he, Ammianus? Was he one of our soldiers they captured or one of their own who violated some profane rule?”

“I'm not sure, Commander. He does not appear to be one of theirs - at least I don't think so. There is no blue stripe on his forehead as should be there if he were Heruli. Perhaps he was a poor wretch from one of our outlying units, one whose destruction we have not yet come upon.”

“Pagan idol-worshiping swine!” Artagabalus shaded his eyes to get a better look at something he had no real desire to see. “Cut the body down and see to its disposal. If it be one of ours, bring forth a priest to give the sacraments. If not, throw it out in the woods where the smell can't reach us in the camp.”

“Yes, Commander.” Ammianus saluted. “Are we going to stay the night here then, Commander?”

“Yes. My backside has had enough of the saddle for today. Post the guard carefully. We don't know where this band of stinking pagans lurks. Then send me the two Heruli scouts, the half-Christian brethren of the horse-eaters who committed this sacrilege.”

After Ammianus left, Artagabulus continued staring up at the branch of the great tree where the body hung swaying gently. The man's face seemed fixed in a look of surprise, perhaps a reflection of his last moments. “Body of Christ!” Artagabalus exclaimed, addressing no one in particular. “When will we see the last of these heathen practices in God's realm?”

Further thought was interrupted by two riders approaching. They halted their excited mounts, made crude gestures of proper salute in greeting. These men were not Greeks or Armenians or Spaniards or Goths, who provided the majority of Artagabalus's command. They could not be mistaken for the normal Byzantine soldiery at all. In the middle of their foreheads were blue stripes, the mark of a warrior of the Heruli tribe. These Heruli were Christians, unlike the band they were hunting.

Trying to hide his disgust at what others of their tribe had done, Artagabalus said, “I want you to find the trail your pagan kinsmen took then report back to me. Be quick about it. I do not think we are long behind them.”

Neither of the Heruli men said anything, merely gestured, turned their horses, and left. They had not even glanced at the body swaying in the branches above them.

“Christians!” scoffed Artagabulus, his eyes following the riders as they hurried to obey his orders.

As he watched the two scouts ride away, he remembered back to the battle of Taginae, when the Heruli had been among the most ferocious and bloodthirsty warriors on either side. Pagan Heruli had fought against Christian Heruli. “Christians!” he mumbled again.

Ammianus returned, approached Artagabalus, saluted, arm across breast. “I have ordered the burial, Commander. All evidence points to his being one of our soldiers.”

“Arian Christians, Ammianus,” remarked Artagabalus, seemingly ignoring the man's offering of information. “What do you think of Arian Christians?”

“Heretics, of course.”

“True!” shouted Artagabalus loudly, as if he wished the answer to reach the ears of the fast disappearing riders he had just dismissed. “Did you know that Arian Christians do not ascribe to the Holy Trinity?”

“I believe that is how they differ from us,” said Ammianus, his face betraying a slightly puzzled look over the turn of conversation.

“And that is how the enemy we now chase have survived as pagans in our Christian world. Our zealous priests and monks quarrel and fight over fine points of doctrine, and the pagans reap the benefit.”

“How is that, Commander?”

“Monks following the teachings of the heretic Bishop Arius converted part of the Heruli to the Arian doctrine. Monks and priests espousing our own beliefs in the trinity of Father, Son and Holy Spirit converted others of that benighted tribe. The internal tribal squabbling that resulted allowed the pagan element we are now hunting to survive. The Christian Heruli thought more of fighting each other.”

Ammianus nodded his head in agreement. “I understand the Arian Heruli band sided with the Germanic tribe of the Gepidae in their battle against the Lombards and were slaughtered.”

“The fools,” said Artagabalus, raising both hands to his cheeks in a gesture of emphasis. “The two conflicting Christian Heruli bands fought against each other in that battle. The Arian branch was decimated, partly by their own people. The fools!”

As they parted, each to perform separate duties, Artagabalus wondered whether the ardor with which he had cursed and derided the Heruli had surprised Ammianus. Upon reflection, such words of disdain seemed wasted on a band of simple savages.

The tent of Artagabalus was warm against the dampness of the fall night. A cheerful fire swept away thoughts of the dark spirits which some men believed inhabited such lonely forest locations along equally lonely stretches of road. Bitter soldiers' wine helped smooth the rougher edges of a day in the saddle. Artagabalus, content in his cups, reflected comfortably on the day's events, while listening to Ammianus describe the Heruli tribe as if lecturing those who might care.

“This sect of the Heruli tribe we are following are notorious for the foulness of their practices. I am told they are the last known non-Christian tribal group to roam south of the Danube - the Donau they call it.”

Ammianus raised his wine cup so that a nearby servant might fill it.

“That's true,” replied Decius, he who was second in command of the cavalry unit and senior to Ammianus. “We have needed their expertise as warriors many times in the past, and they have served well. Still, no matter how often the teachings of the sacred words of God have been brought to them by our missionaries, they have rejected conversion to the true faith. Now they have revolted against that conversion and taken the lives of priests and monks.”

“Yes, they have,” Artagabulus agreed, extending his cup so that the same servant might pour him another portion of the strong red liquid that so effectively kept out the cold. “For that we will make them pay.”

“I have been told that the herzog of the Heruli, the principle chieftain, Artawulfe, has no influence over this pagan band we are chasing, he having accepted Christ and come to believe in the trinity of the threeods in one,” said Decius.

Decius awaited a response but when none came forth immediately continued his line of thought, “I heard Artawulfe has issued orders to his tribesmen to kill Arnulf, the pagan priest who still holds to the faith of his ancestors in defiance of that principle chieftain's conversion.”

Artagabalus nodded in agreement. “They have been mortal enemies since Artawulfe put to death the two remaining pagan priests who were with his part of the tribe.” Artagabalus was in an expansive mood and this was indeed an interesting subject. He knew Artawulfe personally and had heard of Arnulf.

Ammianus' eyes were alight. “Is it true the two priests Artawulfe killed were members of the supposedly sacred Nine? I have heard that, like many of the ancient Roman cults, women hold high positions. Is this also true?

“Sorcerers!” raged Artagabalus, the wine showing its impact in the form of a more aggressive tone and posture. “The tribe is said to be under the control of nine sorcerers, who might be either men or women. They hold the tribesmen in their power through the ability to summon demons they call by such names as Wodan and Donar and Tiw. The two who were killed by Artawulfe were men. Artawulfe said once there is only one woman, a young girl, presently among the Nine; she is said to be a particularly low creature raised from birth on the taste of blood.”

“This I had heard also,” Decius added, his face beaming, anxious to tell the tales he had heard of the Heruli, and especially of their women. “Makes one wonder what it would be like to take such a creature. Of course, she is probably as ugly as sin. There are rumors she has regular intercourse with the demon Wodan himself.”

“Is their god Wodan really a monster who once took human form?” asked Ammianus. “I understand our missionaries were startled to find similarities between Christ and Wodan. They say that Wodan, like Christ, was crucified to save his people. Can this be true?”

“I cannot answer,” replied Decius. “Can you, Commander Artagabalus? Wasn't one of your relatives once converted from belief in this Wodan? Or are the rumors incorrect?”

Artagabalaus was momentarily stunned by the backhand reference to his mother. He chose to respond cautiously. “You have heard correctly. My mother was born into a tribe that believed in the magic and secret properties of Runes. She told me there were similarities in the stories of Christ and Wodan that aided her conversion. Wodan was hung upon a tree for nine nights to earn the right to have the Runes. He was not crucified. Wodan is a warrior’s god, a god of battle and blood. Christ is a divine spirit of peace and love and forgiveness. There can be no similarity.

“I see the solution as simple then, Ammianus,” said Decius. “We must defend the Christ against this warrior god. Once we have captured and put to death the last of these Heruli pagan leaders, Wodan will pass into history with them.”

Artagabalus closed his mind as the two men continued their discussion. His thoughts turned to his mother. It was true she had been of the Heruli tribe, though he had not provided his subordinates with that information. His mother had been the most fearless woman he had ever met. Artagabalus often reflected on the times she left their home to walk alone among the trees in silent contemplation. Her newly-taken Christian faith seemed unshakeable, but there was always a strange longing in her eyes when she mentioned her childhood and the ways of her Germanic people. Brought south as a slave captured in battle - Heruli women were not above joining the fray beside the men if necessary - she had been an oddity to his father's people. Artagabalus's father purchased her then married her.

Artagabalus's desire to be a soldier came more from her than from his father. She taught him that a Heruli was first and foremost a warrior. He loved the tales she told about the battles of the tribe and how no Heruli retreated until the chieftain said to retreat. If the chieftain died, the Heruli died with him or stood alone among the bodies of the enemy. When Artagabalus was nine, his mother had tattooed upon his forehead a small blue dot. His father had been very angry over this act which he felt to be pagan. His mother was unmoved. She remarked that were Artagabalus with the tribe a narrow blue stripe would have replaced the small dot. Artagabalus still carried the little blue mark of the Heruli warrior upon his forehead.

“Commander, what do you think will happen when we meet up with this group?”

“I ...” Artagabalus began.

“Commander Artagabulus.” The young soldier of the guard stationed at the opening of the officer's tent had called out. “My watch commander bids me notify you that a large band of horsemen is approaching out of the east. Our scouts have said that the leading elements carry the standard of General Narses.”

“Narses, here?” exclaimed Artagabalus. “Ammianus, bring our armor and weapons. Decius, go and make sure the troops are ready and presentable. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“It is good to see you again Commander Artagabulus,” said Narses in greeting to the younger man.

Artagabalus noted that General Narses appeared no different or older than when they had last met. Perfectly groomed as always, his short black hair appeared in place and unruffled by the elements even though he had just come from the road. His dress was meticulous, his tall frame perfect in the manner of bearing which a Byzantine general should display when in the midst of subordinates. Artagabalus smiled inwardly. Narses was the ideal representative for the Emperor Justinian in all ways. “Your visits to my command are always welcome, General. I hope the Emperor is in good health. Please tender him my greetings.”

They had never been friends, Artagabalus and Narses, but they shared a certain respect based on knowledge of each others' military prowess.

“I will do so,” responded Narses softly. “But now I must cut our pleasantries short. I have asked that you and I speak alone because only you must know the true nature of your mission from this point on. No word must reach the quarry you hunt concerning anything I tell you. None can be trusted – none!”

“You may speak safely in my tent, General Narses. Even the guards have been moved a distance away, as you ordered.”

“Good.” Narses motioned Artagabalus toward two chairs placed in the center of the tent for their convenience. “Our entire campaign to re-conquer and restore the western part of the old Roman Empire may depend much on how well you perform your mission. It seems we are at the right place at the right time with exactly the right force.”

Artagabalus’s face did not mask his surprise at the words. “This band of rabble has such importance, General?”

Narses laughed. “Indeed, they are meaningless as a military force which could hamper our plans of conquest. This band of Heruli are small in size and of no consequence militarily. The fact that they follow the ancient gods only makes them appear somewhat comical, an anachronism in our growing Christian world.”

“That, my General, is exactly as I would have described them,” Artagabalus offered. “I had even thought them not worth the chase. I assume they will go back to those places in the north where the forces of darkness still hold sway to practice their ways of witchcraft. Only there can they hope to delay for a few years the inevitable triumph of the words  of Christ.”

Narses nodded in agreement. “I am sure they would do so if they could. We must ensure they do not. Did you know that it was a pagan Heruli who forced the Western Roman Emperor Romulus Augustulus from his throne in Ravenna?”

“Yes, General, that subject has always been of interest to me.” Artagabalus did not add that his mother had been very proud of her people's accomplishment, a deed that the great Attila had failed in doing. Better Narses did not know of his Heruli connection.

“Over three-quarters of a century ago now, as I remember,” said Narses. “But as important an act to us today as when it happened. Thank the Lord it was a Heruli who did this. We could not have asked God for a better sign of a divine mandate to re-conquer our old territories in the name of Emperor Justinian and of Christianity.”

“How so, General? Are these not long dead matters?”

Narses rose to his feet and stretched before answering. He looked tired. “When Odoacer, the Heruli chieftain, dethroned Romulus, he tore a brooch, a simple antique robe pin, from the collar of his tunic. This robe pin had come to be associated in the last days of the western part of the empire with the actual power of the state. Oaths were taken on this robe pin by the touching of lips to it, simple and plain though it was. The Emperor Romulus Augustulus wore it as a badge of his power and of his faith. It is said the robe pin was once used on a garment Christ wore.”

“How did Romulus know it once belonged to the Christ?” asked Artagabalus, amazed by such an assertion.

“It was discovered at Jerusalem in the time of Constantine and brought to Rome. Legends telling of it belonging to the Savior were old even then.”

“My God!” exclaimed Artagabalus, rising to his feet. “Where is this sacred relic today? Surely we have recovered it?”

“We have not. Odoacer, the Heruli, claimed that none could ever be made emperor again since this robe pin would never be found. It was said he threw it into the river.”

Artagabalus stared at the older officer, but no words came to him in response.

“But he did not!” Narses continued, stepping closer to the now fascinated junior officer. “Word was brought to Justinian recently that even now it is said to hang around the neck of a foul monster named Arnulf, a creature said to be the greatest sorcerer in the world!”

Artagabalus wanted to respond in so many ways, but all he could think of to say was, “I know the reputation of this man.”

Narses continued, “I think you begin to see the new importance of your mission. It is no longer valid just to chase out of our territories a band of ragged demon worshipers. By taking this band and destroying every last man, woman, child, horse, animal and artifact, we achieve two goals. We show our enemies that we have paid back totally the barbaric tribe whose leader brought the Western Roman Empire down. In addition, we find and take back the robe pin of Christ. None could thereafter claim our conquest is not just and divinely inspired. The old empire would be totally restored.”

Narses walked back to his chair and sat down once again. With arms folded he watched with no small amount of pleasure the impact of his words on the thoughts, and hence upon the face, of his subordinate.

“I see, General Narses,” said Artagabalus finally. “But there is one flaw. There is still the Christian Heruli band under their Chieftain Artawulfe. They are our allies. Their continued existence will allow our enemies to say we punish selectively, that we are weak and unworthy of respect.”

“They are dead.”

“What?”

“They are dead,” repeated the general. “Even now Artawulfe's bones are frying in Hell for the heretic he has always been. I had him flayed alive, then burned. We held celebrations in the Heruli camp supposedly to honor their service to the Emperor Justinian. While they celebrated, we took them all in slaughter on the Emperor's command. Those who were outside the camp are being hunted down as we speak. By dawn tomorrow, there will in this world be no living members of the Heruli tribe outside the small band you chase.”

Artagabalus was silent, too stunned to speak. In his mind's eye he saw his mother's sad face looking at him, mocking him with her eyes - Heruli eyes.

Narses’s face was suddenly turned hard, like pink granite, his eyes dead-appearing as a slab of slate, no light seeming to emanate from them. He continued, “Artagabalus, you will hunt these creatures down, retake the robe pin of Christ, and put to death every Heruli tribesman. Leave none as slaves, no matter how the slave traders cry out. Leave no weapon unbroken, no camp or village standing. Destroy every religious site. Destroy everything!”

Artagabalus still could not find words of reply. He fumbled for a response that might turn some of the horror aside.

General Narses measured his words’ effect upon Artagabalus briefly, then walked to the tent entrance and called for a guard. As one approached, he asked. “Have the checks been made to see how many are here?”

“Yes, General,” replied a young guard officer, “There were only two, General. They await your pleasure with Commander Agathias.”

“Bid Agathias await my coming.”

Turning, Narses motioned for the still stunned Artagabalus to rise and follow him. They left the tent and headed for the place where a fire raged near the tree where John of Tyre had been lifted aloft.

As they approached the tree, the principle aide of Narses stepped forward and greeted them. “General Narses, the soldiers of this unit have told us one of our cavalrymen was tortured and defiled in the Heruli manner, being finally hanged here as a sacrifice to their demons. We have taken two Heruli as captives in order to exact retribution for this act. We found no others.”

“General Narses,” stuttered Artagabalus in astonishment. “These two Heruli are Christians. They had nothing to do with the pagan rites. They have been loyal scouts in the service of my forces.”

“You must have closed your ears to my words, Commander Artagabalus,” General Narses whispered, leaning close to the commander so that others might not hear. Then he said aloud, “These members of the tribe of the Heruli have forfeited their lives for the crimes of heresy and sorcery. They will die in the way their fellow tribesmen have caused the death of many a loyal soldier of the Emperor. They will be hung by the neck in the tree and then burned alive.”

Artagabalus was forced to stand and watch as the cruel ritual execution was carried out. He asked for permission for a priest to bless the burning bodies as they writhed in their death agony. The request was refused on the command of Narses. The branches of the tree in which the bodies were hung cracked and blackened in the flames as well, an additional victim, dying like the men. The Heruli scouts' equipment was burned with them, as were the bodies of the horses they had been riding.

General Narses was pleased. He believed this showed Artagabalus the proper means of carrying out his wishes. If not, Narses would find another who would do so. His gaze caught that of Artagabalus' subordinate, Decius. Yes, thought Narses, where one might falter, there were always others who would not.

CHAPTER 4

RAIN WARRIOR

“Lorasinthe!” Mittanewod yelled, turning to look over his shoulder toward the wagon just behind the one he occupied. “If this ground becomes any rougher my teeth are going to jar loose and fall out.”

Lorasinthe laughed at his manner of expression, although she completely understood his sentiment. “Hold your tongue Mittanewod. I see another falling away of the land up front, just behind that stand of trees. We may be going down hill again.”

“No! No! No!” Mittanewod mocked fear, laughing heartily while doing so.

Lorasinthe's legs were bruised in small spots from her ankles to her thighs. Words would be hard to find that described what it was like traveling overland through a wilderness. Each shock and shimmer of the wagon, as the wheels rolled over some rock or alteration in the landscape, brought new bruises. Trees blocked passage, bushes threatened to strike with cruel, whipping, branches. Oxen bellowed. Drivers shouted. All these sounds and actions added in their own way to the small pains of the moment. No matter, they were on their way home now.

The crossing of the great river had taken place without negative incident, a surprise as one or more deaths were usual during such an event. Still, the Heruli knew the Donau as their river. The water spirits could be expected to help them, and did.

“I'm coming to join you!” shouted Mittanewod. The young man jumped off the back of his wagon, running quickly to clamber up onto the seat beside her. “Chatt can drive for a while. I'm tired of it.”

Lorasinthe smiled brightly at him. “You would tell me what tired feels like?”

“It has been five days since we left the road,” Mittanewod moaned. “Five days of bumps and injuries - forests with trees so densely packed passage seems impossible. Clearings so filled with water and mud that many men and teams of oxen are needed to pull each wagon along. We have had more warriors injured in this battle with thorns and thicket that we did in our last fight against the Byzantines.”

Lorasinthe was amused by his way of describing their common plight. She smiled brightly. “But you are still here, Mittanewod, and still able to make a joke of it. All is not lost.”

The boy responded happily to her teasing, welcoming it. “The fact that you are able to smile this morning tells me you are at least content with your lot. I notice your long hair hangs in two braids this day, one on each side. Did the changing of mud to dust and dust back to mud finally cause you to protect so fine an attribution. I know your golden hair is your pride. No doubt you are glad to be a woman sitting on this high wagon seat out of the reach of today’s mud.”

“Our women have it the worst,” she said, teasing him in return. “The men must swim in the mud and endure the scratches and bumps of daily misfortune, but the women have the children and old to care for, as well as having to get down and push wagons when needed.”

“A people on the move always suffer,” Mittanewod said, refusing to compromise. “Only more so when the travel is over a landscape as rough and rolling as this.”

Lorasinthe was definitely in a teasing mood and Mittanewod seemed deserving of her attentions. Besides, she was more than happy that he had chosen to accompany her. The visit was a relief from the sameness of travel.

“Heruli women have learned to bear their burdens well, don't you think?” Lorasinthe fished for some of the humorous sarcasm for which Mittanewod was well known.

Instead of his usual flippant reply, Mittanewod responded seriously again. “Heruli women learned long ago that life brings most of us burden and joy in equal measure. Arnulf would call this knife edge way of living the balance to be found in life, though many of our women might swear there is a tilt in favor of burden.”

“Why Mittanewod, do I hear the beginnings of a lore teller in you? Arnulf would be most proud of what you have just said.”

Mittanewod examined her profile for hints of further teasing but found none. Was that a blush arisen to her cheeks, or only the normal unblemished tone that was the envy of most of the other young girls of the tribe? A moment passed before Mittanewod could recover his train of thought. When he resumed his demeanor remained serious. “Our women are expected to do everything within the tribe except hunt and fight in war. They see a side of life men prefer not to see.”

“There have been women warriors.” said Lorasinthe, returning seriousness with seriousness.

“Out of battle need mostly,” replied Mittanewod curtly. “When we are overrun, women fight. Rarely does a woman take up the sword or spear by choice. Yet, you are right, such has been known to happen.”

“Sometimes it makes me sad that my world is not that of the rest of the women,” Lorasinthe continued. “I am denied some of their pleasures, and some of their pains, because I am one of the Nine. My life balance is different.”

Mittanewod was silent for a moment. He realized he had touched a nerve with his words. Both had lost the teasing spirit and could not get it back.

“Old Orme made me laugh the other day,” Mittanewod said finally, trying to return a lighter note to their conversation. “She asked me if I remembered the day we fought the Gauls and the center of our fighting formation shattered and the warriors fled. The women were truly warriors that day. Orme was so funny with her words and gestures describing how she alone fought the Goths to a standstill. As big and broad as Orme is, I would not wish to try her myself.”

“Our women are by tradition stationed right behind the line of battle,” replied Lorasinthe, her face solemn, her blue eyes darkened. “What appears humorous now was not so then. Orme did not tell how quickly, with rape and death in their eyes, the Goth warriors reached the camp.”

Their talk lessened after this, interrupted both by the sadness of the subject and because Lorasinthe had to take great care in easing her ox team and wagon down a short but steep dip in the land. As they lurched downward, Mittanewod's thoughts changed from considering Lorasinthe's life as one of the Nine to his own entry into, and the restrictions of, that group. Perhaps it was not Wodan who had cut his life Runes. Sometimes Mittanewod felt as if the god of lightning, thunder and rain had done so. Did not lightning, thunder and rain lead at final point to mud?

Mittanewod was not pleased with the turn of his life. He wondered why the gods had selected him to train as a future Master of Runelore, while his brother, Wodanase, was made strong and powerful. At only twenty-two years of age, Wodanase was the most honored warrior in the tribe. Wodanase was of the stars. Mittanewod saw himself as of the mud of the earth. As if he could not leave the thought, Mittanewod drew Lorasinthe into the process as soon as they had arrived at a more relaxed pace of travel once more.

“It was my brother, Wodanase, who saved Orme that day. She forgets that when she goes into her act. Wodanase led the counterattack that swept the Gauls from the camp and saved Orme from the fate that otherwise would have befallen her.”

Lorasinthe frowned. The frown was the direct result of the mention of Wodanase's name.

“They call my brother Warrior of the Rain,” Mittanewod continued, “or Rain Warrior, rather than Wodanase.” Why him, Wodan? Mittanewod wondered. Why not me?

The Heruli god Wodan did not answer his silent entreaty, nor did Lorasinthe respond to the comments about his brother. Soon, there were only the sounds caused by the jolting and rolling of the wagon, the periodic grunts and bellows of the ox team. The mood was truly broken.

Lorasinthe was thinking of her future. Now that she had performed the rite of sacrifice, she knew more arduous tasks would come to her. She could never escape the restrictions imposed upon her by her duties. This reality caused her again to be drawn back to thoughts of her mother who was, after all, the reason Lorasinthe had become one of the nine keepers of Rune-lore.

Lorasinthe thought back to a day when she was seven years old, the day she had been brought forth among the people and introduced as Arnulf's newest pupil. Lorasinthe had never known her mother. At least, she had no memory of her. That day was the first and last time she saw her. Lorasinthe formed her inner thoughts into words. She spoke them more to herself than to the by now long silent Mittanewod. “Female children are taken into the ranks of the Nine only under special circumstances. Is that not so, Mittanewod?”

The boy sighed. “That is true. Such is not done out of any lack of respect for women within the tribe, rather out of respect for the girl child herself.”

“Service to Wodan is considered a cruel duty for females. Am I wrong?”

“Why do you want to talk of such sad things. It is a happy, bright day, even though the way is rough. There are better things to talk about. Besides, you well know that a female keeper of Rune-lore might never marry, might never have a normal home-life. Any child she might have from a clandestine relationship would be exposed to the death. Could the law be made more cruel for a female?”

Lorasinthe's pale-colored eyes were firmly fixed on his face. Mittanewod knew he was trapped in a conversation she wanted to have - and he had avoided - many times before. He tried to forestall the obvious return question by adding “Most females who serve are selected as the result of some transgression committed by the parents against the tribe or the religion. You know this. All of the people know this.”

“Mittanewod? You once told me of my mother. Tell me again now.”

“What do you want to know?” the boy answered, very unhappy with the direction of the discussion.

“Tell me what she looked like.”

“I don't remember. A blond woman, light skinned, pale. I think she looked like you.”

A slight quivering could be noted around Lorasinthe's lips before she responded. “Did she fall in love with the Byzantine?”

Mittanewod sighed, annoyed that he had allowed himself to be trapped. “How should I know that? He was a soldier assigned to train our warriors in the ways Byzantines fight. We needed to understand and take discipline when under Byzantine command. Heruli warriors are sometimes reluctant to obey battle orders, even those of their own chieftains. He had a difficult task to perform.”

“But did she love him?”

“Lorasinthe! He was not your father. What do you care whether she loved him or not?”

“I care,” she replied, turning to face the boy, tears brightly shining in her eyes. “I care,” she repeated softly.

Mittanewod could not look at her sadness. He turned away before answering. “You were two years old when it happened. Arnulf was quite clear about that when he told me. Your brother was five. Your mother never got pregnant by the Byzantine. Her crime came from breaking marriage vows and dishonoring her husband with a foreigner. Had she committed the same act with a Heruli warrior, the matter would have been settled differently.”

Lorasinthe brushed a wayward strand of hair from her eyes. She had continued to look at Mittanewod as he spoke. She could not respond; the words would have choked her.

Mittanewod continued. “The ancient rule is that blood is blood. By potentially allowing a child to be conceived with one not of Heruli blood or adoption into the tribe, she committed blasphemy against the laws of Wodan.”

“Why?” Lorasinthe sobbed softly.

Mittanewod fought back the sadness he felt within him. Heruli warriors did not cry. He could not look at her. “Our women might suffer rape in battle against an enemy people, become pregnant, yet the child is considered of pure Heruli blood. The child is accepted. It is a matter of will. She willed herself away from her people.”

“And my father?” asked Lorasinthe, her face turning back toward the road once more. “What law of Wodan did he break?”

“None.”

“Why then was he so cruel?”

“He chose the kindest route. He was not cruel. Your mother was left alive to see the result of her folly.”

“That was the cruelest act of all.”

“Your father could not foresee what would happen. Can you not see that? He sent your mother and your brother back to her family with her goods and her gifts. He must have loved her very much else he could never have done that.”

“My uncle took my five year old brother's life!” cried Lorasinthe loudly, angrily.

“His life was forfeit for his mother's crime. Your brother, young though he was, died bravely. His ashes were given honorable place with his Heruli ancestors even though his birthright was in question. This could have been refused him.”

“What of me? You have never told me why I was given over to Arnulf's care rather than slaughtered by my mother's family. I know it was not my sex that saved me.”

“Some women say you would have been better off dead than as one of the Nine,” continued Mittanewod, calmly. “You were forced to bear some of the punishment of your mother. She knew that and felt the pain as though the white dagger itself had been heated and plunged into her breast. Some women say child-bearing and motherhood are all that there is of good in this life. They pity you. You have not deserved your mother's punishment.”

“I know they pity me,” Lorasinthe agreed, her tears blocked now by other emotions. “But you have not said why I still live.”

“The Fates intervened. Your father had a vision before he could take your life. It was his right to do so, his intended purpose. The Crone, the oldest woman among the three Fates, visited him in the night and withheld the cutting of the cord of life. Some said the Crone was not involved at all. Some said your great beauty as a child was the light of the camp. Some said your father could not bear the deed.”

“But he willingly parted from me!”

“You were handed over to Arnulf. There was a need among the Nine for new blood. You, I and Sigdonner were taken together.”

“My father,” said Lorasinthe, mockingly, “his face is unknown to me among the crowds at festivals and ceremonies. Does he yet live in the camps of other peoples as a disgraced one?”

“No. He went for a Berserk.”

She had rarely heard that word spoken before. The saying of it startled her. She turned to face Mittanewod directly.

Mittanewod shook his head sadly. “He asked Wodan for a wolf's cunning and fearlessness, becoming a wolf-man in the very next Heruli battle. He took life until his own was taken. Wolf-men, Berserks, may never move backward in battle.”

“He is dead then,” she stated firmly, without emphasis or emotion.

“Your father added reputation to his family's name and to his own. He went Berserk for the sake of the soul of his son.”

“And what of my soul, Mittanewod? What of my soul?”

“Arnulf was a friend of your father. Arnulf will see to your soul.”

A deep sigh escaped Lorasinthe's throat as these words were spoken. There was one last unanswered question. “And my mother? Did she die? You never told me, and I have always feared to ask. I have a face in my mind. I will never know if it is hers. My face-picture is of a woman at the edge of madness.”

“It was on the day of your vow-taking, your seventh birthday,” Mittanewod replied softly. “It was my vow-taking day also. That is why I remember. There was a woman in the crowd who seemed unwilling to be there. She was being held by her arms.”

“I saw her!” cried Lorasinthe. “I knew who she was!”

“Yes, we all saw her. You wore the black raven dress of ritual. You wore the blue paint stripe in honor of Wodan's warrior daughter, the Valkyr, Corpse-Taker. Your fine white-yellow hair was braided, like now. Your face was scrubbed pure. Many cried aloud at the depth of your young and innocent beauty. On seeing you, the stories say, your mother lost whatever sanity she had left. That night the Fates were kind. She was swept forth into the place of the cleansing of the soul.”

“Wodan grant that she has been cleansed of her memories.” Lorasinthe broke down completely after saying these words, sobbing uncontrollably - she barely controlled the way of the wagon along the dirt track.

“Yes, Wodan grant,” Mittanewod hoped his reply was soothing enough. He hand touched her face, rubbing lightly away the tears that stained her rose-red cheeks. “I am here, Lorasinthe. We, your people, are all here.”

Later, after Mittanewod had returned to his wagon and Lorasinthe turned her mind to other, less painful thoughts, her attention was drawn forward to a point some distance away along the dirt animal track on which they were moving. Lorasinthe thought she saw specks of light and movement inside a dust cloud. Then, as the vision came clearer, she made out a number of horsemen coming toward the wagon at a rather quick pace. Since none in the front wagons showed undue concern at the riders' approach, she could only assume the horsemen were Heruli. Perhaps they were the band led by Rain Warrior. At that thought, the beating heart within Lorasinthe's small frame jumped. She sought his face long before it could be seen.

The riders did not slow their pace upon approaching the slow moving ox-led wagon train. They might have had their leader done so, but he had not. Instead, the pace quickened. The young warrior who led the column urged his horse to greater effort while calling out to each passing wagon, “Long may the Heruli be honored,” or other standard greetings common among the tribe. They greeted him with cries of familiarity and the calling of his name, Rain Warrior.

Wodanase, now Rain Warrior, smiled at the thought of that name even as its calling caused him to spur his horse to greater efforts. He remembered the first day the name had been used in place of his birth name. They had been fighting Germanic warriors from another tribe, their cowardly name now un-honored in the remembering. The enemy forces were serving the Byzantines as mercenaries. Wodan's own rain storm had thundered down on that day when his name was earned. Ah, what a day that had been!

He recognized the wagon of his brother Mittanewod by the black raven painted on the canvas, the sign of one of the Nine. He saw his brother's face, but they passed no greeting.

Mittanewod and Rain Warrior seldom spoke.

Rain Warrior paused in his thoughts as his jerking and snorting horse approached the next wagon in the column. It too, bore the sign of the raven. Thinking he knew who the occupant was, he slowed his horse perceptibly. As the wagon and horse approached each other for passing, Rain Warrior's gaze briefly found the eyes of a blond-haired girl some years younger than he.

“Rain Warrior!” cried Lorasinthe softly, her heart alight, her soul stirring. The mounted column seemed to slow perceptibly from its former haste. She made out the shield of blue/black painted leather with a lightning flash's thin white streak and roiling clouds against a lighter blue-grey. Such was the mark of Rain Warrior, given him by the tribe as emblematic of superior deeds done on the fields of battle.

“Lorasinthe!” whispered Rain Warrior, the wind in his face carrying his words to his ears alone. The speaking of her name brought back to him who this maiden was in the lore and structure of the tribe. Lorasinthe and Rain Warrior were not friends, as she was with Mittanewod. They could never be anything to each other, outside of duty. They had never even met formally. Lorasinthe was not introduced to men outside the Nine. She did, of course, interact with them within the scope of her duties. Formal introduction was a door that opened ritual gates within the tribe, gates of courtship and arrangement. Hers were closed by tribal law.

Rain Warrior had certain duties that brought him close to Arnulf and others of the Nine. He was, after all, the son of Mittane, a chieftain of the Heruli. During these occasions of duty, Rain Warrior had come into the presence of Lorasinthe a number of times. Once, he had touched her hand. Once, her usually lowered eyes had met his gaze. To say he was enthralled by her beauty would be to dishonor that quality which emanated from each of them when they were together for any reason.

Rain Warrior knew she was not to be thought about, knew he could never court her or marry her. Yet, at the sight of her seated at the front of her wagon, he had begun to bring his horse to a halt. Second thoughts brought reason and sense in their wake. Rain Warrior dug his heels into the horse's side and moved quickly past. He did not greet her, although their eyes met.

Lorasinthe leaned out of the wagon to stare after his form as he passed. He did not bid me greetings, she thought to herself.

Lorasinthe noted the way his brownish-blond hair looked from the rear, a Herulian braid tied securely to the left side of his head, marking him as one of great honor in the tribe.

“He did not bid me greetings,” she cried aloud. She continued to watch as the horsemen proceeded to the rear of the column. She had been there when the Heruli braid was plaited into his scalp. Such was the custom among the Heruli that a young warrior must first earn the right to carry a shield into battle. This shield was granted by his mother, or a close female relative. Then, each warrior performed deeds of valor and had them sung about the camp. Lastly, if they survived and never showed cowardice or fear, they might earn the braid of the Heruli. No matter whether the hair was worn long or short, when granted the honor, the ceremonial braided horsehair cord was plaited into the honored one's hair by his nearest female relative, or wife.

“Did you notice me at all during your swift passage, brother of Mittanewod? Of course you did. Our eyes met. I would live my entire life willingly within the cloak of the duties Wodan has bid me to if I could hear you say my name with love.”

She had touched his hand, once. He had smiled at her, once. She performed willingly, without comment, those tasks Arnulf gave her that brought her into his presence. She had served as watcher at his shield-giving. She had stood by while his mother plaited the braid into his scalp. She had fallen completely in love with him, yet the number of words that had passed between them could be counted on her fingers alone.

Dust stirred up by the disappearing column had risen into the air, as if a great vengeful cloud sought to keep his presence from her sight. Then they were gone - horses, riders, all.

“Now I am Rain Warrior!” Wodanase shouted loudly into his horse’s ear, as he goaded the animal to a faster pace than ever before. “But even Rain Warrior might not take the hand of a keeper of Rune-lore.”

On that day in the darkness of the storm when he had slaughtered so many of the cowardly enemy, he had not earned that right. She was forbidden. She might not be taken as a wife, ever. Yet, since the day he had first seen her, he had wanted no other. Rain Warrior's thoughts turned to the day of his name-earning. Butchery was the only word to describe his acts then. He had killed fifty men and it had been as nothing - a surprise attack, a storm, the rain. The ensuing panic of defeat among the enemy had made their eyes mirrors of the terror so clearly working in their crazed minds. Some men in battle became raging cowards who at other times might have been brave warriors. Such it had been that day for his enemies.

Rain Warrior could still see the eyes of the very first of the enemy he had come upon, clutching to the ground attempting to hide. He had turned the man over, stared into those eyes. He had seen only fear and anguish there. The man screamed when the sword struck his neck. The scream had not lasted long. Rain Warrior had taken blood from the dead one's wounds, rubbed some into his hair. He took more blood, coating the stick that even now still hung along his horse's neck, after first making a deep cut with his knife in the wood so the blood might soak in and stain the groove. In the end, the blood of every one of the fifty he was to slay that rain-soaked day lay each in a separate carved groove in his battle stick. Rain warrior looked down at the stick, now tied securely to his horse's neck by a special leather thong. He was the only Heruli warrior who possessed such an artifact of death.

Rain Warrior slowed his horse as he saw the chieftain's wagon near the center of the column. He knew Mittane and Arnulf would be close. Coming to a halt as quickly as possible – oxen groaning, horses neighing and frothing – both wagon and horse column acknowledged the coming presence of the other.

“We welcome you, Rain Warrior!” shouted Mittane as he climbed down from the still moving wagon's seat to come forth to greet his son, yet mounted on his excited and thrusting horse. “What news have you of the situation beyond the front of our column?”

Rain Warrior took time to bring his horse to a full halt and dismount. He would not greet his father from a superior position. Before he addressed his father's question he handed the reins to another of his party.

“There is good news to tell you, father. We are coming into known territory - in fact, territory perhaps too well known. Yesterday we came upon the burial mound of the Heruli Chieftain Wittha, about whom tales are still told among us even from so long ago.”

“That means we are within less than a week of arrival,” said Mittane happily. “Yet often what is good news is balanced by bad. Your find also means the barrow of Wittha must be hallowed, else we cannot pass. That will take more time. Would we had broken out of the wilderness at some other place.”

“What cannot be undone cannot be undone,” said Arnulf as he pushed through the crowd surrounding Mittane and Rain Warrior. “How far are we from the death barrow of the chieftain?”

“No more than three hours' time from the front of the column,” replied Rain Warrior, “You can reach it before nightfall. The hallowing can take place tonight.”

“None will stay there at such a place,” snarled Mittane. “Wittha was dishonored by the tribe. That is why the barrow of Wittha and the men who died with him lies so far from the Heruli sacred grove. We fear to this day the spirits of those who lie there will torment any Heruli who passes.”

“Wittha was not dishonored!” replied an irritated Arnulf. “He dishonored his people. He dishonored the Heruli. Do not the story tellers teach that Wittha would have allowed Christians to commit sacrilege within our sacred grove had not he and his entire party been slaughtered, then buried in that haunted mound.”

Mittane nodded his head in agreement, but he did not respond.

“No matter what else he was, Wittha was a Heruli chieftain.” Arnulf continued. “We hallow his death site so we might be protected from the wrath of any harmful spirits in our passing. I will take Lorasinthe and Mittanewod, as well as an escort led by you, Rain Warrior. We will go and do this necessary act. The rest will await our calling before coming any closer. Following this necessity, all of our people might then pass in safety.”

CHAPTER 5

WHITE STONE

Huldike scrubbed the rough stone surface ardently. She would have wiped it clean of grime and dirt as well as the memories the stone held of past practices committed there. Huldike hated the white surface of the rock like she hated the false teachings of her fellow tribesmen. They committed their blasphemies here in the name of gods she could not see, gods so unlike those she had seen portrayed in the places to the south where she had been taken during the time of tribal service with the Byzantines.

Huldike brusquely swept a rope of braided, sandy-colored hair away from her face. She was proud of being a Christian. The ancient teachings of the Heruli tribe held for her only disgust. Why had she not gone with those who had converted? She knew why, yet she longed to hear the words of Christ from the mouths of His holy teachers. Trees and bushes and stone held no magic for her. She rubbed harder.

An approaching dark-haired, thin-faced, young man of more than average height could not help smiling while he observed the arduously scrubbing girl in her shapeless work dress. Sigdonner remembered other days and other dresses. “Clean well, Huldike. Else the good Frodagarde will say I am not doing my work and beat me for it.”

Recognizing the voice, the girl made no move to look up. “Were it not for the fact she would beat me also, I would long much for the seeing,” she replied, her brown eyes darkening with further anger at the thought of the witch Frodagarde and of the situation in which she found herself. “Where have you been? You knew this had to be done today. This is your altar, not mine. To me 'tis a blasphemous thing!”

“Hush, creature!” Sigdonner whispered, looking around to see who else might have heard her words. “Would you wish to be taken from here and given to Wodan as one who has committed a blasphemy in the most sacred of places? Not even words of profanation may be uttered here.”

“Why not?” Huldike whispered, her gaze intently fixed upon his. “There is none here but a white rock, which is part of a white stone rise, which is surrounded on three sides by a forest. That is all that is here. Wodan does not exist. Christ has come into the world. All the old beliefs are dying, as will the memory of Wodan.”

As if in answer to her words, a breeze rustled something in the top of the wide-girthed sacred ash tree that stood opposite the white rock she was cleaning with so much negative enthusiasm. As if startled by the oath of sound coming from the huge tree, the other trees of the grove stirred and seemed to murmur in reply.

Sigdonner and Huldike were not disturbed by the murmuring of the trees, but a lone black-winged raven was. The disturbance caused the bird to leave its perch in the branches of the ash tree, to rise up above the last thin, sun-stretching branch to circle over the spreading forest. Looking down, the bird surveyed, ignoring the trees and vegetation, concentrating its gaze upon the open areas. The chattering creatures, a food source known to the raven, were given attention until the raven failed to discern activity that normally produced food. Receiving no such signs, the raven winged higher into the air in order to overlook a wider expanse.

“Your tongue will kill us yet,” Sigdonner said. “One day you will say things like that in front of Frodagarde, and she will take your life in that second.”

“Maybe that would be better,” replied the girl, scrubbing harder at the mention of the middle-aged woman who was her mistress and tormentor.

Sigdonner did not respond to her words. Instead, he approached the spot where she was working, knelt down, and began helping her. “Let us get this done quickly. They await our coming. Today we will see a new life open for us.”

His words surprised her. The young woman stopped scrubbing, stared wide-eyed in delight at him. She would have spoken had he not motioned for her to be silent. From then on both worked quickly at their cleaning with no further discussion.

The object upon which the two young people worked was a large rock of quite startling appearance, with dimensions of almost four feet in height and width, a length of at least eight feet. The great stone may not have elicited comment except for three things. First, it was situated in a niche hewn by nature from the moderate sized hill of rock which provided a backdrop for it. Second, fronting the rock and hill was a large and remarkable tree, the trunk standing some twenty yards away, surrounded on all sides by a dense growth of smaller trees. The tree was believed sacred to Wodan. Third, the rock was made of quartz and was pure white in color as was the hill behind it. The only difference was the rock on the rest of the hill was not cleaned and polished every day to glisten and sparkle as the symbol of the presence of Wodan in the forest grove of the tribe of the Heruli.

The raven looked down from a great height upon the bustling forms below. Since they did not show food signs they did not hold the bird's attention as much as did the scattered movements of the water they were using as they scrubbed. The bird was thirsty but knew it should not land anywhere near where the creatures worked. Descending slowly downward in the direction of the white rock, the raven spread and tilted its wings to change flight direction toward the right side, a memory point near which water lay. Upon landing and finding the water the raven drank deeply of its coolness then departed once more.

“Sigdonner?” Huldike mewed prettily. “When we are free of this place, will you marry me in the Christian way? I want to get married, truly I do.”

“I could not. Would you have me break my vow to my new faith before I am even truly a part of it. I would join their church as a priest or monk. They may not take wives. Then again, maybe I will marry you. I understand many a Christian priest does not hold totally to the vow of chastity, especially in Byzantium.”

“You broke your vow to the old faith, did you not?” Huldike teased. “Were we not forbidden by Wodan's law to do what we have done. We have long been lovers but can never marry because the ways of the Nine forbid such.”

Sigdonner laughed. “A tongue in cheek law, my fair one. True, the Nine may not marry, but the Nine may find pleasure where they can. Many a wink has been made at such indiscretions. We are human just like the rest, you know. “

“Lorasinthe may not!” Huldike scowled. She hated the girl whom she felt too often held Sigdonner's attentions.

“Lorasinthe may, but if she were caught there would be death in it. I, my fair one, can not bear a child. Lorasinthe can. Were she caught, all involved would die. Were the involved to be myself, the payment would be greater than that given out for the very act for which we now plot and plan.”

“When can we go? Let's go,” whispered Huldike.

“Not yet,” whispered the boy in return. “Continue scrubbing on the white rock upon which Wodan once sat. Perhaps Wodan will be appreciative of your efforts and help us in our mission.”

“You are still a pagan!” Huldike whispered viciously.

Sigdonner laughed aloud.

The white rock whose surface they scrubbed had broken off from the hill long before man had come to this spot in the forest. The rock had fallen and landed exactly where it now stood, a spot from which no man had tried to move it. The grove had been shaped around the rock. Except the constant polishing of generations had made its white surface stand out in brilliance, the rock remained as it had been since that long ago day when the hill had first sent it forth.

“Huldike,” whispered Sigdonner to the still busily cleaning girl. “Tonight when I light the torches to keep the darkness away from Wodan's rock, perhaps we can meet and be together.

“You know how dangerous that is,” murmured Huldike in response.

“Why? Are you afraid dwarves and elves may come to get you. That is why people fear coming here at night, you know. They fear the tiny spirits of the darkness.”

“I fear them only if they are in the shape of the human guards that protect the grove. They could catch us. I do not wish to have Frodagarde lay the branch across my back.”

They continued polishing for some time, laughing and teasing each other as they worked. A gruff old woman watched them for a moment without comment, a look of disdain for their frivolity upon her face.

“Sigdonner, Huldike!” commanded Frodagarde, her ire heightened by the sight of a gentle caress the boy had given the girl's leg as she watched. “What sacrilege would you commit here in the very heart of Wodan's hallowed grove?”

The effect of her presence and commanding voice on the two youths was startling. Frodagarde was not one of the Nine, but Frodagarde was Arnulf's presence in his absence.

“What's wrong, Frodagarde?” Sigdonner stammered. “We were just finishing the work of the cleaning. I was helping Huldike with a difficult area.”

“I know what area you would help her with,” roared the angry woman. “Have you not better things to do?”

Sigdonner had recovered some self-control, enough to be able to respond heartily. “Indeed, I do, but I will have need of this young girl for the doing. We must gather boughs of mistletoe for the ceremony tonight.”

“If you are done with your work here go and gather mistletoe,” replied Frodagarde, grimly. “You, Huldike, I would speak with you after.”

“Yes, Frodagarde. I will be back soon.”

Huldike and Sigdonner dropped their cleaning materials and left at a run. Later, at the edge of a clearing, as the two were breathing hard from the exertions they had made in escaping the clutches of Frodagarde, they stopped to rest. The pair laughed and joked about their unreasonable fear the overweight Frodagarde might in some way be chasing after them.

“She will beat me mercilessly if we return,” cried a wearied Huldike. “Frodagarde has warned me before what she would do if I did not stop tempting you.”

“We need not go back,” said Sigdonner angrily. “Let my fellow members of the Nine, Amberone and Semna, conduct the ceremony. Let them wonder at my absence. They will soon see me again at Wodan's rock!”

“Sigdonner, how did Wodan's rock really come to take that name? I do not believe the stories that tell of Wodan actually sitting upon it and teaching the Heruli.”

“He did not sit upon it and teach, at least not in the way you seem to be implying. Long ago, our legends say a Heruli warrior band came to this area for the first time. When they got to the place where the rock now rests, there was a man sitting on it.”

“And that was Wodan?” the girl asked. “Why did they think it was Wodan?”

“Where were you when these stories were told around the campfires?”

“I was not listening then. Now I want to know.”

“There was a man sitting on the rock, as I said. Some of the stories and legends differ. Some say he wore a beard and a blue cape without any head protection. Others say he wore a cape and a black slouch hat. All agree there was a patch over his left eye.”

“And Wodan is supposed to have said, you will tend this place for me and will hold it as the heart of your people until the day comes when the blood of courage and the blood of faith beat no more in all of your veins. On that day, the last of you will take my memory back to your ancestors. Till then I am here with you,” Huldike mocked.

“You know the story better than I do,” Sigdonner replied. “Why are you wasting my time having me repeat it.” He leaned over and kissed the girl gently on her tempting lips. “We could be spending our time to better purpose.”

“We do not have time,” Huldike said seriously. “Besides, I might be too tired to make the trip afterwards. Talk to me, tell me more of the Heruli secrets only the Nine may know.”

Sigdonner smiled. “Now I see what you want. You want to know secrets.”

“Yes,” the girl said firmly.

“Then I'll tell you one. Normally the Heruli, being a warrior band carrying death on their spears, might have dispatched any unknown person encountered in such a strange place without a second thought. For some reason the totally unexpected words of the man caused them to pause. The warrior leader, also named Arnulf, walked up to the man sitting on the rock and asked him, ‘Who are you, and who dares speak in command to the Heruli? We obey none but our chieftains.’” Sigdonner over-dramatized these words from the ancient Heruli past for the girls benefit and was gratified to see she found him amusing.

“The one-eyed stranger looked at the blue-painted body of Arnulf and said, 'from hence will the Heruli not cover their entire body with blue color. You will remember your days before me only in the keeping of a single thin blue stripe down the center of each male tribal member's forehead. Thus will the Heruli be known as the Heruli. This will be the mark of fear your enemies will come to know.'“

“I have heard that legend about the blue stripe,” Huldike sighed. “Tell me something secret Wodan told them.”

“Be patient. Arnulf looked at the stranger with his neatly trimmed growth of beard, tattered old hat, and worn cape as if he were mad.

“I would have thought him so, too,” said Huldike.

“The one-eyed one saw the look, smiled slightly behind the darkness of the face hidden so well by the brim of his hat, then continued speaking. He told them in that place they must seek his wisdom. In that place they would find it. In that place they would grow in strength. The grove would be the Heruli's only place of peace.”

“I know that story too, Sigdonner!”

The boy ignored her complaint. “After saying these words, the blue cape-covered man lifted his body off of the white rock. He adjusted his broad-brimmed hat and, a mirthful grin on his rugged face and a twinkle in his remaining eye, turned and walked back into the trees where the spring would one day be found. That was all. From that day forth the grove and rock belonged to the Heruli.”

“You have told me nothing I did not already know. I thought you would tell me deep and dark secrets. You have only told me what every child knows.”

“Then you now know the secret of the Nine. It is that there are no secrets.”

“You are a terrible liar, Sigdonner,” Huldike teased. “Now you must pay a price for your lying. Come to me.”

As they began making love, neither Huldike or Sigdonner noticed the raven soaring high above them in the air, headed back toward the grove area from which they had just come. The bird knew by instinct where it was going. The girth of the Great One, the huge ash tree that spread its branches over the grove and the rock, blocked from view much of what the bird might have seen.

Dropping in altitude quickly, the raven once more passed down through the branches of the ash and, noting the absence of human activity, landed in front of the great white rock of the Heruli. It had learned in the past there was sometimes the choicest of foods to be found in this area. The bird was cautious in this place where the chattering creatures often congregated, unaware no threat existed. He did not see the shadowed form until it called to him.

“You are a lucky bird, raven of Wodan,” said Frodagarde, as she watched the bird carefully pick among the food especially laid out for its use. “We Heruli are forbidden to kill ravens, not only in the grove, but outside as well. Big black bird, sacred to Wodan, this is your grove too.”

Since the noisy form did not appear threatening, and stayed at a distance, the raven continued to peck lightly at the seeds and other delicacies to be found on the ground surrounding the rock.

Frodagarde smiled. “Is it true, friend raven, that Wodan, in his wisdom, uses your intelligence and natural camouflage for his own purpose. Heruli legends tell of two ravens, one called Mind, the other Memory, always within flying distance, providing Wodan with intelligence about the world. Heaven help anyone who harms Wodan's spies. Are you one of Wodan's birds, friend raven?”

The raven, satisfied with the feeding, now chose to regard the chattering creature as an irritation and, with a whir of ebony wings, rose once again to the skies.

“Where are we going, Sigdonner? We have been traveling through this brush and up and down these woodland hills for ever so long.”

“Not long now, my lady,” responded the boy. “If you had not stopped our progress for that bout of lovemaking we would have been there by now.”

“You did not object then. You wanted me then very badly, didn't you Sigdonner?”

“We might have done better to wait,” the boy shrugged. “They would not understand they have been kept waiting so our lust might be satisfied.”

“Love. You love me, don't you Sigdonner?”

“We must get to yonder hill,” Sigdonner said, ignoring her question. “The man they sent to me was quite clear they would await our coming there. Did you bring the drawings and sketches of the grove and the region thereabouts? The list of those who are there now? Our new friends must have time to plan before any attack can take place.”

“I have brought the drawings. I have brought the lists.”

The drawing Huldike had made clearly indicated the layout of the grove area, including the paths leading through the woods. In order to identify the site completely from the surrounding forest, the Heruli had cleared the dense growth of vegetation out to a distance of some seventy-five meters beyond the grove. The trees remaining in the interior grove area formed a pattern roughly resembling the rounded portion of a horseshoe, a shape governed by the layout of the quartz hill.

“What about the village? Did you diagram that?”

“If you can call it a village,” jeered Huldike. “Our Heruli village is merely a collection of run-down huts. Yes, I have provided their layout.”

“We are a warrior people, a people of movement,” chided Sigdonner. “Most of our food and lodgings are provided by the benefactors who use our services. This village is purely functional, not permanent.”

“A people of wagons and warfare,” Huldike sneered. “A people who do not grow crops to sell to others, save for some flax for weaving, are not a people.”

The raven had eaten what could be found in the clearing and winged away to seek better pickings in the gardens near an odd collection of structures that did not have the haphazard and comforting appearance of the rest of the surrounding countryside.

The raven landed near the village residence of the two men who in Arnulf's absence were most responsible for the care of the grove. They were the other surviving members of the Nine, Amberone and Semna.

Semna watched the bird land among the now crumpled ravages of his former summer garden. Semna smiled at the bird’s pecking at the vestiges of what remained of his crop.

“You there, raven.” Semna chided. “If you are Wodan's bird, tell your Master to bring more rain to my plants next summer. The crop was thirsty, and the fruit grew small.”

The raven was startled by this sudden burst of sound from the creature. Threat or not, the bird quickly winged away, flying back toward the forest in the direction of the grove. The forest, dark looking and overgrown with vegetation, was not a place where the bird normally landed. He sought open areas, visual protection against a predator's swift strike.

“I have thought of something,” said Sigdonner.

“What, my love?” responded Huldike, continuing to walk at a rapid pace, but looking back over her shoulder briefly.

“About the secret. A secret only the Nine might know.”

“Tell me.” the girl said excitedly.

“Did you know there are parallel rows of trees in the forest surrounding our grove that have their upper branches tied together? Did you know that wide paths once existed between these trees that were used in sacred processions from the village to the rock of Wodan?”

“That is not possible. The forest is thick and overgrown with vegetation. The only way to get there is by narrow paths.”

“The processional paths disappeared over time through neglect and the turmoil of war. Yet, that is why we are forbidden as a people to disturb so much as a single blade of grass within the forest surrounding the grove. Great ritual was once practiced there. Our ancestors once worked there to beautify and make sacred the way to the rock and the pole of life.”

As they walked on she thought about his words. “What really is the pole of life, Sigdonner? Why do we practice the foul ritual of putting our blood upon it?”

Sigdonner reflected for a moment, wishing to give the girl a truthful answer. “The Christian priesthood I wish to join as a brother would never understand. They think the pole is only a place of bloody sacrifice. In reality it is similar in nature to one of the victory monuments they have in profusion in Constantinople. The wooden pole stands opposite the rock of Wodan near the sacred tree. It is symbolic of the tie of our people with their ancestors. The dark-colored gore of ages stains the Runes carved into its bloody wooden sides.”

Her skin crawled in remembrance of the odor surrounding the pole. “Are the Christian priests not right? Is that not a dread secret of the Nine? That sacrifices are made to Wodan in the grove, and upon the pole, sacrifices made to satisfy the demands of Wodan and our ancestral spirits for blood?”

“Never!” exclaimed Sigdonner. “Christian prisoners brought to the grove to work spread those lies after seeing the blood upon the pole. I will set the story straight when I am a Christian priest. We sacrificed no one. We drank no victims' blood.”

“Then the pole is really just a tradition?”

“Yes, I see you really believed otherwise. The pole has always been the tie between the living Heruli and their ancestors. At birth, each child is brought to the pole. Blood is smeared on the sides, joining the child's blood to the blood of others in the tribe.”

“Thank our Lord the Christians do not have such foul traditions!”

Sigdonner smirked. “What about the eating of Christ's flesh and the drinking of his blood?”

“That is done in remembrance of him. It is symbolic within the needs of the faith.”

He nodded his head as if accepting her answer as correct. “Now you know the secret I would reveal. So are the rituals the Nine perform. We are not so different after all. That is why I feel no loss in converting from one symbolism to another.

“But what about Wodan? Is he only symbolic to you? Huldike asked, excited by these revelations of a faith she had never bothered to understand.

“Yes.”

The raven flew once more through the woods and back to the open area where the stone stood. As if remembering he had used up the source of food there, the bird landed only briefly on a tall wooden pole before winging away once more into the sky in an easterly direction as if something were chasing him. It is true there was a wind come up from somewhere.

Quickly, with a whir of wings, the raven covered a vast distance, heading toward a tree covered hill surrounded in part by open fields. Below him, the bird could see moving forms. Turning, he made as if to get away from these. Suddenly, a surging, overpowering, downward draft of air took hold of the raven's wings, propelling him downward toward the earth.

Far below the winged blue/black bird Sigdonner was reflecting on his comment about his feelings toward Wodan. Was Wodan only symbolic? Sigdonner had never seen Him, never heard His voice upon the wind. He had never seen the Christ. What difference did it make? Christ. Wodan. They were the products of ritual. Was that not why he was converting? A more powerful ritual had come.

“Sigdonner,” whispered Huldike. “Look there, up on that hill, is that men I see?”

“Yes,” responded the boy. “There is no need to whisper. They are awaiting us. Let's go.”

As he finished saying these words, Sigdonner saw a large black raven slowly circle. The bird landed only a short distance away in the direction of the hill up which they were to travel. The raven seemed as if to challenge their presence, to block their path. Sigdonner stood transfixed as the bird gave forth with the normal call of its breed, chattering in a number of different tonal sequences. What to most travelers would have been a humorous interlude was to Sigdonner and Huldike an omen, an ill omen.

“It is Wodan!” murmered Huldike. Then louder, so that the boy could hear her, “Wodan knows we intend to betray his grove to the Byzantines! May the Christ protect us.”

“It is a raven, a grain-eating blue/black bird, Huldike!” said Sigdonner. “I have not come this far to be turned back by a meaningless superstition. Come, let us go. He will fly away at our approach.”

The bird did not fly away. Instead, the creature continued its slow marching walk up the hill. Its chattering changed pattern of sound only, as if the bird were trying to communicate with them.

A rage built within Sigdonner. The growing fear he noticed in the eyes of Huldike caused him to search and find a palm-sized rock. “Bird of darkness, leave my sight! Sigdonner, one of nine, demands this of you.”

“It knows you are betraying the Nine. It knows you intend to betray your trust.”

“I betray no trust. The power of the Christians has shown Wodan is now insignificant, overthrown. The Heruli must change to a new god. I cast you off, bird of darkness!”

With these words, Sigdonner hurled his rock. Intended only to frighten the bird away, the rock seemed to be guided by an unseen hand. The bird, struck in the middle of a chattering response, fell over at once. Sigdonner and Huldike approached the prostrate form. Sigdonner kicked the bird's body aside. “Come Huldike. I have killed the creature. It was nothing but a raven. There are no ravens of Wodan. There never were.”

But the fear was upon Huldike. As he took her hand and partly dragged her up the hill, she continued to look back. She looked back until she could no longer see the raven’s form there in the dirt.

Back where the body of the black bird lay, a gentle wind stirred the grasses. The wind was cool and comforting, laced with the smells of early autumn. The raven breathed but did not move. A breeze gently lifted some of the feathers in the raven's wings. There was no response. The breeze grew in potency, gathering strength - a light dust swirled. The raven stirred at last, opening its eyes. Rising to its feet unsteadily, the bird sensed the effects of the painful blow it had endured. Wings spread, it shook itself. In moments, after moving and testing its wings, the legendary great black bird of Wodan rose up into the air once again, soon flying high over the pair of humans running hard toward what they believed would be protection.

CHAPTER 6

TRAITORS

Sigdonner and Huldike approached the place where they were to meet the outlanders. Both appeared anxious. In fact, the reasons for their anxiety differed greatly. Sigdonner was moved by thoughts of power and revenge, Huldike by the spirit of faith. Awaiting their arrival on a wooded knoll approximately one mile from the grove of the Heruli was a small band of oddly dressed horsemen. Sigdonner was quick to note that the men were clothed in what appeared to be a poor approximation of Germanic tribal wear. He wondered whether they were attempting to pass as Heruli tribesmen returning to the grove. If so, they bungled the attempt in that they retained many articles of traditional Byzantine military clothing. Their one concession to traditional Heruli dress was that they wore bear fur or deer hide cloaks around their shoulders in place of the standard Byzantine felt cape.

Sigdonner had seen few Byzantines before. He was impressed to find they knew many words of his language when he knew not one of theirs.

One of the first to come forward to greet the pair was the Legate Decius. General Narses had been right in his assessment of Decius, that he might have to seek his help in the mission to crush the Heruli tribe. Decius, once second in command to the Byzantine cavalry leader Artagabalus, was now promoted and reporting directly to General Narses. Narses decided early that Artagabalus' spirit would not be up to the work that would be required. Something hindered the man’s will to do what was necessary, perhaps something in his past that Narses had been unable to discover. A man with no scruples was needed for the mission against the Heruli. Decius was perfect for the job.

“Tis good to see you again Huldike,” said Decius, his greeting warm and friendly.

“It has been very long, Commander,” replied Huldike. The girl knelt before Decius as she spoke, as was the custom she had seen in the city of Constantinople when lesser beings approached those whose status loomed above them.

Turning to the others surrounding Decius, she said, “Greetings also to you, Galbo, and to you other soldiers whom I know not. And most gratefully to you, dear Father Anselmo. May God give a special blessing to all.

Tears welled in Huldike's eyes as she stared longingly at the men. Only Father Anselmo stepped forth to place a hand on her arm and respond to her greeting. “My child, my heart glows with the sight and knowledge you have not turned one step from the path to Our Lord since last we met. It was my privilege to place you upon the path of Christ when your father, the great Chieftain Chlodote, brought you to me. His soul has received many prayers for redemption and salvation since his untimely passing.”

“My father is dead?” asked Huldike, tears of sadness instantly welling in her eyes as she comprehended the meaning of the surprise message the priest brought her.

Father Anselmo showed little outward concern for his cruel thoughtlessness. “Yes, my child, and may God grant him his highest mercy, for he did not take the cross while he yet lived.”

“That means . . .” stammered Huldike, a look of sheer terror coming to her face. Her tears burst forth, and sobs of pain clutched at her throat. She staggered.

“It means, dear one,” Father Anselmo said, continuing the train of thought she had been unable to continue, pausing briefly for effect, a hint of satisfaction somewhere behind the blank expression he sought to maintain, “he is to be forever in that place whose name I cannot mention.”

The girl seemed as if in collapse. Only the holding of her arms by both the priest and the almost equally confused and mystified Sigdonner kept her from falling faint to the ground.

Although Sigdonner did not know any of these men, he asked in real concern, “How did this happen? Her father was surely baptized a Christian. He was one of the first of his band of the Heruli to take the cross. He was with Artawulfe. This cannot be.”

“Nevertheless, it is true,” answered Anselmo. “He himself believed he had done so, but he was improperly baptized and consecrated by a monk who was later declared heretic. The conversion was thus in error and forfeit.”

“Father, say this cannot be!” cried Huldike.

The priest took her arm tenderly. “Man is weak and sinful in his ways, and often prone to accept unquestioningly the wiles of the heresiarch. Such sins of false teaching are often the way through which the evil one deceives the children of God and destroys their faith. Fear not, God may yet overturn the punishment for even so serious a crime. Although the Church says those who listen to or follow a heretic and hold to his teachings are themselves heretics and damned, God may bring relief. It is given to you to save his soul, to pull your father back from the great abyss into which he has been thrown.”

“How, Father?” cried the now thoroughly frightened girl. “Say how and I will do it.”

Sigdonner looked at her, then at Anselmo. He marveled at the level of power the priest  exercised over her. A few words which seemed of no real import to himself and Huldike was prostrate with fear and terror. He, one of the nine keepers of Runelore among the Heruli, could never have said such words to one of his own people and have them tremble at his feet. They might fear the power of Wodan. They might fear the magic of Arnulf. They would not fear the words of some powerless boy whose highest honor was to keep the great white stone of the Heruli grove clean and polished. Sigdonner's belief he was doing the right thing was further justified. Perhaps this priest's power might be learned, or shared.

“My child,” continued Anselmo, with the look a stern parent might give a most wayward youth, “these are dire times. The forces of paganism and heresy are redoubling their efforts to see Our Lord's work done in vain. Your own Heruli people who remain pagan are the very spearhead of those forces of evil. How can those of your people who have come beseeching God for mercy and baptism be saved if there are still among the Heruli tribe those who might suborn that fragile salvation? You must help us save your people. That salvation can only come with the conversion of the pagans and the destruction of all that serve the old gods.”

The girl looked into the priest's eyes, eyes appearing calm and reassuring, and replied, “I am your servant Father, now and forever. Within me the old ways are dead, as are those of my people who cannot see the light. The power of conversion of the Word of our good Christ is great. I have with me a youth who is of the highest rank within the religious among the Heruli. He has agreed to take the cross.”

The priest, who had paid scant attention to Sigdonner, now turned to him. “You are a priest of Wodan?”

Sigdonner felt a measure of pride build within him as the monk spoke the words. The Heruli did not use the title priest, but the boy knew that within Christianity a priest was a most honored man, a member of a respected profession.

Sigdonner replied, using the Christian title as if it were his own, “I am a priest of Wodan, but I have come to know the falseness of such teachings. I would be baptized and take the cross.”

“How can one of the Nine say this?” asked Decius. “The last one of the Nine we captured would have ripped out his own heart with his hands rather than have said such words. Of such believers is almost anything possible, except conversion. How is it you wish to willingly know our Lord's mercy, boy?”

Sigdonner looked from the priest to the unknown antagonist who had said the harsh words. The man appeared dangerous. The lies and half-truths that must serve as answers had best have the ring of truth. “I have seen the evil spirits that come to the Heruli priests in the night, the demons they conjure up to hold our people in the grasp of dark powers. I have participated in the sacrifices of small children.”

Huldike looked quizzically at Sigdonner but said nothing.  She wondered why he felt it necessary to make up lies about their people when it was only necessary to admit a greater God had come and was asking acceptance.

Father Anselmo also looked with curiosity upon the boy. He knew a little of the ceremonies and beliefs of the Heruli. The boy was lying. The lie suited Christian purpose for the moment. The priest did not interrupt.

“Did I not tell you of their evil, Father Anselmo,” said Decius, “Out of the mouth of one of their priests are they all condemned to the fire.”

“Indeed,” Father Anselmo agreed.

Decius had at first been interested in the boy's confession, but now he was anxious to attend to matters closer at hand. He came to stand directly in front of the youth, hands on his hips.

“Enough of this. Would you expect us to believe you wish to be a traitor to your faith?

Sigdonner knew the moment of truth was before him. He looked at the wide-eyed, frightened Huldike standing next to him then turned to look upon the cruel face of the Byzantine officer. “I no longer believe in the gods, no longer believe in Wodan. It is obvious to me the risen Christ is winning the battle against Wodan. All that are left to Wodan are an old man and those few who still follow him.”

Decius turned away from the boy to look into the eyes of Anselmo, eyes that were turned upon him also. “Then, now is your hour come, boy. Father Anselmo, I ask you to say the words that will bring this youth to the true faith and away from darkness. Will you do so?”

The priest remained silent for a long moment, as if considering the request. “I will honor such a request for one reason only. None of the Nine have ever sought Christian baptism and conversion. Such a precedent will be long remembered in the annals and stories of our faith. If this boy is truly repentant of the evil in his soul and wishes the mercy of Christ, have him kneel at my feet for the saying of the words.”

Sigdonner knelt quickly before Anselmo, bowing his head in submission. Sigdonner had been truthful with his words. To him, power was all, be that power from Wodan when Wodan was strong, or now to the even stronger appearing Christian deity in the age that was coming. He could feel the monk's robe he would wear warming him as he sat with new brothers. Perhaps one day a bishop's miter might be carried. Who knew how far one might rise?

Father Anselmo looked toward heaven and placed his left hand upon the head of the Heruli boy. With his right hand he lifted a flask of water and allowed the liquid to pour down upon the head of the newly converted penitent. “I baptize you in the name of the Holy Trinity of the three gods in one God. You are hereafter given to Our Lord Christ as His most menial servant. This is done in this fashion because of the depths you have come from to reach the Savior. Do you accept your position, former priest of Wodan, as the lowest of the low, the very servant of the servants of our Lord's servants?”

“I do, most holy Father,” Sigdonner replied, still puzzling over the strange words the priest uttered.

Father Anselmo delayed a long moment before speaking again, looking in the direction of the Legate Decius.

The latter nodded his head in response to the priest’s silent appeal. Reaching toward his belt, Decius placed his right hand lightly upon the hilt of a small dagger.

“Then we accept you into the body of Christ with the name Thomas, after one who also once doubted. There is, however, one proviso. Commander Decius, would you in all charity carry out that which must be done to save the souls of priests of pagan religions. Such work is not for holy hands.”

Anselmo stepped backward two steps. Bending in the boy’s direction but looking at Decius, Anselmo waved his hand briefly over the boy's head. “I give you, Decius, absolution for what must be done in God's name to this poor creature, who for so long said words that brought forth demons. Let him never say them again to offend the ears of the faithful and thereby disgrace his baptism.”

Decius motioned to two of the men. Both moved quickly to the side of the kneeling boy. One took his arms and bent his body in an arc backward. The other took hold of his hair and jerked the now alarmed boy's head back. The startled youth screamed in pain.

Decius reached to his belt and pulled the small sharp knife from its sheaf. Motioning another man forward, he stepped in front of the boy and backhanded him across the face. “Silence! Did you think to come to conversion without effort? Hold his headed tightly. You, pull his mouth open.”

The third man did so quickly. Now, Sigdonner, become Thomas the Christian, could neither scream nor move. His terror-filled eyes looked into the face of Decius who, moving quickly, reached his hand into the boy's mouth to take hold of the tongue. In the practiced art of the knife wielding warrior he cut quickly that without which a man might never be able to call forth demons or speak lies again. The look of startled surprise never left Sigdonner's face, even as blood-flecked foam came forth from his ravaged mouth and he was allowed to topple free to the ground in a gurgling frenzy of agony.

Huldike covered her eyes at the horrible sight, a crazed look hidden behind the cloth of her mantle. She screamed until she was grabbed and shaken by Father Anselmo.

“Be thou not anguished, my daughter. This boy could never be trusted to be free of the demons. Christ will forgive him now that he may never blaspheme again in this world or the next, nor cause others to do so.”

The shivering girl collapsed at the priest's feet, great sobs of anguish causing her to shake and tremble. As she did so, Father Anselmo knelt and held her head gently. For some moments, while the other men dragged the writhing body of the boy out of sight, he continued to calmly caress the girl. Gradually, the worst of the tremors subsided and she relaxed into a gentle, almost silent, weeping.

When he sensed the time was right Anselmo raised her body gently that he might better see her face, “We must talk now, young one. I must know of your loyalty to Christ in these many months since I have seen you. I would view the plans of the sacred site of the Heruli you have made and brought to us. Are they complete and accurate?”

The still shaking girl felt the warmth emanating from the priest and was soothed somewhat of her terror. She replied after a short attempt at clearing her voice. “They are as best I could do, Father. I have sketched the entire site with the help of my poor tortured Sigdonner. We included not only the holy site but also the general layout of the village. The numbers you see are those of the persons normally at each indicated place.”

“You have done well, daughter,” said the priest, turning quickly away as sounds were heard from some of the men returning from wherever they had taken the brutalized new Christian, Thomas. “There you are, Decius. Look at these drawings our young one has brought us. They will surely bring us victory.”

Decius came forth and took the tanned leather documents from the priest and quickly began to examine them. In a moment, he understood well enough their import. The girl had only to clarify and explain a few minor points of detail before the man completely understood the situation. He did not care that the girl would speak to him only through the gentle offices of Father Anselmo. Her fear of Decius was by then so great she went mute whenever he looked directly at her or asked her a question. It was thus the priest’s gentle and calm voice which brought forth the details in whispers from the girl's lips.

When Decius entirely understood the information, he folded the documents and carefully placed them inside his tunic. “I am satisfied, Father Anselmo. Now let us quickly to the task, for our forces are approaching along the road even as we speak. We must be quick to our deeds and away, for we have not the force to take on the Heruli band that lies only a few days distant from us. That confrontation must be delayed to a more convenient time. Might I now request your will in respect to these two Heruli? You know the edict of Narses.”

“I know commander,” replied the priest, his eyes turning to look gently upon the young girl who clutched his arm like she would never be free of him again. Anselmo sighed deeply. “I know the edict of Narses, would that I did not. Christ will best be served by the total annihilation of paganism. Yet could this not be brought about through our teaching rather than through our swords? She is but a girl, and he can speak no more. What harm could they possibly do?”

“The edict is quite clear,” repeated Decius. His look into the eyes of the priest hardened perceptibly, a look the girl noted, causing her to bury her head in the folds of the monk's sleeve, her eyes averted. She knew not of what they spoke, but she could sense something ominous.

Father Anselmo sighed deeply again, clutching the girl tightly to him. “I feel we might yet need the boy again at the Heruli site. If you agree, leave him a while to serve the God in whom he has so recently confessed belief. As for this child, do what you will, but be merciful.”

The priest quickly passed his hand in a motion over the head of the terrified Heruli girl. He loosened her grip upon his arm and none too gently forced her from him, motioning Decius once more to his work. As Huldike stood swaying, her tear-filled eyes looking pleadingly at the priest, there came to be heard a slight but audible clang of steel against steel. This sound caused her to swing her head around to stare into the death-bringing eyes of Decius, the now silent wraith who moved quickly toward her.

Huldike screamed once, a long and terrible sound. Swiftly, and with practiced skill, Decius completed the work of the decree of Narses. No Heruli might live – none – anywhere.

CHAPTER 7

MEMORIES

Lorasinthe trailed at the back of the line of horses moving eastward toward she knew not what. She had amused herself over the long hours of riding in many and varied ways. She tried to identify the different trees by their leaves and looked for patches of sky in the heavy mantle of growth. The forest seemed without limit. She shivered in the cold breezes and almost fell more than once when the pale tan horse she was riding had to take an upward path to follow behind the horse in front. More often than not, her attention was turned to the front of the group, finding and holding with her gaze the frame of Rain Warrior.

She had been given no reason for her attendance upon this trip by Arnulf, who rode the dark brown gentle mare just in front of hers. She only vaguely remembered any stories of Wittha and had never heard of the law which said no barrow containing Heruli bones could be passed safely without first performing ritual. She urged her horse forward, coming up to ride beside Arnulf.

“Ah, Lorasinthe,” Arnulf groaned. His body swayed and bounced on the back of

his mount, although the mare was a very gentle animal indeed and the track smoother than usual. “The horse is sacred to the Heruli as a religious ceremonial object, as a friend of Wodan and as food for our bodies. Why did we ever have to learn to ride them also?”

Lorasinthe smiled at his attempt at levity, then changed the subject. “Why are we paying such honor to the man whose barrow lies ahead? You have not taught me to stop and hallow every Heruli grave we pass. Why this one?

“Wittha,” Arnulf said, his tone sharp and biting, ignoring the girl's question. “You are getting your revenge upon me with every arching step this animal takes toward you. I bet you're laughing at the sight even now within your dark halls and dank chambers.”

“Your answer, or the lack of it, tells me perhaps you knew this person well. You taught me he was a traitor, an example of the power of Christian teaching being used to influence our people. Was there more to his story than that dark lesson?”

Arnulf turned slightly in the saddle to stare at the girl. Once again he ignored her question. “How can you look so refreshed after hours of riding? How do you do it, Lorasinthe? This foul animal's back is breaking mine.”

“You will not talk about it, will you?” The girl pouted, refusing to acknowledge his compliment.

“There is little to say.”

“I think there is much. Is it not to Wittha I owe my own will to challenge these foreign beliefs. Your brief lessons on Wittha's perfidy have made me want to oppose Christian incursions, yet I know little else save for your hatred of him.” Lorasinthe was quick to notice the change that swept over the face of the old man as she spoke these words. He goes back, she thought. It is sixty years ago once more.

Arnulf was indeed remembering the past. There were pictures in his mind. There was the grin on Wittha's face as he struck out at those of his own people who dared oppose him, the look of terror when his own sanity was challenged in the end.

“I admired him once,” Arnulf said. “Long ago, before his greed turned his face away from Wodan.”

“Tell me.”

“Wittha took a large group of the tribe with him into Christian conversion, as you already know. By murder and terror he gained his way, including taking the lives of three of the Nine.”

Lorasinthe’s face showed her puzzlement. “Why? Why would he do that to the most revered of his people?”

“I don't know - the riches the Christians offered perhaps – more likely the power. Greed, Lorasinthe, the ruin of a people. I was with Wittha in Constantinople, a youth serving as aide to the Master of Runelore, Baltar. Baltar had seen the coming trouble with Wittha. He went among the people urging them to loyalty to Wodan. But many, especially among the warriors, had taken to the lifestyle of the Byzantines.

“You once said Baltar was killed by Wittha. Why did Wittha kill him, if the people were already converted?”

“He did not immediately. Baltar and his fellow Master, Geord, confronted Wittha one night before the tribal campfires, his conversion unknown to them. Each side angrily stormed against the other. Wittha urged Baltar and Geord to convert. Finding them intransigent, he sought to force them out of camp at spear point.

“But how was he able to take so many of the tribe, especially the warriors, with him into the Christian’s faith?” Lorasinthe was confused. She simply could not comprehend treason to her people, especially in order to serve foreign thoughts and alien ways. “Was Wodan so easily abandoned?”

“No, Wodan was not,” Arnulf replied. “The oath, Lorasinthe, remember the oath and its importance.”

She remembered the teaching. “The oath of loyalty taken to a chieftain while on a campaign or in preparation for battle?”

“Yes.”

“The people would not violate their oath to Wittha,” said the girl, answering her own question. “They could not violate their oath of loyalty to Wittha while on a campaign. He tricked them. Were we once that naive, to trust our leaders so?”

“Yes,” Arnulf replied, nodding his head more in acknowledgment of the girl's intuitive response than in the answer itself. “Only members of the Nine were not bound by oath to Wittha as chieftain and battle leader. Most, because of the oath, paid lip service to conversion. They held Wodan in their hearts, Christ on their tongues.”

“I would have proclaimed Wodan only,” Lorasinthe said, angrily. “I would have challenged Wittha's decision and died if need be. You were there, Master. You could not stop him?”

Arnulf smiled. “I was a boy, Lorasinthe. You give me too many powers. When the tribal members understood the nature of the conflict between Wittha and the Masters, some began to speak out in fear of a punishment by Wodan. Seeing he was losing ground, Wittha stayed his hand no longer. Warriors truly loyal to Wittha took hold of the two tribal religious leaders and the young girl Rane who served Geord as you do me. She died as quickly as you would have. Wittha personally slew them all, drinking a horn of the blood of each as is warrior custom.”

“Why, Master? I cannot understand what the Christians could offer that would cause Wittha to betray his trust, his god, his people. Can trinkets be so important? Are we so shallow?”

A strange look came over the face of the Master as she said these words. He looked pleased. “You are indeed growing up, Lorasinthe. I asked him similar questions. He laughed at me, then asked me if the crude huts, cold campgrounds, and wooden baubles Wodan offered could in any way compare to the glittering opulence of Constantinople.”

“Did you tell him the stone structures, indifference and loss of tribal togetherness the great city offered were a poor replacement for the life he was forsaking?” Lorsinthe's eyes seemed  filled with coldness, their color paler than usual, blue water turned to ice.

“Would that I had,” Arnulf responded. “I have taught you well, Lorasinthe, for you have never seen the wonders of that great city yet understand the hollowness that is its heart.”

The icy paleness in her eyes vanished with these words of praise. The blue returned. She smiled brightly. “I do not need to see it, Master. Your eyes have seen it for me. The stories you have told have brought it to life. The lessons you learned are part of the wisdom you have given me.”

Arnulf laughed. “Wittha knew Wodan tests his followers often. With the deaths of the three, Wittha trampled upon ancient belief and custom. Wodan would come, of that there was no doubt.

“How did you survive, Master?”

“After he had killed Baltar and the others, the only thing that stood between Wittha and the wrath of Wodan was the Christian priests and their powers. Wittha was not so great a convert to Christianity he would allow himself to trust in their protection. He needed an edge.”

“He used you?” asked Lorasinthe.

“Wittha was sure if he held my life hostage, another ancient folk belief would take precedence. It was said the captor of one of the Nine would be safe from harm as long as the captive lived, unless there came to be a belief the hostage would not be released. This belief was open to interpretation.”

Lorasinthe's curiosity was heightened. She had never before been allowed to probe Arnulf's thoughts so deeply for secrets. Her mind was open, ready to absorb. “How did Wittha interpret it, Master? I would have been sure Wodan would come, no matter what. Had I been Wittha, I would have been on my knees.”

“Wittha believed the servants of Wodan, and Wodan also, would stay their hands as long as I was alive. Wittha believed Wodan would come to see the rightness of his conversion and would allow His people to better their lives by permitting them to accept a more powerful faith.”

Lorasinthe was horrified. “How could he believe such a thing? What about our grove? What about the stone and the pole of life? Were they nothing to him?”

“There were four hundred ninety warriors and an additional nine hundred women, children, and the aged in Wittha's band. Wittha felt these were with him. Wittha believed once the rest of the Heruli were told of the material and spiritual benefits of the religion of the three gods in one the rest of the tribe would shake off their pagan ways and take the cross.”

“How could a Heruli Chieftain fall so low?”

“He was to fall lower,” replied Arnulf. “To those of our people who were already converted, his actions would not matter. Wodan had many fewer champions than when our people first crossed the Donau long ago.”

“No wonder he dared challenge,” Lorasinthe said seriously. “All Wittha had to do was take the grove, destroy it, and the faith of those who believed in Wodan would be destroyed!”

“No, not destroyed, but easier to turn to the enticements of Christianity. There were a few non-Heruli, perhaps as many as eighty, who were to make the trip to the grove with Wittha. Most of these were Christian monks and priests. There was a Christian bishop also. They toiled mightily among our people.”

Lorasinthe’s horse suddenly snorted, then danced excitedly, as if responding to the sudden rise of anger in her. She reined in firmly, then coaxed softly with her hand at the neck until the animal settled down. Her response had been automatic, her mood reflective and far away. “Wodan must have hated seeing these teachers of blasphemy among his followers.”

“Many were good men, Lorasinthe, kind and gentle believers in Christ. Without their help I would never have survived.”

Lorasinthe shook her head negatively, stubbornly. “Master, they would have burned our grove to the ground, slain the sacred ash tree and converted our people away from Wodan.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Arnulf calmly. “But I am alive only because the Christian monks fed me and tended my wounds.”

Arnulf's calmness cooled her anger. He had never spoken of being injured. “What wounds, Master?”

Arnulf appeared to reflect on some long ago picture he held in his mind. “At the front of the moving column they placed a wagon, in the very center of which was erected a tall pole. There was another pole placed at right angles to the first. My arms were tied to the crossbar, my legs secured. I have never felt such pain, nor been more severely tried.”

“They made you their standard, a living banner, to fly in the face of Wodan. I will never forget what they did, these Christians,” said Lorasinthe, her anger returning. “One day they will pay me for what they did to you.”

“They have already paid,” said Arnulf, turning pensive. “And that payment included a terrible measure of justice for Wittha, for he saw the face and one-eyed glare of Wodan before he died. Of that we must never doubt.”

CHAPTER 8

THE WRATH OF WODAN

Lorasinthe listened raptly as Arnulf continued his tale, impatient to hear the rest of the story. Rain Warrior had sent word their goal was near, the long ride through the forest almost over. She urged Arnulf to finish his tale before new events could overcome the telling of old.

Arnulf turned his head from side to side, attempting to rid himself of some of the tightness in his neck caused by the length of the trip and the motion of the horse. “They set out on their long journey with high expectations. Wittha might have known better. Wodan waited for them on that road.”

“Where, Master?” asked Lorasinthe.

“Day followed day. Week followed week, until the time came the scouts were at a point no more than thirty miles from our grove. They came upon a figure sitting on an old stump at the side of the path.”

“Who was it?” Lorasinthe's movements of excitability caused her horse to become skittish momentarily. “Was the figure one of the Nine. Oh how I would want to be there to confront them.”

Arnulf laughed. “Heruli legends say it was a figure dressed in a deer skin shirt and leggings, cloaked in a fine blue cape which he kept wrapped around him the whole time.”

Lorasinthe became overexcited by the pictures she created of the scene in her mind. “Wodan!” she exclaimed. She pulled hard on the rein to the left, circling her horse twice and laughing as she did so, her braided blond hair whirling outward with the motion, striking her horse lightly near the ear. The mare whinnied, as if bidding her to remember whereon she sat.

“Hush young one, lest you scare our escort,” Arnulf chided with a smile. “Sometimes I just don't understand you. One moment you stun me with you maturity and thought processes, the next you are behaving as if you had no brain at all.”

“I'm sorry.” Lorasinthe's face took on a sheepish look. She straightened her posture, tried desperately to keep from smiling.

“Hmmmph,” Arnulf snorted. “Youth, the bane of us all and a waste of our time.”

Lorasinthe could not help herself. Her gaze moved to one side to catch him looking full at her. There was a slight curl to his mouth. She knew then he was not as mad as his words implied. She sat upright, back straight, her idea of the posture a mature woman would strike at such a moment.

Arnulf, shook his head, then continued. “This stranger wore a wide-brimmed black hat, pulled down on one side. Covering the left eye was a patch, below which were scars as if from a wounding.”

“It was Wodan. I knew it,” the still somber Lorasinthe muttered.

“The figure never said a word, merely motioned in the direction of one of the horses. That animal was said to have taken fright and bolted forward. The unexpected movement caused the man riding the horse to lose his seat. Tumbling backward, he fell upon the hard ground near the feet of the stranger.”

“I hope he . . .” started Lorasinthe, her look of cheerful excitement changing quickly to a frown as she saw he was about to rebuke her. “Never mind, go on. Go on.”

Arnulf sighed. “As the others in the small band of scouts struggled to hold their animals, the man thrown from his horse gathered his wits and body together and got slowly to his knees. Only then did he become aware he was staring into the raging lone eye of the stranger not inches away.”

“I would have loved to have been there.” said Lorasinthe, pensively.

“'Go not one step further!' That is what the strange man said to the fallen scout.”

Lorasinthe's gaze ranged the face of Arnulf as he spoke these words. She wondered if the hardness she found there was a reflection of a troublesome memory, or something else.

Arnulf continued after a brief moment's pause to change position. “The scouts did not challenge the will of the figure. They turned and made haste back to the wagons of Wittha, a good many miles to the rear.”

“The scouts believed, didn't they? I would have believed. I would not have taken that step either.”

Arnulf ignored her rambling. “Wittha took the strange news calmly. What seemed to be complacency was in fact a form of resignation. Wittha might have turned back, but the Heruli in him was once again closeted.

“I do not see him any more as Heruli,” Lorasinthe muttered angrily.

“It was at this moment the leader of the Christian religious stepped forward and bade all remember who it was guarded their train on the journey. He reminded them who it was had granted them protection against demons and other creatures who haunt the pathways of man.”

“Who was the man? Lorasinthe asked, curtly. “I dislike him. To him everything we are is demonic and everything they believe is good. Demon is a word I have come to loath.”

“He was the bishop of the Christians,” answered Arnulf. “He died in the wake of what happened. But at that time, the backbones of Wittha and his officers were stiffened by these words. Thereafter, the entreaties of the scout leader fell on un-hearing ears. They would camp near the site where the apparition had been seen, so the demon might see and feel the power of the newly converted Christian Heruli.”

“May Wodan have heard him speak those words!” hissed the girl.

Lorasinthe took a moment to reflect on the familiarity with which she was addressing Arnulf. They had talked before, but never in such an open fashion. He had but moments before challenged her maturity, now he was allowing her to speak her mind. The thought was somehow pleasing, like she had passed a test of some kind. Arnulf had continued speaking but she was not listening. With effort, she regained her concentration.

“There had been other news. A follower of Wittha who journeyed to the grove had returned on that day, relaying the fact a mere fifty warriors were stationed there. The fellow added the warriors were aware of his coming and were preparing to abandon the site.”

“By the beard of the boar!” exclaimed Lorasinthe. “How close indeed was the end of the Heruli.”

“Wittha was overjoyed by the news. He expected to take the grove without a fight. He decided once the Christian religious had done their work, as they had among so many other tribes, there would be no need for the Heruli to cling to olden ways.”

Lorasinthe reflected for a moment. “It is true, what he said. The ways of Wodan have died for so many. Our band is the last.”

Arnulf sighed once more, feeling the sense of resignation in her, the lost youth it indicated. “All went well up to the place where the scouts encountered the man. Had any taken care to notice, they might have seen that some of the wagons passed beyond the stone, violating the admonition of the stranger.”

Lorasinthe changed the subject, wanting to lighten a mood that had darkened considerably. “Tell me again, Master. What did the stranger say and how did he say it?”

“Go not one step further!” Arnulf growled, his voice lowered and altered in an attempt to inspire terror in her.

Lorasinthe cringed at his failed attempt at mimicry. He looked so dramatic. She first smiled then quickly frowned so as not to let the old man know he had failed to scare her. She crossed her arms against her breast, feigning a fright she did not feel. “No one could have moved my feet forward.”

Arnulf, aware she was mocking him, smirked. “As they should not have done. Over fourteen hundred lives settled into place for the night. Fires were lit. Meals were cooked. Tales were told. Guards were set. Peace reigned as all settled into their night's rest.”

Lorasinthe smiled nervously, her rein-free hand clutching hard to one of the braids of her plaited hair. She could sense what would come next. She waited for the story of Wodan's revenge. She had never heard it before, but she knew it was coming.

“Near midnight, the sentries heard the dogs baying. They became aware of unease among the many horses and cattle. One of the surviving Christian monks told of being awakened by the banging of wood against wood somewhere in the darkness.”

Lorasinthe's eyes widened in anticipation. Arnulf was such a wonderful lore teller. Shifting slightly, she turned toward him as if trying to come face to face with the spirit he was conjuring for her mind's sake.

“The monk told of getting out from under his covers and crawling along the bed of his wagon to look out at the night. What happened next happened quickly. Instead of the gentle night in which he had fallen asleep, the monk encountered the growing howl of an ominous sounding wind coming out of the north. There followed a banging and clattering of utensils and equipment mixed with the eerie baying and crying of the animals, sounds that seemed to increase in pitch and volume with each moment.”

“No!” exclaimed Lorasinthe involuntarily.

Arnulf warmed to his telling, pleased by the wide-eyed young girl’s response. “Somehow, despite the growing howl of the wind and the sounds of disturbances, the night remained clear, and all that might be seen was easy to see. A full and bright moon illuminated a vision of turbulence.”

“But that was deception, wasn't it? Lorasinthe asked blithely. “Something was out there besides the wind and the moon.” Lorasinthe paused, her somber facial expression betraying the depth of her thought. She whispered, “Something from the Rune-world.”

Lorasinthe exchanged glances with the older man, seeing and feeling his pride in her answer. Her cheeks flushed with happiness because his opinion meant so much to her.

“Yes,” Arnulf continued. “As if from nowhere and yet from every direction, the monk could see men moving. He found no cry would escape his lips. There was only a feeling of being helpless as a shadowy figure moved in his direction. As the specter came closer, the monk was able to make out a man wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a long cape over clothing the monk could not see. He carried a long spear.”

“Yes . . .!”

“Wait, there is more. The monk remained motionless as the apparition came closer, only his eyes moving, following the oncoming shape. In the brightness of the moonlight, the darkened face of the creature was an as yet unrecognizable terror. The sounds the thing made in its approach could not, if there were any, be made out against the tumult of the wind. There came a further howling of animals, then the unmistakable screams of human beings.”

“Was there an animal with the apparition, perhaps a wolf?”

“The face of the creature, when revealed as it stood before him in the moonlight, was the same face described by the Heruli scouts. The face was scarred, one-eyed, a patch covering an area of damage on the left side. The monk gasped in fright as the specter raised the spear to strike. It was another of the shadows moving in the darkness that laid hold of the arm of the striker and, without words, caused the arm of death to be stayed.”

“It was Wodan? I knew it. I told you I knew it! But who was with him?”

Arnulf paused, “Was it indeed Wodan? Who is to say? The monk felt no sense of survival, no sense of relief. As the moonlight played over the face of his benefactor, the Christian beheld the very same countenance as the one who had first raised his arm to strike the blow with the spear. Both were dressed the same! Both looked the same! Both apparitions glared their hatred at the hapless monk, although neither bothered him further. They moved away as if seeking other prey.

“If both looked the same, who were they?” pleaded Lorasinthe. “Please, tell me, Master. Surely the monk was made mad by terror and saw what was not there. In his fear he thought he saw the same face in both.”

“We never found out. The sun rose on a scene of butchery. The dead lay everywhere, in every form of contortion and sprawl. No Heruli were spared, not man or woman, child or beast. Not quite true. Aside from the nine Christians previously mentioned, one man still lived besides myself. Near the center of the camp, outside his tent, Wittha lay sprawled among the dead. His eyes were open; his tongue moved against dry lips. His wounds were such he could not rise, nor heed the call of his body for drink.”

“The god Tyr must have ordered his survival,” explained Lorasinthe. “That he might know the cause and justice of his fall.”

“I think not Tyr this time, young one.” Arnulf sighed. “Wittha was not granted justice. Instead, his head lolled to one side as he lay there. There came a strange fluttering in the air near him, followed by the call of a bird. With wings extended, an owl, feathered omen of the sky, dropped to land on the extended feet of the chieftain.

Lorasinthe mused. “How often have I thrilled to your many stories of owls and ravens, wolves and the like. Owls are the pets of Wodan, ravens and wolves his eyes and messengers. The hand of Wodan is everywhere within this tale.”

Arnulf nodded. “As if in disdain of attempts to dislodge it, the owl stalked up the body to perch on the chest of the motionless figure. Wittha looked at the bird without fear, opened his cracked lips as if to speak. Then – his eyes glazed – he died.”

“How justly he earned the right!”

“The owl, seeing death had come to the man, spread its wings and rose out of the scene of carnage, flying off into the sky from whence it had come.”

“And so ended Wittha and his plans for the destruction of our people,” Lorasinthe finished.

“Not quite, beautiful one. Over fourteen hundred men, women, and children were slaughtered. None would call it a battle. Few would call it justice even. The surviving monks told a tale of what appeared to be the grossest cowardice among the warriors serving Wittha. The Heruli did not fight. They died in place.”

“A loss from which we have not recovered to this day,” responded Lorasinthe sadly. “Now there are less than half that number of warriors who remain pagan.”

“There is more. The monks who survived said there could have been no more than fifty warriors in the attacking force. This earned the monks the name of liars. The monks said each of the attackers carried no other weapon than spears, that all appeared to be dressed in an identical costume.

“Then it was the guard from the grove, dressed up in the image of Wodan, who, in the name of Wodan, took revenge. The fright they brought gave added weight to their numbers.”

Arnulf shrugged his shoulders. “Such a fact was never acknowledged. Heruli bands were recalled from many places to come to the site of slaughter and bury the dead. It was a gruesome task, one tainted by mystery. The fifty guards at the grove swore it was not they who had brought this about. Many believed their story, for who could fathom fifty destroying fourteen hundred, no matter how unready the enemy might be. Some thought roving bands of Goths, fresh from other battles, had chanced upon the sleeping camp. None really knew for sure.”

“Then we do not know who did this? There is no end to the story.”

“In truth, there is not,” replied Arnulf. “As the burial commenced, as the bodies were being collected, the unaccountable mysteries surrounding the event began to take hold within the hearts of the surviving Heruli. Many felt a sense of dread, a feeling especially noticeable within those of the Nine who were there.”

“And what of you, Master? What happened to you?”

Arnulf answered. “Near the northern-most edge of the field of carnage, near the wagon carrying a cross-like structure made of wood, they stumbled upon my still living body. I was lying near a pool of water, delirious and babbling about Wodan coming, death unabated. They said I kept muttering, 'No, no. Spare them, spare them'.”

Lorasinthe sympathized. “Poor innocent child that you were then. I wish I have could have tended your wounds.”

“They told me I fainted. As two of the Nine sat with me, my eyes were seen to open. I was not looking at them but at some unseen sight beyond their view. In a voice unlike my own, I was said to have uttered these words: 'Build a great mound to take them. Let the non-Heruli watch over them. Never go near them without fearing.'“

“That is why we must hallow this barrow!” exclaimed Lorasinthe, the long almost epic tale now more clearly ended and tied to a lesson for today that seemed to satisfy her. “We must assure the spirits of the tomb stay at rest.”

“In some fashion, we will be doing that,” answered Arnulf, carefully. “I remember nothing else. They took the bodies and cremated the majority, placing the ashes in a great central hollowed out area as was custom. Around this was built a huge mound of earth, stones and logs. There were entrances at all four points where the wind might blow.”

“Will I enter the barrow with you?”

“Yes.”

“Were you inside before?”

“No. I recovered and was given the honor of placing a curse upon the site and upon all therein. To the soul of Wittha I addressed certain words at the behest of the Master, Tiugard. I was not fully cognizant of their meaning at the time. “'Until I come and bid you rest, stay you never from your quest, guard you shall and none may enter, this place now which you hold the center.'“

“Terrible words, Master.”

“Yes.”

Lorasinthe remained closeted with her own thoughts after Wittha's tale ended, as did Arnulf, until an especially rough swaying of the horse's body as it climbed a small knoll brought her attention back to the present. She became aware Rain Warrior had fallen back from his place at the head of the column.

“Master Arnulf,” Rain Warrior informed, “we are close to the accursed barrow. What will you have us do now?”

“Make camp here,” Arnulf replied, peering into the gloom of vegetation and finding nothing recognizable. “I have grown old and forgetful. I can find nothing with which to tie me to this place. Can all have grown so different in only sixty years?”

Rain Warrior did not understand the old man's question. As far as he was concerned this trip was a waste of time. Had he been the leader, he would have bypassed the barrow as quickly as possible and been on the way to the grove. The dead were the dead. Let them lie. The track to safety lay only a short distance away to the east.

“Do not chafe so to go forward, lad, there is much to do here. Would you not grant a dishonored warrior this chance to earn reprieve?” Arnulf looked carefully into the eyes of the young warrior for signs of his understanding, but found none.

Lorasinthe brought her horse to fall in behind the horse of Arnulf. She was uneasy, made so less by the torments of the journey than by the fact Rain Warrior was attending the Master. She looked over the shoulder of Arnulf straight into the eyes of Rain Warrior. She found he returned her gaze.

“And you, Lady Lorasinthe, have you been discomfited too much by this day's journey?” Rain Warrior asked, moving his head slightly to look around the thin frame of Arnulf to where she sat on her mount.

Lorasinthe seemed confused by the question. Nervously searching for some means of collecting her thoughts for an answer, she accidentally nudged her horse's side to the right. Her mount pushed hard against the mare Arnulf rode, causing the animal to turn right also. Arnulf, never so firmly seated upon an animal as he might wish, was nearly unhorsed.

“Lorasinthe!” shouted Arnulf, “Your horse . . .”

“I did not wish to cause you any discomfort,” stammered Rain Warrior, feeling he was somehow the cause of the incident. “I meant no insult.”

“I took none,” murmured the girl in a voice no louder than a whisper.

“What . . .?” began Arnulf then stared at the pair, who did not even seem to know he was there. They were both blushing, if a hardened and scarred warrior can be said to blush and a maiden's already rosy cheeks be said to become more so.

Why have I not seen this before? Arnulf thought. How could I have been so unaware? How tragic . . . for them.

CHAPTER 9

MESSENGER OF WELCOME

Arnulf had the small band camp in the forest out of sight of the barrow so those not involved in the rituals could not taint the ceremony in any way. No move was made to enter the barrow immediately. They rested first.

The night passed peacefully. The morning sun was warm and pleasant and, although the air was cold, there was no wind. After they had taken food, a brief meeting was held. Arnulf conferred with Rain Warrior over the day's mission.

“I stopped upon reaching this great barrow because of the legends you taught me as a child, Master Arnulf,” said Rain Warrior. “Not out of any fear of what lies here.”

Arnulf's face was covered against the day's coolness by a leather hood on top of which was the woolen hood of his mantle. His eyes could not be seen.

“Good that you did, young one,” croaked Arnulf in reply, his voice sounding muffled and weak under all the coverings. “My old tormentor and friend would never have welcomed me coming upon him in surprise.”

“He won't care Master,” the worldly young warrior shrugged, looking over Arnulf's shoulder to watch the approach of his brother Mittanewod and the girl Lorasinthe. “The dead are dead.”

Lorasinthe and Mittanewod had finished seeing to their morning meal and to the gathering of a stock of wood for a fire to warm the old man's bones on his return from the day's mission. At Arnulf's command, both were dressed in softened hide leather, the kind of clothing suitable for work in mud and earth.

Rain Warrior's gaze turned to observing how the long deerskin smock fit Lorasinthe's body. Her eyes were turned away, pretending to be looking at something in the forest. Arnulf watched both carefully for a moment, once more reminded of the scene he had observed on the previous day.

“Master Arnulf,” asked Rain Warrior, “is it true what the Goth's said about you when we fought for them, that you are really a haljaruna, one who can conjure up spirits?”

The warrior noted a slight quiver that might have indicated either humor or disgust coming from within the folds of the old man's deep covering as the word haljaruna was spoken. “I need not conjure up my old friend Wittha,” said Arnulf, uncovering his face now to look into the eyes of the young leader. “If he wants me, he will come without any bidding.”

Rain Warrior shook his head in disbelief. He didn’t see any sense at all to this particular mission, having seen too many bodies, too many dead that did not come back from the grave, to believe in the fairy tale world in which Arnulf sometimes seemed to live. He believed in Wodan, and Wodan was a warrior. Warriors killed.

Mittanewod and Lorasinthe heard the words also and exchanged glances. If Arnulf said it, they believed it.

“We must make haste,” Arnulf continued, “for the darkness will sink the sun before we know it. I would enter this barrow in the daylight. Lorasinthe, Mittanewod, you will come with me now. Young warrior, I must ask that you hold the camp against outsiders and allow none of our own to approach the barrow under any circumstances.”

Rain Warrior started to protest but something in the demeanor of the Master of Runes forced him to hold comment. Instead, he bowed his head slightly in the direction of Arnulf,

then more deeply in the direction of Lorasinthe. Turning, he left them to go and confer with his guards.

“My brother's manner toward me could be improved,” noted Mittanewod with a teasing tone. “Perhaps another's presence makes apparent rudeness more understandable.”

Lorasinthe blushed, said nothing in response to Mittanewod’s teasing. She had chosen to braid her hair again. The manner of braiding allowed the upper and lower gatherings of fine blonde hair to swirl in the light breeze of early morning. Her feelings could be read by the look on her face, and in the slight rise and fall of the braids upon her breast. Her gaze rested upon the retreating back of the young warrior who had honored her with a nod of his head, recognition of her presence that meant so very much to her.

Arnulf watched her with concern. One day soon he meant to speak to them both. Smoke was rising where none might be. Could a fire be long in coming?

Lorasinthe gathered up one of the braids of her hair absentmindedly as she watched Rain Warrior go about his duty. Leather cords dangled from the end of each braid. To each cord was tied a small wooden stave. With her left hand she stroked this tiny piece of wood softly. A series of Runic characters was carved in the wood, invoking Wodan's protection during the coming ceremony. Arnulf had carved them for her.

“Let us go quickly,” Arnulf whispered. “We must find the path and be before Wittha's tomb long before any unsuspected guardians might awaken in the evening's dying light and come forth.”

Lorasinthe and Mittanewod shivered at his words. Arnulf had warned them of what to expect on this strange journey. He also indicated that there were points beyond which his knowledge was limited. The barrow was a dark place.

They walked as quickly as possible across the leaf-strewn forest floor in the direction where they thought the barrow lay. They passed trees that seemed to become more gnarled and twisted in form the farther into the forest they went. Lorasinthe’s imagination was heightened. Arnulf seemed unperturbed.

The sound of nothing was upon the air, a deadly quiet more felt than heard. Lorasinthe stopped for a moment in order to listen to that silence. A strange throbbing appeared in her eardrums, a sound heard when no sound was present.

The three covered some distance before they struggled with effort up and over a small rise of ground to come face to face with a terrible sight. There, close to where they stood, mouths open, was what appeared to be a rack of skulls, each individually set upon a wooden structure of some kind.

“By Wodan's patch!” cried Mittanewod. “What is that?”

“That is a creation people from the former Roman land of Gaul taught the Heruli to make,” responded Arnulf. “Waste not an enemy's bones, for there is much useful work they can be put to.”

“There is nothing to fear in skulls and bones, Mittanewod,” teased Lorasinthe, her grin bringing an angry blush to the face of the one she tormented. “I have some of my own, don't you?”

“I said nothing out of fear,” retorted Mittanewod swiftly. “I merely asked what the structure was, not what was on it.”

Lorasinthe was quick to note that what she had first taken for some kind of man-made structure was actually a tree. The tree's rotting trunk sat upon an equally deteriorating root system, pulled from the earth whole and brought to this spot. The tree now leaned at a crooked angle, a condition caused naturally by the actions of storm and wind through the years.

What they had taken for skulls were skulls. Some were of horses, others of cattle. Others were of men. All were tied by chain cords to tree branches where their bleaching remains swung gently in the breeze.

“Grandly crafted,” said Lorasinthe, her voice strong and husky. “Yet somehow . . .”

“Indeed,” replied Arnulf softly. “Such a mass of old and dried wood. One would have thought Donar's lightning would have struck flame to it years ago.

Lorasinthe did not reply. She felt a sense of unease, no matter her teasing words to Mittanewod. She began to wonder what other horrors lay within the barrow if so gruesome a sight lay without.

A closer examination brought to light the fact there were as many skulls on the ground as on the tree itself. Most had been blown or struck down over the years through the natural actions of rain, snow, or wind. Some of the branches to which the skulls had been tied had decayed or broken, causing the aged and splintered skulls to fall to the ground.

Lorasinthe felt apprehensive. Mittanewod feigned indifference. To Arnulf, they were as nothing. These, in such profusion and of such dried out and unattractive age, interested him only insofar as to their number and the manner of their placement.

“The animals are those that Wittha brought north with him, the pullers of the wagons, the providers of sustenance and the dogs of the camp. This is a skull gate, a warning to all who come here they had best proceed no further toward the entrance to the barrow that lies beyond.”

Arnulf paused a moment before continuing, perhaps in reverie over some past memory. Lorasinthe took that time to wonder about the people whose skulls these were. Were they like her?

“How have they lasted so long, these memories of long past death?” asked Mittanewod. “Surely even bone skulls would have deteriorated over such a length of time.”

Lorasinthe attempted no answer. Looking closer at those on the ground, she could see many were fragmented, nearly unrecognizable. Nature had saved some for their gaze, had taken most back into the soil.

Arnulf shook his head. “The human skulls are those of the Christian monks and priests who accompanied Wittha here. They serve to warn the uncaring. Were one to travel around the barrow in its fullness one would find other skull trees at each point of direction, but none so magnificent as this. We are before the great opening.

Lorasinthe glanced upward, shading her eyes. “Master, who would know but the Heruli that this is a warning. Surely, no Christian would see it as such, viewing it only as another pagan practice upon which to shower their contempt.”

Arnulf glanced toward the girl. A faint glimmer of a smile passed his lips. “It is not a warning for Christians or other enemies, but for Heruli only. The entryway to the great burial chamber lies in the mound just beyond the skull tree. Pray that Wodan guards you in your further steps, for we are about to enter the unknown.”

Lorasinthe had not considered that the mound rising behind and to the sides of the skull tree was any but a small hill. Indeed, a hill covered with earth, trees, and grass, like any other hill.

“The hill was always a hill,” Arnulf continued, “but sixty years ago great tunnels were mined to get inside. These were lined with rock as was the great chamber within. It is a labyrinth, for only one tunnel leads to the burial chamber. The rest are for the trapping of the unwanted. There were gold, silver, jeweled and amber decorated ornaments buried with Wittha. There are those who would face the very darkness of the home of night and mist, or dare the lands of fire and ice, to get at such treasure.”

“Does a great dragon guard here?” asked Lorasinthe softly. She had never seen a dragon, though the legends spoke of many.

“If one does, we'll soon know it,” Arnulf replied. “The hidden trappings of the barrow are a secret unknown to me. The magical charge of my mentor Tiugard was placed upon this unholy mound in that long ago time. It was never given to others to know the methods he took to entomb Wittha's restless spirit.

Lorasinthe's body shook slightly, as if in acknowledging an inner depth of coldness, a coldness chilled into her being by her own morbid thoughts. “Will we go in now, or must we wait?”

“We must wait,” replied Arnulf. “But not long. The entrance to the barrow lies just in front of us. We will kneel there until they are ready to receive us. Mittanewod, you stay here. Break out our torches and ready them. Come when it is time. Lorasinthe, come with me and kneel at the entrance as I do. Say nothing. Move only with caution.”

Lorasinthe padded carefully past the girth of the skull tree. As she came around from the left side, she could see a dark yawning cut within the rock. This cut, or arch, was enclosed by the rise of the hill. Behind that lay darkness to an unknown depth.  She knew this must be the entrance to the barrow. The contrast between the infinite appearing hole going back, back, back into the mound's darkness and the external reality of the forest growth of brush and vines was offset by the presence of a human form that stood stark and steady at the very entrance to the barrow.

“Fear not, Lorasinthe,” Arnulf whispered softly when he heard her gasp of fright. “It is only the body of the chief priest of the Christians. The monstrosity he has now become still wears the embroidered vestments of his former offices. See, the cloth underneath has weathered badly, laying bare the bones, yet much of the metal and heavy thread embroidery stills clings.”

The wasted frame swayed gently in a newly risen breeze that touched Lorasinthe's cheek with coolness. She could see the skeleton was not whole. Patches of skin were visible through the remnants of clothing. Aged, grey-white, and splintered bone lay on the ground. One complete leg had fallen off the corpse to form the largest piece among the scattered remnants of very dry-looking white fragments.

The face was well preserved, hair and skin still present. The former, tangled and matted, moved little in the breeze. The eyes seemed to gaze upon Lorasinthe. She understood this was only her imagination, for there were no eyes at all, those having been torn out or decayed decades before.

Arnulf slowly bent his knees and folded to the ground. Lorasinthe did likewise. Their posture made them appear as if they were bowing before the thing. Lorasinthe saw that a chain hung around its neck, a golden chain. Dangling at the end of the chain, partly hidden by fragments of remaining cloth, was what appeared to be a book.

Forgetting Arnulf's admonition to silence, Lorasinthe leaned over and whispered, “Master Arnulf, what is that which hangs 'round his neck?”

“You were bid to silence, young one,” Arnulf replied with a hiss. “Speak not again until I tell you. That is the remains of his book of magic, the writing they call the Bible, or some other book of prayer. They caught him running away with some of the monks who survived the attack. I heard they fixed him this way to act as guard for the tomb while he was yet alive.”

Arnulf began to lay out in front of him what came to be a circle of small pieces of wood, on which were carved Runes. Lorasinthe understood the meaning of his actions and immediately began to assist. She shaped the circle truer than an old man's hands might allow, rearranged the pieces of wood according to the needs which an old man's eyes might no longer see as clearly.

When the circle was finished, Lorasinthe carefully checked it to insure all Runes were present. There were twenty-four pieces of wood laid out. Each had one Runic character inscribed with a woodcarving knife. In times past the carvings had been filled with bright red blood for coloring, in this case the blood of Arnulf. This was an old and much used set, the wood so dark with age the blood-filled carvings appeared black.

Arnulf pulled a wooden staff about one foot in length from his inner tunic. The staff was also carved with Runes. These gave the secret name by which the staff was known. Like his Rune name, the name of his staff was known only to himself and Wodan. Lorasinthe had undergone this rite. She had her own names to hold secret.

“Wodan, come!” murmured Arnulf. “Charge my staff with your power.”

Arnulf silently mouthed the next words, for they contained the name of the staff and she could not hear it. Then, Arnulf reached forward from his seated position in front of the small circle and touched one of the wooden pieces with his wand. He next drew the wand toward the center of the circle and inscribed there in the dirt the image of that Rune. Arnulf repeated the act twice more until before him lay a circle inside of which was inscribed a Rune-magic combination, a Bind-Rune, bound together for a magical purpose Lorasinthe recognized.

“He calls him forth!” she whispered softly to herself. “He uses the binding that awakens the dead. My Master, what are you doing?”

Arnulf reached forward again and touched one of the pieces of wood and, as if taking the Rune carved thereon and bringing it back toward him, appeared to draw the image of the selected Rune in the air just above the circle.

“He seals the binding,” Lorasinthe muttered. “Now neither we nor the spirit he calls forth may leave this place before meeting. We are tied to whatever happens.”

Arnulf appeared to finish what he had to do. He placed the wand back in his inner tunic, placed his hands together and closed his eyes. His body appeared as if at rest.

Lorasinthe's mind raced wildly yet she dared not look around. She stared at the menacing form of the ancient dead Christian priest. The thing's insane smile was only parchment-dried flesh surrounding misshapen and darkened teeth. Lorasinthe became aware that a strong wind had risen out of the south to blow into the cave opening, then back out onto her face. She smelled foulness upon that wind. She closed her eyes.

How long they stayed silent Lorasinthe did not know. She became aware of a rising of the wind again. She heard leaves blowing by her, noted the slapping urgency of branches hammering against each other. There was another sound, a clack, clack, clacking, directly to the front, a sound that seemed to grow louder with each moment and new gust of wind.

Lorasinthe slowly opened her eyes to look for the source of the clacking. The monstrosity that was the body of the priest swayed wildly with each gust of the turbulent air up to the limits of its restraining bonds. A particularly savage blast of wind gathered from beneath and behind the grotesque thing. Lorasinthe stared, entranced. The blast freed the abomination from its restraint with one wrenching thrust. The loosened creature seemed to struggle toward her, as a cripple with one leg might if suddenly propelled forward by an unseen and uncaring hand.

She had no time to react, only to watch. Arnulf sat with head bowed, paying attention to inner thoughts. What seemed an eternity to her lasted but a fraction of a second. The ancient corpse, lightened by years of curing and dehydration, fairly flew through the air and crashed to pieces on the ground some feet from where they knelt. Parts scattered. The head disengaged from the body, bounced towards Lorasinthe. It landed, along with other bone fragments and plant matter, within the Rune circle.

Only years of training in the refinement of personal discipline prevented Lorasinthe from screaming aloud. The skull settled at Arnulf's feet. Slowly, the old man’s eyes opened, and he looked once more upon the Rune circle, now spoiled in its symmetry by the monstrous object's intrusion. The thing held no terror for Arnulf. There appeared upon his aged face only a trace of a grimace that in another might have indicated humor. Ignoring the skull thereafter, Arnulf closed his eyes, appearing to seek some deep communion with something within.

Lorasinthe began to breathe easier. The skull did not move again; the scattered bones stayed where they were. The wind continued strong, merging its sound with that of the rattling of the iron chains, freed now of the burden they once held.

In what seemed no more than a quick moment, Arnulf returned from the spiritual plane. “It is time we entered the barrow, Lorasinthe. Wittha bids us enter his domain. He has, after all, sent us a messenger of welcome.”

CHAPTER 10

INSIDE THE BARROW OF WITTHA

“What happened here?” asked Mittanewod, surveying the site near the barrow entrance where the bones of the Christian martyr lay scattered here and there across the ground.

Lorasinthe looked toward the heavens, held her tongue against the lashing words she so wished to throw at him for not having been there. Arnulf ignored the question completely, as well as the asker. He stood on the barrow side of the bones, squinting into the darkness, his old eyes seeking to gain information as to what lay beyond.

The entrance was about two meters in height, but the cut narrowed quickly in both height and width so that a darkened hole roughly one meter square disappeared into the blackness at a distance of perhaps three meters from where they stood.

“You will stay here Mittanewod,” muttered the old man without looking at the boy. “Without comments or questions, indeed without any sound at all if you can help it. You will be the human post upon which I will tie the string we will use to guide our way back out of this place.”

“But . . .” Mittanewod nodded in agreement before the old man could reprimand him for starting to speak.

“If you hear me beckon you, follow the string at once. Do not bother yourself with needless words. Tie the string to a secure place and come as quickly as possible using the string as a guide. Until then, remain still and watchful.”

Arnulf reached around the boy to tie the life cord to his waist. Arnulf winked at Lorasinthe. “Should anything come forth or call to you other than Lorasinthe or myself, you will ignore it. Do you understand?”

Mittanewod nodded, an expression of mixed curiosity and apprehension plain upon his face. Arnulf noted the look but chose to ignore his pupil's confusion. Instead, he caused Lorasinthe to place torches into a sack she was to carry, then took up a lighted torch, holding his index finger to his lips in the classic demand for silence.

Arnulf led the way, preferring to set his own slow pace into the darkness rather than let younger legs do so. They carried extra torches because Arnulf did not know how large the barrow was, or how far back into it they would have to go. The first few feet, with Mittanewod still in sight, were covered while standing. Then, as the ceiling narrowed, they had to crouch lower and lower.

The passage was close and tight, somewhat over one meter in height and narrowing as they went forward. They passed a number of side tunnels, many of them wider and more appealing. Arnulf, his best wits in use, chose to bear right when a choice had to be made. At a distance of no more than nine meters from the entrance, the enclosing sides began to widen again. It was then they came upon an obstacle. Fortunately for the sensitivities of Lorasinthe, it was not another cadaver or other such monstrosity. It was a wooden shield, of size equal to the area of the opening in the rock cut.

“This was placed here to prevent those who might chance upon this spot from entering the part of the tomb where bodies might be found. It is not just for decoration or ceremony. It is a functioning part of the mystery,” said Arnulf.

Arnulf held his torch out toward the shield for a few moments, noting the distinct Heruli character of the implement. It was wooden and round, decorated with designs made of metal.

Lorasinthe peered in the direction where the bright light of the torch touched. She noticed deep cuts, like scars, across both the wooden and metal parts. They were not the result of random damage but were carved Runic characters conveying message or magic. Blood covered these cuts in the wood, blackened and aged but still intact in this place where winds never blew and the forces of decay were slower. She mumbled the words as she translated them, “W-I-T-T-H-A  S-T-A-Y.”

“No one has touched that shield since Tiugard set it in place,” Arnulf said.

The old man moved the torch back and forth, around and about, looking for a place where access might be given to hands or bar in order to remove what to him was now an impediment, rather than the bearer of the deadly warning so clearly carved for others to see and heed.

“There!” cried Arnulf, his voice reaching a degree of pitch higher than normal, “Tiugard has left us a way in. Do you see that crease on the upper right? There is a black glow against the light just above.”

Lorasinthe looked toward where the old man held the torch, then said excitedly, “Yes, I see it - a slit about as long as my hand, wide enough for a thin knife blade.”

“Yes, but that is an illusion, my girl,” Arnulf added, peering with squinted eyes at the torch illumined crack. “Take my hammer from the bag and hit that spot.”

Lorasinthe did so, striking three times before there came a cracking or splitting sound different from the thud of the hammer. A hole more than her hand's width appeared on the outer edge of the shield in what had appeared to be solid rock.

“He patched it and shaped the repair so it might appear solid and insurmountable to those who were not wary of his trickery. Now, Lorasinthe, reach through and pull.”

The girl doubted the strength in her small hands would be able to loosen such a weight. She was not even sure of being able to put her hand through the hole. Her first try proved the latter possible.

“Pull, girl, pull!”

Lorasinthe gripped the edge. There was an odd feeling in her unseen fingertips. Whereas she expected the thickness of a normal shield, she found her fingers clutching what seemed to be a very thin layer of wood indeed. Getting a better grip, she pulled, nearly losing her balance as the deceptively light shield turned and opened outward, as if on a pivot. The deep blackness just forward of the torchlight showed that the main tomb corridors opened before them.

“As I thought! The old master of magic I once knew as Tiugard was at his best in camouflaging the obvious. The apparent thickness and heaviness of the sealing shield was nothing but an illusion, a thing in the mind of those too ignorant to see the handiwork of a master craftsman.”

Lorasinthe moved her torch in the direction of the black hole beyond the now turned shield. Her head seemed to follow the light of its own accord, her body immediately after. There was no will to move in that direction, only a tugging not fully controlled by her mind. She mentally fought the drawing force that would thrust her into darkness, a reaction that caused her to stumble and fall. The torch was extinguished. The darkness closed in around her.

“Are you so anxious to enter you would harm yourself in your haste?” Arnulf was speaking from somewhere behind her fallen body, his eyes able to make out less than half her shape stretched out into the hole wherein she had fallen. “What do you hear in there?”

Lorasinthe was stunned by the fall, yet quickly recovered, more the result of a heightened alertness to where she was rather than how she was. There was darkness and quiet to her front. She strained to see and hear into it. A change in the type of silence told her the chamber, half into which she now lay, was of greater height than the pathway had been up to this point; how strange seemed the feeling of silence and darkness which was commingled before her. She listened. It was not sound that reached her senses first, but smell. The air, moving slowly past her prone body and out of the tomb, held tinges of foulness, but of a kind unfamiliar. It might have been the smell of a place sixty years enclosed, or it might have been . . .

“I hear nothing,” she replied, “but I smell something odd. Do you smell it?”

“The faint tinges of the long dead,” replied Arnulf softly, drawing in a great volume of air that it might be sampled by his senses. “Nought but that. That smell tells us they are back there somewhere awaiting us.”

A chill passed through Lorasinthe's small frame although she made no move to get up or back out. As her sense of smell alerted her other senses to awareness, she thought she heard something. A sound - small, fragmentary, distant - had occurred there in the darkness. Her mind, seeking visual confirmation but receiving only shades of black, turned in upon itself, feeding on the impossible. Had something really moved? She strained for the sound and heard it again. It was a muffled sound, not far away, as if something were being pulled along the ground - gently, softly, quietly. Panic filled her mind, yet she did not, could not, move.

Then, after at first approaching steadily, the slight sound of dragging stopped. Whatever was out there in the dark seemed only inches away, an unseen blackness in a field of black. Lorasinthe stared at it. She knew she was staring at it. Whatever it was eluded her, produced no physical sign.

The sense and smell of death filled her very being, although the smell was the same as before and she could neither hear nor see anything. Then, as the silence of the absence of movement thrummed against her totally alert eardrums, she heard, “M . . . I . . . T . . . T . . . A . . . N . . . E . . . W . . . O . . . D.”

The gasping, hissing, sound seemed the gentlest of whispers on the very edge of hearing, a sound like air being forced through the pursed lips of a dying man. She could not detect words, only one word and of that she might be wrong.

As quickly as it had come, the sound was gone. Lorasinthe shook her head in an attempt to gain control of her senses. She neither heard the whispered rattling sound again nor any longer felt a presence in front of her in the darkness. Then, from which direction she could not tell, came a crashing noise. Terror once more gripped her throat. Was it coming back?

As Lorasinthe scrambled to get up, to get out of the darkness and back into the safety of the torchlight, she found the new sounds belonged not to some creature of the darkness but to the noisy arrival of Mittanewod upon the scene. “What's wrong? Has there been trouble? I came as fast as I could. Why did you call my name, Master Arnulf.”

“Oh,” cried Lorasinthe, holding her hand to her chest in order to still her frightened heartbeat. “It must have been you I heard coming, although it seemed to be a sound in front of me rather than behind I heard. I thought I heard the word Mittanewod spoken.”

Arnulf did not answer Mittanewod's question. “I told you to stay and ensure that we have a line to follow. Why came you here against my will?”

“I . . .” stuttered the boy, his breath still coming in gasps from his exertions. “I heard you distinctly say my name. I assumed it was a call for help.”

“None such,” replied the old man. “What say you Lorasinthe? Did you hear me call him?”

Arnulf's head was cocked to one side, a habit he had when perturbed by another.

“No master, I did not, but . . .”

“But what?” asked Arnulf, a furrow in his forehead deepening, adding a sense of puzzlement to his annoyance.

Lorasinthe reflected back upon the sound she had heard. She asked, “Master, did you hear the sound from within the passageway like I did? There was a sense of Mittanewod's name within that sound, even though it was barely audible.”

The old man stared hard and fixedly at the girl, almost as if he were trying to pull from her mind the utterance she had heard and he had not. “I heard nothing.”

“I did,” repeated the boy. “My name was said in a very clear and soft tone. Now when I think back to it, I could not tell from whence it came. I was sure it was your voice, Master Arnulf.”

“Well it was not, nor do I believe either of you heard anything. Still, as long as you are here with us you might as well come along. Perhaps it was the voice of Wittha beckoning to you both. Perhaps there is meaning yet undiscovered that requires the presence of both of you. We shall see.”

A soft cackle from the old man's throat and a wincing crookedness near the corners of the mouth showed Arnulf enjoyed the reaction of the pair to his last words. With a shake of his head and an extended right index finger, he bid them follow him.

“He called me!” Mittanewod whispered to Lorasinthe as he came near her. “He had to have called me and is now acting like he didn't.”

On the other side of the shield wall they found they could stand, being in a much larger chamber. Arnulf bid them once more to silence, motioning Mittanewod left, Lorasinthe right. He watched as they moved through the blackness, the torches showing the presence of a ceiling about two to three meters in height. The ceiling was formed of the natural clay, dirt, and stones of the hill into which the barrow had been dug. The sides of the chamber were lined with rock from floor to ceiling, the work of man.

Pools of water lay here and there, the result of the slow runoff action of rain water reaching the chamber from the surface somewhere above. The air was wet, dank and stale. There was something wrong about how the air smelled.

Lorasinthe noticed it first, moving over near Arnulf and making a sniffing motion with her head. He followed her action and quickly caught her meaning. The air in the chamber no longer held any remnant of that persistent odor of human decay they had noticed earlier.

“This is the outer chamber,” whispered Arnulf. “Were you to trace its every dimension you would no doubt find that there is a rather unique shape to this room. In fact, it is not really a room at all. We stand in a clear area bounded between two walls formed of large rocks. These walls will angle inward from where we are now and will meet at a point just to the front of us. What we have here is a tomb in the shape of an Othala Rune facing north. Wittha was not buried without honors of some kind after all, although the honors might be considered more negative than positive if what I believe is true.”

“But where are the bodies whose smell clearly permeated this enclosed place?” asked Lorasinthe.

“Perhaps the smell was a memory of the past that waited these long years for a means of escape, doing so after we opened the shield door,” replied the old man. “Then, again, maybe we just imagined it.”

“I did not imagine it.” Lorasinthe's gaze followed her torch's light as she turned around in a circle. “Nor did I imagine I heard something in here. There was something in here, I tell you!”

“Mankind is notorious for seeing and hearing what it wants to see and hear in the darkness. I heard no movement until you made sounds yourself.”

Following these words, Arnulf began moving slowly forward. They had been standing facing the northern wall. True to his conception, all three soon noticed the walls to left and right were narrowing. The light of their torches showed an increasingly clear view of the rock sides as they moved forward. No square or round room this. The walls were going to meet at a definite point.

“Mittanewod,” Arnulf called out softly as the gap began to narrow before them. “Take and place torches somewhere in those walls on both sides that we might have more light in this room. How many do we have?”

“I have perhaps ten strapped around my waist,” replied the boy in a low voice. “Should I use them all?”

“No, perhaps four on each side would be enough. Save two for later use on the way out. Those that Lorasinthe and I have extra must light whatever lies beyond this place.”

As the boy went quickly to do as the Master bid, Arnulf and Lorasinthe continued their slow walk forward toward the meeting place of the walls. Lorasinthe said nothing, but she wondered about the Master's words and the unknown beyond. She could see the joining place of the walls. There appeared to be nothing there but solid rock.

“Look, Lorasinthe,” whispered the old man as the torch's light illuminated the place of joining. “The old illusionist has been at work again. Others might see only a joining of walls, but do you not see that something else is there also, something unnatural to the rock.”

Lorasinthe stared hard at the joining place. She was about to say that she saw nothing, then noticed something odd about the construction. “Yes, there is something grainy like wood there in the center of the meeting place.”

The girl moved up for a closer look, rubbed the ends of her fingers over the exact place where the two walls of rock met.

After a moment of touching the surface she said, “It is wood, Master. It is not a shield as before, simply a slab of wood. The length extends from the floor to the ceiling.”

“Take out your knife and scrape at the sides of the wood,” commanded Arnulf. “Tell me what you find.”

Lorasinthe did so. As with the shield, she quickly found what appeared to be rock was instead a compound placed over wood to appear as rock. The more she scraped, the more easily her knife removed the substance. Moving from left to right she scraped clean a spot in each direction until a board of wood some one-half meter wide had been cleared of its covering.

“There are words carved here also.” She rubbed the tips of her fingers over the substance. “Can you see them?”

Arnulf had been watching her work with interest. He came forward, edging the girl out of the way and peering at the crude symbols on the decaying surface of the wood. “It is a death board, a Totenbrett, a remembrance to the departed. We dare not go farther until we have read it fully for any instructions it might give. Scrape it clean that I may read it.”

From back in the chamber along the left side came a muffled, “Uh!”

Lorasinthe turned to look in that direction, calling out at the same time, “What's the matter Mittanewod? Are you injured?

Mittanewod called back, his voice producing a hollow sound in the air. “No, I just got a splinter in my hand. There's a wooden slab or something placed here against the wall. I was putting the torch into a crevice and got splinters as I nudged up against it. Wait! The wood has characters inscribed on it!”

“If I do not miss my guess, there will be a third on the opposite wall also,” replied Arnulf. “Get back here, boy. This board I stand before is the important one. The others are but illusion boards designed to mislead. There are those who know not what an Othala Rune is and what it means.”

Lorasinthe and Mittanewod were put to work cleaning the board at the joining point. As they worked, Arnulf deciphered a message from the partial reading of the Runic inscription. He began reading this message aloud even before it was fully uncovered. “Wittha must stay!”

Something about the command caused the old man to shiver, for he who had seen much had never seen such a command given to the dead. Above this was inscribed an inverted Othala Rune, a symbol similar to two ‘R’s placed back to back.

As they finished, the two novices read the message, but with a lesser feeling of apprehension.

“What does this mean Master?” Lorasinthe asked, noting the look of foreboding on the brow of the old one.

“It is a command from Wodan, or from one who represents himself as Wodan. The inverted Othala Rune strips Wittha of his rights to the tribal ceremony for the soul of the dead. Without it, his soul wanders until the Rune is made upright. Wittha's body lies within a barrow which is designed, shaped, and built in the form of an Othala Rune facing north, or inverted, like this.” Arnulf sketched the symbol in the dirt. “We are in the chamber of the legs of the Rune. There must be a chamber beyond which takes on the upper part of the Rune shape. We are in a most terrible place indeed. May Wodan keep us safe!”

“His soul is cast out of the Runeworld!” cried Lorasinthe, understanding what the old man was saying. “Othala turned upside down in the direction of Wodan's northern home could have no other meaning. Wodan, who sits on his throne in the north when passing judgment, sees the Rune as inverted when he looks in this direction.”

“I find no fault with such an interpretation,” added Mittanewod. “Did not the swine give up Wodan for Christ? Did he not create the schism within the Heruli whereby Wodan has been denied by a majority of the tribal members? I should hope he and any who followed him would receive no lesser punishment.”

The old man turned and snapped at his student. “Be not so quick with your condemnation. Remember, the loyalty oaths of the Heruli. Once a chieftain is granted that status, those in his service must give undying loyalty to his commands. Those people of the Heruli who followed Wittha into the conversion to Christianity did so because they had to. To do otherwise once their Rune-Master had been slain by Wittha, would have led to the breaking of their most sacred oath.”

“Yes, Master,” replied the now wary boy, “but surely Wodan would not sanction conversion above an oath of loyalty?”

“The essence of Wodan lives by oaths of loyalty no matter what, and so do the Heruli. Wittha had to be defeated by another chieftain, and he was. That is the only way the pledge of loyalty could be broken.”

“But why did they all have to die?” asked Lorasinthe. “Are they all buried here? There are too many questions left unanswered.”

“Yes,” said Arnulf, motioning with his torch toward the death board. “We will not know the answers until we have gone on, perhaps not even then. Let us go now, time wastes, ceremonies must be performed. Mittanewod, if you please, remove the board.”

CHAPTER 11

THE CHAMBER

Mittanewod was delayed in freeing the board. Part of the reason for the delay was that the camouflage paste surrounding it was firmly stuck. There was another concern. Mittanewod feared opening the entrance too quickly could allow something hidden behind to come forth and attack him. An unreasonable fear perhaps, but it gnawed at his mind. With a cracking and wrenching sound that echoed loud in the chamber, the board gave way.

Meeting one's worst fears is never pleasant, doubly so if that meeting is anticipated yet denied in reality. Such it was that when Mittanewod thrust the gateway open he came face to face with the gaping grin of a particularly nauseous, not wholly decayed, corpse stretched across the space behind. Unable to help himself the boy fell forward, grasping the repulsive blackened body with both hands. The ropes upon which the thing hung grew taut and, as Mittanewod fought to be free, both corpse and boy danced backward until separated. Part of the decayed tissue stayed with him, causing moments of intense rubbing to remove the moldering pieces.

Arnulf showed no sympathy for the boy's plight. “Lorasinthe, get a knife and cut down that body. Tiugard found a fitting punishment for Otta. He was the one of Wittha's sub-chiefs who tied me to the cross and ensured I was treated badly on that journey long ago. Still, one hopes he was dead when he was tied in place.”

Lorasinthe shuddered but obeyed. She cut the body loose from its bonds. The blackened skeleton sank slowly to the floor, as if in gratitude at finally being freed from torment.

“Now, let us enter and be done with this matter,” continued Arnulf. “Wittha waits.”

The room was large. The light of the torches hinted at an expanse at least as wide as that of the outer room and as long. As the three went slowly into this unknown, they came upon another joining point only a few feet inside. There was no way around this rock edifice. They had to climb over it. The height of the hindering wall was slightly more than one meter.

“See how the rocks continue to form the shape of the Othala Rune,” said Arnulf, whispering the words at the same time as he pushed the torch forward to bring more clarity to the rock’s surface. “This joining is where the legs meet then spread to form the upper part of the Rune.”

“Shall I climb over first and see what awaits, Master?” asked Lorasinthe.

Arnulf did not answer but put one of his ancient feet upon the rock while seeking a means of purchase with his hands. In an instant, and with a nimbleness his age might have led others to believe was not possible, he clambered up the rock to sit atop the wall and gaze out into the darkness of the other side.

Mittanewod and Lorasinthe did likewise. For a moment at least after their arrival none spoke, as the sight they beheld near took their breath away. The rock wall continued outward, forming a high extension that shaped the sides of an artfully constructed Othala Rune. In the almost square open center section they saw in the dim but visible light of their torches a large oblong inner rock enclosure surrounding a mound of black-appearing dirt, or ash. The Othala Rune faced north-south, its open O, or diamond-shaped section, lying directly before them. Around the straight edges of the Rune shape ran a path. Next to that path was a raised area of stone parallel to the wall forming the Rune.

“See?” Arnulf whispered again, “They cremated most of the bodies of Wittha's followers and lay their ashes in one mass grave in the center of the diamond-like O section of the Rune. Notice the white fragments of unburned bone our torches cause to sparkle among the fragments charred by the burning.

“I see, Master,” replied Mittanewod, softly.

The boy walked tentatively along the top of the wall to the edge of the wall joining point before stopping to peer out over the blackened mass of near fourteen hundred people.

Lorasinthe made her way over to where Mittanewod stood. She could see the level of the dark-colored ash was not far from the top of the wall, perhaps one meter or more in depth, and extending to some unknown distance into the darkness beyond the range of their torches. And there was one thing more.

Lorasinthe's voice echoed against the chamber walls. “There is the smell of death again, like I smelled in the outer chamber. Does that smell never leave such a place?”

Arnulf got down from the wall while the others were still examining the great death pit. He began walking along the left side. It was not long before his torch illumined a macabre sight. Up on the raised platform of rock and paving on the left side was a chair made of stone. Upon the stone sat the corpse of a man. Its jaws were wide open, mouldering head tilted to the left, as if looking at something as yet unseen in the darkness.

“Come here, young ones. We have before us those who would have taken our people into Christianity. See, here is the once great hero Chatt, for which many a warrior is still named. There, just to his left, is Hengise, whose mother was a Saxon. Their names are chiseled into the stone at the places where they sit.”

Lorasinthe and Mittanewod scrambled quickly from the wall to come to the side of the old man.

“Look,” said Lorasinthe, her arm extended toward the abomination. “Chatt wears no clothing, nor holds any weapons - the signs of dishonor.”

“Yes,” replied Arnulf. “Nor will I expect to see any different as we go down the line. It was once honorable for the Heruli to fight naked, shield, spear and sword the warrior's only protection. It was equally dishonorable to be found naked upon the field of battle without weapons, for that meant the warrior had left them abandoned. These have no weapons.”

Lorasinthe began walking down the path between the Rune wall and the raised platform. The ashes of near fourteen hundred dead Heruli tribesmen lay to her right behind the Rune wall. On the left side, at intervals of about two meters, were the corpses of the leaders seated up on the platform of stone on stone chairs. Their monstrous decayed orbs, now empty sockets, stared leftward into the darkness.

She rounded the sharp corner made by the farthest edge of the rock forming the Othala Rune and stopped. There was a rise in the platform ahead. On that level sat another chair, also occupied. The manner of occupation was what caused her to stop so suddenly. There was a corpse standing atop the rock seat. As she got closer, she could see that this was not quite the case. The body had been hung by the neck, its feet hanging over but not touching the rock seat itself.”

“Behold, Wittha!” shouted Arnulf, coming up behind her. “At last we have found you. See, Lorasinthe, he was hung from the roots of a tree that grows above ground over this place. Notice how the roots spread out in all directions, some tangling down around the corpse itself in the search for sustenance.”

“The tree has almost enclosed his entire body,” said Lorasinthe. “Look at the size of some of those roots! The tree has reached down and tapped into the very soil beneath this place. The cistern in front of his seat must have held water for the roots to live on until they reached the next level and found their own. Perhaps a spring fills the cistern.”

“No doubt,” said Arnulf. “Leave it to Tiugard to make the scene as creative as possible. But now, let us to our duty. Of Wittha we must demand passage. Let us do so and be on our way. Had I known they had done this to him, I would not have come here. No malevolent spirit guards this place. The ritual hanging has seen to that. Wittha and his men provide a decayed portrait of ancient dishonor, not a living factor to bother us on our journey.”

As the two men moved closer in order to examine the corpse of Wittha, Lorasinthe continued down the dark path alone. She sensed an unknown presence before the light of the torch reached it. Something else had to be there. First, there was the string of naked corpses, each sitting on their rock seat, all looking to the left. Then there was the corpse of Wittha hanging from the tree roots. That too looked toward the left.

A step further and she saw it more clearly, sitting on a throne at a level well below the others. The word 'it' suited what she saw because she could not make out any features or even whether the form was actually a body. Whatever it was, it lay in shadow.

The form seemed to be using that shadow to hide all identifiable features within folds of cloth. The body, if there was one, was wrapped inside a blue cloak-like garment. The head, if there was one, was bowed low and wearing a wide brimmed, black slouch hat. There was a spear on the right-hand side partially hidden within the folds, the point visible above the mass.

“It is a representation of . . .” said Lorasinthe, leaving the word unsaid as she looked around for the others.

Lorasinthe started to call Arnulf and Mittanewod to her side when she felt a softness underfoot. There came a cracking sound as her foot sank down slightly on something. She almost lost her balance, turning to face the throne once more as she attempted to regain her footing. It was then she saw the thing move.

The movement was both real and audible, a creaking sound accompanied by a visual shifting within the form itself. Something crept under those folds of cloth, and, unable to help herself, Lorasinthe screamed. “It is alive!”

“No, Lorasinthe,” croaked Arnulf who had come quickly to her side, his hand taking hold of her arm as she attempted to back away. “It does not live. The thing merely reacts to the tricks of a well-versed master of our lore. See, it moves no more after the first motion. You tripped the lever which caused that motion.”

Recovering somewhat from her initial shock, Lorasinthe thought a moment then replied cautiously, “I heard something beneath my feet make a strange sound just before it moved.”

Arnulf and Mittanewod stepped around the area where she had been for some time before hitting the exact spot. Again, with a cracking and creaking sound, the corpse-like figure on the platform shivered and jerked, this time rising almost out of the throne chair before sinking back into the dust and cobweb covered structure.

“The motion was not meant to scare, but to alert,” said Arnulf as he approached the formless but clearly identifiable entity.

As if considering his former words, Arnulf stood before the platform a few moments longer then knelt to one knee.

“Form made to resemble the earthbound countenance of Wodan, give us your message that we may be obedient to your wishes.”

In the half light of the torches, Arnulf could barely make out a rectangular object seemingly held out to be given up by unseen hands from somewhere within the created form representing Wodan. Arnulf reached forth and took the object from the body, feeling wood as he touched it. Bringing it to a point beneath his aged eyes and within the light of his torch, he saw the surface was covered with Runic characters. These were long ago soaked in blood to stand out against the clear background.

Moments after Arnulf received the wooden object from the grasp of the shrouded figure, there came a crashing and clattering sound off to the left. The body of the hanged Wittha had somehow been released. The bones fell hard upon the stone seat beneath, a cloud of dust and bone fragments rising into the air.

Mittanewod was the one to comment as they watched the settling of the corpse's remaining pieces. “The vibration of our voices and our movements in the tomb must have loosened ancient bonds. Or perhaps, the motion in this Wodan-form has brought other planned responses.”

“Kneel left, kneel center, kneel right, it does say.” The old man had quickly translated the first words visible upon the wooden board. “Indeed, Mittanewod, you were called into the tomb for a purpose it seems.”

Lorasinthe and Mittanewod looked at each other, baffled at the meaning of Arnulf's words.

“Mittanewod, kneel to my right,” Arnulf said. Then, as if receiving different instructions, added, “No, Mittanewod kneels at my left. Lorasinthe is to kneel at my right.”

Lorasinthe quickly obeyed, falling to her knees in front of the cloaked and shrouded figure. She looked upon the shadowed form with its dust and age-tattered blue cape and web-covered floppy hat. Was the one-eyed Wodan under there, she wondered, or was it just another trickster's apparition as Master Arnulf believed? Was Wodan looking at her from behind those tatters?

Lorasinthe felt things moving or shifting in the darkness that lay all around them outside the feeble light of their meager torches. Looking to the left in the dimly lighted reaches, Lorasinthe saw the monstrosity that had once been Wittha, now seated in its chair like the others, staring with insane intent at the same shrouded figure of Wodan as she did. Its grinning mask of a face was strange to behold, for because of the alterations in the flickering light patterns, it appeared to be looking first at the seated entity, then at her.

“There is also a message written here in fifteen words carved of Runes,” said Arnulf. “I must interpret them.”

It was moments more before Arnulf spoke again. Lorasinthe was watching him as he translated the characters, his lips moving slightly. As he finished, Arnulf's face appeared grim.

“Wodan, hear me,” said Arnulf, his eyes raised to look at the blue-cloaked figure on the throne. “I don't understand. I am old and weak and unable to go much further. Your tablet of wood has made me yearn for death. Can there be no other way, Master? Surely, there must be another path for your people, the Heruli?”

Lorasinthe and Mittanewod turned to look at the old man as he said these words. Neither understood those words, but they could see clearly that whatever the message was upon the wooden tablet, it held great distress for Arnulf.

“I wanted to get the blessing of Wodan for passage beyond this barrow of Wittha, this sorrowful grave. I see now I was led here for a different purpose.”

Arnulf looked from the effigy that represented Wodan to the gruesome reality that once had been Wittha. “Are you pleased with what you have wrought, Wittha, you accursed one? For upon us all has come the payment for your treachery!”

The horrid mass that was once Wittha responded neither with words or movement. There was a strangeness about the corpse, however. Water from the roots above, dripping upon the bleached-grey face in some quantity, made it appear as if the skull were shedding tears.

Wittha's tears did not avert the dread that now lay full upon the heart of Arnulf. “I would plead for your people, the Heruli,” said Arnulf in his anguish. “I would beg your mercy, even though I know better. It will be as you say. When the blood of Lorasinthe meets the blood of Mittanewod, the Heruli will be reborn! That is the last of your messages to me written on this board.”

Mittanewod and Lorasinthe looked at each other over the bent back of the Master of Runes. How could their names have appeared upon a tablet buried in this tomb so long ago?

Arnulf said no more. He rose to his feet before bowing in the direction of the still unmoving entity he had addressed as the great god Wodan, Master of the Masters of the Heruli, giver of Runes. After doing so, Arnulf placed the tablet of wood under one arm. Saying nothing to his young ones, he ambled slowly in the direction of the route out of the barrow.

Not knowing what else to do, Mittanewod and Lorasinthe got to their feet, bowed to the figure, and followed the Master. Neither looked back. They left two near extinguished torches to burn their last brief moments before that terrible scene of death.

Back in the gathering darkness, the creatures of the barrow continued their macabre staring toward the blue-caped one's position on the throne at the center. Their hideous countenances dared not look elsewhere. The tears – the dripping water - continued down the cheeks of Wittha's corpse. It was as if Wittha pleaded for mercy from the deity he had betrayed for greed, power and influence over an unworthy world.

As if in a gesture of forgiveness, the huddled blue-cloaked figure of Wodan slowly raised its hidden head and turned to face them. Dust and dirt fell all around the specter, causing a clattering in the darkness, forcing the webs of spiders to loosen their gentle grip.

Had Arnulf and Lorasinthe and Mittanewod been there, they might have thought they caught a glimpse of a bearded face, a patch covering deep scars over one eye, the gentle smile of a god at last forgiving his creatures for their betrayal. They might even have caught the look of relief on the bleaching skulls of the fallen.

Or would they have thought all this imagined? One final spasm within a human-built mechanism designed to produce movement to frighten the gullible and the credulous? They would have to have seen quickly to see at all, for the torches soon lost their light.

Darkness and silence settled once more upon the barrow of Wittha.

CHAPTER 12

SADNESS AT THE END OF DAYS

“Were our names really written on that board, Master Arnulf, Mittanewod's and mine?” asked Lorasinthe once more, now that the moment seemed right to do so.

Arnulf ignored her.

After they left the barrow of Wittha, Arnulf refused to honor their requests for any explanation of what happened. He asked Lorasinthe and Mittanewod to be silent until such time as he could sort out the meaning in his own mind. After that, no further discussions were held on the matter. When they returned to the camp of Rain Warrior, Arnulf gruffly sought his presence and gave hurried orders to bring the train up. He gave no explanations to anyone.

Even now, two full days later, without any sleep and with the train on the road to the Heruli sacred grove, Arnulf continued to hold his own counsel. Although Lorasinthe was hurt by his refusal to confide in her, she had stopped trying to get him to open up.

“Bid the people camp here for the night,” said Arnulf, curtly. “Tomorrow – we will reach the grove tomorrow.”

“But Master Arnulf,” said Mittanewod. “If we continued we could be at the grove this very night.

The old man gave no answer.

Mittane, who was also there, looked at his son. Neither understood what had happened to Arnulf at that accursed place of Wittha.

Arnulf heard every word directed at him concerning the events at the barrow. He saw every puzzled look on the faces of his people. He had not spoken to any about what transpired. As he dismounted from his horse to prepare for the night's camping, he was still struggling with the words he would use or not use when he finally did address the tribe on the matter. That is why he had chosen not to reach the camp before the morrow.

Mittanewod and Lorasinthe were the only other sources of information the curious might question. They were pestered constantly for that information. All they could do was state what had happened, what the barrow had been like inside. The rest was in Arnulf's mind. That evening, around the campfire where the high leaders sat, Mittane broke silence for them all.

“This board Mittanewod speaks of, did it have secret messages of importance to the rest of the tribe or to you only Master Of Runes?” Mittane asked Arnulf directly.

“I cannot tell you all of what was on the board now,” replied Arnulf. “I will not. Besides, not all words were written. Most words were felt.” The old man sat before the fire, drawing squares before him in the soil. His manner was unlike that of the Arnulf who had entered the barrow of Wittha. Something about his demeanor indicated all hope had drained out of him. Even Mittane, his old competitor and nemesis, seemed upset by how he looked and acted.

“What do you mean the words were felt?” asked Mittane, dropping the slightly caustic turn of phrase he usually used in his contests of wit with Arnulf. “Say what you need to say, old friend and end the mystery that has this camp all stirred up.”

Arnulf looked pensively at his old antagonist, then at the others who either stood or sat near by. He began to speak slowly. “I felt the words more than read them, although there were Runes carved on the board that contained a message. Something has happened. Something will happen. We and those in this caravan are the only Heruli left in Wodan's world.”

“Surely, that message was a lie sent to deceive you, or you interpreted it incorrectly.” Mittane shrugged then added, “we know there are Heruli at the grove and in the band of the Christian Artawulfe. We have been, up until a week ago, in touch with the guards who protect the grove. They live.”

Arnulf shook his head plaintively. “I have asked the Runes. They refused to answer, instead telling me to wait and see. I do not feel our people are alive. Those who have accepted the Byzantine faith may no longer call themselves Heruli. That is a contradiction in terms. I sense they have died to the Heruli, just as if killed in battle. Such meanings were indicated in the words on the board in the Barrow of Wittha.”

“The words spoke of events that have transpired since they were written sixty years ago?” interrupted Mittanewod.

“They spoke of much more than that. Yet the number of words upon the board was only fifteen,” continued Arnulf, his gaze holding that of his old warrior friend.

“How can this be?” asked Mittane. “What fifteen words could ever be scratched into wood which would lay you as low as these have seemed to do?”

“I cannot say yet, but I promise all of you that the Heruli shall know the words on the day of our arrival at our grove. Of that you may be assured.”

Arnulf could not be drawn forth to utter one more word about events at the barrow after that. In fact, he neither responded to questions nor moved from his crouching position before the fire until the brightness of the dawn greeted the Heruli the next morning. After a while, all of the others there with him left to gain what rest they could. The night was cool and damp, the breezes light. The Heruli drifted off to sleep, together as a people, while tears coursed unseen by any down the cheeks of the Master of Runes, who slept not at all through the darkness.

The next day dawned murky and grey. The risen fog did not burn off. The people packed up in a cold, misty rain then drove on into one of those kind of unchanging days that bring either unrelenting sun or unrelenting mist, a kind of day that is hard on the emotional makeup of humans.

Time passed uneventfully until the lead scouts came within one mile of the sacred grove late in the afternoon. The scouts were confused. They should long since have encountered the sounds of movement to and fro from the grove.

“What is that I see there near the bend of the road into the village?” asked the scout Ratfel of Rain Warrior, who rode at his side ahead of the train of oxen-led wagons.

“I don't know, but I am beginning to question the silence and inactivity that surrounds us,” Rain Warrior admitted, instinctively shielding his eyes to better see, although the day held no sunshine.

Both struck leg to horse haunch. They reached galloping speeds before closing the distance between them and the strange objects stretched across the road upon which they traveled. They recognized human forms long before they reached touching distance.

“They have been tied to some kind of wooden poles!” wailed Ratfel loudly over the sounds of his panting, snorting mount.

Rain Warrior did not answer to what had been made obvious in the viewing. He dismounted quickly to stare uneasily at a string of nine bodies. Two he readily recognized. Seven of the nine bodies had no faces, those having been cut off to leave only the blood-filled skull underneath. The recognized two, the two tied to poles dug into the center of the road whose faces had not been mutilated, he knew well. They were Amberone and Semna, the two most senior Masters next in leadership to Arnulf.

“May Wodan bring the throats of those who have caused this to my sword,” said Rain Warrior. Then, in remembrance of childhood training, Rain Warrior chanted over and over again in a rhythmic pattern, “Wodan! Wodan! Wodan! . . .”

Between each chanted saying of Wodan's name, Rain Warrior banged his spear and shield together, while his foot struck hard upon the ground in unison until the simple chant seemed to take on a life of its own. “Wodan (woomph)! Wodan (woomph)! Wodan  (woomph woomph woomph)! . . .”

Rain Warrior was quickly joined in his chant by Ratfel, then by others who came upon the scene of carnage. No words passed among any of them. What had happened was obvious, as was what undoubtedly lay beyond. The din of the cries beseeching Wodan and the crash of the Heruli war chant soon filled the air for a great distance around. The cries for blood went forth to any enemies alive within earshot. They would know the Heruli were coming.

The level of the war chant reached deafening proportions by the time Arnulf at last arrived, led by Lorasinthe and Mittanewod. In the course of the night, an unseemly frailness had come over the Master of Runes. As he was helped up to the place where the mutilated bodies of Semna and Amberone were, a wail came forth as if from his very soul, a wail so sharp and piercing the war chant came to an echoing halt almost at once.

When at last Arnulf turned to address the waiting throngs of warriors, women, the aged, and the children, he could barely speak. Madness lurked within his eyes as his tortured voice rent the air, “Now, I must tell you of the message from Wodan that was carved upon the wooden board I took from the very hands of Wodan within the Barrow of Wittha!”

These words echoed through the massed ranks of the Heruli. Arnulf let them echo, let them be repeated from father to mother, from warrior to maiden, from child to child, from child to the oldest men and women, until he was sure all knew.

“The Heruli may not be! Thus has Wodan willed!”

Once again Arnulf stopped speaking until not a voice stirred the air, nor did a child yet whimper. They knew he waited for them. The discipline of the Heruli held. Not even the smallest among the eight hundred or so who stood around him moved or disturbed in any way the clarity of what he said next. This was a tribal moment, a people’s moment.

“Arnulf dies today!”

The silence that greeted that announcement was deafening.

“Wodan has said the Heruli may not take up the cross of Christ and still be the Heruli. Yet, if the Heruli do not take up the cross, they will be annihilated by force of numbers alone. Thus, the Heruli will die also this day. I am reconciled! Does not my life end at the very gateway of our most sacred grove? I cannot go forward with you into it, for I would not see with these old eyes what has been wrought there. The grove will always be for me as it was when the Heruli came upon Wodan sitting there upon the sacred rock!”

Arnulf looked around at their many faces, large and small, homely and pretty, aged and youthful. He knew he loved them. Their eyes returned the same light of affection, that light possible only among people who are of like mind and like tradition.

“The Heruli are in Wodan, and Wodan is in the Heruli! The Heruli are the Heruli beliefs! The Heruli are the Heruli traditions! The Heruli are the songs of our heroes and the stories of our ancestors! The Heruli are the beliefs we hold in common and the obedience in which we obey our customs! The Heruli then must die, for all these things are dying!”

Arnulf looked around at the faces of his gathered people and his love for them brought a strange smile to his face. His strength had ebbed with the speaking, and he found he could no longer stand. He sank slowly to the ground into a sitting position, supported by Mittanewod and Lorasinthe. His words after this point had to be relayed by Mittanewod.

Mittanewod spoke loudly the words the now dying Arnulf bid him speak. “I am the last of the Masters of Runes. I take my knowledge with me back to Wodan. My young ones here, Lorasinthe and Mittanewod, are too young and untrained to carry on. With Semna and Amberone dead before me, and Sigdonner and Ulrete as well it must be assumed, the tradition of the Nine dies also. Such did Wodan hint to me at the Barrow of Wittha in the words he gave me.”

Arnulf paused once more for a breath and then continued, one hand held to his chest as if trying to force the words forth, the other clutched tightly to Mittanewod's arm. “I am weakening faster than I thought possible. Before I go, I must pass on something else. Rain Warrior, are you here?” Mittanewod said each word as if he himself were saying them.

The young war leader was close at hand and was soon kneeling before Arnulf in answer to his name, “I am here, Master. What would you of me? Say it and it is done.”

“Stand and listen!” replied Arnulf, wanting all to hear the words he spoke. “Lorasinthe has a good and strong voice for me to speak through at this point. She will say these words to you and to the others.”

Lorasinthe rose from her position near the head of the dying man and looked into the eyes of Rain warrior. He returned her look with the slightest appearance of a smile of greeting upon his face. She gave him a scathing look in return, causing the young man to drop his gaze for a moment before returning it to hers in a more steady fashion. It was hard for him to look at her this way, so lovely did he find her.

“My Master says,” began Lorasinthe softly, then more loudly, with command, “My Master says Rain Warrior is named Herzog, war leader of the last of our people.”

This caused some muttering in the crowd, for there were at least two, his father Mittane and one other, upon whom many felt this honor should fall.

“He bids Mittane,” continued Lorasinthe, her eyes searching and finding the much older man near by, “understand the wisdom of this, for only youth and strength have any chance at all in surviving what comes now. It is Wodan's will.”

Mittane bowed his head in obedience.

Lorasinthe paused in speaking after listening to the next words Arnulf said, although they were loud enough for even Rain Warrior to hear. Then, as Arnulf urged her to continue, she did so.

“Arnulf asks you take the remnants of our people to safety. He also bids you remember who has taken the life of the Heruli. Spare not your arm against them. He also advises you, Rain Warrior, that Mittanewod and I are free from our oaths as members of the Nine, and I am free now to take on those same duties that other women may.”

Lorasinthe blushed deeply as she held the eyes of the young man before her. These words brought forth a momentary flicker of a grin the stern Rain Warrior might have tried to hold back, but that the Wodanase within could not.

Lorasinthe, angry and embarrassed that all could see her discomfort, said, “But I, Lorasinthe, say I will continue to serve the tribe with my knowledge in whatever way you, my Herzog, wishes. I know Mittanewod will do the same!”

Her voice failing and tears flooding her eyes, Lorasinthe could continue no longer. She shook her head in the direction of Mittanewod. He took up speaking for Arnulf once more. They had lain the old man's failing body down against a soft pack. Mittanewod had to bend lower to hear each word.

Mittanewod called out Arnulf's words to the crowd in a strong voice. “Wodan also left a tiny flickering glimmer of hope upon that daunting piece of wood carved with Runes and soaked with Wodan's own blood. The fifteen words stated Wodan's pledge as given through me in the position I then held that, 'when the blood of right meets the blood of left, the Heruli will be reborn'. Since Lorasinthe was then on my right and Mittanewod on my left in that haunted spot, the message should read, 'when the blood of Lorasinthe meets the blood of Mittanewod, the Heruli will be reborn.’ Fifteen words, that was all that Wodan left us.”

“But what does this mean for Lorasinthe and myself, Arnulf?” whispered Mittanewod to the dying man after he had finished giving the message. “What shall I tell the people that it means to them?”

“I don't know.” whispered Arnulf.

CHAPTER 13

COMING HOME

Arnulf beckoned with what strength he had left for Lorasinthe to kneel down before him. The tears in her eyes would not stop flowing. In former days he would have bid her stop showing weakness before the people in this manner. Now, Arnulf merely reached toward her and patted her cheek gently. This show of his affection caused her to completely break down. She placed her head upon his breast, sobs wracking her body.

“You must help them when you can, Lorasinthe,” the old man whispered softly. “Use the Runes when you are allowed by Wodan. Tell the tales and sing the songs to the children when dusk comes and all is quiet. They must never be allowed to forget everything.

“I will never let them, Master.”

Arnulf's heart felt lighter, relieved of some of its burden. “There is much you do not know of our people and of the magic of the Runes, much you will never know now. It is Wodan's will that all that is to be lost go into the Hall of the Slain with me. I would prefer to greet Wodan knowing you had sent me to him as a sacrifice for the good of the Heruli people, that one day again that name might be honored. Do now what you have to do.”

Lorasinthe stared in incredulity at the Master of Runes, the old man who was breathing his last before her eyes. She shook her head from side to side.

“Now, Lorasinthe! - take the white dagger from my bag, now.” whispered Arnulf, his voice barely audible. “Use it! Then, after I am gone, burn my body to ashes upon the rock. Before you do, take the pin clasp from off my tunic and keep it with you in my memory. I never told you its meaning. It is too late now.”

She could not question this request. It was a right of the old to sometimes choose the moment of their death. Lorasinthe reached into his linen bag, removing the sharp white stone dagger. Arnulf's breathing was ragged and broken. His hands dropped to the sides of his body. She placed the dagger at the spot he taught her to find and whispered the words of sacrifice,

“I give you to Wodan!” Lorasinthe stopped, thought, began again. “I give you to Wodan, only father I have ever known!”

Lorasinthe pushed as hard as she could, the stone slipping easily to its goal as if encountering no resistance at all in Arnulf's ancient frame.

“Through this final act, you earn the right to enter Valhalla by at least two means, my father; as seeker of knowledge and truth, a warrior of the mind, and as weapon-dead, a warrior of the body. My striking blade ensures you the latter, you long since having earned the right of the former.”

Even as Lorasinthe performed the ritual, she felt only remorse, no guilt. It was a long standing Heruli custom, a duty of the Nine, to dispatch older people in like manner either near the time of death or shortly after. Some old warriors died of disease rather than on the battlefield. Heruli legend said that all who would enter Valhalla to be with Wodan must die by weapon strike, be filled with Wodan's wisdom, or . . .

“There is a third way to Valhalla as well, through our cremation ritual. It will be my pleasure to know you have experienced all three as the greatest of our leaders. Tomorrow, may your spirit rise to Wodan on the smoke. Rest now, my father.” Lorasinthe burst into tears once more and fell prostrate over the body. After a few moments, answering to some inner strength she did not know she had, she rose to her feet.

The Heruli people were waiting. None would question her right to do what she had done. She wiped Arnulf's blood from the stone knife, carefully wrapped it into the old leather pouch Arnulf once carried and placed it in her linen bag to be with the Runes she carried.

She addressed them thereafter, her eyes red and swollen, her posture straight, as the Master of Runes would have demanded. “Arnulf is dead!”

The rhythmic warrior chant started up once again, slowly at first, then with increasing vibrancy as shields, spears, swords, axes and other weaponry and equipment of the Heruli war band struck metal against wood, metal upon metal.

“Wodan! (woomph)! Wodan! (whoomph)! Wodan! (woomph)! . . .”

As the chant reached the height of its intensity, Rain Warrior, now war leader and Herzog of the Heruli, raised his battle axe into the air and screamed, “revenge!”

The approach to the village and to the grove that lay just beyond it was conducted by the leading warrior element. This force numbered close to one hundred seventy-five men with Mittane in command. A larger group, younger women, older men, and young boys between ten and fifteen years of age, who were deemed capable of fighting, remained with the wagon train. They were to protect the children, the aged, and those men and women who could not fight.

The only non-warrior to accompany the lead group was Mittanewod. Despite the admonishment by Arnulf that he was too young and untrained to have been fully one of the Nine, he was given his place. This was done because he and Lorasinthe were all that remained. Even Mittane showed his son deference.

Lorasinthe was with a small group of some fifteen warriors just behind the main force. These men were her bodyguard, as well as being responsible for escorting Arnulf's body to the sacred grove of the Heruli. Because of her importance and current function as Arnulf's burial caretaker, these fifteen warriors were the best of the tribe. They were led personally by Rain Warrior, who had given up overall command temporarily in order to ensure the old man was properly and ceremonially conveyed to the Heruli's most sacred site.

The main band encountered no opposition in their procession through the village, nor were they opposed by enemy forces within the grove. Rain Warrior and Lorasinthe were apprized of the situation by returning messengers as they rode.

“It is slaughter!” sobbed Chatt, tears of rage filling his eyes as he reported to Rain Warrior and Lorasinthe what lay ahead.

“I expected nothing else,” admitted Rain Warrior, gloomily. “There could have been nothing else.”

“Perhaps some yet live somewhere?” Lorasinthe added, searching his hard eyes for some sign he too thought hope existed. “Surely, some live somewhere?”

As the pair passed through the village, the horror of what had transpired was beyond comprehension. The smell of burning wood and other materials mixed with the noxious smell of death was hard upon the air from all directions.

Rain Warrior called out. “Great Wodan, may your daughters be with us when we catch these cowardly butchers! May the Maids of Slaughter not stay my hand, nor take my strength away, until all this has been repaid. Then, when all lie dead before me, let your daughter, the Valkyr Death-bringer herself, choose me and take me if you want!”

The village was one large burned ruin. All those who had once lived there were laid out upon the ground, forming a path made of bodies stretching from the entrance to the village, through the smoking ruins, onward toward the forest area of the grove itself.

“There are too many bodies, Herzog,” informed Chatt. “Far more than might have been expected. Some of the dead have been brought here, perhaps as sacrifice, perhaps only so the murderers might torment our spirits.”

There were very few caretakers, merchants, and guards in residence at the grove at any time, usually not more than two hundred. The number of bodies forming the pathway numbered hundreds more.

“They taunt us with our dead,” said Rain Warrior. “Look, there is the servant Marco. He was attending the needs of the family of Artawulfe himself. Now, he is here among the dead at a place he would never have chosen to visit in life.”

As Rain Warrior, Lorasinthe and the guard party rode slowly along this path of the dead, they noted many of the bodies there were of the people who had converted to Christianity with Artawulfe. That had to mean that whatever forces had brought this massacre into being had carried many of these people here for display.

Many of the dead had been long dead, others of more recent departure from life. This also was a curiosity. Where had they been killed? Why had they been brought here to be abused further?

The heart of each of the dead had been torn from the body and laid across the chest at the right shoulder. Why this was done seemed a mystery until Lorasinthe remembered a story that Arnulf had told her about Artawulfe and his defection to Christianity.

“Certain of the Master's sources told him Artawulfe had been forced to falsely confess to the Christian priests. He lied to them, saying the Heruli, as part of their pagan faith, had torn the hearts from sacrificial victims and eaten them. Artawulfe also told them Heruli traitors and Christian converts had their hearts torn out and thrown to the camp animals.”

“Why would Artawulfe have told such tales?” asked Rain Warrior of the girl who rode beside him so quietly through the carnage.

Lorasinthe thought for a moment then replied softly, “My Master Arnulf believed the more acts Artawulfe confessed to, the bigger sinner he appeared to be to the Christians, the greater was the fullness of his conversion to their faith.”

“I thank you, Lorasinthe, for your explanation,” said Rain Warrior, bowing slightly in her direction as he said the words. “By Wodan, what kind of people would believe such a thing?”

This was the first conversation between them without others near by. He was pleased by this small thought even in the midst of such tragedy. “Can you also tell me why they did this to those among our people who had been converted to Christianity?”

“I can but guess, my Herzog,” she replied, addressing him formally as would befit an answer from one of her position to one in his, “but I would say it is an omen, one that tells us they don't want our people in Christianity. They are saying we are fit only as meat for dogs! That is why they have torn the hearts out and left them for wild things to consume.”

As Lorasinthe finished giving her opinion, they were at the point of leaving what had once been the village and entering the growth of forest that surrounded and formed the outer ring of the sacred grove. The sight that greeted them as they got closer brought tears to the eyes of the girl and increased the hatred on the face of the young Heruli warrior.

Instead of the thick forest of roughly horseshoe shape, its wildness carefully tended and cultivated, there was a barren wasteland. All the trees had been chopped down, or burned. The riders could see all the way to the sacred white mountain, and not a single tree or bush remained standing. The Great One, the tree that represented life and the center of the sky god's world, was nowhere to be found among that tomb of massacred vegetation.

At the beginning of what had once been the forested area, a body lay centered in the processional track. As they approached it, they found there the badly deteriorated remains of the Heruli Chieftain and Herzog, Artawulfe.

The sight of the destroyed grove caused tears to cascade down the cheeks of Lorasinthe. The sight of Artawulfe's body brought a different reaction. She brought her horse to a halt before the obscenity that was once a hallowed and much honored Heruli hero.

“Artawulfe has been dead far too long to have been killed here. His body must have been brought to the grove long after his death.”

“I believe that also,” replied Rain Warrior who, although much accustomed to the sight of battle dead, was unnerved by the callous disregard the slayers of Artawulfe had shown to his dignity. “He and those of his followers that were brought here are to provide the surviving Heruli with a message. No Heruli life is safe in the land of the Christians. If Artawulfe and these others are dead, so are all his followers. If the Christian Heruli are all dead, what of us?

“I could not cry for him, nor would I help bury him,” said Lorasinthe. “His defection has brought not only the slaughter of his people but also destruction to the only place where the soul of the Heruli has known rest. I bid you have volunteers take this carrion and give it to the camp dogs. If you find his children – he has a son and a daughter – give them over to the wolves.”

Rain Warrior looked in astonishment at the tear-stained cheeks and swollen eyes of Lorasinthe, her face now showing the contempt in which she held Artawulfe. She was changing and who could blame her.

Inside herself, Lorasinthe knew she was changing. Once she had felt as if she were ice as a result of her need to be totally obedient to Arnulf's wishes. Now she was ice in the coldness with which she wished to dispense justice, to seek revenge, for the acts Artawulfe had perpetrated. The gentle and obedient child Arnulf knew and taught was disappearing in the harshness of a new sun's light.

“I will do as you wish, Master of Runelore,” stated Rain Warrior, honoring her with the ancient title not usually applied to one so young among the Heruli.

Lorasinthe turned toward the warrior leader and their eyes met. His words of honor to her had again brought tears to her eyes. “That title must be denied me! I have not earned it. I will take another name to show the Nine are now gone, as are the duties and honors they once performed for the Heruli. You, as Herzog, must find new traditions for us to uphold in different lands. After my Master Arnulf has been buried, I will be but another woman of the tribe.”

“I choose to hold to as many of the old ways as possible,” replied Rain Warrior. “I will not allow you to forego your duties to your people, nor to forego the ancient title that is yours to bear. Mittanewod, my brother, and you must continue to teach and practice our religion. You must choose new students. You are both hereafter titled Master of Runelore. It is my wish.”

Lorasinthe looked carefully into his eyes for a sign he truly meant what he said. The slight smile he gave her told her his words had come from his heart.

“I hear, Herzog, and I obey,” she replied softly, using the ancient title of leader of leaders of the Heruli. “But will the rest of the Heruli accept us?”

“They will, or they will answer to me.”

The sacred white stone was covered with burned and charred tree branches and the remains of what had once been brush and flowering plants. All had by now disintegrated into a black mass of wet sludge due to recent rains.

Lorasinthe viewed that sight with more sadness than anything she had seen so far. Now joined by Mittanewod and followed by a procession of the guard carrying the body of Arnulf, they proceeded slowly toward the sacred rock before which Arnulf had so often communed with Wodan through the Runes.

A group of young boys came forth at Mittanewod's order to climb upon the white rock and clear its surface of all the debris that lay upon it. They also cleaned the jagged white stone ridge that lay behind. As the boys began their hurried work, cries went up almost immediately. Lorasinthe heard their excited words that a body lay upon the rock. Rushing forward at their call, she was soon looking down upon a man's remains.

At first she was unsure of any recognition. The body was badly disfigured, covered with dried blood. None had known it was there, although the smell of a dead body should have made its presence known under the leaves and branches. But then, the air within the former grove was fouled by more than one such leaving.

“It is Sigdonner,” said Lorasinthe, her voice at so low a pitch Mittanewod, standing next to her, barely heard her.

“How can it be?” he replied. “How can you tell? If it is, I would hope that Wodan revenges his spirit in order to bring balance to the soul of whoever has done this to him.”

Lorasinthe brushed away the remaining leaves and twigs from the face and stood back and bowed her head toward the body. In a commanding voice she cried aloud, “One of the Nine lies here, his form disgraced, his soul demanding revenge. Who among the Heruli will come and take him for cleansing, in order that at least his body is soothed once more by his people?”

Some of the guards standing near the sacred stone came forward immediately, including Mittane. In moments, they had cleared the stone of all branches and other materials, uncovering the body of Sigdonner. As they cleared the last of the debris from around the body, Lorasinthe noticed something odd about the face of the corpse. She reached out and placed her hand upon his cheek.

“He has been prepared in the Heruli custom,” Lorasinthe informed. “How can that be when we know it was Byzantines or their creatures that did this deed? Mittanewod, if you would, open his mouth.”

Mittanewod understood immediately what she was indicating. The Heruli always placed an amber bead, a secret carved Rune, or other such object under the tongue. This was done that the dead one might have something to give as tribute to the spirits of the Runeworld. Death-bringer, the Valkyr, or Iolanthe, the conductor of souls, were thought to be pleased with such offerings. Not that they or any others that Wodan set to such tasks needed baubles. This ritual showed simply that the soul had been sent with the well wishes of its people.

It was gruesome work Mittanewod performed. The jaws of the dead man were fixed in place. As Mittanewod pried the mouth open, more than a few of those present flinched before the cracking sounds. Finally, the task done, he reached into the mouth and pulled out what was there. It was a parchment roll tied with cord.

“I can't read the language written. Is it Greek or Latin?” asked Mittanewod, once he was able to loosen the tightly folded document.

“Can anyone here read Greek or Latin?” Lorasinthe called to the assembled warriors.

One from in the crowd, a former aide to Artawulfe, said that he could read Greek. He was called forth, and the parchment-like document was placed in his hands.

“It is Greek,” said the man, pausing for some moments to examine the words. “Printed character by character. It says, Christ, know this man was a sinner, a pagan, yet forgive him oh Lord for he took the cross in his last moments of life.”

A flush of redness rose in Lorasinthe's cheeks as the words were spoken. In a fit of anguish and despair, she moved quickly forward to the stone and pulled the body of Sigdonner from atop it, causing it to crash to the ground.

“Destroy that!” cried Lorasinthe, angry tears welling in her eyes. “Destroy that! Destroy that!”

Mittanewod grabbed her arm, but she jerked away; her eyes were now filled with the sparkling lightning of anger called Wodan's Wrath by the Heruli, when the eyes of a warrior in battle contained it.

“Destroy that! Tear it in pieces and throw it in the river!” Lorasinthe sank to her knees, her voice cracking with emotion, tears flooding eyes formerly filled with rage.

Mittanewod backed away. He understood her anger. This was the greatest disgrace of all. One of the Nine had abandoned Wodan.

Lorasinthe raised her eyes to the sky. “Are there any who still wonder why the sacred grove of the Heruli has fallen to its enemies? Are there any who now would question Wodan for saying the Heruli might not live?”

As Lorasinthe pulled her sleeve across her eyes in order to wipe away the tears of shame and anger, a hand caught hers and held on. Lorasinthe tried once more to pull her hand away but could not.

The owner of the hand whispered softly to her. “Lorasinthe, get up. It is not seemly for a Master of Runes to behave so in the presence of the people. Wodan would expect more of you.”

Lorasinthe thought this voice the voice of Arnulf, then remembered it could not be. She began to reproach the one holding her arm. Upon recognizing the face of Rain Warrior, the new Master of Runes, the tribal storyteller, became a girl of sixteen once more, flinging her arms around his neck and burrowing her head into his shoulder.

Some later said as he held her, the stern unyielding battle face Rain Warrior so often wore before the people slipped and he became for a moment the most gentle of young men. Some said he spoke soft words to her, words of comfort, words of love  Be that as it may, such words were not the first the gathered crowd heard after but a moment.

“Destroy that!” Rain Warrior exclaimed loudly, pointing down toward the body of Sigdonner. “Not anywhere near the grove of the Heruli. Take its parts and feed them to the spirits of the river as the Master of Runes has asked be done.”

Darkness and sadness descended together upon the destroyed grove of the Heruli that night. It was a cold night in early fall. There was fog. The sacred white stone, which once dominated the scene where the cultural and religious activities of the Heruli tribe took place, had been cleansed of the impurities that had been heaped upon it. The body of Sigdonner had been taken away and thrown into the river. The body of Arnulf now lay upon the stone.

The body would lie upon the stone until the early hours of the morning when it was to be burned upon a huge pyre made of wood. Arnulf was dressed only in a long white linen garment, simply woven. No ornaments adorned his body save a leather thong around his neck. The thong was attached to a white linen bag that lay at his left side. The bag held his set of twenty-four Rune staves, the odd-shaped pieces of wood upon which were carved the Runes the Master had used in his life.

The Rune staves were to be burned with him, or at least destroyed by fire at some point immediately after the Master's death. To allow them to live upon the earth and be used after his death would have been the worst kind of sacrilege.

All of his possessions, except a few items designated by him for others, would also be destroyed. No one wanted the powerful spirit of a dead Master of Rune magic returning from the great beyond to reclaim a stolen personal object.

Only one other stayed there through the night, a form huddled at the base of the stone, one whose tears were all wept out and whose sobs finally subsided as at long last sleep came upon her.

Lorasinthe paid her final respects to a man she loved, the only father she had known, the last of the true Rune Masters of the Heruli. As Arnulf lay there dead, an ancestral world, ages long in memory, lay dead with him.

CHAPTER 14

WHITE SHADOWS WITH AMETHYST EYES

“Lorasinthe!”

Softly, gently, barely audibly the name sounded forth as a slow moving whirlwind of air whispered around the base of the great white rock, flinging leaves and tiny pieces of wood into the air. These leaves and fragments, once vibrant with life, were now lifeless and fallen from the branches of trees that lived no longer.

These refuse of life eventually settled back to earth, some landing softly upon the shoulders and hair of the girl. She who, wrapped in animal fur against the chill, had cried herself to sleep before the bier of her friend and mentor.

“Lorasinthe!”

The girl felt the gentle touch of the leaves, stirred slightly at the sound of her name. She could hear clearly that someone called her, but her sleep-disoriented mind could not tell from whence the words came. Was she awake or . . .?

“Lorasinthe!”

“Yes, Master,” the girl murmured dreamily. The arm upon which her soft cheek rested rose slightly, as if in an attempt to notify the speaker she had heard and was responding.

“Come, young one, rise!” urged the voice that seemed as if from everywhere, “I have not long here with you.”

The girl felt as if she were surrounded by a cloud of white mist, a cloud that cloaked and wrapped her so softly yet firmly she could move only with the greatest of effort. In truth, she felt no wish to move at all. As her languid body rose slowly from her sleeping pad, her sleep-blurred vision at first could not find the sound of the voice.

“Master, is it you? I cannot see you.”

“I am here, Rune-daughter,” the voice went on. “See me or not see me, or see me as you wish.”

Rubbing her eyes softly, Lorasinthe strained to see the presence of the voice. Then, as if in assistance, the gentle breeze that was still stirring the leaves swept softly over her face. The breeze was demanding, parting her sleep-tangled hair and pushing wayward strands ever so gently to the sides, as if to make more clear the way to the vision before her eyes. The breeze was cooling upon her. The pale eyes of the young maiden closed in appreciation, a gentle smile and the first blush of return to sleep covering her face, as if with a single soft blanket woven from the dust of stars.

“No, my beautiful one,” spoke the voice. “The gardens of dreams of the Runeworld of Alfheim, the land of the light elves, may not be entered yet again. We must speak first. Come daughter, rise!”

Once more Lorasinthe broke her reverie. This time the oddness of the thought she had no idea who she was speaking to, or if anyone were really speaking at all, caused her to come to full alertness. Noticing the feel of the cool night air on her now awakened skin, she shivered slightly.

As she looked around, the wind followed her. Or so it seemed, as leaves and wood flakes and grass and small torn branches once more whirled and settled, whirled and settled. It was night. Two torches burned on either side of the great white stone. She had no trouble seeing short distances but beyond these areas of light was the dark.

“Did someone call my name?” she asked, having now looked all around and found nothing there.

Yet, as she spoke, somewhere within the darkness from a direction she looked not, the leaves again swirled. She heard them. Lorasinthe got to her feet and moved backward toward the south side of the cleared area in a direct line away from the rock upon which the shroud-covered body of Arnulf lay. She tread backward very slowly, step by cautious step, her eyes never leaving the sacred rock, or the figure upon it.

At the farthest corner of her sight, she caught a glimpse of the roiling debris cloud once more, as the urgency of the wind storm caused swirling fragments to dance and turn across the open area in front of her. The cloud of debris hesitated as it reached a point midway between her and the body of Arnulf.

As she froze in position, the cloud consumed itself in furious activity, almost knocking her from her feet as she covered her head and eyes to ward off the impact of the force behind the wind. Almost as quickly as the little storm had risen, it melted away. The leaves and wood pieces that formed the cloud settled softly once more to the earth.

Lorasinthe, frozen as she now was to the last step she had taken, noticed she stood at the edge of the dark. There seemed to be a film of some kind in the air between her and the rock. It was the early morning rise of a white-grey fog whose density would increase as time passed.

Swiftly and silently the visible mist rolled in. It seemed as if somewhere behind the great white mountain, giants, creatures inhabiting many a legend the Heruli told 'round the campfires at night, were crushing the white crystal of the quartz and releasing it into the air as fog. Lorasinthe watched as the swirl of white surrounded her without making a whisper of sound in the air, then grew gradually thicker and thicker with each passing minute, until she was no longer sure of where she stood within the grove.

There was illusion in the fog. It seemed to Lorasinthe, as she stood there entranced, that the vanished trees once more reached their height and beauty just outside the range of her vision. She thought she could see and definitely felt their living presence once again. Straining, she tried to make out the branches and leaves that once adorned the grove and hovered and stretched themselves with teeming life over the sacred rock.

She even felt the presence of the Great One again, the tree that had been the representative of the world tree at the grove of the Heruli, before it had been slaughtered along with all the others. The trees were there again. Of that, Lorasinthe seemed sure. She just could not yet see them through the fog.

Stepping quickly forward, Lorasinthe returned to her place before the great white stone and the body of Arnulf. The torches still burned on either side of the body, more eerily now that the fog was present. Having found no voice she once more lay down before the bier. Had there really been one at all? Then, with the fog covering her like a blanket, she once more fell asleep.

“Did someone call my name?” Lorasinthe asked.

Shivering with the increasing coldness, Lorasinthe heard no response. She would have covered herself against the cold and lain upon her pad once more, but her mind was suddenly filled with the thought that someone was watching her. “Where are you?”

As if from in her mind, yet also all around her, a hissing and windy sound caught her attention. Cool and mist-laden, a breeze accompanied the sound. Lorasinthe could not hold her eyes open against it and fell to her knees before the stone, her eyes closed.

“Stay as you are now, Lorasinthe.” The wind and the voice seemed to hiss as one. “Only open your eyes that you might see me and that I may also look into you.”

The girl did so. She saw nothing accept the fog that now covered all - stone, body, torches - all. “I cannot see you, Master. Where are you?”

As she said these words, the fog above her swirled and rolled back. Revealed were dimly perceivable branches from a great tree standing just at the edge of sight in the mystical reaches of somewhere just beyond her senses. In the branches of the tree she thought was there, something glowed. Something amethyst colored, bright and clear when compared to everything else which was not.

“I see you now, Master. You are there before me, in the tree.”

As if in answer, the shadowy branches rustled silently and the amethyst color glowed more brightly.

“If you can see me, daughter, what do you see?” replied the voice that was again all around her yet centered in the amethyst color.

“I see you are become a dragon, my Master,” the girl replied dreamily, “a white dragon you must be, for the whiteness of the fog hides your body, but does not hide your eyes. I can see the rainbow flame within the amethyst. Your claws, those that must be clutched tightly to the tree branches, might be seen also were they not black in color like the branches. They are therefore well hidden from my direct view. Your great white wings swirl the fog upward as they come into motion. Although I cannot see them clearly, I see the fog unable to withstand the urgent beating of your powerful wings against it. Your long and shapely tail, Master, I see that not, yet know its presence in the same fashion.”

“You see much that many might not perceive, young one,” replied the voice of the wind, whirring back into the amethyst haze after lightly touching her ears.

“What would you of me? Are you the new form of my Master Arnulf, returned once more to speak to me?”

“I am that which you know, Lorasinthe,” replied the voice in answer, “and I would have words with you in the name of Arnulf and for all those ancestral spirits of the Heruli, blood and non, who have come before you. For you I am Arnulf that you will hear and obey the instructions now to be given you.”

“I hear, Master, and I obey.”

The fog seemed to shift and increase in density everywhere except at the very point where the amethyst color sparkled, as if the white dragon Lorasinthe saw in its mist-shaded invisibility had moved closer to make more clear the message. Indeed, the dark foliage and branches of the Great One, upon which the mist dragon must be perched, appeared to dip lower in order to enclose and protect the sanctity of the communion between them.

“You have heard the Master Arnulf say with his last breath that when the blood of Lorasinthe meets the blood of Mittanewod, the Heruli will be reborn?”

“Yes, my Master Arnulf said that,” answered the girl. “I heard those words, but I did not understand them.”

“Then hear now and understand a part of that message,” the voice continued, softly, urgently, clearly. “You are to part soon from Mittanewod, he taking one road, you another. He is to take the woman who is to become his wife and their family members that survive. He is to go northeast, deep into the lands of the Germanic peoples who live at the farthest edge of our domains. He is to stop only when people totally foreign are to be met beyond the place where he is. There, he is to settle and raise his family in the Heruli tradition, but not as Heruli. He will adapt to the customs, names, and manners of the people there and will give back greatly to them.”

“Who are these people, Master? Why must Mittanewod go there among them?”

“They are Germanics, the same as the Heruli. That is all that is important, save that they have a destiny. They will survive long ages yet against the power of the Christians and will never fully succumb. Only in such a place can the seed knowledge of the Heruli hope to survive. Here, in this our own land, the very name Heruli will die. The wind and rain will blow and storm across the shattered remnants of our sacred grove until all memory of its existence is forgotten. No Christian church will be built upon these ruins. Instead, when our memory is weak within our related brethren and at a time when no knowledge of the past of this place is remembered, a fortress will be built here upon the white mountain.”

“Who will build this fortress, Master? Who will be its people? Will they honor Wodan?”

“The name of Wodan no longer lives around the Heruli even now, will soon no longer live anywhere in the domain of the southern Germanic peoples. The builders of the fortress will be Christians, and they will know only that Wodan is the name of an ancient demon their legends say haunts this land. Of Germanic religious beliefs, and of the Runes and their power, they will know even less as time passes. Of the Heruli and our sacred grove, they will know nothing.”

“But . . .”

“In time, the dwellers of the fortress will feel the ancient presence of our people within the white rocks and they will find our relics buried within the surrounding forests and tomb places. They will not know who or what we were, but they will honor us.”

“That is sad, Master, but how can these peoples forget all if they are also Germanic peoples like the Heruli?”

“This is because what they do not forget in time, or have driven from their minds by the Christian priests and monks, will have no source. Some of our beliefs will be absorbed into Christianity until their origin in the beliefs of our peoples is forgotten by all.”

“And what of me, Master? If Mittanewod is to go one way and myself another, what way will that be?”

“To the legendary former home of the Heruli,” answered the voice from seemingly everywhere at once, yet concentrated there in the amethyst. “Go northwest, into the lands where the lords of the Vanir rule. That is where the Heruli once called home under another name and in other times.”

“How will I know when I have led my group to the proper place, Master? What are we to call ourselves now?

“You are to tell strangers you are the followers of Tyr, the honorers of goddesses, and the obedient servants of Donar, called Donner, Thunar, or Thor in many of the lands you will pass through. But most of all, you will acknowledge you serve Wodan during your human existence above all others.

“Under what banner, Master? Under what name?”

“You will tell all Germanic peoples you meet that you are a warrior people, a people fighting under both the dragon standard of Wodan and the nameless black raven standard of the Lost Ones. As such, you have no name, you have no people. Only in this way will some of the Heruli survive what is coming. The emperor of the Byzantines has long arms and a powerful reach, even into the lands that owe him no homage. You will say you are the servants of Wodan, nothing else.”

“But, Master, would it not be better to change our name, to pick another name that at least we would have some way to identify ourselves to ourselves. The people understand Wodan has commanded that the name of the Heruli be lost until some future event shall raise our people up again. Until that day, may we not have another?”

“No!” replied the all encompassing voice. “You will take the name of those in whose lands you settle. Until then, in order to identify yourselves to others, choose the name of your most notable warrior leader.

“That would be Wodanase” answered the girl.

“Yes,” responded the voice. I re-name him only slightly. He will be called Wodan-Ase, a slight change in pronunciation only. This will allow him to use the shorter name Ase on occasion when the name of Wodan might not serve. You would then become the followers of Ase, or the Aesir.

“I understand,”

“And your husband to be, what is his name?”

“I have no husband to be, Master,” replied the girl, a momentary embarrassment causing her to blush and stammer as she said the words. “I am a Rune maiden, forbidden as such to marry. I would rather hold to my vow in honor of my Master Arnulf and our Heruli beliefs regarding the sanctity of my position as one of the Nine.

“And your husband to be, what is his name?” repeated the voice, the echoing timbre of which within the mind of the young girl told her that a response on her part must include a name.

Lorasinthe paused momentarily. “His name is Rain Warrior,” she replied, angry at once that her inner feelings and desires were being violated, yet insistent that if she had to marry only one would do.”

“That is a Heruli title, not his name in the future. What is his name?” asked the voice, once more forcing the Heruli past to die and the nameless future to come forth.

“He is the same Wodan-Ase of whom we have been speaking, Master. He is our tribal chieftain. Only Wodan-Ase may approach me if he wishes.”

“Then go to him. Tell him that this union must be.”

“How will I explain all this to the people, Master?”

Lorasinthe felt suddenly dizzy and overtired. Her softly closing eyes no longer clearly beheld the sparkling amethyst glow in the distance; nor the dragon behind the glow; nor the tree within whose branches it rested.

“You will first tell Mittanewod that I have said to go now with his people, to move forth in the darkness of this morning's night. Tell him what the white dragon has told you. He will understand, for his heart already knows. Then speak to Wodan-Ase of your feelings. I do not doubt he will return them. All else will work itself out within a fortnight of this moment. Of future trials I will not tell you more, for those are yet unshaped by your deeds.”

“Yes, Master,” replied the girl, her body sinking slowly to the ground, first to her knees, then back to the position upon her robe in which she had first heard the voice speak. “You will sleep soon, young one,” continued the voice, as clear and definite as before, but now seeming to come as if within a fading dream. “You must leave here when two days and nights have come and gone. What Mittanwod does you must do also. Be gone from here.”

“I hear and I obey, Master” Lorasinthe murmured dreamily.

“The skull of Arnulf is to be unburned. It will, stained in the color red and carved with the twenty-four Runes, be placed at the top center of the Black Raven standard the women will make as a group tomorrow while the men are performing the burning rites. The raven will be black against a black background with black edging. The raven will be lightly outlined in white, with white eyes filled with flame and darkness, in memory of your lost people, the Heruli.”

“I understand, Master,” affirmed the girl softly, almost inaudibly, “What of the other banner, the banner of Wodan.”

“The banner will be almost the same as the Heruli have always carried before them into battle. The dragon streamer will be a replica of the white dragon. Just as you have seen the white dragon in your mind as you looked at me, so will the dragon streamer of Wodan be painted. The white dragon must have black outlining like a cover of tree branches. It will have amethyst eyes, rather than pure red.

“It will be done, Master, just as you have said. It will all be done.”

Lorasinthe heard no more. She slipped away into the Runeworld of the elves of light and beauty.

“You hear me no more, Lorasinthe, but deep in your mind hold this. On a night when the storm streaks amethyst against black, after the white lightning of Donar strikes, so will the white dragon of the Heruli become the dragon of a people who revenge the Heruli. On that night, long centuries hence, will Wodan under a different name receive His proper due once more. Even then, the Heruli may not yet live. That waits a moment in time when all that transpires today is so hoary with age that none but an imaginative spark struck within the mind of one that Wodan awakens will recreate it. So Wodan has said. Sleep on, daughter.”

When Lorasinthe awoke, she was sure she had only been dreaming. There had been no white dragon speaking to her. Yet how strange she could remember each word so clearly, unlike a normal night's dream. Something so real appearing must have been real. In that moment, Lorasinthe knew she would do exactly as the white dragon of her dreams had asked, whether the asking was real or imagined.

The day broke cold upon the camp of the Heruli warriors. Most went aimlessly about their unaccustomed morning tasks of preparing their arms and burning their dead before going forth to face a future that appeared anything but bright. Death was in the day all around.

The chilled sun broke cold upon the bodies of the many dead collected, and those still being collected, for the burning. They did not feel the cold, of course, or the feeble warmth of the half-hidden sun either.

A freezing mist in the early hours of the day pressed miserably upon the old within the camp. These were perhaps the most impacted; old bones do not like coming winters.

The day broke cold also upon the women and the children, most of whom had stirred early, going about their normal range of duties. The most important of these was the digging up of the hidden stores of food which lay at known places around the shattered Heruli village.

The day broke cold upon the form of Rain Warrior. His duty was to awaken the girl Lorasinthe in order that any final dispositions might be made concerning the body of the Master of Runes, Arnulf.

Lastly, the day broke cold upon the reclining body of Arnulf. The body still lay at the base of the great stone. Lorasinthe, kneeling before the rock, attended him. She was fully awake when Rain Warrior arrived. Of all who felt the deadly cold within their bones, she felt it most. She knew what would come at the end of days, the end of Heruli days.

“I bid you good morning, Lorasinthe,” said Rain Warrior, noticing the girl was wrapped tightly in a heavy fur mantle against the cold.

“I bid you good morning, Wodan-Ase,” replied the girl, deliberately using the sound of his new birth name given by the white dream-dragon.

Rain Warrior, for so long had he internalized that name that it had become him, looked with curiosity upon her after she had used his other name in greeting. “You have rarely before addressed me with my former name, the name my father gave me. Why do you do so now?”

The girl looked at him, her eyes full of the light of strange intentness, a look that took in all there was of him in one brief moment, then glanced upward toward the murky sky before replying.

“Last night I saw my Master once again in a dream. I believe it was not my Master Arnulf I saw, but one greater than he. I was told some of what the future holds, including the most important immediate deeds we former Heruli must perform in service to Wodan. The first of these is that we come to understand we must call ourselves Heruli no more. Because we cannot be, I am no longer one of the Nine, and you are no longer Rain Warrior.”

As if he did not hear her, Rain Warrior came directly to her side. Stretching his hand out toward her, he took hers and raised her from her kneeling position. She held the fur robe close to her body as she rose somewhat unsteadily to her feet. He brought her close to him, their eyes no more than the space of a hand apart.

“You are alone in the world now,” said the young warrior. “You have no family, none to care for you. I will care for you.”

The girl looked at him with a startled expression, anger first flaring then replaced with a slight smile as the humor behind his rather awkward approach began to dawn upon them both. Her gaze broke from his and she stared upward slightly toward the blue bar on his forehead that told of his Heruli warrior ancestry.

“We will have to find some way of hiding the warrior's marks of our people, if we are to obey,” said the girl, defusing completely the awkwardness of the situation by reaching forward and touching the blue line tenderly. “I have an order direct from Wodan to you, Wodan-Ase.”

He noticed the slightly different pronunciation of his name and would have commented, but she stopped him. “I tried to fight the command of the Master, but I could not. He would not listen to my objections, nor will he listen to any you might bring forth. He asked me who my husband was to be, and I did not answer. He asked me again, and I refrained. On the third time, the name was forced from my lips. I will have no other husband than Wodan-Ase.”

The young warrior stared into the sparkling blue eyes of the girl as she said these words. His smile showed his surprise. It also showed his pleasure. “I would never disobey a command of Wodan. If that is His wish, I hear and obey.”

With these words did Rain Warrior, now Wodan-Ase, approach his bride-to-be. With his hand lightly touching only her shoulder, they sat down together before the great stone and talked of that which was to happen.

They talked of a wedding that must take place very soon.

CHAPTER 15

THE LEAVING

All that needed to be done in the Heruli camp was done in great haste. The previous day had been hectic for all. So many things had to be done that Mittanewod was unable to leave. They camped among the ashes of the grove and village. Now they were preparing to strike the camp, performing the last duties before leaving.

The body of Arnulf was burned in the presence of the entire tribe the previous day. Since there was none alive who could say which of the many bodies lying about the village on the path to the grove died as honorable members of the Heruli, a quick decision was taken. Most, save for a few known Christian converts, were cremated as was the Heruli custom.

The ashes of Arnulf, save for the head, were divided among the surviving adult members of the tribe. Most carried this gift upon their person in hopes some of the magic Arnulf knew in life would remain to bring them luck or grant them wishes.

The cleaned skull of Arnulf stood atop the new standard that would go forth before the tribe. It had been painted red, and Lorasinthe, still regarded within the tribe as the logical spiritual leader along with Mittanewod, had carved the name of Arnulf upon the skull in Runic characters.

“It is done,” said Lorasinthe, taking time to examine her handiwork, the carving of the twenty-four Runes of Wodan upon the blood-red skull of Arnulf. These would add power to his name.

Wodan-Ase, getting used once more to his older name and the slightly different pronunciation, replied, “Arnulf would have appreciated the fineness of the carving and the intent. Of course the Christians, upon seeing such ritual, would no doubt find further reason to order our deaths. This, even though their monasteries are full of the bleaching skulls of their departed brothers, a custom they took from us.”

“The women have made a new standard of black-dyed cloth taken in a raid upon some Roman or Byzantine camp long ago,” Lorasinthe said.  “Upon it they placed and sewed the image of the black raven, the emblem of the Lost Ones, the nameless tribe of Wodan.”

“According to the dream you had before dawn yesterday,” Wodan-Ase said, a look of surprise crossing his face. “That is indeed fast work.”

“A lot of women participated,” Lorasinthe said, pleased at the compliment “The greatest part of the work involved the outlining. The raven they outlined in white, but thinly, for although white, red, and black are the colors most sacred to the Heruli, the words of the white dragon said black on black must dominate.”

Now, mounted upon a wooden pole made from the wood of the great tree that had once spread its branches and mantle of leaves over the sacred grove, the new standard of the tribe was ready to go forth.

Lorasinthe continued, “They are also creating a new banner honoring Wodan. This banner will fly alongside the raven standard. It was created in the form of a wind dragon, white in color with amethyst colored eyes. Our new dragon standard has a long flowing tail that trails backward and outward when the breezes are high, much like the one our people captured from the Romans long ago.”

“I will bear it?” interjected Chatt, who had come before the leader pair bringing information pertaining to the state of his preparations.

“Yes,” Lorasinthe smiled, acknowledging Chatt’s presence with a nod of her head as well as her words. “You will bear the dragon. Theudonez will carry the raven standard at the very front of the column.”

“He has earned that right in battle,” added Wodan-Ase.

Lorasinthe thought back to the day when Theudonez had been given the honor of bearing the old standard before the tribe. The relic was now safely packed away in her wagon. The dragon standard had been carried as a mark of recognition by elements of some forgotten Roman Legion. Only the bravest Heruli warriors carried the standard.

“We have completed the burning, Wodan-Ase,” said Chatt. “What the Byzantines did not finish, we have.”

“May Wodan bring their faces before our eyes,” snarled Wodan-Ase. “Let us go and see.”

The three of them walked slowly toward the heart of the grove, the place where the stone and pole of life once stood, the carefully tended ground over which the great Ash spread its cover. Tears came to Lorasinthe's eyes when they arrived at the spot where the great white stone of the Heruli, the very stone upon which Wodan greeted the Heruli war party so long ago, had once lain.

“It is gone!” she cried.

“It was your order,” replied Chatt, sadly.

“It was our order,” added Wodan-Ase, the anger in his face only the palest of mirrors, reflecting the surge of hatred that dwelt within. “The rock of the Heruli is gone but the white mountain remains. The white mountain will always remain. Also, we have left a smaller version of the rock still standing in place, one upon which Wodan might yet again choose to sit one day. Broken from the greater stone, this rock will remind future generations of our people, if any come here again, that a greater stone once stood here.”

Lorasinthe, acting in her new position as Master, and accompanied by Mittanewod, had begun the process of destruction the day before. She had struck as hard a blow as possible with a hammer. The first bare traces of white stone were chipped away. Mittanewod followed her example, causing more of the surface of the stone to be disfigured. Thereafter, the stone was shattered by the blows, tiny or strongly laid, of every person alive within the tribe. In the end only the greatly reduced stone remained among the piles of chips and broken pieces.

Lorasinthe wore a thin leather bag around her neck. The bag contained a piece of the white rock she had chipped away. Her example was followed by many others.

“After I struck the blow that led to this, I also went and struck likewise at the pole of life, that which the Byzantines had thrown to the ground,” said Lorasinthe, turning then to look longingly for the spot where nothing was now to be seen. She began to cry softly.

Wodan-Ase would have moved to comfort her but his attention was drawn to the approach of Mittanewod who, accompanied by a number of other individuals, was moving toward them at a quick pace.

“Welcome, brother,” said Wodan-Ase, well aware of why Mittanewod was in such a hurry and most pleased by the prospect of his appearance.”

“And to you my brother, Wodan-Ase, welcome. It is time.”

“We are ready.”

“Then, let us hurry,” Mittanewod urged. “Lorasinthe, are you ready? I beg your forgiveness at the haste with which we pursue your marriage, but your vows must now be formalized. Theudonez has brought his horse.”

Lorasinthe and Wodan-Ase had, that morning at first light, exchanged pledges to each other in the presence of the camp. A strap of leather was tied around their wrists, ceremoniously binding them together. Onto this leather strap was carved the Rune whose meaning had to do with making partnerships grow strong in peace or adversity.

Lorasinthe still wore the white dress from that earlier ceremony. The dress was a simple linen piece with a woven leaf belt matched by one in her hair. She had been, and still was, barefooted, as was custom. A single non-natural decoration adorned her body. Around her neck she wore the strange object Arnulf had given her without explanation. It was once a brooch, or pin, for holding together a tunic or robe. She wore it because Arnulf brought her and Wodan-Ase together.

Wodan-Ase still wore the white linen tunic with linen pants tied securely at the ankles that he had worn for the ceremony.

“Come, Theudonez,” exclaimed Mittanewod to a dark-haired man who had stopped his approach some distance away from the group to await being asked forth. “Bring the white horse. Mount, Lorasinthe! Mount, Wodan-Ase! Go forth to your people that they might know you are united together!”

Lorasinthe and Wodan-Ase began their procession through the Heruli encampment. Normally, such a wedding would have involved days of celebration. Now, all was limited to the bareback ride of congratulations. As was customary, the married couple rode in such a position that they looked into each others eyes during the procession around the camp. They truly wished to be looking nowhere else.

Later that afternoon, following the completion of the wedding rites and a brief celebration, Mittanewod gathered together the small band which would accompany him on his journey. About twenty members of the tribe, mostly family, made up the party. A young girl, pretty with dark braided hair, well-mannered and shy, accompanied Mittanewod. Her name was Adugisle. They were to be married, though the where and when had not been decided.

“I never doubted your dream for a moment, Lorasinthe,” Mittanewod said, smiling broadly. “I am happy for you especially, regardless of the mixed blessing of this day. I do not know what the words of Arnulf portend, but whatever they mean, perhaps one day we will meet again in some fashion.”

Tears of joy and tears of sadness covered the face of the beautiful blonde-haired girl as she clutched tightly to the cloak of the boy who had been her true friend. “I love you, Mittanewod. You are the only brother I have ever known.”

“And I love you. I guess I always have, brother and friend.”

“Mittanewod,” Wodan-Ase asked. “Are you sure you have everything you need for the journey?”

“That depends, my brother,” Mittanewod replied. “If I lack anything, it is the desire to go. But I must.”

Wodan-Ase smiled. “Our mother and father will stay with me. I will need Mittane's advice more than you. You always were the brighter of us, brother.”

Mittanewod laughed. “On that remark, brother, let us part.”

“Mittanewod will survive, Lorasinthe,” Wodan-Ase said, after his brother’s departure. “A small group always has a better chance. They left behind every vestige of Heruli culture, including their blue forehead marks. There was nothing in or about the band that would suggest anything but traders on the move.”

Lorasinthe was not reassured. “My husband, we do not know where the Byzantines are, let alone how many they number. For all we know we may escape without any problem while Mittanewod walks directly into a trap.”

“I think not, my love. My feeling is that whoever did these foul deeds knows where we are and who we are. Mittanewod has a chance to escape because of the smallness of his numbers. Our chances are far less.

“I don't care as long as I am with you.”

“Theudonez! Chatt!” commanded Wodan-Ase. “Get the column moving. We must move  out onto the road and away from here.”

Lorasinthe took time for one last look around a landscape now almost unrecognizable.

Wodan-Ase noted her sadness. “I am sorry our wedding day could not have been more to your liking.”

She came to hold him. “It is to my liking, my love,” Lorasinthe replied, feelings of sadness and happiness competing within her.

Theudonez and Chatt, mounted on matching black horses, carried the standards into the grey, low-lying fog of that afternoon of sadness and happiness. The new tribe, calling themselves the nameless ones, or Lost Ones, simple traders and nomads, went forward into the complete unknown. None knew what lay to the far northwest, the direction in which they were heading, nor if there were hostile forces in that direction or anywhere else. They sought to cut the road of Attila on the first day. They knew nowhere else to go.

The Heruli did not know that at a distance of less than seventy kilometers southwest of the grove lay the camp of Commander Decius, the conqueror of the Heruli, as he was now known among his men. The title hinted at no mean rise in fortune for Artagabalus’s former subordinate.

With Decius were a force of light infantry and cavalry - numbering no less than four thousand Byzantine soldiers and attached barbarian auxiliaries. This force was spread out in an arc across the western main route approaches from the former Heruli grove to about seventy kilometers south to north. The weakest forces were in the north.

Decius stationed the main body of his forces to the southeast behind a natural ambush point near the Danube river, the Donau as the Heruli knew it. He firmly believed the main body of the Heruli tribe would turn south and come to him. There was nothing to the north at all but untracked wilderness. Not that it really mattered. If they chose to go west or north, he had enough forces to block any movement until the main force could be brought to bear.

Artagabalus, to whom Decius had formerly been subordinate, held the northern approaches. Decius ordered him to hold the northwestern routes out from the Heruli grove for a distance of some fifty kilometers. Artagabalus took his cavalry unit of less than one thousand men and spread them thinly along a twenty-mile radius on either side of the most logical route north and west. Had Decius known or cared about their disposition, he might have questioned why Artagabalus had done this.

To the northeast and south, directions Decius assumed the Heruli would not go, the Byzantines had sprinkled only a few scout units designed for catching Heruli stragglers or others who were separated from the main band. Northeast was the direction Mittanewod had taken.

Narses had already published the word that the Germanic tribe that had dared help bring down Romulus Augustulus and the Western Roman Empire had been dealt with as Byzantium would always deal with its enemies. He bid Decius repeat the famous words he had used before the battle of Taginae, “You are going into battle as the defenders of a well-ordered system, whereas the enemy are spoilers who have no hope at all of seeing their work continued in their posterity, but they measure their existence and outlook only from one day to the next.”

“Theudonez,” asked Wodan-Ase, addressing the warrior who handled the large raven standard as if it were almost weight-less. “Why hold that wind-flapped banner? Why not furl it and wait for a calmer time in which to display it?”

It was the next morning, and the Heruli wagon train had just broken onto the old cut Attila's armies made decades before while invading the Roman Empire. The road passed north of the Heruli grove. They had traveled all night, sleeping where and when they could. The road was famous among the Heruli and well familiar. They first came down its poorly traveled tracks as a people when they were part of the force the great Attila sent to attack the cities of Roman Gaul.

“I would furl it, my Lord Duke,” answered the man, turning around on his large black-colored mount to face Wodan-Ase, who rode just behind him, “I would, but I have sworn to carry it through this bitter day the full length in memory of those days and lives we leave behind.”

“Why do you address me with the Christian title, duke?” asked Wodan-Ase, a grimace of distaste on his face in the asking. “I am Herzog of our people, am I not?

“Yes, Lord Herzog, but if we encounter Christian forces in this region, it would appear better to have a Christian connection.”

“Never mind that,” replied Wodan-Ase, anger stirring within, “and forget the title lord also. That brew stinks of Christian honors and teachings with which the Heruli have had too much contact already!”

“Hold, my Herzog”, called a gentle voice from behind. “Have you forgotten the Heruli be no more? We are a nameless band of warriors, traders and their families traveling forth following our service to the great General Narses the Byzantine, in his battles with the Goths and Franks.”

Lorasinthe, who had moved her bay mare closer to the gelding Wodan-Ase rode, spoke the words in a gentle, teasing fashion. They had spent only brief moments together during the night, but she was pleased by what little time there had been. A blush, perhaps in remembrance of her wedding night, was heightened by her smile.

That smile calmed the wind of the gathering storm of Wodan-Ase's anger. Wodan-Ase was conquered every time he looked upon her face, or saw her smile, or watched her when she was near him. “I thank you for your reminder, my lady. It is true we hide our identity at Wodan's command, but that does not change my desire to beat my breast and call to Wodan sitting in his chair looking down upon us that we are Heruli still, Heruli always, Heruli forever!”

“We would be seven hundred dead Heruli were we to do that, my Chieftain,” called Theudonez over his shoulder. “Even now, on the road before us, I see travelers coming in our direction. Our first chance to test our will to obey Wodan's word comes before us. What are we to be today, Herzog Wodan-Ase, Heruli pagans, or Christians?”

Wodan-Ase did not answer. Instead, he peered over the neck of his horse down the road toward where a small group of wagons approached. As the distance closed, none spoke. When they were within a hundred meters of the wagons, Wodan-Ase bid Chatt in a whispered tone to take the Lady Lorasinthe to the center of the column for her safety.

Chatt did as he was told, taking Lorasinthe and the Wodan standard to the wagon where the warriors, whose lives were bound up in the care of the two standards of the tribe, waited.

“We bid you safe passage on your journey today fellow travelers,” Theudonez said in greeting.

Theudonez had furled the Raven Standard, holding it outward across his horse's neck as one might a lance.

“May you also have a safe journey,” replied a middle-aged man who sat in the driver's seat of the first of two wagons pulled by oxen. “It is a long column you lead. Where are you bound?”

Theudonez chose his own response, not knowing what Wodan-Ase would have replied. “We are Christian peoples from many German tribes who hope to form a Christian community in this land as reward for our services to the emperor at Constantinople.” Theudonez watched the eyes of the man intently, looking for any facial signs that might betray words which remained unsaid.

“Christ be thanked you are Christians,” responded the stranger with a smile. “I had thought you were possibly those being hunted by the Legate Decius and his men. Still, you had best be careful. There are Byzantines all along these roads and paths. Were you to have been from the German tribe called the Heruli, you would meet mortal danger not far from here.”

“Where does this danger lay, fellow Christian?” Theudonez asked, glancing briefly toward the silent Wodan-Ase.

“We passed patrols of Byzantine cavalry some while back,” replied the man. “They said they were from the command of Artagabalus. Who that is, I do not know. If I were of these Heruli people, I would take great care in my travels.”

“We thank you for your courtesy,” said Wodan-Ase, speaking for the first time. “Were we these Heruli, whom we have not met traveling on these roads, we would certainly heed your advice. Do the forces of this Byzantine commander – Decius did you say -- also lie in the direction we are traveling?”

“I think not, young man. Were the cruel Legate Decius behind us on our path, I do not believe we would be alive to tell of it. Decius knows not a Heruli from a Goth or a Lombard, nor cares to know. Commander Artagabalus is a more caring and less cruel man, a man who might be reasoned with. Still, you could not have picked a worse moment in time for your journey.”

“Where are you bound, friend?” asked Wodan-Ase of the man who in the mind of the Heruli chieftain wore some form of mask before his face which was difficult to penetrate. He seemed a friend, or at least harmless, but . . .

“We were heading east and then south, but with each step my fear has been growing that two wagons alone on the road now are two wagons courting more danger than we might imagine. We were thinking of turning around and going back to the camp of Artagabalus to await safer times and safer roads. If we sought to return, might we not travel part of the way with your Christian band in the doing?”

“You wish to return where you came from?” asked Theudonez curiously, cautiously. “The Byzantines know you. Perhaps we might all benefit from such an arrangement.”

“Then again,” interjected Wodan-Ase, “were we these Heruli or thought to be these Heruli, your life might be forfeit with our own. What say you to that?”

“Be there a Christian monk or priest in your retinue, or the at least the clothing and trappings of one such, then surely none would bother us,” replied the stranger.

Theudonez and Wodan-Ase looked at each other as if the man's words should have been said by one of their own before the journey started.

“We have no monk or priest with us,” replied Wodan-Ase. “Would that we had, now that we know what faces us down the road.”

“There are monks and priests enough for all serving with the forces of Artagabalus,” replied the wagon driver. “If your Christian band wishes to go further in this benighted land, you had best hail one to your service. Until then, I myself am a Christian brother dedicated to the service of Our Lord. This is another reason for your giving permission that we travel together. Your numbers and my calling may serve us all this day.”

“May Christ give you his blessing for your kindness,” said Wodan-Ase in response to the man's offer. “Would you lead us into the camp of this Commander Artagabalus? I am Ase, leader of this band. We accept your offer.”

“May Christ bless us all in our efforts to stay alive and to serve God,” responded the man who had still not named himself. “God forbid there are any Heruli among you, which I am sure there are not. May Wodan keep their mouths silent and their presence hidden if there are.”

The slight grin that came to the man's face with that comment disappeared as quickly as the words were spoken, not to return. Theudonez leaned over and whispered something to Wodan-Ase, who nodded silently. Theudonez turned his horse around and quickly rode down the column in the direction of the wagon where Lorasinthe had been taken. There were no words spoken between the wagon driver and Wodan-Ase until he returned. When he did, Theudonez no longer carried the Raven standard.

“We await your turning of your wagons that they might lead the column,” said Wodan-Ase, as Theudonez brought his great black stallion to a halt. A nod in the direction of Wodan-Ase by Theudonez indicated the whispered order between them had been carried out. “Is there else we can do for your comfort as payment for your kind offer?”

“A sheet of linen upon which is painted the cross of Christ should be carried by this one,” replied the man, pointing to Theudonez as he said the words. “That will tell any we meet who we are. He should lead us forth, as he was formerly leading you under that other banner, whatever it might have been.”

Wodan-Ase did not reply to the half-asked question. Instead, he motioned Theudonez to hear and obey. The warrior scowled a grunted answer, turned back in the direction in which he had just come in order to carry out what the stone face of Wodan-Ase had silently and firmly commanded.”

“It shall be as you wish,” replied Wodan-Ase.

“Why do you allow this man to lead us into what may be danger, my husband?” asked Lorasinthe, after Wodan-Ase had returned to their wagon in the center of the column.

“What he said about appearing more Christian while being lead by a Christian monk and bearing the cross made sense. What will be understood by the German tribes we encounter will be one thing, by Byzantines another. The Raven standard could have gotten us attacked.”

Lorasinthe reclined on the fur of a bearskin against the side of the bed of the wagon that would be their home for such time as it took to reach the place where Wodan would sign that they were to live. A look of concern and thoughtfulness stayed fixed upon her face as she carefully gauged her husband's response, watching him in his position on the driver's seat.

Wodan-Ase did not note her concern, being conscious only of the flowing strands of her light hair contrasted against the deep brown of the fur, of the glow upon her pink cheeks, and the darkening blue within her eyes. He would have gone to her side to hold her had they been camped.

“I must don the red Rune-shirt and call forth the Runes, my husband. We must know who this man is.”

“If this man is a Christian, and we are supposed to be Christians also, the display of the signs of the beliefs of Wodan will make him our enemy; especially when he sees a woman acting in the role of Rune-diviner.

“My husband,” replied Lorasinthe, taking herself to a kneeling position in the gently rolling wagon bed. “The Runes have already told me he is not what he appears. It does not matter what we do. It does matter that we let him know we are aware he hides what cannot be hidden, masks what must be unmasked.”

Wodan-Ase had been trained and honed as a warrior. His degree of faith extended to the belief that Wodan guided the building of strength in his axe-arm, created the will to fight in his mind, stoked the courage to meet any enemy in battle. He knew that Wodan would take him in death, would see his battle honors sung around the campfire. The Runes of war were worn upon his body in battle. Their other uses he had left to the Nine.

“My husband,” continued Lorasinthe, noting the concern that remained on the face of her warrior-mate. “Tonight as we camp, we must know of the morrow. Bring this man to our campfire. Tomorrow, your arm and axe may be our only salvation. Tonight, the lives of our future lie in the magic of the Runes.”

CHAPTER 16

THE VISITOR

The Heruli wagon train did not encounter any other travelers, hostile or friendly, on the road during that first day's travel. Some wondered aloud about the absence of others on the road as they went about setting up the campground that evening. Scouts reported seeing what might have been mounted cavalrymen, but upon approach these had fled or retreated before them. No large military formations were identified.

As they went about their work settling in, mounting guard, preparing meals, the people talked of little else. None felt safe, even though there was no clear reason to feel otherwise. The unsettled feeling came because, given the scene of slaughter at the grove, there were a pair of questions yet unanswered, each fraught with the elements of an unseen potential terror. Where was the enemy who destroyed the grove? Why had they not attacked?

In the wagon of Wodan-Ase, where Lorasinthe now sat in company with a number of the tribal children, a different sort of questioning was taking place. She was allowing the children to ask her questions about her former life as one of the Nine.

“I was taught the meaning of each Rune when I was a very young girl,” said Lorasinthe, taking a moment to look into the face of each child before continuing.” I carved the Runes into my own arms when I was no more than seven, rubbing the essence of the meaning of each into the carving to blend with my matted blood. As for instance, in the case of my learning about the Rune of the Aurochs, the one some call Ur, or Uruz. The dried and ancient blood of an Aurochs bull, then kept as sacred in stone containers by the Nine, was mixed with my own when the Rune was studied.

“But why was such a thing done, Lorasinthe?” asked Agathe, a girl of fourteen years, dark haired and of a deep olive complexion. It was known her mother had been raped by a Greek mercenary following a long ago battle when the Heruli camp had been overrun. “What of now, when all know the Aurochs are gone. None have been seen in years!”

“This was done that I might better understand the link of the Rune with the animal and with our people. All of you know the living Aurochs has not been seen by the Heruli in ever so long. Perhaps none still roam this world; perhaps they now feed only in the realm set aside for them in the Runeworld by Wodan.”

“I understand.” Agathe nodded. “But why is knowledge of the Runes restricted to so few among our people? Most know little or nothing about them, other than to fear their power.”

Lorasinthe smiled. How often had she asked Arnulf that very question? How often had he put off answering her? But now, alone among the Nine who still lived, she felt she knew the answer. She felt it was time that others knew.

“Because the Runes know no master they would answer the call of the evil among us as well as the good. Were all to know their secrets in full, many would use them for personal gain. That is why the knowledge of the Runes was restricted to the Nine.”

“I would not use them to gain something for myself,” interjected Habinolf, son of the warrior Chatt. “I would only use Rune knowledge for the good of others.”

“So you do say,” replied Lorasinthe, a trace of a frown on her face. She anticipated this reaction, for Arnulf always said that this is how many people first react when considering how they would use the power of the Runes.

“This I say: Our nobility of thought loses ground with the first sign of trouble in the lives of our loved ones. Then, the power of the Runes may be used to avert what the Fates have determined must be. The sick are saved who should not be saved and the wealth of others is increased when such must be earned.”

“I see, Lorasinthe,” replied Agathe. “You are telling us that were we each given the power of the Runes to use, we would misuse that power which is supposed to be for the survival of the tribe. I do not believe that. The Runes should be free to all.”

Lorasinthe’s eyes clouded, the only indication she made in response to Agathe's rude comment. “There is not only improper intentional use but also the danger of deadly unintentional effects taking place. When one knows little, one can often mistake the meaning of a single Rune or of a bound grouping of Runes. What is often thought of as proper meaning and interpretation can lead to the most unusual, often deadly, consequences for the one for which the Rune or bound Runes have been called forth.”

Agathe's eyes were lowered, a sign that the words had not convinced her.

“I would not misuse the Runes, Lady Lorasinthe,” Wuterich, one of the eight to twelve-year-old boys in the group, blustered. “It would be a thing of honor for me not to do that.”

“Well said, Wuterich!” replied Lorasinthe, her smile at the boy causing him to momentarily blush. “But how well meant? The knowledge of the use of the power of the Runes can be wearing. That is why such knowledge was restricted to the Nine, and then only after years and years of training in self-discipline.”

“When did you first perform a Rune cast?” asked Agathe.

“I performed no divination readings until I was thirteen, used no Rune even with the Master's permission until I was fourteen. I carved no Rune until I was fifteen, neither carved or sought the binding of Runes for special purpose until that age either.”

“I am now fourteen, yet know nothing, have had no honors given me,” muttered Agathe to herself.

“You and Master Mittanewod are the last to have the knowledge, Lady Lorasinthe,” said Habinolf. “Is that knowledge to die with you? Are you going to train one or more of us to take your place?” Are the Nine to be reborn?”

“I cannot say yet.”

“What is that necklace you wear, lady Lorasinthe?” asked another of the girls.

“Yes, what is it?” chimed in a second.

“I bet I know what it is,” said Herje, a bright-eyed girl with straight blond hair who was Agathe's closest friend. “Could I guess, Lady Lorasinthe?”

A smile crossed her face as this barrage of questions flowed over her. Lorasinthe fingered the necklace around her neck, the amber bead necklace Wodan-Ase had just given her. Then her hand slipped to another chain, whereon was the mysterious carved broach pin Arnulf had bid her take from his body. This was the one they were asking about. As she fingered it, she thought carefully on her response. “It was a present from Master Arnulf. I do not know what it signifies.”

“Please, Lady Lorasinthe,” pleaded Habinolf. “Tell us that Rune knowledge may not die.”

“You children have already learned much of our culture and legendry. You must pass that on to your children and they to theirs. A way of life is continued only in that way. The Runes are a different matter. And of the Nine, I will tell you this. Perhaps the secrets of the Runes could still be left to a chosen few, but the legends and stories of the people, and their continuance, should be placed into the hands of all for safekeeping.”

“But what would happen, Lady Lorasinthe, were anything to happen to you?” asked one of the smaller boys, a child of about six.

Lorasinthe smiled gently at the child, reaching forward to tousle the little one's brownish-colored hair. “The same as happened when my Master Arnulf and the others died. His knowledge died with him. Think of all the days of our people and what has not been passed on. When Arnulf died, what he had never told me died with him. The same would happen if I died.”

“But the Heruli are a proud people,” interjected Wuterich, a thrust of his chin toward the others reflecting the tenor of his words. “Did not Odoacer the Heruli conquer the Christians and rule in Rome for seventeen years?”

“Odoacer was a Christian, Wuterich,” replied Lorasinthe. “He was an Arian Christian, one who served Wodan in private and mouthed soft words of belief in Christ to the Eastern Roman Emperor. That was the only way he could rule over the Italian Peninsula for so long.”

“That cannot be true, Lady Lorasinthe!” blurted out Wuterich, anger shining in his eyes, a flush coming to his cheeks. “The most honored of the Heruli Chieftains cannot have allowed such foulness!”

“He did. So did many others. Wittha was not the only stain upon Wodan's honor. That has been the death of the Heruli as a people. We were strong in our faith, but our faith was flawed through our own tolerance.”

“Do the Christians not tolerate Wodan, Lady Lorasinthe?” Agathe asked seriously, her rude tone of before now vanished.

“The Christians tolerate no other gods to be honored. They call their other gods saints. The Heruli would willingly have accepted the Christ and His cross into our belief. We first saw Christ as another manifestation of God, another Anointed One sent for special purpose. What we never understood was that in such acceptance were the seeds of the death of our people.”

“I will one day slay every Christian I meet!” cried Habinolf, banging his hands together in emulation of the Heruli war chant. “May they all come before my face! May Wodan grant me the right!”

A smile crept across the face of Lorasinthe. I am only a few years older than these in years, she thought, but I feel many decades older in spirit. Oh Master Arnulf, guide me in their care.

“No, Habinolf,” Lorasinthe chided gently, reaching forward and taking the hand of the boy. “We cannot fight against the power and numbers of the Christians. We must go where they are not, back to other peoples who, may Wodan grant this, have never heard the name Christian. Then, our leaders will decide how many of the old ways will survive.”

“The Nine must be replaced at some point, Lorasinthe.” Agathe's gaze was strong and steady. “We are to be a new people, one which must cast off failed traditions but keep that which was our strength. With Arnulf gone our people will need others to know the Runes as you know them? I would wish to be such a learner. So would Herje. The way must be opened. Others must have their chance, even those of us who were never averse to the Christian God.”

Herje giggled at Agathe's audacity and bluntness. Lorasinthe's face showed a hint of surprise at the intensity of the girl's challenge to her authority, for that is what it was.

“We would never misuse the power of the Runes.” Agathe's tone of speech was now more polite, but her facial expression told that she held back other feelings.

Lorasinthe knew Agathe's innocent tone was feigned. The girl's studied rudeness and eagerness for confrontation angered her. She started to reply when a banging sound came from the back entrance to the wagon and a definite shift of the wagon bed announced that someone was coming to join them. As Lorasinthe looked to see who it would be, the light in her eyes brightened. A blush came to her cheeks, as it always did when she saw him.

“My wife,” said Wodan-Ase as he pulled himself up and into the wagon, “I have brought a guest who would meet you.”

Lorasinthe leaned slightly to the left, looking beyond her husband to the opening at the rear of the wagon. She saw the face and upper body of a bearded man who looked to be quite old to her but was perhaps no more than forty-five.

“I bid you greetings, Lorasinthe, wife of Ase,” said the man, the smile on his face designed to impress her with his sincerity.

Lorasinthe did not return the smile, merely nodded in his direction, her head turning slightly down and to the right as she did so. As she made this motion, the strange brooch or robe pin given her by Arnulf slid around to the front, into a position on her neck where the man could easily see it dangling. Lorasinthe watched as the man's eyes widened perceptibly, as if in surprise. His gaze rested momentarily upon her breast, or perhaps on the broach which rested there. She could not tell.

“I am Erwig the Goth, holder of the Christian faith, traveling these parts in times when perhaps it would be best not to be. I am serving your husband, yourself and your group as guide until we reach safety among our fellow Christian brethren.”

The children looked questioningly at Lorasinthe. She had not told them of the plan of deception. She hoped that the man had not noticed their look of surprise, but could see on his face that he had. Lorasinthe did not respond at first. Her blue eyes seemed to change colors, taking on a grey and cloudy appearance.

Erwig continued. “I have not heard the speech of the Goths among you. I had hoped to greet some of my own people here, given your husband's comment about you and your fellow travelers being a mixed tribal Christian community.”

Lorasinthe felt the impact of these words through a leap in her heart, but she held her noncommittal attitude with a maturity that would have delighted Arnulf. Pausing a moment to take care with her response, she tousled the hair of the littlest child and bid the girl come sit on her lap. As the girl did so, Lorasinthe once more returned her gaze to where the stranger stood.

“Had you listened a little longer, I am sure you would have heard that language, traveler. We Germanic peoples have our similar ways of speech. Perhaps those of Goth ancestry among us have lost the practice of their dialect. We try to communicate as we may. You will hear Latin and Greek, as well as a profusion of other Germanic dialects spoken among us.”

“It is a hobby of mine, these dialects,” continued the man, a slight smile curling the corners of his mouth. “I even thought I heard within your own fine Greek, the snapping guttural Germanic dialect that the outcast Heruli people speak. Of course, there are many German tribes and many slight variations in language that confuse interpretation.”

“You have good ears for Germanic tongues, traveler. I have not heard this guttural speech of which you speak. Most of us speak a form of the Greek tongue to solve our differences. Ah, I think I know. Perhaps you mistake the Heruli tongue with that of the Bavarians, for there are close similarities between them, are there not?”

“I know not the peoples of whom you speak. Who are the Bavarians?

“It is strange you do not know them by that name. You perhaps know them as the Marcommani. You should. They have been known to the Gothic peoples as allies or enemies for some time, just as have the Heruli of which you previously spoke. Are we not on the edges of their lands even now?”

Erwig did not lose his composure, nor did he show that he was in any way ruffled by her hint that perhaps he was not who he was portraying himself to be. Instead, with deliberate care, he rubbed his hand along the growth of beard at the base of his chin as if considering how best to reply.

“Ah, yes, I understand my mistake now, Lady Lorasinthe. If I may be permitted the familiarity of placing your name upon my tongue. The Marcomanni and the Heruli had close discourse with each other, being sometimes neighbors perhaps. Is that not so? That neighborly bond must be what I discovered in some of the words I heard this day.”

Lorasinthe took the baby from her lap and placed the little child into the arms of the girl Agathe. Then, as if the man Erwig were not standing there directly before her, she delayed further by reaching out and taking the hand of her husband. Smiling, she responded to the stranger although addressing her words directly to Wodan-Ase.

“I must see to the needs of these children, my husband. Would you allow me to be excused? Perhaps Erwig the Goth would join us before rest tonight. We could speak again in a more private way. I would hear more news of what lies ahead of us.”

Wodan-Ase did not answer. He looked toward the man Erwig. The older man merely nodded his head in the direction of Lorasinthe's turned cheek, a response Wodan-Ase took as an answer in the affirmative. Wodan-Ase rose and jumped down out of the wagon. As he did so, he noticed his wife quickly closed the covering. He made a mental note to question her about her acts of deliberate rudeness to the Goth.

Lorasinthe thereafter bid the children leave also, not wanting to answer their many questions concerning the stranger, just as she had not wanted the man's intense stare to linger any further upon her until she knew more about him. She could sense he was very intelligent, used to giving commands and getting his way, unused to being ignored. These were traits of a Roman nobleman, a wealthy merchant with slaves, or a military man of some rank. They were not characteristics normally found in a simple Goth merchant monk with one slave out on the road in dangerous times such as these.

Alone among all of the tribe, Lorasinthe knew a secret, one passed on to her in her training as one of the Nine. There was need this day for special rites, special invocations, special duties. She first sensed these needs in the morning frost, in the nip of cold that she and the children felt even though they were in the comfort of the wagon. Had she told them of her feelings, they might have become frightened. There would indeed be a meeting with the stranger this night, this special of all nights.

It had been a cloudy but calm day. Lorasinthe felt that what she must do that night might best be done outside around a fire. She called on two of the women to come and attend her. Lorasinthe asked that the women find others to prepare a fire some short distance from a large oak tree near where they had placed the wagon. She personally marked the spot.

She also told them to pass word around the camp that none should speak the Heruli dialect that day, except in a whisper and out of the hearing range of strangers. Those that could speak in no other fashion must be silent. She bid her tell all the Heruli that strangers were to be shunned.

Following the giving of that admonition Lorasinthe went and drew a circle at a place near the tree, in a position where a person sitting within the circle having their back to the tree would be facing north. She sat there for a moment within the circle, seeming to be checking something about the direction of her legs. She then got up and walked a few paces northward before she bent over and drew another larger circle some few feet away from the outer edge of the first one.

After carefully checking what seemed to be the alignment of the two circles, she returned to the wagon and pulled from its storage place a large black/brown bear's hide robe of a type Heruli warriors often wore in winter while on a journey, or the women wore when bundling a newborn against the bitter frost of a winter's morning.

This bear's hide she spread out on level ground between the tree and the fire, roughly over the spot where she had drawn the first, smaller, circle. The robe's excess she carefully folded both up and around the tree.

Lorasinthe reached into the black girdle she wore around her waist and untied the leather cords that held the simple white linen bag she always carried on her person. Opening the linen bag, Lorasinthe pulled out another folded piece of linen. She did not unfold this piece, but laid it on the bearskin covering in a conspicuous place for later retrieval. She then took the bag with its remaining contents and tied it once more at her waist.

The folded white linen cloth lying on the bear skin would probably not have elicited comment anywhere but in this camp of the Heruli. Southern Germanic tribesmen had by now forgotten its use, most having either converted to Christianity or, remaining pagan, continued to practice their faith only in furtive acts in well hidden places.

As people passed by where Lorasinthe was working, they saw the presence of the white linen cloth. Some paused for a second to look at it from a distance then departed quickly. Others merely noted the article and hastened away.

Lorasinthe observed their reactions, shaking her head. Had they guessed what she was not yet ready to let them know, that tonight was a special night? They knew. The Runes were out. This night was to be the Night of the Ancestors.

Later, after she informed her husband of the coming of one of the Heruli's most sacred celebrations, she said, “My husband, surely the people place too much fear in the night. As I learned from the others of the Nine, we are to honor our ancestors on this day, not fear them.”

Wodan-Ase nodded his head in agreement. “That is true, and all of them know that. But custom says evil spirits are abroad, and that frightens them.”

“This is the night when our ancestors, both good and bad, come forth to bring us advice on the coming year. Tonight the Rune cast will tell us what the ancestral message is, what we may hope for in the coming year. Wodan will speak through the Runes.

“The people also know that,” replied Wodan-Ase. “They fear more the coming of the spirits of the dead than the predictions of what lies in their uncertain future. What of this man? What will the Runes tell us about him?”

“Who he is and what he wants,” Lorasinthe answered solemnly.

“Then come, Night of the Ancestors!” exclaimed Wodan-Ase. “Bring your omens, bad and good. Bring your spirits, good and bad. Bring the Wild Hunt of Wodan, if you must. But with these dread things, bring also knowledge of who this man really is. I, Wodan-Ase of the Heruli, welcomes you.”

Lorasinthe acknowledged his acceptance and his hint of sarcasm with a strange and probing look, the hard look of radiant beauty called within the Heruli tribe the stare of a maid of slaughter. Her eyes were dark and haunted, her face grim. This look mocked the battle appearance of the mystical women who were the gatherers of the souls of the slain on the battlefields. It was a look designed to terrify anyone who saw it. It was directed at her husband.

“And if the Runes say this man is not a friend, but our enemy?” Lorasinthe asked. “What will you then, Wodan-Ase? What if I ask you to deal with him as an enemy should be dealt with?”

Wodan-Ase's hand reached by reflex to the bitter-cold iron of the war axe he carried at his waist. He pulled the axe from its sheath and placed it symbolically against his forehead in the ancient manner of his people whenever a Heruli war leader yielded to a command of the Master of Runes. It was an unspoken oath that the command would be obeyed to the death.

As Wodan-Ase lowered the axe, he finalized the oath by speaking the name of Wodan.

CHAPTER 17

THE NIGHT OF THE ANCESTORS

Lorasinthe sat on the bearskin in a semi-darkness relieved only by the light of the feeble fire. Her thoughts were far away, back to a night when she had sat at the knee of the Master and watched as he asked Wodan for permission to allow him to read the Runes. Arnulf asked that the coming year's fortune of the tribe of the Heruli be made known. This was the most solemn of yearly ceremonies. No matter what the cast might hold, the information would be true. The Heruli could do nothing to change the result.

She was glad she remembered to tell Wodan-Ase to keep the man Erwig engrossed in conversation at his wagon until such time as she could see him. Lorasinthe knew that none of the Heruli people would bother her this night, so she felt no need to take care with protecting the Runes or in insuring none would see their message. Her fellow tribesmen would be huddling within the wagons or before their fires.

She picked up the linen bag containing her personal set of hand-carved Runes. It was Heruli custom that only one, the Master of the Nine of the Masters of Runes, could perform this cast on the Night of the Ancestors or, as some had taken to calling it, the Night of the Spirits. Had Arnulf been there, it would have been his task. Now, it was hers. She was all that was left.

Reaching to her left side, Lorasinthe undid the flap of the white linen bag that held the Runes and brought them forth one at a time, calling the name of each Rune as she did so. Each was then laid upon the white linen square. She placed the wooden pieces so she could see the faces of the Runes on the wood, carved side up. Long ago reddened in color with her own blood, the carved symbols appeared almost black in the firelight.

She was ready.

Closing her eyes, Lorasinthe asked Wodan to bless the Runes and allow the cast to be read properly. She picked up a small sharp knife from the bearskin, pricking her finger to draw blood. This she saved in a small clay pot, forcing her finger to give up a small amount. This blood she intended to use to draw the image of the Rune onto a piece of tree bark.

Lorasinthe next scooped up all twenty-four of the pieces of wood into her hands. Closing her eyes, she raised her head, looked toward the heavens, and cast the wooden pieces onto the linen cloth.

Eyes still closed, she reached down and picked up one of the Runes. Opening her eyes to examine the image on the wooden stave, Lorasinthe found she had to turn it over. The Rune face was inverted, a signal the meaning was negative, not usually a good sign for the tribe. She cried out the name of the Rune loudly, “Othala does not see us!”

Lorasinthe did not frown outwardly, nor show any other expression, but inwardly her heart sank with the coming of this Rune where it did. It told of the past, both the long ago past and the immediate past. An inverted Othala Rune in the past position told that the overall fortune of the tribe at any time of the year would appear as having been negative to those in the future considering what had gone before.

Lorasinthe quickly wrote the Othala Rune in her own blood onto the white part of the tree bark surface. Then, picking up the set of Runes, she cast them once more.

“Ing does not see us!” she shouted into the night.

The premonition of doom that came over Lorasinthe was chilling. The appearance of the Ing Rune image in the present Rune position told her that at any time in the year she might look she would see the same hard road for the tribe that had been indicated with the drawing of the inverted Othala Rune in the past position.

With a sigh of deep concern, Lorasinthe drew the third Rune, the Rune of the future, the Rune that foretold how everything would come out in the end. Again, the Rune was inverted, a terrible sign in almost every case. How angry Wodan must be with us, she thought, to deal his people three inverted Runes in a yearly cast.

After a moment's hesitation, she turned the deadly blank side over in order that she might see what the future held. As her hand trembled slightly, Lorasinthe saw that it was the Tyr Rune. An audible gasp announced her feelings.

“Thank you, Wodan!” Lorasinthe whispered softly, her hands held upward to the night sky. “Thank Wodan for giving the means of salvation to your people the Heruli!”

“Tyr does not see us!” Lorasinthe cried loudly.

Lorasinthe knew that although negative implications were involved with the drawing of the inverted Tyr Rune, there was hope. Of all the Twenty-four Runes, the Tyr Rune was one of the few whose meaning held a degree of hope even when inverted.

This hope made her heart swell with happiness. Lorasinthe knew the Heruli would receive justice in the end, even though such justice would come only after significant delays and concerns. Delay would be the watchword of the year for all plans and events, but would be a year of justice for the Heruli, no matter how delayed.

Breathing more easily, Lorasinthe cast the Runes again to draw the Rune telling of the Rune's advice for the coming year and drew forth another inverted Rune! It was the Rune of the Birch Goddess, Berkano.

“Berkano does not see us!” she shouted. “The Runes advise that we bear the Rune Berkano before us this year that all negative events that happen to the Heruli may be turned to some advantage for us.”

Lorasinthe then made the last casting of the Runes for the reading and drew an upright Rune in the position of secrecy. This Rune told secrets about the coming year of which only she might be aware.

Not even the name of the Rune did she whisper, because it was secret. After copying the Rune in her own blood on the bark surface, she rose to her feet to speak loudly the words of a special song dedicated to the souls of the ancestors.

Spreading her arms to the heavens, she cried out loudly. “I pray for the souls entrusted to me, I feel they are free, and they are free.”

Three times did Lorasinthe repeat the words.

There were those nearby who heard these words spoken and did not understand their meaning. Nor did they understand why she said them. None that heard would waste any time in asking the Master of Runes, for she would not have given the meaning to any. The destiny of the tribe was held captive by her silence.

After Lorasinthe had completed the casting and written all of the Runes on the tree bark paper, she placed the paper in the fire for burning. Thus did she symbolically give back to Wodan what Wodan had sent. Then, she called out aloud for the nearest hearer to send the chieftain of the Heruli unto her. That was the tradition. The Master of Runes sat first with the head of the tribe so they could discuss the yearly cast and what it portended.

Wodan-Ase came quickly at her call, having stationed himself nearby in readiness. He did not address her upon his approach; he knelt down before the fire and waited for her to speak. Wodan-Ase did not know how to address her, whether to speak to her as his wife or as the Master of Runes.

“My husband,” Lorasinthe said, smiling at him as gently as possible.

Lorasinthe was thinking this was one of the reasons that the Nine were not allowed to be married. There had been strict protocol that would formerly have greatly hampered such relationships. Lorasinthe chose to bring new custom into being by continuing in an informal way. “My husband, I have done the yearly cast and now must make it known unto you. When I am finished, I would have you notify the rest of the people concerning the import. In previous times this was done by Arnulf and his predecessors. Now I feel we need to change this custom.”

Wodan-Ase was pleased with what she said. He did not like the idea that he must look up to his wife in a master-servant type of relationship. In time, this might have become a sore point that would hamper their marriage. He was happy his wife had found a way around the trouble. “What had the Runes to say? Will the people survive another year?”

Lorasinthe looked across the fire at her husband, a slight smile present. She detected the presence of more than a little sarcasm in his tone. She took this time to place another of the logs on the fire. She dropped it on the burning pile and watched it flare for a moment before answering.

“I sense in you either pessimism or worse, the seeds of disbelief, my husband. The Runes are the Runes. They have always been with us and have never denied us.”

“I meant the Runes no disrespect, nor any to my wife. It is not the Runes that trouble me. It is our seeming lack as a people to properly use these magical powers for our tribal needs. If Wodan is with us - if the Runes are with us - how can we lose? How have we managed to lose in the past?”

Lorasinthe again worked with building the fire to a greater height before answering him. She thought for a moment on how difficult his questions were to answer. Arnulf might have been able to settle his mind. She asked Wodan silently to speak through her so that the answers might be true and correct.

“There is great power in the Runes, Herzog Wodan-Ase. There is great power in Wodan. We, the Heruli, are served by both. But there are steps visible and known that cannot be taken. There must be fairness and justice and balance at all times and in all things. To take too much for ourselves would be to upset the balance of this world, the balance in the stars, perhaps even the balance within the Runeworld. To take a destiny not ours would be to abuse the Runes, an act not allowed in our world or the next.”

“You are saying if we were to use the full power of the Runes that we would be taking more than is allotted to us?”

“We do only that for which Wodan gives permission. That is how we stay in balance, how we always have the Runes with us. In the past this has sometimes meant we of the Nine knew when disaster approached for our people yet could do nothing to avert it, even when we had the power in front of us and all around us to do so.”

Wodan-Ase rose from his kneeling position before the fire, pretended to come closer to warm his hands. Lorasinthe knew that he had taken note of her words and was trying to form some type of response to them. She watched him, carefully focusing upon his face.

“Then what is it all for, my wife? Why are the Heruli following a god who knows in advance what is to happen and does nothing about it? What does it mean to live life when one can do nothing to have an effect upon what happens?”

“You misunderstand, my husband. I can see how you do. We control our destiny by believing in it. The whole world, the whole universe, is an entity in balance. Every drop of water still exists somewhere. Every tree still blooms somewhere. Every blade of grass lives in some way and in some form. All must be in balance, or the balance must be restored. Were I to use the Runes to save the Heruli against all their enemies, the Heruli would be saved. Of that, you should never doubt.”

“But if Wodan should deny you that privilege, what?”

“That would not be.” Lorasinthe stepped around the now roaring fire and came to the side of her husband. She took his arm, took his hand and held it in hers. The next words she said were whispered to him with great care, for she wanted to be sure none anywhere else might hear, not even the spirits of any ancestors that hovered around them.

“We live at least one more year as a people, for Wodan has not disallowed our saving. But the year holds strife and the need for great courage if we are to see it through. We determine by our strength of will how well we survive, how long the delays will be until brightness again shines forth. It is to be a year when every occurrence will show a darkness initially. What happens after we see the darkness form will bring our demise or salvation in degree only. Wodan would never tell all, nor would he deny me the right to save us by using the Runes. I must take care in the use. When the world moves out of balance, terrible things happen.”

“What then do the Runes say we are to do? I know they advise the best path to safety even in the worst of cast years.”

“We are to place ourselves under the protection of the Rune of the Birch Goddess. She, Hluodane, will guide us. With her protection will come the proper advice on which paths to take, the proper decisions to make. We will make them together, with our fellow tribesmen's input.

“Together,” Wodan-Ase repeated, taking his wife's hand and kissing it lightly.

“We must start now, my husband,” Lorasinthe said seriously. “There is on this night a decision that must be taken by the two of us. That decision has to do with Erwig the Goth. I suppose by now, you believe as I do he is not what he says he is.”

“No,” replied Wodan-Ase, a look of surprise on his face. “I have seen nothing that would lead me to believe he is other than he has said. I will admit his coming when he did was suspicious, but I find it hard to believe he wishes us harm.”

Lorasinthe said nothing in answer. Her look was so filled with concern Wodan-Ase, reaching for the short Roman sword he wore at his waist and touching the handle menacingly, reacted angrily. “If he is really that much of a worry to you, I will quickly find the truth as to his intent. If he is found in deceit, I will lay him in the dust of this road so our wagons might pass over his worthless body this very morrow.”

“There is more than traitor or deceiver in him,” replied Lorasinthe, her gentle tone in stark contrast with her husband's quick, angry response. “The Runes have told he bears watching. As you go before the people to tell them the message of the Rune cast made on this Night of the Ancestors, bid Erwig come to me before this fire that I may ask him about himself and what he wishes of us.”

“I would rather wait until tomorrow and stay here and guard you,” replied Wodan-Ase, his concern fully awakened. “Our people can wait for news. What if he wishes you harm?”

“He will not harm me. Wodan will not allow it. Did he try he would die before he reached me.”

As she finished these words, she made a silent signal to Wodan-Ase by pointing her finger casually toward what appeared to be a large bush about fifteen meters away from where they sat. As Wodan-Ase followed the direction in which she was pointing, a slight smile came to his lips. He could see nothing except the dark outline of the bush, tall and broad and thick with branches. But he knew Chatt, the greatest archer in the Heruli camp, waited there an easy bow's distance from where Lorasinthe sat upon her bearskin. The bush had thorns of a particularly deadly kind.
“Then I will send him to you without worry. I pray you have told this bush warrior to bear lightly upon his duties. I would not have him harm the man on a whim. Think what a surprise that would be if he were only to motion in your direction and receive an arrow for the gesture.”

Lorasinthe nodded to her husband. Her smile at his somewhat cruel jest brought one in return from him.

As he left her sitting there, Wodan-Ase hoped he fully understood the message she had given him about the cast. The people of the tribe were already frightened and spirit-haunted on this night. To further alarm them with misleading information might drive them to hide under their blankets for sure.

Walking slowly, Wodan-Ase considered further the subject of dark ancestral spirits. He laughed at the thought. He had never seen a spirit or any other creature that could overcome the stroke of his blade or the sting of his axe. Then, as these thoughts were roving in his mind, a sound, perhaps of a deer or boar running though the woods - perhaps something else - came sharply to his ears from the shadows to his left. Was something coming toward him out of the black?

At this moment, as ancestral tales of ghosts and goblins came flooding back from his childhood memories to chill him, the fiercest warrior of all the Heruli hurried his steps to gain quickly the dubious safety of the lamp-lit wagon wherein Erwig the Goth sat waiting.

CHAPTER 18

A THREAT UNKNOWN

“I bid you good evening, Lorasinthe, wife of Ase,” said Erwig. “May Christ's blood shield you from all harm this night.”

“Greetings to you as well, Erwig the Goth. I ask that the Christ of the Goths give you similar protection. I bid you sit there before the fire that we might talk.”

Lorasinthe was alone. She motioned Erwig to be seated across the fire from her on a small three-legged stool. She noted that for a moment he seemed surprised that he was the only guest expected.

“I am indeed honored you have chosen me to speak with, Lady Lorasinthe. But is your husband not to join us?”

“No, he is performing other tasks that must be seen to before our journey tomorrow.”

As she finished these words, Lorasinthe bent forward and picked up one of the objects at her feet, held it out for his viewing. “Do you know what these pieces of wood are used for, Erwig the Goth?”

Somewhat startled by the abruptness with which she dropped the small talk between them, the man looked down toward where she pointed to a number of other similar pieces of wood upon a white cloth. Trying to regain his composure, Erwig took a long moment in examining the small grouping.

“I see ought but pieces of somewhat unevenly cut wooden forms. Upon them appear to be some symbols. Why do you ask me of these?”

Lorasinthe stared into the man's eyes. “If you were the Goth you say you are, you would know of what I speak. All Gothic peoples, no matter how thick the Christian veneer they have put on, know when the Runes are out. Tell me, Erwig the Goth, one more time that you do not know what I hold in my hand.”

With barely any hesitation the man replied, “My eyes are not what they once were. Even less are they the eyes of a young bright-eyed maiden such as yourself. I see now they are indeed wooden pieces with the ancient symbols of our former superstitions carved upon them.

“You know them then?”

“Why does a Christian lady ask if I recognize these terrible carvings? For they are the demon of demon’s own symbols, are they not? Do not the old stories say the god Wodan controls their use by mortals, giving and taking them as he wishes. All such things are dead to the Christian heart. Can they be alive in one as young as you?”

Lorasinthe took in his words and seemed to recoil at their cruelty. She had never heard anyone speak such words as these about the Runes. She carefully chose her own words before continuing, so that her anger at his thrust was under control.

“I know of no Germanic tribesmen who would say what you have said about the Runes. Certainly no Goth could utter those words. Even though Christianity is now a path our people have taken at sword point in this terrified land, no Christian German would say such horrid words about the ways of his ancestors . . .”

Lorasinthe would have continued but Erwig chose to interrupt her, seeking to calm her before her anger could mount to such a pitch she might end the meeting before it had even fairly begun.

“I meant no offense, my Lady. Tongues have been torn from the heads of those who, in the presence of certain persons of the Christian faith, would not say those very words in even greater haste than I just did. Perhaps I have been across the path of these unforgiving persons so often I say such words as a matter of course now. One learns obedience if one is to survive, especially in this terrible land, as you have so aptly named it.”

“Indeed, I trust they would,” replied Lorasinthe. Her face still retained that kind of petulant look an older woman might have hidden better. “Still, I find you a mystery, Erwig the Goth. The Runes say you are not who you say you are. That cannot be changed save through truth. You would not mind if we get to the truth, would you?”

Erwig stood, intending perhaps to object in some fashion. From off to the left there came the rustling of bushes somewhere in the darkness. Startled, Erwig began to turn in that direction, as if expecting some form of assault. Lorasinthe motioned with her hand. When Erwig had fully turned, he saw nothing at all out of the ordinary. The quiet had returned.

“Lady Lorasinthe, I must protest strongly against such words. If you were not a woman and I not a Christian, such slander could lead to blows.”

“I am not a woman, Erwig the Goth, only a girl of but seventeen, and only recently that, and I find it hard to believe the philosophy of Christianity has touched you as it has. You try hard to show humility and a slave's demeanor like many of them do, but I find ought of it in you. Like I said, you would not mind if we get to the truth, would you?

Her persistent and serious attitude created within Erwig feelings he had encountered rarely in his life. Feelings like those of long ago when he had sat at the knee of his mother and listened to her speak. He decided then he liked this stubborn beautiful youth who looked like an innocent Christian angel and talked like a tribal elder full of ages of wisdom and experience she could not possibly have. He shook his head and sighed, a smile coming to his lips. “Let us then find your truth, maiden. What would you have of me?”

Lorasinthe reached down at her feet and took up the Runes into both hands. She held them out toward him, a gesture that he might see clearly what she did.

“I would ask the Runes questions about you and bid you hear what they say in answer. Do you agree to hear what they say, Erwig the Goth?”

“Lady Lorasinthe, I would not object except in one way. I must assume you, your husband, and this band have hidden from me the true nature of yourselves. If you use the Runes for divination and the answering of questions, you cannot be Christians. That faith does consider such as blasphemy. Answer the truth of this, and I will agree to hear what you, and your Runes, say.”

In the briefest of moments she replied, “We are the Heruli, followers of Wodan. I am Lorasinthe of the Heruli, one of the Nine and the servant of Arnulf, the Master of Runes.”

The man stared long and hard at the girl as she spoke these incriminating words. His mind tried desperately to find a proper response to this surprisingly open confession. Her beautiful face was turned full upon him. His thoughts lay fallow before the sparkling light in her eyes. He wished he were a young man again, a wild German tribesman of her people. He wished he had the right to win her.

It was some moments before he replied, and when he did it was as if a cloak of fog had been removed from between them. “I am Artagabalus, commander of the Byzantine force that has your band surrounded and, without a doubt, will destroy you.”

Lorasinthe gasped in surprise. She had expected almost anything, but his words still surprised her. She thought him a spy, not one of the enemy commanders. Her surprise could be heard in the quivering of her voice. “What would the Commander Artagabalus be doing acting the part of a lowly merchant whose only goal it was to deceive a small band of ignorant savages? Does the Commander have no spies that he must perform every duty himself?

He looked at her with the saddest of expressions on his face, a look a man might have given if he were very near the breaking point from some terrible tragedy. He started to answer but ended up with his hands behind his head, his gaze on the ground.

Lorasinthe’s own pounding heart was quieted by the fact that one of the Heruli's greatest enemies could be seen in a position so distraught, so tormented by some inner thought. She would have reached out to touch him but remembered who he was and what he represented. “Perhaps both of us would benefit by asking the Runes to say what we cannot.”

Lorasinthe took the wooden pieces she still held in her hands and raised them up toward the sky.

“Wodan I ask of you, why does this man hurt? Give me one Rune as an answer.”

She cast the Runes once more upon the white linen cloth, her eyes closed, her head still raised to the heavens. In that position she reached down, felt around a brief moment before picking up a single piece of wood carved with a Rune. She held this before her for some moments before opening her eyes to look at it. It was the Othala Rune she drew.

“Wodan names you brother to the Heruli - Germanic blood. He uses the Othala Rune to tell of you and describe your pain. Why would he call you that, Artagabalus the Greek, leader of the enemies of my people? Also, the Rune was inverted when chosen. This says you have been lost somehow. How?”

Artagabalus acted as if he had not heard her speak. Lorasinthe stayed silent after having asked the question. She knew he had heard and she knew he would answer.

From far off came the sound in the air made by the hammer of Donar, the thunder-god, too far off for rain. Tonight there would be only the wind and the cold, a fine night for getting deep into the goose down and bear fur covers. Lorasinthe saw the Byzantine shiver as he felt the bitter flow of air. She thought briefly of the childhood stories about the cold being the icy breath of frost giants, creatures far away in lands at the edge of dawn.                    As if the cool air enlivened him, Artagabalus breathed deeply. As he once more looked into the eyes that were staring at him intently, he moved to kneel before her across the fire. “What do you see on my forehead?

She examined the area toward which a single one of his fingers pointed, noticed a small blue-colored mark in the center between his eyebrows.

“You are one of us. Perhaps one who dared have the mark permanently given, then as quickly covered to hide the fact.”

“I know none of your tribe, nor have I ever partaken of any ceremonies as a member. My mother, may the good Christ save her, was one of your people. She put this cursed mark upon me so I might be haunted by it in my dreams at night!”

“You are Heruli!,” Lorasinthe responded. “No matter how marked - once marked - and the blood knows.”

Artagabalus returned to his place before the fire and sat down. He was about to address her in some fashion when she suddenly began to speak again.

“All the years of your life, Commander Artagabalus, the blood of your Heruli mother - may Wodan save her - has awaited this time to come forth. She tells you to bring no harm to your people. She tells you the suffering will be as a thorn sting in a thicket when compared to what you will endure if you do not obey the call of your ancestors. Do you know this night, Commander Artagabalus?”

“I know it not,” he responded, his face appearing even more troubled and anguished than before. “What is this night? Whatever it is, I am tormented in it in a way I have never felt before.”

“It is the Night of the Ancestors. The night when such as you are bidden. The night when your mother sits with the Runes in the other world and calls out to you. Can you hear her calling?”

Artagabalus chose to stand again at that very moment. When he had risen to his full height, he looked directly into the surging wind coming out the northwest. “Yes, I hear her!” Artagabalus shouted. “Do not wail so, my mother, for I would never harm my own blood. I have come here to try to save what I can. Leave me in peace, tormented one!”

As if in answer, the wind rose in his face then fell away as quickly, rising into the upper branches of the tree near which he stood. Artagabalus could hear the sound of the leaves and branches moving, first forced together, then apart. Then, as quickly as it had arisen, the cold turmoil ceased and all was quiet save for the low howling of a dog somewhere in the camp.

In only brief moments, this was followed by many and varied screams and moanings in reaction to the baleful sound from out of the night.

“Listen,” said Lorasinthe, quietly, moving away from the fire toward where he stood staring into the darkness. “The spirits call us in the form of a dog.”

Artagabalus listened, hearing the responses that came from the humans within the Heruli camp. “There is more than dog sounds on the wind.”

Artagabalus felt her near him, turned to look at her.

“Your people of Heruli blood know about such things,” Lorasinthe continued, her face dark, eyes darker now that she stood in the shadows. “Things your mother also knew about the deepest of forests and the darkest of waters. She knew of the talking between animals and the messages of the trees, of creatures that exist only in the blink of an eye. These great blessings of God your Grecian blood forgot a thousand years ago in its thrust to civilization. These are the things of Wodan, the things of the wood-life and the phantoms of the Runeworld that are all around us. The civilized world thinks it has advanced to where it may refuse to see or hear them. Listen, Artagabalus, for another spirit joins in.”

Artagabalus heard the sound of a second animal far away, more wild and lonely than the animal it joined in chorus. After a moment's reflection on what she said, he asked, “I find all this hard to believe but I have felt driven forward to be here this night. The shade of my mother will not let me alone. Why does she not let me alone?”

Lorasinthe stepped out of the shadows back into the firelight. “You will save the Heruli, Commander Artagabalus. Tell me how this will be done.”

Artagabalus stared at the beautiful girl with her crone's wisdom and maturity a long while before answering. When he finally did, the words he used were as if they had been long prepared within him, waiting to get out.

“There is no way to save the entire people, just as there was never a way you could have passed as Christians traveling anywhere, at least not through the forces that lie ahead. The ones Decius and I command. We have had you under surveillance before you even got to your village. There were many among those we slew there who talked of you before they died. We know about you, about your leaders. Your bodies are to be counted by men specially assigned for the purpose. Narses has asked that all Heruli leaders be accounted for.”

“I think we always suspected,” replied Lorasinthe. “But some were helped to think we might have some small chance of deluding you. Seven hundred people cannot be hidden.”

“Nor can they be exactly counted, my lady, by any but themselves,” Artagabalus replied, “and in that may lie the salvation of the Heruli. Right now you are headed toward my forces. These I have chosen to string out in a wide arc, so they could cover all of your approaches. Tactically, this was the best move.  Realistically it led to the weakening of the defense in all areas.”

“Then you knew when you were planning our destruction you were also planning our salvation. Can this really be true?”

“I cannot in truth say I did,” he answered. “I would have acted no differently in any case. There was an error made on the part of Decius, he who is both the cruelest and most

incompetent of your opponents, the very one who destroyed your grove and killed your people there. He was positive you would move southwest, so he stationed the largest force in that area. In order to save you, we must make sure Decius is proven right.”

Lorasinthe looked at him with misgivings as he said these words, but they were her personal misgivings, not those she in her tribal position as Master of Runes would take. She had consulted the Runes and they had said to trust this man to the very death of the people. With the Heruli, if the Runes were favorable, no other decision was possible.

CHAPTER 19

THE CHOOSING

The council of the Heruli had been talking about what they would have to do since before the dawn broke. There were none but hard decisions to make. Artagabalus confirmed their worst thoughts when he said he alone could not make their path safe.

“Decius has spies everywhere,” Artagabalus informed, addressing a meeting of the tribal leaders that included Lorasinthe, Wodan-Ase, Mittane, Chatt, and Theudonez among others. “Including many within my own cavalry command.”

“Then how can we trust trying to pass our people through their lines?” asked Wodan-Ase.

Artagabalus shook his head negatively. “That is not possible. If I were to give orders to pass a large band through the lines, Decius would get the news quickly. He would come running to investigate the why of the matter, bringing a sizable cavalry force along for support. His larger infantry contingent would undoubtedly follow.”

“Then how can you aid us, Commander Artagabalus?” Mittane asked sarcastically. “Would your cavalry units fight to save the Heruli as well? I think not.”

Artagabalus knew Decius was aware he had ventured his own safety on a very dangerous mission. Decius would be wanting to know why he would do that, given there was no bond of friendship between them.

“I have sent a trusted aide to the camp of Decius to spread a tale which, if not believed, will at least take time in confirming. He is to tell all who are there, including Decius himself, that I have worked my way into the confidence of a large group of over three hundred fifty supposedly Christian travelers who are actually the last surviving Heruli band.”

“Even I would not believe that!” barked Mittane.

“Be helpful, please, father-in-law,” urged Lorasinthe. “The Runes have said Artagabalus is to be trusted. What he does will be in our best interests.”

The gruff old man could not renew the force of his argument in the face of this entreaty by his new daughter. Her brushed and shining light blond hair wreathed a face the Christians would have called angelic. Her smile disarmed his anger.

“Continue, Artagabalus.” Mittane shrugged. “I have no better plan.”

“My aide will tell all that I will personally lead this band along the road that passes through the camp of Decius. They will quickly know if I am telling the truth when word is passed that we are heading south. I have also ordered the forces under my personal command to converge in support of Decius near a point he has named north of a crossing along the river you Germans call the Donau and we the Danube.”

“How can you be sure the man who commands your cavalry in your place will obey your orders?” Wodan-Ase asked.

“He will obey,” responded Artagabalus. “Ammianus is not the type of man to risk his career on personal opinion. He may object, but he will obey.”

“What do you expect to happen to our people who are involved?” asked Lorasinthe, her heart filled with the sadness of knowing what the answer would be.

“At a defile near that crossing point the forces of Ammianus will spring the trap, blocking the retreat path of the wagon train. Decius' forces will then attack from the southeast to provide the hammer that will beat the Heruli backward against the anvil my troops will create.”

Lorasinthe sighed. Wodan-Ase looked at her unsmiling face with concern. To both, this plan seemed a disaster, not a saving.

“I have sent the bait I hope will make Decius comply with this plan, at least temporarily. Once the Heruli wagon train has turned south on the road toward him, Decius will have little choice other than to follow the natural course of events.”

“We must adopt this plan,” urged Lorasinthe of the others, whose grumbling showed how every person there felt. The plan was a plan without hope.

Wodan-Ase looked curiously at his wife, but he did not question her words, “What must we do next, then?”

“I ask you to assemble your sub-chieftains, principle warriors and representatives of families.” replied Artagabalus.

They did so. The war leader Mittane was the first to rise and address the assembled throng after quiet had been instilled following Wodan-Ase's grim statement that part of the tribe must be sacrificed to save the rest. Mittane and his wife stayed with the main body because to have left with Mittanewod might have undercut the authority his son now had over the other small band.

“Three hundred fifty are to die that another three hundred fifty might live? Surely that decision is impossible!”

“But necessary,” responded Artagabalus, “and quickly done, for the column must be moved today on that journey or our plan may fall apart because of the delays we create through arguing.”

“Artagabalus is right,” added Wodan-Ase, knowing that in saying these words he condemned three hundred fifty of his people to their deaths. “There is no possibility for anything else. Even now the transports are being readied. The wagons must leave no later than the noon hour. We have until then to do the choosing. It is a matter of that choosing or all will die.”

The warrior Theudonez jumped to his feet and raised his hands to the heavens shouting, “I am the first to offer my body, Wodan! Remember me when you send your daughters to choose the slain for Valhalla. Let them take me first!”

This act of warrior spirit aroused others to get caught up in the moment and offer to give themselves up for the great sacrifice. The war chant was raised. It was some time before Wodan-Ase and Artagabalus could calm the crowded assemblage and carry on with the meeting.

“Theudonez has asked and Theudonez is granted,” shouted Wodan-Ase. “But as Chieftain of the Heruli I will choose the rest. Here is how I choose. There will be an equal portion of the youngest men and women selected, based upon fitness, for the long trek ahead. All children deemed weak, sickly, or having any faults bringing weakness to the tribe in the future will be selected. Any older persons with like impediments - the halt, the lame, the sick, the dying – these must go. The brightest minds among the old will stay, regardless of their ability to fight. The tribe can afford to lose a younger person more readily than an old one with knowledge.”

“Yes, Wodan-Ase must choose, and quickly!” cried Theudonez.

Theudonez' clear and strong voice galvanized the entire council into affirmation. It was as if the dead were blessing the decision. Theudonez, by his own volition and will, was now counted among the dead.

“In order to do this right,” continued Wodan-Ase, “all seven hundred of the tribe will come before my face. Those I select will move immediately under the command of Artagabalus. There will be no argument. Any who question my decision one way or the other will know the steel of the axes of my bodyguard. Theudonez will uncover the Heruli dragon standard and carry it into battle. No greater sign could be given the enemy than this honored standard should be counted among the bodies of our dead!”

Artagabalus interrupted at that point that he might prevent Wodan-Ase from sending himself to a warrior's death in the heat of passion. “And what of you and the Lady Lorasinthe? You must both survive to lead the Heruli to the new land. Decius knows your names, if not your faces, and will be looking for your bodies in the final tally. He also knows of your father Mittane.”

Before Wodan-Ase could answer him, Mittane rose and cried, “I seek Wodan's honor for the privilege of dying with Theudonez. In fact, we'll see who will greet Wodan first in Valhalla. I would challenge the pleasure of any other warrior to get there before me. My wife will go with me, for I would never leave her behind. From the Great Hall at Valhalla I will guide my son Rain Warrior in the future victories of the Heruli!”

“I agree to go with him willingly, without needing his permission, but my son and his wife must be saved,” confirmed Elswinthe, wife of Mittane and mother of Wodan-Ase, giving her husband a hard look for daring to offer her life without asking her permission first, yet pleased he had done so.

Wodan-Ase was filled with the challenge that had been given him. He had already selected himself in his own mind foremost among those to go. Now, looking first at Artagabalus and then at his parents, he knew the right of what they were saying.

“I sadly yield to my father's wishes, and to that same wish my mother does confirm. Those I select will go immediately. The rest will hide in these woods through tomorrow into the next morning then march without stopping until we have passed out of all danger. May Wodan grant our enemies be hooded and not find the path of our survival! May Wodan be with all of us!”

Wodan-Ase said no more but allowed the free expression of feeling that broke out following his appeal to Wodan to take over the souls of his fellow tribesmen. The ancient battle songs and dances of the Heruli spread outward among the rest of the camp. The majority had no knowledge of what had transpired, but the cries of the women and the war chants of the men were infectious. Soon the whole camp was involved, as had been so often the case in the past when the smell of battle was in the air and the Valkyr were said to ride their horses upon the wind.

The general wave of excitement stayed at a high pitch for at least two hours thereafter, until most or all had been informed concerning the decision. For some the excited feeling of the coming battle eventually subsided into the beginnings of a tearful farewell as all realized the deadly import of the decision their leaders had made.

It was decided to form the old and traditional hundreds as the formations under which each of the two groups would travel and fight. There was, however, a very important difference. The traditional hundred was led by a sub-Chieftain like Mittane and consisted of the most fit male warriors of the tribe. The new hundred consisted of males, females, children, the aged, and the infirm, led by a sub-chieftain. The hundred would fight and die together without regard to anything else.

“You must make this look natural,” remarked Artagabalus. “Decius must see warriors as they would normally be.”

“It is being done,” replied Wodan-Ase. “Theudonez will lead a separate group of fifty, the best of the warriors I select. He will take my place, wear my battle dress. Theudonez will wear the accouterments of the Herzog of the Heruli, ride one of my horses, carry my favorite weapons. In effect, it is to be hoped his dead body will be taken as that of my body by the Byzantines.”

“I will of course be more handsome,” teased Theudonez, who indeed looked a little like Wodan-Ase. “Perhaps the battle will have messed my features up sufficiently so the Byzantines might mistake me for you.”

Wodan-Ase laughed. “It is only my justly earned battle scars that allow you the pleasure of those words, Theudonez.”

Indeed, Wodan-Ase had many old scars upon his face, caused by the weapons of enemies, human, animal and natural. The wild and free life of the Heruli brought scars easily. Theudonez was almost as well marked.

“Bring the girl,” ordered Wodan-Ase.

“Does she look like me, Wodan-Ase?” asked Lorasinthe, curious as to the features of the young girl who asked to be her double. Curious as to why she would willingly sacrifice herself.

“She does. A very close match indeed.”

The girl Idisvise was brought into their presence. Lorasinthe was quick to note the similarities - the hair color and length - the eye color - a similar facial bone structure. But there was a hardness, a bitterness, to the girl's face that Lorasinthe's face did not have. She had the marks of one who had seen too much of sadness in life, life lived too quickly.

“I am Idisvise,” she said in a bold fashion.

“I know you by sight only,” replied Lorasinthe, recognizing the girl as one who often visited Sigdonner in days that were more pleasant. Idisvise and Lorasinthe had never spoken though they be of the same people, the same camp and the same way of life. Such were the separations that one of the Nine experienced in the olden days.

“I was a friend of one of our people who betrayed us,” Idisvise said.

“I know. I saw you with him many times.”

“I am ashamed for him. I loved him. He repaid my love with sadness. He was not faithful to me. He was not faithful to our people in the end. I feel I must atone for his acts. The ways and beliefs Sigdonner should have championed, and did not, must survive. My appearance is similar to yours in some ways. Sigdonner once told me that. I ask you to accept me. I ask you to forgive him.”

“I do accept you,” replied Lorasinthe, her radiant smile and light touch upon the girl's arm bringing a slight smile in response. “But I cannot forgive Sigdonner. That is left to Wodan.”

Following their brief meeting Idisvise was sent to have the twenty-four Runes blood-painted upon her body, twelve down each side from underarm to ankle. These were colored with her own blood and that of any of her family members who so wished to be honored with her. The act made her as one of the Nine, although the adoption into that group was symbolic only as sacrifice.

Idisvise was then outfitted in a white linen dress belonging to Lorasinthe and was given a white linen bag in which were placed a set of ash staves carved with symbols. The difference was that Idisvise's characters were deformed. They were carved in odd symbols of no meaning so they could not be put to use by anyone who might find them after her death. Lorasinthe watched silently until these preparations were completed.

“You look lovely in that white dress. It fits you as well as it ever did me,” Lorasinthe said.

“I thank you my Lady.” The girl beamed. “I hope my wearing of it will do you honor.”

“I can think of no way it would not,” responded Lorasinthe. “Come, let us go to my tent. I would help with your other preparations.”

Lorasinthe watched over Idisvise's final dressing, the preparing of her hair and all else. They laughed and teased each other, while the older women who were helping scowled at them for failing to keep proper decorum in so serious a time and task. The girls didn't care. They were both young and full of life. When the preparations were completed, Idisvise and Lorasinthe looked so much alike they could have been taken for sisters, perhaps even twin sisters.

“My own husband might mistake us,” said Lorasinthe.

“I do not think so.” Idisvise blushed. “I have watched you often going about your duties when I came to see Sigdonner. I could never carry myself with the same self-assurance, nor would any beauty I have begin to compare . . .”

Lorasinthe smiled. “Have you not looked into a brook or into the eyes of the men who pass you by? Their eyes are the mirrors of their thoughts. I blush to think of how they have looked on you.”

Idisvise nodded, her demeanor solemn. “Many men have looked on me so. Men are men. They are no judge of beauty, being driven as they are by lust alone. Men crush beauty.”

Lorasinthe's faint smile partially hid her shock at these words. “I find many men noble, and kind. My Master, Arnulf, was the kindest of men and never looked on me in any way I might have reproached.

“And Wodan-Ase? What about Mittanewod? And there is my own dead Sigdonner - it was you he sought when he came to me.”

The smile completely disappeared from Lorasinthe's face. It would be a lie to say she was not aware of the attraction other men felt for her. She had always known. Perhaps she had always used that attraction.

“We are alike in more than just looks, Lorasinthe.” Idisvise smiled. “The difference between us lies in the fact you had respect as a woman because of your position while I sometimes felt like a hunted animal because of mine. Of course, some women enjoy being hunted as I was, or so they say.”

Lorasinthe reflected a moment upon the many times in the past she had held disdain for the life she lived. “I did not know you, but had I known you, I might have envied you your position when considering my own.

“Ah, yes. You could not marry. You could not have children,” said Idisvise. “I could marry. I could have children. Now, because of my past, and the weakness in me the Fates exposed, no Heruli man would dare have me. Our situations are reversed. I am now the one forbidden to have what other women might have.”

“You mean because of Sigdonner?”

Idisvise nodded her head. “I mean Sigdonner - and others.”

Lorasinthe understood. A gleam of a tear appeared in her eye as she looked into those of the girl who might have become her closest friend had their worlds been different. “I am sorry, Idisvise.”

“Do not be, my Lady.” Idisvise replied. “I am lucky. I have a chance to redeem myself by becoming you for a few brief moments. I will think only of that when they come for me. I will know Idisvise has brought honor to herself at last.

“It is I who will be honored.” Lorasinthe reached across the void that separated them and touched Idisvise's hand. “When they come, I will be there with you in my heart. Don't forget. I will be with you. Wodan will be there with you also. He will come to you.”

Tears welled in Idisvise's eyes with these words. She could not find the strength to speak more.

Lorasinthe reached up behind her neck and unfastened the leather tie that held the robe pin Arnulf had given her. She placed it over the head and onto the neck of Idisvise. She was sure Arnulf would have approved the giving.

“We will meet again in the Runeworld, in the land of the light elves near waters where swans float on water filled with flowers that never fade and the winds are always warm, yet cooling. This Wodan has promised to all Heruli women who wish it. There we will be the friends we could not be here.”

Chapter 20

DEPARTURE

The selection continued. Many volunteered. Had all volunteers been taken, the number to be sent in the sacrificial group would have needed no choosing. Wodan-Ase took special note of many of those who volunteered but paid as much attention to those who did not.

“I had expected your hand to be raised in offer of your life, Sige,” Wodan-Ase remarked, an edge of deadly contempt in his voice.

“I had hoped to serve you better with my life than in a meaningless sacrifice of it,” replied a cruel looking man dressed in black bearskin. “I am not a coward. I am not afraid to die.”

“Your refusal to volunteer has not branded you a coward, but it has undoubtedly caused Wodan to question your honor. You will go as part of Theudonez' guard, Sige.”

The warrior eyed his chieftain with anger before he noticed the mood of the crowd did not favor him. “Sige goes. None may ever call Sige a coward. I hear and obey, Wodan-Ase.”

There were not many so treated, but enough so that word quickly spread that the Herzog's right was not to be disputed. After this, the choosing went quickly. All the aged who might not live or might hinder the need to escape through the long journey ahead were sent with Theudonez. The very few with severe mental conditions were sent. All cripples or those with serious battle or accidental wounds that caused debilitation were sent. The weak and the sickly were sent. These were not that many in number.

Large numbers of healthy and productive men and women were selected. Most of these were men and women who, like Mittane and his wife, ardently wished to seek Valhalla or another hall of the Runeworld through this sacrifice.

The cruelest blow in the choosing came from the need to have significant numbers of children among the group. At first, Wodan-Ase would have none of it, stating that all children would go with him. Artagabalus pointed out that if there were no children Decius would assume they had been sent a different way and would pursue until he found them. Following further discussion, it was decided that most babies under a year were to be sent, as were at least one from every family with more than two children. Among the three hundred fifty selected to sacrifice their lives for the salvation of the Heruli were forty-five children below the age of fifteen.

The choosing of the children did not go well. There were angry recriminations and fights. A few women that might have lived went into the death band only because their children had been selected. In the end, necessity won out.

It took longer than planned in making the choices. It was not until mid-afternoon that the first wagons of the sacrificial group were dispatched along the road to whatever destiny awaited them. Artagabalus lead the way in his wagon.

Theudonez and Idisvise were horse-mounted and traveled with Artagabalus along with their guard units and flag bearers. This was for the purpose of any Byzantine scouts who might be shadowing the train. They would report the presence of Heruli leaders. Later, during the journey, Idisvise would dismount and enter the lead wagon.

All the old honors of the Heruli were displayed by the assembled train, including many sacred dragon standards once carried in famous battles by the most illustrious of Heruli warriors. These formerly decorated the camping tents of the chieftains. Now it was hoped their capture would lead to the conclusion among their enemies the Heruli had been destroyed along with their most prized treasures and honors.

“Will any of them survive to come back to us?” asked Lorasinthe, as she stood watching the slowly departing ox train move out and onto the road. “Surely, some will escape in the fighting and make their way to safety.”

“Artagabalus and Theudonez will ensure that none do,” replied Wodan-Ase. “They will lead them into a trap, one so strong and inescapable that enemies will be completely convinced no Heruli have survived.”

“But why is that necessary, my husband?” responded Lorasinthe. “Surely some few escaping would not lead the Byzantines to keep a major army in the field to catch them. There should be some hope, my husband - at least some hope.”

Wodan-Ase made a negative motion. “Artagabalus has said the Byzantine General Narses, no doubt on direct command of his emperor, has decreed that no Heruli be left alive anywhere, that we be pursued to the last. For this reason are we making it easy for them to surround the sacrificed ones.”

“But how can we be sure scouts of the Byzantines are not even now watching us from some hidden spot?” replied the girl, her eyes looking past the tree line and into the woods as if expecting to find the very ones there of which she was speaking. “Surely, even with the best precautions, we will be observed and reported by one hidden watcher or another?”

“Artagabalus has done all he can to ensure our best chances,” replied Wodan-Ase. “Even before he came to us, the secret route north had been cleared of any of his men. He used the excuse there was no need to watch every route and animal track, but to concentrate in the south so his forces could speed to the aid of Decius should they be needed. Hence, the route we take lies in its beginning only a short distance from here.”

“Then we will continue down this road until we find the route? How can we keep unseen there, even if all our enemies fall for the ruse and are led away. Surely others, travelers perhaps, will see us and eventually report our presence.”

“No,” he replied, pointing toward a distant but visible forested area to the right of the road, a location that appeared so dense with brush and trees as to be impenetrable. “We go through there.”

Lorasinthe's eyes followed along his extended arm to where he pointed at what appeared to be a slight clearing into the darkness of the forest.

“Artagabalus says if we can penetrate the forest for only a short distance from the spot on which we now stand, we will find an ancient trail that cuts north away from the well-traveled routes of our enemies and passes through no settlements of any size. He scouted the area thoroughly and believes we will be safe at least until we have gotten beyond the capability of the Byzantines to locate us with ease. From then on, we must rely on our new identity.”

“Then the Heruli are truly dead from this day,” Lorasinthe said, her gaze traveling back to the wagon train as it continued its slow movements forward toward its chosen fate. “What of Artagabalus? Will he die as a Heruli also?”

“He has not told me of his plans. Theudonez has been commanded to give him his freedom to make his own decisions when the time comes. Without him we would, through our own naivete, have walked into a trap that would have ended the Heruli forever. With his help, there is still a slim chance we will escape with a part of our people.”

Lorasinthe stepped away from her husband to a spot where a number of small leather pouches lay upon the ground. She stooped to pick one up. “Many have left the mixture of the ashes of Arnulf and those of our sacred tree for me to take with us to the new land. They do not want the enemy touching them and wondering about them as they search the bodies of the dead. Others have taken the ashes with them for the opposite reason, so the enemy may take them and be cursed by their possession. I did not advise any to choose one way over another.”

“Come, Lorasinthe,” Wodan-Ase urged, bidding her to follow him as he slowly moved in the direction of the woods. “We must wait here in the cold this day and through tomorrow before moving. Our tracks must be cleared as soon as the other wagons are departed, leaving nothing of our presence to be noted by travelers. No fires can be built this night, and our voices must be at all times muffled.”

“Will we leave early or late, my husband? The weather promises to bring a great thunder storm, if not tomorrow then the next day. Must we leave under such conditions?”

“We will remember our people might be dying for us under those very same weather conditions in some terrible place far to the south and go forward as fast as we can. Those who cannot or will not withstand will leave their bones here! The ancient Heruli custom of encouraging individual bravery and decision will be placed in abeyance for more peaceful times in the future. The community is what must survive. In order that such may happen, we must act with one single will.

“I hear - and I obey - my Chieftain.”

CHAPTER 21

THE STORM

The morning dawned without a visible sun. The light that did come was dull and grey, backed by low-hanging clouds. The leading wagon of the Heruli train, Artagabalus's wagon, stopped at a spring lying a short distance from a defile which cut though low hills to the river some distance beyond. It was not thirst that caused Artagabalus to stop. He wished to confer with the leaders of the Heruli in order to determine the next move.

The previous day's travel had been relatively uneventful. There were many obvious signs of enemy activity noted after they moved onto the road south, but the ox train was not attacked or molested in any way.

During the day, the scouts, who had been carefully warned not to be seen, monitored the area in the direction from which they had come. By early evening, those reporting told of large numbers of Byzantine cavalry, Artagabalus' own forces, gathering at some distance behind and on the sides of the slow-moving train.

After Artagabalus stopped at the spring, word was sent to the sub-chieftains who commanded the hundreds, Mittane, Irnvrit and Iring, to come to the head of the halted column.

“I cannot say for sure,” said Artagabalus, “but all appears to be transpiring better than we might have hoped, given what we expect the eventual outcome to be.”

Artagabalus looked at each of the three men as he said these words, the wry smile on his face reflecting the irony of his words. In fact, the men seemed to appreciate what he said; Mittane laughed, the others nodded their agreement.

“We have seen no sign of the forces of Decius. Given his incompetence, I expected nothing less. Hopefully, he will be prepared by the time we reach the pass where I suspect the best ambush might be laid. We will reach that place in late afternoon, well before the sun sets.”

“Who traps who, Commander Artagabalus?” asked Iring, the commander of the trailing hundred. “Must we not only bait their trap but help them set it also?”

All laughed heartily at Iring's jest. Theudonez said, “Don't you worry about it, Little Wodan, if need be we will go and get this Decius and bring him personally to his duty.”

Iring frowned at the nickname. He received it after a battle with the Goths many years previously. Iring's left eye had been put out during the fighting and afterwards he took to wearing a leather patch to cover the scar. His scraggly short beard, a fashion few of the Heruli shared with him, plus the missing eye and patch, led others to tease him that he was trying to look like Wodan. First he was called behind his back son of Wodan, then just Little Wodan.

“I just hope,” rejoined Iring, his temper flaring, “that when Decius' troops have fought their way through you, Theudonez, to get at my hundred, that he doesn't think the Heruli too soft an opponent for him. He'll get a shock when he reaches me.”

Theudonez bristled at the taunt and, had this been a different time, such words might have led to immediate retribution. Blood feuds were common.

Theudonez knew that this was not the time. “Iring feels brave today and that is good. Today, the Heruli will need your bravery and courage. I hope it is not just the frothing of an old woman's scolding that drives you to challenge me.”

“Stop,” cried Artagabalus, “I would think there are enough problems facing us without petty squabbles that might sap our strength.”

Theudonez and Iring continued to glare at each other for some period of time before first one, then the other, smiled. In a moment more they were laughing and striking each other hard upon the back.

Artagabalus continued to lay out his plan. “When we reach the entrance to the defile, where I suspect they will spring the trap, I may receive a signal beforehand. Whether I get such a signal or not, I will abandon my wagon and escape as we have planned I should do. One of your men, dressed as myself and hidden within my wagon, will take my place. You know the job I must do. In the name of the Heruli blood of my ancestors, I swear to carry it out.”

The men nodded in agreement to his words, one pounding a sword against his shield in the Heruli warrior manner. This demonstration caused some disturbance within the train. Although none but the men closest to him heard the words, many of the men began to shout war cries and bang upon their shields, the women adding shrill cries quickly thereafter. The tense atmosphere that surrounded the journey began to evaporate somewhat as all were allowed to release some of the pressure.

Up in the hills, the Greek Cavalryman Pantages looked down upon the gesticulating and shouting people with wonder. Pantages was one of many Byzantine soldiers shadowing the Heruli column. Pantages wondered if this uproar portended some change in the plans the Heruli were making, changes he should report to Commander Ammianus, the man who now commanded Artagabalus' force in his absence.

Pantages need not have worried. Out of sight, at some distance to the rear of the Heruli wagon train, the main body of the cavalry forces led by Ammianus were trailing slowly in pursuit, maintaining their spread-out blocking formation. The cavalry column was close enough so that when the great shout of the Heruli was sent into the air, a hushed version of that shout could be heard by the lead elements.

“What sound is that?” asked Eskjan, a half-German tribesman of mixed Saxon/Gallic parentage, now serving as chief scout to the command of Ammianus. “Have those horse-eaters stopped in their progression to hold some sort of festival? If we can hear them wailing at this distance, it must be something big.”

“I have no idea,” replied Ammianus, his curiosity raised.

Ammianus gave a hand signal to stop the column. “Eskjan, take word for Artagabalus' aide, Plancus, to attend me.”

The scout Eskjan brought his arm across his chest in salute. Turning, he forced his horse into a gallop, raced back along the strung-out cavalry formation seeking the man Plancus. As he rode, he remembered it was Plancus, Artagabalus' aide, who brought this ride into the wilderness into being.

Eskjan was uneasy. As he approached the column in which he believed the man Plancus to be, the German blood of his Saxon ancestors was raised. What if this man Plancus, or Artagabalus himself for that matter, was lying? What if this were a Heruli trick and there was a Heruli force coming up behind them in order to crush the Byzantine cavalry in the same vise-like trap they intended for the Heruli?

Eskjan had voiced these concerns, but the commanders said that they knew of no Heruli force still in existence large enough for such a measure. They had laughed him to scorn. Still, Eskjan could not put the thought out of his mind.

Plancus was found quickly. He mounted his horse immediately, joined the scout in a horse-lathering gallop back to where Ammianus waited at the front of the column.

After the men had dismounted, Ammianus asked, “What do you think they are doing, Plancus? Why would Artagabalus stop leading their train to stand screaming into the breath of the coming storm that approaches us.”

“I do not know, leader,” replied Plancus. “I cannot say.”

“Then answer me this,” continued Ammianus. “Tell me the real reason Artagabalus risks his life to be with the Heruli on what he knows is a death march. I never felt his loyalty to Narses was that strong.”

“Commander Artagabalus answered that very question for me,” said Plancus, his face an impenetrable mask. “Artagabalus fears the wrath of General Narses because of his failure to track this band down earlier. He feels his career is over if he does not do some spectacular deed in order to revive it.”

“That has the ring of truth. Artagabalus is eaten up with pride and the desire for power and position.”

Ammianus continued to stare at the man, his mind full of his own thoughts on Artagabalus. He attributed to Artagabalus beliefs closer in fact to his own. To Ammianus, power and position were everything. He accepted Plancus' answer because such would have been his reasons for acting in that manner. “Does he realize he might die before he is recognized?”

“He does, leader,” replied Plancus, “but to Artagabalus his desire for power and reward outweigh any such considerations. He gambles to win, not to lose.”

“And you Eskjan, what do you believe?”

“I believe Artagabalus has lied to us, but that is a gut feeling,” said Eskjan. “I have no evidence he has.”

“Why would he lie?” asked Ammianus.

“If he lied,” replied Plancus, coming to the absent Artagabalus' aid, “it was from omission only. He is obsessed with upstaging Commander Decius. Perhaps he intends at the last moment to turn back against your following forces and allow his own units the great victory before Decius can come on the scene.”

“See Eskjan,” Ammianus said, eyeing his chief scout with suspicion. “A plausible, no doubt true explanation. Had there been in the mind of Artagabalus any other plan, we would have seen such traits in his character before. Would he seek the slaughter of his own command to save a band of deep-forest heretics?”

“Perhaps not, Ammianus,” replied the scout. “I would feel better if we sent someone to the rear to check on whether or not a force of the enemy follows us.”

“Surely, none does,” replied Ammianus, annoyed now as he saw the scout would not bend. “Such a ghost force would have given us some sign of their presence before now. It is true we had no knowledge of the actual numbers in the last Heruli band, but can it possibly be more than are before us now? Had there been more, Artagabalus would have informed me.”

“I cannot say, Ammianus,” Eskjan replied, testily. “I would feel better about all this strangeness if we knew for sure.”

“Then, indeed, we shall know for sure!” snapped Ammianus angrily. “You will find out the truth for us, Eskjan. Travel back along this road to the main junction. If there are Heruli forces about to set upon us, race back and tell us. If not . . .”

Ammianus was very angry. The scout Eskjan knew he had stepped over the line. He said nothing else, mounted his horse, gave a terse salute and rode off to the north along the road. As he spurred his mount into a gallop, Eskjan daydreamed of finding Heruli tribesmen and reporting their presence to Decius. Ammianus would have to apologize for so cruelly upbraiding him.

After Eskjan left, Ammianus, still perturbed and angered over the incident, further took his wrath out upon Artagabalus' aide Plancus. He berated him viciously with words he would have liked to say to Artagabalus but would never have dared.

“What would your Commander say if I were to order our cavalry to cease this ignoble task of following wherever Artagabalus leads and begin an immediate attack upon that Heruli rabble that lies before us? We do not need Decius' aid for the killing this job requires. Our men would thrive upon it.”

“I cannot answer for Commander Artagabalus,” replied Plancus. “But if my opinion were asked, I would bid the leader not disobey the direct order of his commander.”

These were the exact words needed to bring Ammianus out of his angry mood and back to reality. He was the best man in the best place at the right time. To disobey an order was unthinkable to one such as Ammianus.

“You are right, Plancus,” said Ammianus, his world now upright again, his mission clear. “After all, Artagabalus is there with them, is he not? Should any problems occur in the trapping of these barbarians, the blame will be upon him, not me.”

About three miles to the south of the column of slow moving wagons were poised the forces of Decius' infantry and a few units of cavalry, mostly scout elements. Reports from the cavalry about the halted Heruli wagons were brought to Decius also.

Decius was not worried about the timing of his plan. He did not even seem overly concerned about the darkness of the skies and the rumblings of the coming storm the Heruli enemy almost seemed to be bringing with them into the trap as the final moments approached.

“That storm promises to be of a great intensity, Decius,” said Cneus, an aide to General Narses, who was serving as an observer with Decius' command. “One would hope its potential has been well factored into your plans.”

Decius stared at his subordinate. He considered Cneus nothing but a spy hopeful of finding something negative to report back to Narses. “My men will fight to the end, although the storm might rage at its greatest height at the most critical moment, Cneus. Nothing will prevent what will transpire today!”

“As Narses has so often asked of us all, so do I hear in all gladness, Legate.”

“This coming storm may hit with great violence” remarked Phormio, Decius' aide. “There is a danger the attack might take place at the height of the storm and that some might escape as a result.”

“When they get into my ring, there will be no place to escape to,” barked Decius sharply in reply.

“No doubt all will be as you say, Legate,” admitted Cneus.

You are not a military man, Cneus,” snapped Phormio insultingly. “If you were, you would know that the defile of which Commander Decius speaks provides opportunity for a most simple and totally effective ambush.”

“I can see that, Phormio.”

Phormio continued, ignoring the man's reply. “The trail at this point passes between two hills low in height yet angled enough at the sides to allow an entire army to be unseen on their crests.”

“I said, I know, Phormio,” snarled Cneus.

“There is only one problem,” quipped Decius, anxious to show his subordinates he was considering all aspects of the battle. “A small creek meanders through the defile. This presently disappears some distance in, no doubt going underground to emerge later near the river. There could be trouble in a severe storm. The path through the defile may be cut by water. The Heruli would be prevented from entering, we from getting at them.”

“If Christ is with us in this mission,” remarked Cneus politely, “the stream will not leave its banks.”

“Then we are assured,” replied Phormio curtly. “For Christ is indeed with us against the barbarian pagans. None will escape.”

Hours later, in the forward elements of the oncoming Heruli train, there were like concerns, but for different reasons. Theudonez first rode beside, then slightly ahead of the lead wagon. This was the wagon driven by Artagabalus.

The ox-drawn wagon approached a point in the trail where a small stream could be seen for the first time cutting in from the left. From this point on, there would be no room to turn around, no room to maneuver. They would be in the defile with hills on each side. The route would force each wagon or horseman to travel single file along what was fast becoming a narrow path indeed.

“Artagabalus!” cried Theudonez, turning in his saddle to address the bearded man in the lead wagon behind him.

Theudonez’s shout drew the attention of both Artagabalus and Idisvise. The girl, her blond hair worn long and free, as Lorasinthe's might have been, had been placed in the very first wagon to sit with Artagabalus, the better to be seen.

“Yes, Theudonez,” replied Artagabalus, cupping his hands in an attempt to have his voice heard above the din created by the movement of the wagon and the sounds made by the oxen.

“It is time, Artagabalus!” shouted Theudonez. “We have reached the point of divide of which you spoke. The attack will begin soon!”

Artagabalus cupped his hands to his mouth again. “I have already motioned my double to come forward!”

Idisvise heard movement coming from within a bundle in the back of the wagon. A man, dressed exactly as was the driver Artagabalus, appeared at her shoulder, “Idisvise,” said Artagabalus, noting the bewildered look on the face of the young girl. “I will do what I can when the battle starts to ease your discomfort. If I cannot get to you, hide, beautiful one, hide as long as you can!”

“There are fifty of our warriors between the enemy and myself,” replied the girl somewhat naively. “They will keep the enemy from me, surely.”

Artagabalus sighed. “They will try, my lady.”

Both were aware the mounted escort had come up close alongside the wagon so as to hide the fact two men switched positions on the wagon seat. Artagabalus reached over and kissed the young girl on her cheek.

“You should never have known such a day, my lady. Goodbye.”

With these words, Artagabalus moved to the back of the wagon. He was replaced on the seat by the man dressed exactly as he had been. Idisvise never knew when he left the wagon. Looking over the left side, she thought she saw a body drop down into the stream of running water, then hide in bushes along the side.

Theudonez acted as if nothing out of the ordinary were taking place as his horse slowly picked its way over the rutted trail in front of the lead wagons. His mind was full of thoughts of how the Byzantines seemed to have learned nothing of the warrior ways of the Heruli when they fought together. No Heruli leader would have entered such a trap in a time of danger. Yet here were the Heruli, entering this natural ambush site just as if they had no military tradition, had never been in battle.

Behind Theudonez in her wagon, Idisvise felt a sudden coolness on her cheek. Reaching out, hand upraised, she felt the presence of intermittent drops of rain. Looking behind, she found the storm that had been threatening to catch up with the train all day was about to do so.

Idisvise closed her eyes, listened to the sound of thunder in the distance. She opened her eyes again to see and hear large drops of rain fall onto the wagon's canvas and stir up dust at the side of the road, presaging the onset of a deluge. The young girl noticed how the drops formed odd patterns in the dust to the front of the wagon and around the legs of the horse Theudonez rode.

As Idisvise listened to the approach of the storm, the full force of that natural event was already falling upon the end of the Heruli train. In the ranks of the third hundred led by Iring, the blackened skies were everywhere around the wagons. Giant droplets slapped audibly against the hard leather coverings protecting the occupants within.

The riders in Iring's escort covered themselves as best they could, for the first droplets stung as they hit, a sure sign that a massive downpour was about to follow. Rain gear was thrown at them from the wagons and soon most were clothed from head to foot in some form of outer covering.

“What more?” asked Iring in exasperation. “Must we now fight Byzantine and storm as one enemy? Raising his sword to the heavens, Iring shouted, “Donar, god of thunder, aid us in our struggle!”

Iring's cry for heavenly assistance was the last voice many of the people heard, for at that moment the heavens unleashed the torrent. The storm, as if fallen upon an enemy in battle, marched quickly forward to seize wagon after wagon in its grasp.

The scout Pantages had come down from his position in the hills overlooking the trail to report to Ammianus. He told him the Heruli train was now well entered into the defile in which the ambush was to take place. He also told of seeing scouts from the infantry force headed by Decius.

“The trap is sprung!” Ammianus shouted into the wind and driving rain. Ammianus ordered his forces to show themselves to the rear guard of the Heruli wagon train. He wanted to hurry them on their way to their deaths.

Hundred leader Iring was in the van of the Heruli column. It seemed as if the storm and the enemy came upon him at much the same time. The mud track was already slick and treacherous beneath the hooves of his horse when his eyes caught the glint of metal and movement. There, at the edge of the mist, at a distance of some eighty meters from the last wagon, he could make out the figures of many horsemen. Their exact number and identity could not be estimated since they had stopped advancing. They made no attempt to charge his small covering force, but rather acted as if they were urging him to quicken his pace in entering the trap.

Taking this as a sign of Wodan's will, Iring did just as they wanted. He came up beside the driver of the last wagon and urged him to quickly enter the narrow trail. As this wagon passed into the part of the trail where the now rain-swollen and surging creek angrily rushed forward, Iring made a decision. He would lead no sheep to slaughter. He decided to face death where he was. His call to Wodan filled the air around him.

Far away from where Iring had decided to make his stand, the leader of his enemies, Decius, was seated on a camp stool in a comfortable position of safety. He could see clearly all that would happen below. The rain had not arrived yet at his position, but the quickly surging storm was on the wind and in the clouds of darkness around him.

Decius watched as a horseman on a black or dark brown horse approached. The rider carried a banner. Whatever it was, it seemed to have a tail that strung out for some distance as the storm wind filled and moved it. Decius had heard of the war dragon standard of the Heruli tribe. He thrilled with the thought that its capture was imminent.

The first of the wagons came into view. Decius raised his right hand into a closed-fist upward position and held it there. The rain followed the lead wagon across his mark then pattered swiftly up the hill, catching him in its assault. At that moment, Decius chose to drop his arm to signal the attack to begin.

CHAPTER 22

IDISVISE

Idisvise shivered as the first drops of cold rain struck. The rain quickly soaked the oxen leading the wagon in which she was seated, then stretched out to strike almost as quickly the mounted figure of Theudonez riding just ahead. She looked around toward the rear, noticing the rain had already drenched the mounted escort riding behind.

Farther back, the mist and smoky shading of the heavy downpour obscured the other wagons that followed. Idisvise felt as if in a world of her own, a world well out and away from the reality of the one in which she now truly found herself.

From somewhere above her, up where the dark clouds crowded the earthen hills, the first loosened mud flowed downward along with cascades of water. Something else flowed with the water; a rumbling - terse and harsh - sounded forth above the pounding of the rain.

At first the sound was barely audible. Then so quickly was the volume increased she was able to recognize the strident tones of horns; military horns, blowing, searching, instructing with their time-honored calls to battle. From over the edge of the low hills, there appeared human forms. These joined the water and mud in a downward fall toward where her wagon still held to the slippery path.

From the left, seemingly uncountable numbers of men erupted from the hills into the deluge, just as if some god had caused rain and man to stream from the heavens as one. Idisvise saw many of the forms slip and fall, carried downward by the mudslide rather than running down the hill of their own accord. Together the stumbling sliding bodies, and the water, made their way first to the tumultuously storming creek.

The creek, risen to a level just below the trail itself, testified to the magnitude of the storm back in the depths of the source flow. Here, many men fell into the water and were swept away for at least a brief time. Others, stronger perhaps, clawed and swam their way across in a fierce attempt to gain the advantage of the opposite bank.

From the right, other bugles cried, other bodies appeared to rise from out of the mist. These also slid or tumbled down hills slick with flowing mud. For those on the right, there was no creek to die in or to test the strength of the strongest. As Idisvise watched, the human stream that could no more be stopped than the wildly flowing water swept down upon her as if part of an all-engulfing wave.

Would death be quick? Idisvise wondered. She could make out the first of what seemed to be ferociously angry faces grabbing for her horse, her reins, herself. She did not fight her attackers. Nor did she scream. Heruli woman did not scream when the enemy came.

Theudonez was equally stunned by the magnitude of the onslaught that washed around and over him in the few brief moments after the war horns first sounded their strident cries. He watched almost as if an uninvolved bystander as the Byzantine infantry, in all the initial panic of battle, slid, fell, rolled or slipped their way to the bottom of the hill on each side, then into the creek or onto the trail.

So awestruck had Theudonez been by the sight he never drew his battle axe, merely clutched harder to the horse's rein, which he held in his left hand, and the dragon standard, which he held in his right.

The stallion Theudonez rode fell first of all the Heruli that dark and rainy afternoon. Horses were sacred to the Heruli, each considered a member of the tribe. The one Theudonez rode, a large black stallion named Battle-Maker, never knew how quickly he died. A Byzantine lance sank deeply into his chest, then a stroke of a sword cut long and slashingly into his neck. Battle-Maker died quickly and painfully.

With a crashing, slippery sound, the dying horse fell hard over, spilling the man on his back. Then, kicking and thrashing in its death throes, the horse's body quivered, moved, slowly slipped into the stream, splashing water upward. Battle-Maker's body settled quickly to a death spot, changing the stream's direction slightly as the remains became a dam against the raging spirit of the water.

If there were any orders given to take the man with the standard alive, perhaps because it was thought he was the great Heruli Chieftain Rain Warrior, such orders were not obeyed. As Battle-Maker died as he fell, so did Theudonez. His body was pierced or slashed by spears, cut by swords, stroked harshly by the battle axes of German mercenaries sent forward with the Greco-Romans and Armenians of Decius' infantry force.

One man, a personal representative of Decius, and on pain of his life, did stop to find and protect the great Heruli dragon standard. The standard had fallen, not with Theudonez, but with the horse Battle-Maker into the stream where it was almost carried away in the wild waters.

As he picked it up, Phormio, Decius' aide, thought to thank the Christ that the heathen banner had not been washed away to safety by some demonic pagan water spirit. Dark spirits seemed to be alive in the burgeoning stream now busy washing away water, blood, and other residue from the carnage that was all around and part of the stream itself.

There was slaughter in those first moments. As if in battle against the storm which was slowly forcing its way south, the killing machine that was the wave of Byzantine infantry pushed into the face of the storm heading north. Their surge was such that the Heruli guard protecting the lead wagon in which Idisvise waited were not able to come forward to protect her.

From all sides, the great mass of seething, sodden, men, their bodies bleeding from cuts resulting from their haphazard surge down the mud-soaked hills, crashed into the guard almost as quickly as they had swept over Theudonez.

From behind and in front, from both sides, they came. The hills were now full of screaming, mud-splattered men for a length of at least seven or eight single-file Heruli wagons long. Thickest at the point, the surging bands of men crowded each other off the track, many having to stay behind others since all could not fit on the narrow track together.

Men near the stream were often swept in, carried along like bobbing apples spilled from a tree into a river's current. That was the saving grace for the Heruli, at least briefly. There were more enemy than could fit into the narrow space of battle.

That did not help the Heruli men whose duty it was to guard Idisvise. They were perhaps ten in number, too small a unit not to be crushed easily under the force of the irresistible mass that surged among them, around them, over them. In the slashing, cutting and stabbing that took place as the mass of the Byzantine infantry met their enemy in these narrow muddy confines, not a few of the cuts fell own their own numbers as well as the horses and men of the small Heruli guard force.

Force-against-force numbers were in crushing favor of the Byzantines at the front of the wagon train where the attack initially took place. The guard force and the occupants of the first wagons were overwhelmed and cut to pieces. The ten of Idisvise's guard were quickly followed in death by the remaining forty of the advance unit. Blood, mud-filled water, perspiration, and rain stained garments - cast, lost or dropped weapons - soon covered the trail area. Wherever the surge of the Byzantine attack carried them, no Heruli withstood.

Of all, only one was saved. Perhaps one should say two were saved, one Heruli and one Byzantine. Phormio's life hung a second time in the balance to ensure the safety of the girl who all believed was the supreme Heruli witch, or sorceress, Lorasinthe. The driver of the wagon in which she was riding was literally slashed to pieces. No caution had been given by Decius that his troops look for or spare the life of Artagabalus should he be mistaken for a Heruli tribesman.

Even with the direct command to the troops to spare the life of any female in the lead wagons, Phormio barely arrived in time to save Idisvise from the fate of her driver and her escort. She was seen to be a pretty wench through the blood-lusted eyes of the two Armenian mercenaries who were first to come upon her. Her beauty saved the girl for Phormio's belated arrival. Decius commanded that rape before death was suitable for Heruli women, and that if such was one's luck to capture females during the battle, so be it.

Although slashed and bleeding from many small cuts and abrasions due to her brutal handling during those first terror-filled moments of the battle, Idisvise survived the initial rush only to suffer the beginnings of far worse treatment. Her rape was well begun before Phormio and the few men who were aiding him in his tasks were able to get into the wagon, whose bed now canted dangerously near the edge of the swollen stream.

The two Armenians were manhandled away from the girl. She was taken by her blond hair and pulled roughly from the wagon into the downpour. Her screams of pain were ignored.

Idisvise had no clothing by then; what she had been wearing was torn away to allow access to her body. Her only other adornment, the crude necklace holding the robe pin given her by the Lady Lorasinthe, had also been taken from her and cast out of the wagon into the stream. It had not seemed valuable enough to steal, and the Armenians thought it to be a witch's ornament anyway. None watched as the robe pin of Christ floated away with the current then disappeared as if pulled down by one of the water spirits guiding the deluge on its way.

“Brutes!, swine!” cried Phormio savagely into the faces of the startled Armenian infantrymen. “Would you have raped and killed the one your Commander Decius has ordered taken alive?”

“We did not know,” lied one of the men. He lied because, like all the Byzantine soldiers, they had been told quite clearly to take all young blond women in the first few wagons alive. “It was the battle. We did not think.”

Phormio slapped the man viciously across the face, shouting, “You did not think! You mean you cannot think!”

“Forgive us Commander,” pleaded the one of the two men who spoke Greek.

“Get out of here quickly before I lose more of my temper. Wait! Did this witch wear a necklace with an odd-shaped implement on it.”

“She wore no such implement,” the man again lied. “She wore nothing at all.”

Phormio ordered the men searched and detained under guard. How unfortunate, Phormio thought. Decius will not be pleased that I failed to discover Christ's robe pin. I will have to think of something to tell him that will sound right.

“When you have searched these dogs, tie this Heruli sorceress to the wheel of her wagon. Let no other man touch her.”

Idisvise was a mess. The cuts on her body and the swelling over one eye continued to bleed. The rain carried tiny trickles of blood away to the ground, as if in some way attempting to clean her after the horror she endured. She made no sound. She stood there as the water poured over her, blood-patched and muddy, her hair a tangled, wet mass.

Phormio approached her, slapped her face hard. “Who are you, witch?”

Idisvise was confused, frightened out of her wits. The blow stung terribly, bringing tears to her eyes. She did not know what he said to her.

He slapped her again. “Who are you?” Phormio saw no sign of recognition in her eyes. “Perhaps she doesn't understand me. Who speaks these dog-people's guttural croakings?”

“I understand some German,” said one of the soldier's standing nearby.

“Ask her who she is.”

The man did so.

Idisvise stared at the soldier who spoke her language. “I am Lorasinthe of the Heruli.”

“She said . . .”

“I understood enough,” replied Phormio. “Well done! This is the witch I sought. Kill the other women captives. I have the one I want.”

“Yes, Leader.”

Phormio took time to look the girl over more closely. Even as disheveled as she was, her attraction was quite remarkable. She had a body capable of charming any man, not to speak of what it might do to the brutes of his personal guard. “Get this demon worshiper covered. Let it not be said Phormio is without a care for the unfortunate.”

The men smiled at Phormio's comment and saluted. They covered Idisvise's body with her own torn white linen dress, blood-stained, soaked and muddy though it was then tied the girl to the wagon wheel on the side facing the trail. When finished, the men climbed into the wagon to join Phormio, who was already searching for dry clothing, and a particular robe pin, among the baggage that still lay here and there within the wagon.

Outside, Idisvise stared at the world, tears overflowing her rain-soaked cheeks. This morning she wanted to be the bravest of Heruli women in this great time of trial and death. Now she was terrified. Idisvise could hear the din of battle fading to the rear as the Byzantine force pressed onward. The sound of pounding rain overcame the sound of combat once more at the shattered front of the Heruli train. At long last, disoriented by shock and dizzy to the point of falling had the ropes not constrained her, Idisvise fainted.

Later, her body slung forward against the ropes and benumbed with pain, not knowing where she was or if anything happening around her was real, Idisvise’s thoughts were drawn to the bitter cold she felt within. Terror filled her as the form of a man appeared out of the mist from the south. She shivered uncontrollably. He looked as if a Byzantine soldier, a young man with darkened hair carrying a spear, yet no shield. There was a black patch over his left eye. His metal helmet, leather armor, and short tunic were covered in mud and earth-gore.

The young man seemed intent only on passing by without comment. But as he drew near her, he suddenly stopped, turning sharply right to face her. Leaning on his spear, he carefully looked her over, saying nothing at first. Then, as he continued his examination, a smile broke through, shattering the somberness of his expression. His voice was soft when he spoke.

“I am named John. John from Tyre. What is your name, pretty Heruli maiden?”

Idisvise stared at him curiously. In the midst of this horror, the young Byzantine spear carrier dared show the demeanor of one who might have been courting her on some cool and star-filled night. He did not have the face of a bloody enemy there to rape or murder her. Idisvise did not answer him, for her lips were too frozen to move. She looked at him as if he were simply another insane thing in a world gone mad.

Glancing up toward the storm clouds then back to her, the soldier continued, “Things can seem worse in a storm than they really are my lovely one. I had thought in passing I knew you, but I see I was mistaken. It is another I once knew, although you do look like her. Never you mind. Do not fear. Hold firm to your people and to your gods, for today is your great day. You are blessed, for you die to save others. My spear will shield you. Look, I leave it at your side.”

Idisvise turned her head to look in the direction where his left arm was then extended. She beheld a simple wooden pole with a crude iron spearhead. This was a lowly soldier's tool, like hundreds lost on the battlefield that day. As she stared at it, she noticed a broad blood-red stain coursing down the shaft, merged from a reddish flow of liquid out of a number of deep cuts in the wood that resembled symbols she well knew. They were Runes. Were they cut for her?

“Perhaps we will meet again one day, my beauty,” the soldier said. “On a day when the thunder-god Donar does not pursue his pleasure so heavily, one more suited to love than to death. I leave you now to your duty.”

The cold grip of terror left Idisvise as she watched the young soldier walk away. It was as if he had taken her fears with him. She glanced once more at the spear. An inner warmth filled her, for she knew the spirit of her people was with her. He was with her.

Yet, as she watched the form of the young soldier disappear into the mist, the urge to say something to him became paramount. Only a single question formed in her mind. She whispered, “why, Wodan?”

Idisvise had whispered these words into the teeth of a blowing rain-swept gale, yet, as if struck by lightning the soldier stopped, turned, and looked back at her. She could see dimly through the pouring rain that he seemed to have a spear in his hand once again, that the eye without the patch was intent only upon her. Then, as if in answer, the young soldier smiled, turned once more, and departed into the battle.

Idisvise, her mind more settled to her fate, mercifully fainted again, or perhaps only thought she fainted, having been unconscious and dreaming the whole time.

CHAPTER 23

THE SPEAR

The situation at the tail end of the train was not as hectic and terrifying as had been the infantry assault at the head. It was the noise of far off conflict that warned Ammianus of the attack Decius undertook rather than direct notification from a messenger or scout. Decius had not bothered to send a message, preferring to use his infantry to push the Heruli against the cavalry blocking force like a herd of cattle.

Ammianus assumed the cavalry must attack in support of Decius, a bad mistake indeed in this type of weather. The leader of the Heruli hundred in the rear formation, Iring, had the sense given the heaviness of the falling rain to dismount his rear guard and loose their horses. Ammianus chose to send his cavalry into the narrow defile mounted.

The lead elements knew of the narrow confines in which they were to fight, being able to see the lay of the land for some time before the battle started. They at first attacked in

narrow columns suited to the terrain, but even this was of no real value given the slipperiness of the trail and the close surroundings the Heruli hundred defended.

One hundred people, men, women, children, the old, the young, among them only twenty warriors of battle age, defended the rear of the column under Iring's command. Most of their weaponry consisted of stones, large poles, objects of iron, available knives. Only the warriors among them had suitable weapons for such a fight. But then, a fight was not really what they were there for; they were there to die, not live to fight again.

The first of Ammianus' cavalry to strike the modestly prepared Heruli position did so in most awkward fashion. The horses had no firm purchase on the wet ground. The riders quickly found a slow trot was the only speed to which the horses would be driven under such conditions.

The swollen river caused the lead riders to narrow the distance between riders during their charge in order to avoid dumping horses and themselves into the stream. It was more the result of senseless planning than fate that the first horse and rider to strike the Heruli took a terrible fall no more than ten meters from the prey.

Man and mount slipped and skidded through the mud to crash into the Heruli front line sideways. The rider's leg caught under his horse as it fell, breaking audibly during the short journey through the mud. As the man grimaced in agony, both he and his mount were beaten to death by the Heruli women into which they slid.

This single event unleashed a catastrophe for the oncoming Byzantine cavalry. Unable to stop or avoid the falling horse of their comrade as it turned and fell sideways into the mud, a similar fate overtook other riders. Soon, there was not one, but a pile of horses, many with broken legs, some screaming in pain from terrible falls, there in front of the as yet untouched Heruli defensive line.

The disaster which happened to the lead cavalry force benefited those who pounded after them through the plowed and muddy ground. From rear to front, the men dismounted. They loosed their chargers for others to catch and entered the fray with swords and spears.

Bravery and foolhardiness are often close companions of battle. Those brave souls among the hundred of Iring who stood their ground cheering as the tangled mass of the lead Byzantine horse lay before them could not see that from the seeds of this brief victory were their lives forfeit. The old warrior Iring knew, even as he yelled louder than the rest in pretended victory.

As he stared out over the piled flesh of enemy horses and men, Iring noticed the first dismounts taking place. He decided the only chance the Heruli had was to make the cavalrymen climb over the bodies of their own to get at the Heruli. He ordered, pushed, cajoled, struck when necessary, the people of his hundred until most had moved forward to take their place upon or against the bodies of the downed or milling animals and their riders.

It was there the Heruli hundred under Iring fought. Although they fought well for the type of force they were and the weapons they had, they were lost from the first. There never was a chance, nor did their killing take long to accomplish.

None ran. Sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, husbands and wives too, often stood beside each other. The Byzantines had to kill their way through from the mud and wetness of one side of the growing pile of bodies to get to the mud and wetness on the other side. When a sufficient number of Byzantine soldiers had made that short journey, there were no Heruli left alive.

So it was that when cavalryman met infantryman neither much time nor any great effort had been expended. Most of the men were turned around to sweep through the narrow confines again, searching for any sign of life. When this had been done, there was time to take stock of the number of bodies to be counted on both sides.

Early on, even before the short battle ended, a tent was erected on a flat piece of ground near the place where Idisvise still stood tied to the right rear wheel of the wagon. She had at first fainted with the pain of her wounds. Now, the anguish she felt in her arms and shoulders, from their being in the same position behind her for so long, kept her awake.

She begged each passing soldier to untie her and bind her in a more merciful way. Finally, an officer of German extraction who spoke her language did so. Idisvise was then able to find some measure of peace by falling into a swoon-like sleep once more.

A shaking brought back the horror. A man with a black beard wearing a brass or bronze decorated helmet stood in front of her. He was the man who first had her tied to the wagon. She didn't understand his words, but she could not mistake the tone.

“Here you are, my Lord Decius. The witch is awake. What would you have of her? She is foul, dirty, and bloody looking, more akin to a swamp rat than to the fair beauty we had been led to expect.”

“So say you, Phormio,” replied Decius, walking forward at a slow pace from the newly raised tent. “A little mud and a good soaking is often all it takes to make a fine jewel look like a common rock. I would see her when this rain has stopped and she has been seen to properly. You are sure? This is the sorceress Lorasinthe?”

Knowing his life backed his words, Phormio said, “She is the same, Legate.”

“And her husband, the leader of these worshipers of demons, the one called Rain Warrior, where is he?”

“Dead. He would not be taken alive.”

Decius turned from the girl to stare with hardness at Phormio, his look of displeasure obvious to all that were near enough to hear, “Where is his body? Rain Warrior and this woman must be burned together in front of witnesses that Narses may know his orders have been obeyed. Who has killed this man contrary to my express instructions?”

“I cannot say, Decius,” replied Phormio, the fear he felt obvious on his face. “There were two Armenians with her when we were able to get to her but the man was among the first to die. His body lies covered under the wagon.”

“And the standard he carried, where is it?

“It is in the wagon, Legate, well protected for your viewing. I will have it brought to you.”

Phormio motioned for one of his men to bring the Heruli dragon standard. The long streamer had been in fragile condition due to its great age before that day ever began, and it had faired the worse from the rain and mud.

Noting the round mouth, elaborately detailed head and long tail, Decius commented, “Why it is nothing more than a very old Roman standard, a Draconarius, a dragon standard, captured in some fray long ago by these savages. No doubt it looked to them like one of the demons in their foul rites.”

“It is said Commander,” Phormio responded, “that Odoacer, king of the Heruli, conqueror of the Roman Empire in the west, stole it along with Christ's robe pin from the residence of the last emperor at Ravenna over eighty years ago.”

“May that monster be burning in the lowest of Christian hells,” said Decius, kicking at the head of the dragon as he spoke the words. “And where is that fine Christian relic? Artagabalus sent word she wore it while he was with her. Don't tell me it is lost? Narses would have it, most of all!”

Phormio was known for his ability to think fast on his feet, never better than now as he responded quickly by lying, “It was not found upon her body, Commander. I have men searching for the two who were with her as we came upon them. No doubt they took it or know where it is.”

“When you find them, first get Christ's robe pin then have them executed for disobeying my orders. Prepare me a large fire. We must dispense with these matters tonight. And what of Artagabalus? Does he live?”

“None have seen him, Legate,” replied Phormio.

The rain stopped just before the onset of darkness. The camp was a cold, wet and cheerless place for most, comfortable only for the elevated few. In Decius's tent there was the warmth of the fire and good food, stories of the day's battle, laughing officers and much comradely interaction. Finally, the time arrived to finish the task.

Outside, no more that twenty meters away, a fire had been built. This fire was constructed so that light would fall upon the girl. Idisvise's body had been cleaned, her hair dried and combed as best as possible by an unsympathetic eunuch. The eunuch had not had her white linen dress changed, feeling the clinging effect of its dampness would elicit comments enough to titillate the imaginations of his masters.

“By the Mother of God, she is a beauty!” said Decius, excitedly.

“She is a sorceress of the worst order, a child of the Evil One, designed to take all of your souls with her into darkness,” cried aloud Bishop Willias, the highest ranking Christian priest accompanying the expedition against the Heruli.

“Ah, but such a pretty demon,” teased Decius, his statement causing many of the officers to laugh. “I thought all demons were ugly and misshapen. Such a one as this could tempt many a fine Christian man to be forgetful of his duties to the Church.”

“And for that, she must die quickly, Decius,” urged the priest. “Or Narses will hear that her spells were more enticing than were his appointed commander's desires to see through his mission as given.”

A cough was Decius's only comment to the very clear reminder Bishop Willias gave.

“Get on with it.” Willias ordered. “It is cold out here.”

Decius cleared his throat, began his speech. “We are here to finish a most serious business, the final destruction of the barbarian tribe named the Heruli. This sorceress, this purveyor of the ways of evil, is the last of her people. Her name is Lorasinthe, priestess of Wodan. We will burn her with her wagon, with the goods and trappings of her order. May the good Christ and all his saints have mercy on her soul. And may the name Heruli be forgotten, for our peoples have heard it spoken far too often these last hundred years and more.”

Not more than three meters away from where Decius spoke, the girl Idisvise raised her head. She did not understand a single word the man said. Nor was she interested in him. She was staring at another man standing at Decius' shoulder, a young man. He carried no weapon.

The specter had a straight vertical blue streak on the forehead, was bearded, and wore his hair longer than usual. There was a patch over the left eye. He looked somewhat like the young Byzantine soldier she had seen earlier, but different. Idisvise wondered why a Heruli warrior stood among the men who had just slaughtered their people.

Shivering in the clutch of a raging fever caused by the abuse her body had taken, Idisvise sought to speak out to him, to tell him to leave quickly before they saw him. Yet he did not move. Instead, the young warrior raised his right hand in the air, palm up. Blood flowed down his hand, across his wrist, onward over his arm. She could tell the carving on his palm which drew the blood was a Rune, a Rune she knew the meaning of. Idisvise smiled.

“Look, Decius!” screamed an enraged Bishop Willias. “The sorceress smiles in her contempt for you and for the forgiving power of Christ. Be done with this child of heathendom.”

Decius would have much preferred to play cat and mouse with the captive for a while longer. His nature being what it was, he would have drawn pleasure from such activity. Yet he dared not face the wrath of Narses should the priest malign his conduct.

Decius nodded his acquiescence. “Burn her, and the dragon standard. Burn everything! Bring the body of her man forth so they can burn together!”

As the men charged with the burning hastened to their preparatory work, Idisvise remained almost unaware of their activities. Her gaze never left the form of the Heruli warrior, who in her mind still clearly stood at the shoulder of the man who seemed to be the Byzantine leader. She heard the robed priest speak, felt the stridency and anger in his tone. The Christian would pay for this one day, she thought.

As Idisvise continued to stare into the eyes of the young Heruli warrior, his face, once so clearly seen, faded from her sight. That face was replaced by another she recognized. She had, after all, ridden many miles with the man in the very wagon to which she was now tied.

The specter spoke, “Well, Decius, you have your great victory over the Heruli. I hope you are pleased.”

Artagabalus had approached the collected group of men surrounding Decius unnoticed. He wore a long woolen cloak as a covering, one soaked by rain and stained by mud. His feet were unshod, his head uncovered. Artagabalus looked nothing at all like a Byzantine officer/soldier should when greeting his commander.

“Artagabalus, by heavens man, we thought you dead in the battle, perhaps even at our own hand!” exclaimed Decius.

“I live,” replied Artagabalus.

“You must tell us all of what happened to you. What a great tale that must be.”

Taking his gaze from those of the disheveled and dirty man who had appeared so easily in front of him, Decius's eyes questioned Phormio. Phormio shrugged, not knowing how Artagabalus had come among them without challenge.

“It has been a most interesting day,” Artagabalus replied, a note of bitterness in his voice.

Decius felt uncomfortable and would have summoned his guards had this been anyone but his former commander. Artagabalus did not threaten him in any way, moving instead toward where the girl Idisvise hung suspended by her rope fetters.

As Artagabalus approached her, he smiled, then touched her gently on the cheek, saying in his broken Heruli tongue, “I would have had better for you, my lady, Lorasinthe. That could not be.”

Idisvise raised her head at the hearing of the name, Lorasinthe, and was quick to note the long blue stripe painted on his forehead. She smiled faintly, the natural beauty of her lovely face brightened by the glow of the fire and the warmth she felt now that he was beside her.”

Artagabalus reached past her right shoulder without haste and took hold of a spear which had been left standing against the side of the wagon for most of that day. None of Decius' men had thought to remove it, believing one soldier or another had left it there and would retrieve it. It was too common a weapon to cause concern.

When he had taken the spear firmly in his hands, Artagabalus addressed the Byzantine commander, “Decius, did you know my father was a Greek, but that my mother was not?”

Decius looked at him without response, his worried glance at  Phormio an unspoken plea against a situation that seemed suddenly fraught with peril, the degree of which would not come into focus. The peril seemed simply there among them, without shape, without form. Phormio did not move, nor did any other. Their faces said they also felt the presence of danger.

“My mother was a German tribal girl, much like this one. She was brought as a slave to Constantinople but lived and died in her heart as what she really was.”

Artagabalus moved closer to the girl, the spear raised as if in salute. To the assembled men, it seemed as if the face of the spearhead were shining or glowing. A haze of blue running around the edge told of a sharpness gained only in long honing. Of course, all supposed it had to be the result of some strange casting in the rays of the fire, yet . . .

As he gradually brought the blade closer to her face, Idisvise calmly raised her head and brought her eyes upward to look toward the heavens. Holding steady to the spear he held before her, Artagabalus directed his attention once more to Decius.

“Like this girl, this beautiful Heruli girl from the tribe of my mother, I am Heruli also. Decius. Do you not see the stripe of a Heruli warrior painted on my forehead?”

As Artagabalus uttered these words, with great force did he move the blue-glowing edge of the sharp spear blade across the up-turned neck and throat of Idisvise, spilling her blood over the brightness of the blade, over his arms and onto the shaft. With tears of terrible pain quickly come, Artagabalus turned as if in one motion from his dreadful task to face those who were now the enemy.

“This poor child of the Heruli whom you thought an evil sorceress, was only an innocent follower of her ancestral faith. A faith many of your ancestors once adhered to then cast off. Your forebears sold out for influence, power, and riches. Nor will she be the last Heruli to die this day! There is one Heruli warrior yet alive on this bloody field. You have not killed me, Decius!”

With these words Artagabalus threw off the cloak he had been covered with, to appear before the Byzantines naked of any armor or covering. The blue Heruli stripe on his forehead was his only protection. While the Byzantines sought either to gain weapons or to get to him before he could act, Artagabalus raised the spear beside his head, brought his arm back and hurled it.

CHAPTER 24

A BRIGHT NEW BEGINNING

Wodan-Ase ordered the wagons to form up before dawn broke on the second day. He made sure no telltale fires were lit during the time they stayed in the forest, nor was any speaking permitted above a whisper. Babies and small children were the biggest problems; cruel gags were used to enforce the rule of quiet.

It had been a terrible two days and two nights since the other wagons left. The rains of the day before soaked everyone and without means to get warm some of the old and many of the youngest were now sick. At least four died, among them one child inadvertently strangled to death in the attempt to calm her crying.

Lorasinthe spent the time of silence in repairing garments and leather, in the company of other women who were not involved in the quieting of the children or tending to the all-important animals. These duties were at least helpful in passing the cool and rain-filled daylight hours. The women could not talk to one another, but they could whisper in each other's ears if the silence became too much to bear. Now, the time of silence was over. The time of departure had come.

“Lorasinthe,” asked Rannie, the only girl among the three children who were helping her make final preparations for the departure. “If our people were once peaceful farmers in this far away land to which we are traveling, why did they leave?”

“My Master Arnulf told me that cruel sea raiders from lands none of the people knew made many attacks upon them.”

“Why were they people of peace?” sneered Conrad, a boy approximately the same age as Rannie, fourteen. “Had they been warriors of Wodan those sea raiders might have been repelled.”

“The gods they followed were peaceful gods, gods of the fields and soft rains and the wonder of growing crops,” responded Lorasinthe with gentleness. “Not all peoples follow the ways of war, Conrad.”

“The triumph of the sea raiders over them is proof they should have.” Conrad shrugged. “Their gods must have been weak and powerless gods.”

Rannie interrupted, not welcoming Conrad's intrusion into what she felt was her conversation. The child gave the boy a shove before turning her smiling face once more to Lorasinthe. “Did these sea raiders force our once peaceful people from their lands and make them leave.”

“Yes, and it was a sad leaving.” Lorasinthe turned her attention back to the boy. “Their gods were not weak gods, Conrad. They were gods who saw to the peoples' needs. Arnulf often spoke of them, of old Niord and Lok, and of giants and elves and dwarfs and kobolds, gods and spirits the Heruli have forgotten. There were other ways before Wodan and war.”

As he busied himself with loading more equipment, Conrad responded more gently. “I would have been confused with so many gods. It is good Wodan became supreme and so many other names were forgotten.

Lorasinthe smiled, realizing she had been wrong to lash out at the boy. “So much has been forgotten. Now in our day we no longer remember so many of the old gods. Most of the old tales are forgotten, replaced by new”

“Was the Christian god one of the old gods, Lorasinthe?” urged the other boy, Ratbard. “Was not Attila once another name for Wodan? Many of the people believe so. Did we not fight under his banner?”

“Indeed, we did,” explained Lorasinthe, ignoring Ratbard’s question about the Christian god, for which she had no answer. “Attila came close to conquering the great city of Rome but he was not Wodan. Arnulf taught that the Heruli once fought for Attila, as one of his most important fighting bands, but sided against him in the end.”

“Attila did not conquer Rome,” said Conrad. “It took the Heruli to do that.”

“Yes, Conrad, we did. Now, on this day, there are perhaps only three hundred fifty Heruli existing, given we do not know the fate of Mittanewod's band.”

“And all these, even Mittanewod, if he yet lives, must slink through the dawn like rats behind the rafters of a corn bin – silently,” said Wodan-Ase, who had come to see how well his wife was managing. “And slink we shall, that we may live to see a future history for our people.”

Lorasinthe kissed him gently on the cheek, pursing her lips and making sounds for him to be silent in front of the children. “Have all the preparations been made, my husband?  We are almost ready here. The children have been most helpful to me.”

“Yes, we are ready.  Wherever we go now, let Wodan bless the path.”

“May Wodan bless the path!” Lorasinthe and the children chimed together.

Wodan-Ase had carefully chosen his outriders. These would watch over the rest as the wagon train slowly passed from the forest onto the east-west road for a short distance until they could leave the highway for the long unused path they would follow northward.

The distance to the turnoff point was not far. As the lead wagons were cutting into the brush in their attempt to find the ruts of the old unused north-bound trail, the rearguard began erasing the marks on the road these wagons made.

They met no travelers and spirits began to rise in anticipation of making good their escape. The old trail, when found, was narrow, rutted, barely discernible. But it was no worse than the path they had followed through the woods before coming on the barrow of Wittha.

Lorasinthe asked the Runes to help guide them on a safe path that day. One particular Rune was painted on each wagon in the blood of a horse sacrificed to Wodan that morning before dawn. The meat would be eaten that night when they reached their first camp. When all this was done, Lorasinthe breathed easier. She felt Wodan was helping them.

The scout Eskjan arrived at the crossroads by noon on that morning. The terrible storm of the day before caused him innumerable delays. He decided to wait for a while at the meeting point of the roads to inquire of any travelers who might happen by whether they had seen strangers.

Eskjan encountered no Heruli force trailing behind the Byzantine cavalry. The whole trip northward was uneventful, save for the hazards placed in his way by the storm.

Eskjan waited all day at the crossroads, querying the few travelers, military and otherwise, who passed by going one way or another. It was not until the lateness of afternoon had almost overtaken the day that he chose to head westward along the road in search of a proper campsite for the night. He did not travel far before stopping. It was as he was making camp that he was joined by a small troop of Byzantine horsemen, mostly mercenaries from an Italian city. They made camp together.

When they settled before the fire, the men began asking Eskjan about his mission. The first to speak of it, a common soldier named Marco, remarked, “If our soldiers passing this way today from east to west have seen no sign of any Heruli, and we have seen no sign as we traveled from west to east, then your Commander Ammianus must be right. All of the Heruli were in that band heading south. They are probably all dead now.”

“Truly, I have found no more in my journey north along the road,” replied Eskjan.

“Here north of the Danube are routes unknown to any Roman map,” said the troop leader Fiacrinus. “While it is true the crossroad that stands but a short distance from here joins a southern route to an east-west route, there is also a route north somewhere on this road. I have never seen where the northern route cuts the main road, but I have heard tell it does.”

“I know of that route also,” replied Eskjan. “You go west along this old track we call a road for some distance before cutting the northern route. It is more a trampled path now than it was when it was the route Attila and his barbarian horde took when they attacked northward into Roman Gaul. They were attempting to conquer Rome's fortified cities of Mainz and Cologne.”

“True, the road to the west does eventually turn north as Attila did in the long ago, but I am not speaking of that route,” continued the officer. “I am speaking of what is to me a rumor only. I have heard the road that now goes only south at the crossroads was once a game trail made by the constant passage of animals. Long ago, humans made it their own. German tribes going north and south, to and from the river, used it. For various reasons, as time passed, only the section southbound continued in use. The old animal trail north supposedly returned to wilderness.”

Eskjan's interest was immediate. “Are you saying there is a way north from here that wagons might travel, one that is unknown to our maps?”

“I have never traveled upon it, but I have heard tell of the road from others who have seen it,” replied Fiacrinus emphatically, gesturing to the north with one hand. “Go no more than a very short distance west from here and strike out northeast from there. You will eventually come across the old track if you do. The way is said to be overgrown and rarely traveled but still visible.”

“Why do you want to know of this route?” asked Marco, curiously. “Had there been Heruli in this area, they would have headed west or east to the main settlements, not north to the territories where live barbarians who are even more savage than they, and not Christian as well.”

“These Heruli are not Christians,” responded Eskjan.

The man Marco's forehead creased deeply as he tried to comprehend such a thought. “Non-Christians still living in this region. How is it they have not been converted by means fair or foul before this?”

“What barbarian believes in more than the surface of our faith?” chided Eskjan. “Even when converted.”

Marco shrugged, then seemed to drop out of the conversation, nodding his head once in a while in agreement or disagreement with some point. Eskjan and the troop leader spoke for a while longer concerning the old road and the possibility Eskjan's phantom Heruli had somehow found reason to take it.

Before they turned in for the night, Eskjan had about decided to give up the seemingly hopeless and unnecessary search and return to the south.

The surviving Heruli struggled the whole day along a trail more mud than soil. There was cold also, a cold telling of many days to come when there would be no safe travel on roads. This brought forth another urgency for Lorasinthe and Wodan-Ase with which to consider and contend. Perhaps a month of travel at most and they would have to seek winter shelter. That night, as they rested around a campfire similar to the one the scout Eskjan made, they talked of the potential for Heruli survival.

“I feel lost in this wilderness, so far from the familiar places and people we have known,” said Wodan-Ase sadly. “I feel like we are indeed the Lost Ones. The name we've taken to give to strangers is the one that seems to fit us best.”

“I cannot help but agree, my husband. Yet this ancient track, this wilderness full of the sounds of the wild and so absent of any human presence save ours, thrills me. In all my life I have never been in a place so free of fear as this.”

Wodan-Ase arose and went to put more wood on the fire, the touch of which upon their skins was a reminder of the bitter cold of the previous evenings. “Perhaps I also fear I am too young to lead the tribe. I don't know if we are doing right or not, whether we should go on or not, even where we should go.”

Lorasinthe felt he was asking for her advice, and in the custom of Heruli females, she willingly gave advice. “You are young, my husband, yet older than I. We have no choice but to do what we think right. If the few surviving people of our tribe have acknowledged us as their leaders by oath, can we now fail to lead them?”

The tall and muscular youth shook his head angrily. “But where do we go? What route do we follow? To go north to a known destination is one thing, to merely travel northward with no goal is quite another matter.”

“Arnulf told me that the Heruli have kinsmen in a land to the far north across a cold sea. We will go north until we reach that water course. He said then go east, following the shoreline for a distance, retracing a part of the route our people took so long ago in their travels from out that homeland.”

Wodan-Ase took in what she said, thought about it briefly. “Could we not go across the cold sea and find the same lands and people by a shorter route?”

“Arnulf knew the journey would be longer than necessary, but he did not tell of a better way. He said that danger threatened such a shipboard crossing on all sides. Worse enemies than the Byzantines guard the water routes. He told of ferocious sea-based warrior peoples attacking Heruli communities. He said that is the reason our tribe fled. Only those of our people living in the northern part of our former lands did not join the exodus.”

Such words smacked of insanity to Wodan-Ase, who had never known anything but valor from the Heruli people in almost every instance. “I cannot believe that Heruli would run before an enemy. Wodan would have demanded more of his people. Maybe we should seek the lands of those who chased our ancestors away rather than those few of our own remaining who must have fled to the wilderness seeking a coward's kind of safety.”

Lorasinthe smiled as she saw the pride in her husband take hold once more and strengthen his courage. “Arnulf said Wodan was the god neither of our people nor of the raiders themselves. Stories from a time when the Heruli still had contacts with the old lands through runners or trade tell of the remaining people of our tribe winning the sea raiders over to their faith. There is a legend of a merged people who called themselves the people of the Vanir, or the people who worshiped the gods who called themselves the Vanir.”

“What people are those? I have never heard that name.”

“The Vanir are the gods who make the land fertile and bring peace and plenty. They are not gods suitable to the Heruli we have become, a people of war and conquest. It was good Wodan came to us, else we would have long since perished in these strange lands where the sword is more important than the field.”

“Did the men in that equally strange land seek to die of disease and old age rather than battle?” asked Wodan-Ase. “Did they not seek Valhalla?”

“So Arnulf told me,” she answered, a little testily. “What of the women and children? Do we not also deserve a place with Wodan, even if we should happen to die of childbirth or disease?

Wodan-Ase had to smile at her comment, realizing there were slight imperfections to the Heruli concept of a warrior's death. But then, sometimes unusual doctrines such as this could be the difference in battle between a coward and a hero. If death in battle were not hallowed, the fierce Heruli warrior reputation might never have been earned.

“Wodan has thoughts for all and he is above all fair and just. There are other halls in the Runeworld besides Valhalla. Some say warriors who live through battles yet die of old age go sometimes with Wodan, other times with Donar. All are warriors in some way, and I am sure all have a place.”

“Warriors of the mind,” she added, “Warriors of the spirit, warriors of the hallowing. Were we women not behind you only a stone's throw in many battles your courage might fail you. Your wounds might be untreated, your victories more difficult to obtain. There is then also a warrior who instills courage in others, a warrior who teaches. She is called woman.”

Wodan-Ase had observed the world of women seldom with any kind of thought behind that observation. Now, he listened to her words carefully, understanding their import. Among the German tribes, the women were the hidden backbone. In many cases, the sometimes indolent and lazy warriors, those who felt the importance only of battle and the hunt, needed a firm hand to remind them life consisted of other things equally important.

“Would Wodan deny a Hall to his female warriors?” Lorasinthe asked, her pretty face not hiding the importance she intended to place on his answer.

“He would dare not,” Wodan-Ase replied, the smile that came to his lips indicating what Wodan would not dare, Wodan-Ase would not either.

Her smile in return told him that his answer, as flippant as it might have seemed to another, pleased her. Had Wodan been there and seen her beautiful face in the light of the fire, he surely would have answered the same.

CHAPTER 25

RAVENS

The next day broke with a cool but mild breeze blowing from out of the east. The sun shone through the few scattered clouds early, indicating a quick burning off of the light fog that lay over the ground. Up until the moment of the mounting of his horse as he prepared to leave the campsite, the scout Eskjan was undecided whether to turn south or to continue searching. He chose south.

In the camp of the Heruli, a feeling of safety had come over Lorasinthe. Her beaming smile encouraged all those who came in contact with her. Wodan-Ase gathered the tribe at dawn for a ceremony to thank Wodan for the bright beginning of the day and to get their assent for taking the route Lorasinthe described to him the night before. The majority signaled they were in agreement. The few dissenters voiced a variety of opinions, most asking why they could not just take over the lands of some un-warlike tribe along the way. There was also argument that winter was approaching and shelter would soon be needed.

There was surprisingly little talk about the fate of those who sacrificed their lives so that the rest might have the freedom to agree or disagree. Their silence was not because those remaining were unaffected by that sacrifice. They were waiting, waiting for Wodan to bring them news of what transpired. Someone would come. So the Runes foretold.

Lorasinthe would not allow them to stand still and wait. She bid Wodan-Ase alert the lead scouts to move out. A rear guard was sent to hold and protect the way behind. The old animal track road lay open before them.

Before they traveled but an hour's time they came upon the entrance to a forest of immense size and unknown depth, through which the narrow obscure path wended. As the lead horsemen and wagons approached this denseness of trees, they saw a scene before them as if of two different worlds.

In the clearing through which they first traveled there was the sun and the light of a bright and beautiful day. As the first horsemen entered the forest, they seemed to quickly vanish. To those still in the comforting warmth of the sun it was as if they disappeared from the very earth itself into a world of darkness, shadows, and silence.

“This is an eerie and gloomy place, Lorasinthe,” said Rannie, who was accompanying Lorasinthe while Wodan-Ase attended to duties elsewhere.

“Its eeriness, its darkness, was the salvation of the people during the time of the Romans, Rannie” Lorasinthe explained. “Without the forest, and its many places to hide and ambush our enemies, the Romans would have beaten us into the dirt of our lands.”

“Why?”

“The Romans, and other of our enemies, saw the forest as frightful and benighted, full of all kinds of creatures and spirits said to haunt the trackless fastnesses They also feared the swamps and the moors into which none save the people who knew the hidden ways might travel.”

“Did our people not have the same fears of these places, Lorasinthe?”

“No,” Lorasinthe replied, smiling brightly with pride. “The forest was our true friend, our loyal ally.”

As if in response to this complement some blackbirds sitting on branches in the high pines began chattering amongst themselves. Lorasinthe looked up at them and smiled, waving as if to friends. Were they not friends, these eyes of Wodan, as they were sometimes called? The birds soon departed, winging toward the south. For quite some time thereafter the two women drove forward in silence, each keeping their own thoughts.

Finally, the girl Rannie came to feel that the great forest, silent save for the creaking of the oxcart wheels and the sounds of the pulling animals, was in need of hearing a human's voice. She felt the great trees closing in on her, was glad of the presence of Lorasinthe. “Did not these Romans attack us in the forest.”

Lorasinthe was happy to end the silence also. “Arnulf told me of one incident, one famous among the tribes. It is said that during the reign of the Roman Emperor Augustus, three Roman armies - legions they called them - were slaughtered by forces led by a German tribesmen named Hermann, whom the Romans called Arminius. Thereafter, the Romans left our people alone.”

Rannie looked around her somewhat fearfully, a shiver traveling through her small frame. “I would not have wanted to have been one of those poor Romans, to be killed in such a place where the sun never shines.”

Lorasinthe smiled at the girl's comment but wondered how far the distance would be before the Heruli wagons broke forth into a clearing that they might see the sun again.

Back at the crossroads, Eskjan turned south, intending to head for the camp of Ammianus. Before he had gone but a short distance southward, he encountered a small number of Decius's Infantry marching north.

Eskjan raised his hand and bid them halt. “Tell me of the battle? Is it over? Have they all been destroyed? Were there any who attacked our forces from the rear?

The leader of the unit was quick to respond that all of the enemy’s forces were dead, that there were no attacks from outside. The man provided details while the enthralled Eskjan listened. As they spoke together, few noticed a long-tailed black bird circle around the group, then land. The men paid no attention to the new arrival whatsoever, as the bird made no sound in landing. Eskjan's horse knew it was there, however, becoming skittish and nervous at the closeness of the creature; the more so when a second bird of like kind soundlessly settled near the first.

“It was a great victory then!” shouted Eskjan jubilantly. “Even greater now that I have found no sign of any survivors in our rear. The job has been well done.”

One of the men suddenly laughed aloud, pointing to the back of the horse on which Eskjan rode. There behind the saddle was perched one of the ravens. The creature had leaped upward onto the back of the animal, where it now stood seemingly without care or concern for its own safety.

Eskjan, who remained mounted during the discussion, turned around to see what caused the commotion. “What is this that rides my horse with me? Off raven, or I'll see you fly by way of my hand rather than with those black-hued wings of yours!”

As Eskjan was speaking these words, the second bird, perhaps as a result of the skittishness of the horse, rose up from beneath the feet of Eskjan's mount and landed briefly but truly upon the horse's mane, directly in front of the body of the man who, now turned half around, did not know it was there.

With a high-pitched scream and eyes filled with fright, Eskjan's horse bolted forward in an attempt to dislodge the black bird, whose sharp claws brought immediate pain. The bird remained but a brief second on that perch before winging into the sky. Eskjan was not so fortunate. The unexpected forward motion of the animal caught him in an awkwardness that terminated with a loud and unpleasant thumping sound as he hit the earth.

Breathlessly, Eskjan lifted his body from the ground, a ringing sound in his ears. Mentally and physically checking his body, Eskjan found himself to be free of serious injury. His fierce pride suffered more than his body, especially as he heard the loud laughter his fall engendered in the others. The humiliation of Eskjan reached an even worse state when one of the men cried out, “Have the final battle victory honors gone to the ghost gods of the dead Heruli? For is not the raven their sacred symbol, the symbol of the one the Heruli called Wodan? Has Wodan's raven not unhorsed one of Byzantium's best?”

Eskjan was never a man to take humiliation lightly. He looked skyward toward where the two ravens now circled, crying their strange call to the heavens as if taunting him.

“Come back here, birds of darkness, friends of Wodan. I would take up your challenge!”

There was enough of the old religion of the Goths left in Eskjan for him to sense an omen. A god's challenge or an unwitting example of strange circumstance, Eskjan gave no further thought to heading south. With no attempt to answer the laughter of his comrades, Eskjan remounted his horse and headed at a gallop in the direction in which the two birds disappeared. They were headed north.

At that same moment, along the escape route of the remaining Heruli, Lorasinthe thought she heard the call of ravens somewhere outside and far away. She did not look to find them but remained bundled within her slow-moving wagon. Wodan-Ase had returned and was now driving the oxen. She was supposed to be taking a nap. She had been pleased when the raven’s call reached her ears, for their cry always meant to her that Wodan was talking to someone elsewhere in the world.

Lorasinthe had not lost her concern over their being set upon by the enemy. She had private reasons now for that concern, known to none save her. She had not told her husband of the feelings within her body, feelings that – ever so small and hardly recognizable – she felt foretold the coming of a child. She whispered softly to the expected life inside her, chiding the little one for choosing such a moment in coming. At some point while she was yet having these troubling but most pleasant of all thoughts she drifted off to sleep.

Later, startled into alertness, Lorasinthe became aware of a disturbance from somewhere outside her wagon. The excitement in the voices caused her to look out upon the scene just as a gesticulating horseman brought his shivering animal to a stop at the side of her husband’s mount. They had stopped to camp while she still slept.

“Herzog!” shouted the excited rider. “A stranger has been captured by the rear guard. He wears Byzantine cavalry insignia.”

“How was he found? Where?” responded Wodan-Ase quickly.

“To the rear of our train. Others are bringing him forward to be questioned.”

“Was he alone?”

“We believe so. No others have been seen.”

A chill raced through Lorasinthe's body. She had felt the enemy's presence. He had come to seek their destruction. She could only wonder if there were others as well, perhaps already heading back to bring the main columns forward.

“He is mad, Herzog Wodan-Ase,” added the rider. “The Byzantine is taken in madness.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Wodan-Ase.

“When caught,” replied the man, “he was screaming and cursing at a nearby flock of ravens. They were in the trees doing what ravens do - calling, crying, making racket. The Byzantine was threatening them, promising them a cruel death on the edge of his sword.

I heard them. They brought him, thought Lorasinthe.

“Indeed he must be mad,” nodded Wodan-Ase. “We are about to camp for the night. Bring him to me later that I might speak to him.”

“Yes, Herzog.”

That night, Wodan-Ase and Lorasinthe were both present before a huge night fire when the captured Eskjan was brought bound before them. Wodan-Ase spoke first, in the Germanic tongue of the Heruli. “There is no need of our hiding our identity before this Byzantine. He knows who we are.”

The scout Eskjan said nothing in response, merely looked somewhat furtively around him at the gathered enemy.

“Byzantine, where are our people?” asked Wodan-Ase.

Wodan-Ase said these words in the Heruli tongue, then asked an interpreter to repeat them in Latin and Greek. As the words of the last language sounded in the night, Eskjan faced his questioner.

“They feed the vultures and crows!” Eskjan shouted in Greek, the evil grimace on his face announcing his pleasure at the telling. “I was not there, Heruli, but I have spoken to those who were. Your war chief Wodan-Ase and his wife, the sorceress Lorasinthe, were among the last to die. On our side, the losses were trivial, as if we faced no opponent at all!”

“You are a bad liar, Byzantine,” said the young girl whose identity was still not known to the man. Lorasinthe knelt down to rest her weight on both knees before the fire while the men were speaking. Before her was her linen cloth. At her side were the Rune staves. She had just finished throwing the pieces of wood upon the cloth, selecting three from among them. Lorasinthe glanced at them a moment, then closed them tightly in her fist. “Our people died as they had to die, as we sent them forth to die.”

Eskjan seemed eager for the translation of her words, as if he understood their meaning already. His head nodded slightly as he watched her at her ritual work, a work that brought long dead memories alive within him. After he had received the translation, his eyes widened. “You are not dead?”

Lorasinthe stared at him intently, her beauty, her soft shining complexion, drawing his attention to her face. With a slow and careful motion, she raised her right hand up toward the sky, held palm up, her index finger extended. She saw that his eyes were drawn with curiosity to her upraised hand as she answered. “I am Lorasinthe of the Heruli. That beautiful girl whose life your forces stole was that of my friend, Idisvise. The man whose life you took was not that of my husband. He stands before you.”

Eskjan no longer showed surprise as the translator repeated the words. His gaze was still fixed upon her raised hand as he responded this time to her words in a broken German dialect most there could understand with some difficulty, including Lorasinthe.

“I am Eskjan of the Gothic blood, not Byzantine. I was told all of the Heruli were dead and there were no more in this world. But I could smell your lives on the wind. I told my commander, Ammianus, that you yet lived, although he would not believe me. As I hunted you, even I came to doubt my senses. It was not until the Old One, Wodan, came to me in the form of the raven that I knew you were surely alive. I followed Wodan’s birds to you.”

Lorasinthe still held her hand aloft, as if prepared to use some magical force against the man should he be deceitful in his purpose. “What would you wish to happen to the Heruli, were you in a position to decide our fate?”

“I see your way of life as dead, dead at the hands of the good Christ and his loyal followers. What is most important to me was that your beliefs should die with you.”

“And why do you, a Goth, a warrior of like-Heruli blood, hate us so much?” asked Lorasinthe.

“I feel no personal hatred. In my warrior's creed, the ways of my Goth ancestors, and those of the Heruli, were not good enough to defeat their enemies. If you cannot defeat an enemy on the field of battle, or on the field of the mind, your existence is forfeit.”

The girl felt his pain and was drawn to it. In another time, she might have placed her hand upon his in understanding. Now, she closed the distance between them by words alone. “The Heruli, or the Goth his brother, will never die if his blood lives still within the remotest of his progeny. The call of Wodan is both internal and eternal. Even in your lost mind, the ravens of Wodan still fly. Just as they will a thousand times a thousand years from now within whatever of your blood still remains in this world.”

The old warrior smiled at the young girl's words. Some of those listening whispered threats of revenge against him for daring to mock her. But he was not mocking her. It was as if her words opened a long closed door within him, a door to another world he had forgotten to keep open. “Today, my heart is free once again,” said Eskjan, thoughtfully. “Wodan, whom I thought sat dying in his dark Hall alone, lives yet in your being. He whom I thought had fallen before a foreign and alien army girded for battle with sweet words, un-manly promises -- Christian promises – and the most base of treachery, lives yet. Why did He go from us in the face of such sorrow? Why were the words of the black-robed death-bringers so appealing to the ears of our chieftains? Did Wodan himself intend it to be so? Why, Wodan, why?”

The man Eskjan slowly sank to his knees before the assemblage following these words. None made move to approach him. Only the young girl Lorasinthe dared answer him. “My Master, Arnulf, taught me that mankind is weak, suitable only to serve to strengthen the group, human only when harsh and just edicts tell them how to live. The individual, in the baseness of pride and greed, will hurt their own kind, forsake their own blood, destroy their own people. For this did Wodan forsake those who one by one gave up their honor.”

Eskjan muttered softly but audibly, as if speaking to his mind alone. “Artagabalus came back to you in the end, Wanderer. He who had always bowed lowest before the alters of the foreign faith knew you again for the first time. A lowly savage in blue paint.”

“What say you, man?” growled Wodan-Ase. “What of Artagabalus? You said you were not at the battle! How do you know of his fate?”

“I met our men on the road coming from the site of the battle. Their leader told me he had gone mad. After all of the Heruli save one was dead, Artagabalus came, seemingly from nowhere, before Decius.”

Lorasinthe breathed deeply, her hand held to her face in anticipation.

“He was stark naked,” Eskjan continued, “adorned only with painted blue colors in the fashion of some Germanic warriors. After slitting the throat of a captive girl, Artagabalus in his madness took up a spear and launched it at Decius, killing him instantly.”

“And of Artagabalus. What was his fate?” asked Lorasinthe.

“He died, of course, struck down immediately. They say he was smiling as they came for him.”

Wodan-Ase did not reply to Eskjan's words. He backed away from the man, stopping only when he was at his wife's side.

For a moment none spoke. “Then he died a Heruli at the end?” asked Lorasinthe at last.

“Yes,” replied Eskjan.

“Who was the girl?

“They said it was you.”

Lorasinthe's hand went to her mouth. “Idisvise.”

“I know not her name.”

“And you, Goth Eskjan,” said Wodan-Ase. “Will you die a Goth? Will you once more see the flight of Wodan's ravens, smell His wolves upon the wind, hear His battle cry in your ears? Or will you be lost?”

“I cannot answer that,” said Eskjan. “Christ lives in me, and I would serve his followers. I would tell them of your escape. If I did so they would come for you, no matter what, no matter where you might go, even were it to the goddess Hel herself.”

“Your words tell of the confusion in your soul, Goth Eskjan.” Lorasinthe's voice was low and breaking, her thoughts dark with visions of Idisvise's final moments. “Wodan still lives in your hidden depths. He would have you free.”

As she finished saying these words, the girl looked briefly into the eyes of her husband, whose face showed his wish to deal with the Goth in more cruel, if necessary, ways.

Eskjan noticed the look as well. He laughed. “The great Rain Warrior would know how to settle with one such as I.

“My husband would deny my words but the Runes have said otherwise.”

The scout watched her hand carefully as it moved forward toward him, noting how the shining red and gold reflection of the fire mingled with the darkness of the night to bathe her offering in shadows. Once extended, she opened her fist to reveal the presence of the wooden pieces he had seen before.

“The Runes say your fate is free of the Heruli. We cannot stop you from what you must do. Go from us. Do what you will!”

For a moment, Eskjan did not believe her words. He stood there motionless, speechless. Heruli guards came forth to cut his bonds, an act performed quickly after a motion of her small hand. His horse was brought at her command.

“Savages!” Eskjan cried. “Your ignorant ways and superstitions, as well as your trust in your gods and the Runes, will yet bring you to your end.

Realizing he had been saved by fate, Eskjan bolted quickly for his horse, jumped upon its back, turned its head to the south. With a cry and a dig of his heel into the horse's flank, he brutally urged the animal forward until the hooves of the beast pounded at a gallop into the night.

They watched him depart. Wodan-Ase turned to look into the eyes of his beloved. His features posed the question he did not ask. Might this be the beginning of the end for them all?

But Eskjan did not ride far. With harshness did he pull the animal to a hard stop at a point in the darkness where he could still see their campfire. He could still see her. Jerking the horse's head savagely over, he forced the body of his mount around, placing the near-frothing animal in line with the girl who still stood where he had left her.

His own breath heaving somewhat in resonance to that of the now dancing, excited animal, Eskjan raise his eyes to the darkness. “Wodan, make a place for me! Have them fill a horn with your sacred brew of wisdom! By your corpse-gathering daughter's own virtue, don't these ignorant followers of yours have sense enough to know that one day in my cups I would have blurted out the tale of their survival?”

Wodan-Ase and Lorasinthe waited, staring in the direction Eskjan had taken. Suddenly, from the south darkness, came the low but audible cry of a wolf far away in the depths of the forest. From the north darkness that cry was faintly answered by another. As the lonely howling of the wolves passed into silence, Wodan-Ase heard another sound growing, the pounding hooves of an animal at full run.

Wodan-Ase said nothing, quickly grabbing a spear that one of the guards had been holding, a long weapon, perhaps nine feet in length and deadly tipped with iron. As the sounds of the running animal broke into visual light, Wodan-Ase braced the end of the spear into the ground in front of his wife and waited.

The horse bore down upon them at full speed, the rider on its back now seen clearly to be wielding a short sword held high at striking angle. As he approached the Heruli warrior and the girl, he veered to the left as if to strike in passing. As he did so, Wodan-Ase shifted the spear to meet him. The dug in butt of the shaft held tightly in the earth as the iron point passed completely through the cavalryman's body, dismounting the rider.

The horse careened forward in its madness into the darkness as the body of the warrior crashed to the ground. Eskjan died before his body touched the earth.

“Why did he return to attack us, husband?” asked Lorasinthe shortly thereafter, tears of fright bright in her eyes from the specter of death coming so close. “The Runes freed him to do as he would with us. It was the Heruli's fate to be in his power.”

“A warrior knows,” Wodan-Ase answered. “At least a warrior of Wodan knows. He wanted me to give him a warrior's death. He was saving his brothers the Heruli from any negative outcome of your Rune-cast in the only way he could, through ensuring his own human weakness would never bring about our downfall. Eskjan died that he might this day re-join Wodan in the Hall of the Slain with his honor intact. Like Artagabalus, Wodan took him back in the end. Look, where the light of the fire plays across his face. He smiles!”

CHAPTER 26

WINTER

“My name is Wodan-Ase. My people often call me simply, Ase. We would winter here among your people, camping nearby until we have managed to put up quarters to suit our needs. We would pay you in kind for a full winter's lodging.”

Wodan-Ase was addressing a man seated across from him on the high seat. The man was a chieftain of a small band related in blood to the Saxon people, through the edges of whose territory the Lost Ones, as they called themselves, were now traveling. The man did not answer immediately, nor did he appear to be paying much attention. His eyes seemed more intent on watching the faces of his subordinates. These sat on wooden seats surrounding both sides of the high seat. Lorasinthe and Wodan-Ase stood in a cleared space facing the dais.

Lorasinthe, standing a few steps behind Wodan-Ase, felt suddenly cold. She wanted to sneeze, but held her breath until the sensation passed. The drafty long community house of the Saxons had few fireplaces and only the wooden logs of the outer frame of the structure stood between them and a very cold day. Her feet were frozen.

When no Saxon leader spoke, Wodan-Ase continued, “We have no desire to reside permanently in your lands. We have been caught by the frost giant's hand upon the wheels of our wagons, a sure sign we must stop or die. In the spring, we will leave your lands for our homes in the north. Your people will be all the richer for our having lived here among you.”

The chieftain of the Saxon-related band, Waifar, appeared to Wodan-Ase as if he were uncomfortable with the situation, as indeed he was. The small community of mostly farmers could obviously not feed and house wanderers numbering more than his own by some fifty persons.

Waifar waited a moment longer, appearing to be very sure of his words, then responded, without counsel. “Why do a people who know Wodan call themselves nameless and lost ones? Why do you carry the black raven standard?”

“Because we are lost from our true people,” answered Wodan-Ase. “We are of no tribe, a people so long in the lands of the south that the sting of the faith practiced there has destroyed the old ways we seek to regain. We use our name the Lost Ones because we hope to obtain a new name by the deeds we will do in northern lands where Wodan is not known.”

The Saxon chieftain spoke kindly in response to these words, saying, “Those of whom you speak, the Christians, are well known to us. Their incursions into these lands have been stopped. Perhaps it would be better if your mixed tribal people should drop your self-taken name of Lost Ones and join us here as a bulwark against those who would bring foreign ways.”

“There are many among my people who would be delighted to make a home here in Saxon lands,” Wodan-Ase told him, taking great care in the choice of his words. “Many more would take the Saxon name and burn the black raven standard with honor, living in forgetfulness of old ways and even older peoples.”

Waifar seemed pleased with the answer, “We whom you see here are also new Saxons. Once our tribal name was different. In these days the old names of smaller tribes must give way for safety's reasons to those of the larger group. No longer can we stand against our many enemies alone. Come, be Saxons with us. Your people would be welcome.”

“Wodan knows how your words please my ears but Wodan has been clear in his calls for us to seek our fortune in lands where his name is not known. It is the way we have of redeeming our lost honor. Many are they among our peoples who have given up their ways to the Christians. Our honor calls to us for new victories against new enemies.”

The Saxon once more nodded his acceptance then seemed to frown at some internal thought. He said angrily, “There have been messengers come from our sometimes allies, sometimes enemies, the Franks to the south that there is much activity among the Christians, many campaigns by Christian armies. Below the Donau, there is talk of the death of many German followers of Wodan in a campaign of extermination. The Franks have said that an entire tribe, the Heruli, have been slaughtered as a warning that Wodan may never come again to the lands below the great river.”

The Saxon Waifar's face betrayed no suspicion of Wodan-Ase, but even so the Heruli Herzog took great care in answering the unasked question. “I have heard this also. For the reason of these foul deeds have my people escaped the Christian lands. We fear their wrath would also descend on us.”

Waifar nodded. “The messengers of the Franks say that Christian representatives to the halls of their chieftains have spread the word that to harbor any of these Heruli is to court Christian invasion of their lands. We hear the Frankish leaders have heeded this warning, a warning we Saxons would scorn.

Wodan-Ase could not help rising to the bait of such words. “The Franks would do better to look to their chieftains, not their people. The Christians do their best work by offers of gifts and power to the leaders.”

The Saxon smiled at the truth behind Wodan-Ase's words. So lavish were the bribes and gifts made to the Franks by traders out of Christian lands that already churches of that faith were encroaching at the fringes of the Frankish-Saxon borderlands. None had yet crossed the divide. One day they might.

Waifar asked, “And of these Heruli, are there any alive to worry the conscience of the Franks?”

Well rehearsed, Wodan-Ase replied, “I know not of any alive in Frankish lands, nor in any other by that name.”

The smile on the Saxon chieftain's face remained as he considered Wodan-Ase's words. For a moment, he turned to examine the faces of the men who sat at the bench with him, but he did not ask for their opinion. “We welcome your people with ours. You may share our food, share our hall, until such time as your own is ready.”

Wodan-Ase responded as graciously as he could. “We thank you for your hospitality and courtesy. We will be as little burden as possible, that our passing through your lands might be remembered with fondness. Until we are gone, our food is yours. Our goods are yours to use. Our swords will help protect you.”

The smoke from a slightly fouled fireplace vent was making Lorasinthe's eyes water. She felt the sneeze returning. This time she could not stop it. She sneezed. Lorasinthe’s attention-drawing gesture was like a new bone thrown on the floor for the dogs to get. As soon as she sneezed the attention of the men in the hall was immediately given to her. She sneezed again.

“And is this your wife?” asked Waifar, nodding to Lorasinthe, who had by then stopped sneezing and was trying to recover some of her former aplomb.

“I am his wife,” Lorasinthe responded.

Waifar appeared nervous. The woman answered boldly. Among the Saxons, her husband should have answered.

“My wife's name is Aase,” said Wodan-Ase.

“The last part of your names sound almost the same,” commented Waifar. I sense only a longer pronunciation of her name, a drawing out of the Ahhh . . .”

“Yes.” Wodan-Ase could not help smiling at the way the names were pronounced. They had not used them with strangers before. They did sound alike.”

“Have you the winter misery, Lady Aase?” Waifar asked.

Lorasinthe was upset at being the object of so much attention. Her nose felt raw. She was aware of the rich clothing which even the female servants of these Saxons wore. Hers was so shabby in comparison. “Yes.”

“We will not keep you long, then.” Waifar smiled at what he interpreted as a proper meekness in her attitude. “We will finish quickly to save you discomfort. I need only meet the Master of Runes I have been told accompanies you. Where is he? Why has he not come with you?”

“She has,” said Wodan-Ase. “She is my wife.”

“What? cried Waifar loudly. Then, remembering himself added, “How can this be? You are but a youth.”

“Both statements are true.” Lorasinthe sought to improve her posture, to hold her head higher.

It was as if a foul wind had entered the room through a fireplace. Many of the Saxon warriors appeared shocked. Some laughed aloud, other scoffed.

Wodan-Ase's temper flared. “What rudeness is this? Have we come to ask favor of people who honor not the chosen ones of Wodan?”

“She is but a girl yet,” responded Waifar, his hand held high in a bid for silence. “Although a most beautiful one, if I might compliment your luck, Herzog. Perhaps you misunderstood me. Let me try again. I did not ask for a witch-woman. We have those enough here. I asked for your Master of Runes.”

He offers a way out of this mess, thought Lorasinthe, although he does not know it. “Yes, Chieftain Waifar. My husband did misunderstand. I am well trained in the use of herbs and in midwifery. The name we use is perhaps inaccurate. Among your people I would indeed be merely a witch-woman.”

Wodan-Ase stared at her, unable to understand why she said these words. She was no witch-woman.

“Ah, yes,” said Waifar. “Now this makes more sense. A Master of Runes - it has been a long time since one of those has blessed our camp.”

“What are you doing?” whispered Wodan-Ase.

She answered, also in a whisper, “Arnulf said let pigs wallow in their own mud, my husband. I choose not to reveal myself to such as these.”

Following this exchange, tempers relaxed, cordiality returned. The broad outline of the stay of the Lost Ones among the Saxons was fleshed out. Details would follow later. Before long, a still angered Wodan-Ase and a deeply hurt Lorasinthe were able to return to tell the people of what had transpired.

The Heruli, or as they were known among the Saxons, the Lost Ones, immediately set to work to build a long rectangular structure of wood. The whole community of three hundred would shelter in this single building for the winter, their animals sharing a part of it with them.

The need to stay among the Saxons and use their materials resulted from the fact that cleared spaces in the vast forests of the region were not common. The only large clearings were man made and mostly occupied by the wooden villages of the various German sub-tribes that made up the Saxon or other nations. The need to establish good relations with them was paramount.

The long building they quickly constructed against the coming ravages of a northern winter was built according to tradition. The Saxons, heirs to many of the same ways and customs, had cleared the forest but not all of the trees. Around one large tree the Heruli began their construction. They laid out a structure some 70 meters long and over 20 meters wide. The tree would be in the center of the hall and the opening it made in the roof would allow the smoke of many hearth-fires to escape.

The floor was dirt with a straw covering, the vegetation being removed. The pounding of many feet ensured that the floor hardened and remained clear during the life of the hall itself. The building was laid out in a roughly east-west direction to either side of the tree. It was crude, but the building provided shelter.

After the long exterior was constructed, the interior was completed. Long benches for eating and sleeping were built from one end to the other, along the northern and southern walls. On the western side, in the center of a long bench, was a slightly raised platform that served as the high seat for Wodan-Ase and Lorasinthe, as befit their position as leaders of the tribe. Here they met visitors on formal occasions and conducted daily business. For their privacy, there was an alcove constructed near the high seat area to which they might retire.

It was there in that great cold structure the Lost Ones lived through a bitter winter, silent as the dawn, covetous of the northern darkness, not inquisitive of their neighbors' business.

One day, a large band of horsemen, well armed and mounted, rode into the Saxon village. “Wodan-Ase, who are those warriors?” asked Lorasinthe.

Lorasinthe pressed her eye to the viewing slit she'd had her servants cut into the wall of her alcove so she or her husband might be able to observe the comings and goings to the great hall of the Saxon Chieftain Waifar. That structure's eastern corner lay only a warrior's stone throwing distance from the western edge of their structure. She saw clearly each man dismount.

Wodan-Ase took her place at the slit in time to note the presence of a tall, dark haired, man with a full mustache and braided hair who stood in conversation with an aide of Waifar.

“They are not Saxons, whoever they are. Wrong clothing. Wrong weapons. The tall one seems to be their leader. He dresses like a cross between a Roman and some rustic from the old Roman provinces to the southeast of here that used to be called Gaul. Still, there is enough German about him to make me wonder just what he is.”

“Let me see!” cried Lorasinthe, her voice that of a young girl eager for any excitement. “Will they invite us to meet them, my husband?”

“I . . .”

Before Wodan-Ase could complete his answer, she continued. “You should be asked to be introduced to these visitors as a representative of a people who are guests of the Saxon people.”

Lorasinthe was right. In fact, little time passed before a Saxon runner came to their hall, asking leave to speak to Wodan-Ase.

“The Chieftain Waifar would beg leave for asking the Chieftain Wodan-Ase, and his lady, to appear this night to meet and sup with Waifar's guests, the Frankish nobleman Rado and the men of his entourage. Duke Rado serves the Frankish King as messenger to the Saxons. He is touring the many villages seeking to cement the bonds of peace between the Frank and Saxon peoples. Our Chieftain Waifar would appreciate your opinion of this Rado. Right now, common cause against the Thuringians makes us companions and comrades. Other days have found us at war.”

“Tell your Chief Waifar that we, my wife and I, would be honored to attend.”

The Saxon messenger bowed in the same courtly manner he had seen the Franks use and left quickly. Wodan-Ase could see the pleased look on Lorasinthe's face. She had never had the chance to view the developing world of a semi-civilized Byzantine-style court society. It was also a chance for her to be more than mistress of their own hall. This was a chance to be a lady of pride on her husband's arm.

CHAPTER 27

VALKYRIE

Lorasinthe was the most beautiful by far of those ladies invited to appear before the assembled throng in the Saxon hall that night. She chose to wear a simple white linen dress. The dress was long, the hem brushing the floor as she walked, narrowed to her actual shape rather than purposefully altered. The top was of a style one might call shoulder-covered, straight falling with no flounce, while the breast covering was scooped modestly just below the neck.

A loose woven belt also made of linen circled her waist, this having real oak leaves sewn on as decoration all around. The leaves had been selected in the fall near or at the time of turning. They were coated with a clear resin-substance and hardened so they retained much of the freshness of the summer about them, at least from a distance.

She wore no other ornaments, even in her hair. That she wore in long flowing waves of natural hued tresses coupled with two modest braided strands lying across her breasts in the front as decoration.

The Saxon women were clothed mostly in wool, although often dyed and decorated with whatever ornamentation they could gather from those peddlers who risked their all in bringing the trinkets of the south into the lands of the Germans.

The Frankish visitors, and indeed the Saxon men themselves, might have cared less than nothing for whatever she wore. No eye left her for some time after her entry. Indeed, for many of the men, their eyes remained upon her face and the hint of her body for a length of time that would have been considered immodest in a Christian community. Wodan-Ase noted their attentions, although not in anger. She was a source of pride he could - and would -defend.

There was one who looked upon her with different eyes. He felt neither the open yearning displayed by the men nor the eager hard envy of the women. This man saw her from a totally different perspective than did the others. To him, she was a barbarian Salome, a blonde Delilah out to sway the best of men to evil. This man, the only one whose eyes lay upon her with thoughts of dislike, was Angiram, Christian Bishop and would-be envoy to the Saxon peoples. He was here under the protection of the traveling Frankish embassy while in Saxon lands.

Nominally Christian since the Frankish King Clovis had seen the light – as they expressed their forced conversion – the Franks wore a Christian veil over a barbarian nature similar to that of the Saxons, their neighbors. The latter were their sometimes blood-brothers, more often mortal enemies. The Franks needed Saxon good will for the present. They were still divided and weak, losing in one generation the cohesiveness Clovis brought to them before his death. This band followed the chieftainship of Clotair, a king seeking total power over his people but having trouble getting it.

Angiram, a true believer, unforced by politics, saw himself as the only true Christian in the hall.

“I am honored to raise my drinking horn in greeting to our allies, the Franks,” bellowed Waifar to the assembled gathering. “Our Frankish friends and neighbors to the south are most welcome. It is rare we see Christian Franks in our lands. Mostly, we are visited by our Frankish brothers who have not slipped from the path of Wodan and Thunar!”

Such words were actually a thinly calculated insult to the Franks, one they chose to ignore. Only Bishop Angiram betrayed a hint of anger.

“And we the representatives of the Frankish kingdoms do consider this occasion as one of great importance,” Duke Rado responded, his tone polite and respectful. Rado stood to face the assembled throng, raising his horn somewhat in the direction of Waifar, who sat on the high seat among his assembled friends looking down upon his guests.

As the banquet progressed, those of both groups enjoyed the specially brewed mead perhaps too much, the ales perhaps even more. It was not long before the introduction of Waifar was remembered with a little less than friendly demeanor. One of the more intoxicated of the Franks, a soldier named Uodalrich, a nephew of King Clotair, was the first to fray the bonds of peace. “A toast to the Good Christ! If there be Franks visiting the Saxon peoples who know not the Lord, let them come and taste my mead. I would see them deny the Christ in front of me!”

None rose to the challenge. Duke Rado had the drunken man gathered in and removed by guards stationed throughout the hall for just that purpose.

In an attempt to calm frayed tempers, Waifar rose to present a second toast, “To the Frankish people, whatever their beliefs. May the days grow longer in friendship between our peoples!”

The tension abated with his words and the two groups of often mortal enemies almost got through the festivities without further incident. Then, quite some time later after the return to the banquet of the surly Frankish noble, Uodalrich, a second incident occurred.

“Duke Waifar!” called Rado loudly, addressing the Saxon Chieftain by a title now absorbed by the Christians and used in place of the older German titles of honor, “for all this time have we been eating and drinking together and I have not yet been introduced to your other guests.”

Waifar thought for a moment, then remembered Wodan-Ase and Lorasinthe were indeed his guests. In the intervening months since their arrival, Waifar had come to look on them almost as of his own people. He had even thought of asking them once more to stay on, to clear more of the surrounding forests for land and remain as Saxons.

“I am at your bidding, Your Grace. The Chieftain Wodan-Ase and his wife are indeed forgotten guests. Stand Wodan-Ase! Stand Lorasinthe! Let me introduce you.”

As the beautiful young woman and her more than reticent and embarrassed husband rose to their feet, there came a cry from the lips of the priest-Bishop Angiram. “And what kind of name is that - Wodan-Ase? I have not heard the name used among the Saxons. Is not the name of the god Wodan forbidden for use as a name?”

A rather stunned Waifar failed in responding to the priest's question for a moment, his hand rising to his chin in concern for the insult barely obscured by words. Waifar was trying not to provoke further outbreaks that might lead to bloodletting, a most common diversion at German festivities that had gone on too long.

Waifar laughed, “A truth truly said of the Saxon peoples, but not of the band from which my friends have come.”

The drunken Uodalrich guffawed, “When I return to Frankish lands, I want all of you to refer to me as Wodan-Uodalrich from now on. An old and discredited god's name serves well as a forename among his destroyers. That is, if my Master the Christ would not be offended at the remembrance.”

A few of the Franks laughed at the jest. The Saxons did not. Waifar came down from his high seat to move to the side of his friend Wodan-Ase who, turning livid at the deadly insult to Wodan behind the Frank's offering, had reached for a weapon that was not there. Weapons had been forbidden.

Waifar replied angrily, “My friend and his wife have given neither myself nor any other guests cause for insult. I ask they be given none either.”

But Uodalrich was not to be put off. “I give no insult to our Saxon friends because of a treaty of peace, but I owe no allegiance to those here who are not Saxon, and not Christian into the bargain.”

Bishop Angiram cut further words from the drunken Uodalrich short. “What tribe are you from, Wodan-Ase the German, that the Saxons call you friend?”

With Waifar's hand on his shoulder and his wife close beside him, Wodan-Ase allowed his temper to cool. For a moment he waited, then responded with caution to the priest's question. “We have no tribal name, for we come from many different German tribes. The Saxon people were kind enough to allow us to shelter here. We will go north in the spring in search of our tribal homeland.”

“But if you are nameless and of many tribes in makeup,” Angiram chided, “why do you say you seek an old homeland? Would you not be seeking many homelands?”

A slight smile crossed the face of Bishop Angiram as he thought he saw a mask slip from the face of the German warrior. He was on the point of continuing when he was interrupted by a female's voice.

“My husband and I argue the point often,” replied Lorasinthe tersely, her anger rising because a priest of an opposite faith had entered a trivial contest of words between warriors, making the play with words a challenge to Wodan's honor. “The Franks are a confederation of many smaller German tribes, as are we, but they still call themselves one people.”

“The beauty speaks,” snarled Uodalrich.

“Yes,” Bishop Angiram said. “but that was long ago, Lady, in days best forgotten by all Franks. Where have you come from? Word has reached us this winter from the south of a search for members of a tribe of pagan Germans who use the name Heruli. Are any of your people from that tribe?”

Wodan-Ase looked upon the face of his young wife with longing. Their gazes met, and he smiled at her, his hand coming forth to gently touch her cheek. He moved his hand downward to take one of her braids. Lorasinthe knew he could not, would not, in all honor now deny in the face of their greatest enemy the fact of their birth. As Wodan-Ase turned from his wife to face the priest and speak what might not be spoken, a cry of anger and outrage stopped his words.

“Our Frankish women would know better than to interrupt the gatherings of men with their rantings,” snarled Uodalrich, his hands clutching the table for support, his eyes red and angered in the flushed hue of his drunkenness. “Have the slut be quiet or I'll cut her prattling tongue from her head!”

As Angiram went to grab the drunken man and restrain him, Waifar began to come around the table. Duke Rado, seated only a short distance away on the opposite side, motioned for the guards standing behind the now struggling men to assist.

Wodan-Ase had not moved. He looked around for a weapon of some kind but found nothing. Not even a kitchen implement was at hand.

In his rage, Uodalrich was a strong man, a man with strength to match his violent temper. As he flung the slightly built priest away from him, he reached low and under his coarse outer garment. Pulling forth a dagger hidden there, without further thought or hesitation, he hurled the instrument of forged iron in Lorasinthe's direction.

Knives are difficult to throw so the blade will strike upright and point first at any distance. One thrown by an unsteady and drunken hand should have struck butt first, or on either side, or missed its target entirely. This knife did not.

Wodan-Ase, his senses alerted and his anger peaking, watched as Uodalrich reached into his clothing and brought forth the weapon. There had been no time whatever to think, time only to react. As the drunken man flung the death instrument as hard as he could, Wodan-Ase moved to protect his wife, just as he had when Eskjan bore down upon them. This time, however, there was no spear to fit into position to brace against and catch the blow of the attack. There was only his body. Wodan-Ase used it.

The weapon struck the Heruli Chieftain blade first, straight and perfectly aligned for penetration. As the blade had not arrived butt first or wobbling on its side, neither did it strike a spot on the body of the young man that might have brought wounding only. It was a death blow, as if, at the base of the Great Tree of Life where the three women who shaped Heruli fate considered their acts, the old crone had cut the thread of Wodan-Ase's life at that moment.

The blade entered his neck on the left side, just after he moved to protect his wife. It took but seconds thereafter for his precious life to bleed away. His head and upper torso first struck the edge of the table then moved backward as the entire body rolled on its left side to fall and lie unmoving at Lorasinthe's feet.

As she looked on in utter horror, the scene of tragedy became both surreal and slow-moving. The shock was absolutely unendurable and she began to feel faint. The babble and roar all around her were forgotten as she stared down at the body of her husband lying across her feet. His blood stained her shoes.

Lorasinthe knelt down to be with him, not seeing the raging battle then taking place in the room. All of that disappeared, with not even the sound of combat able to penetrate her closed, benumbed, mind.

“Rain Warrior, my love,” she heard herself say. “It is Lorasinthe. I have loved you before we were ever born, and I will love you forever. May Wodan grant we meet again in a life to come. Perhaps he will grant us a period when the heavens do not howl with hate and the drums of war might be stilled.”

But even as she spoke, she regretted the words. They were not what a Heruli woman should say. Kneeling close to his body, she rubbed her hand gently across his brow, touching his closed eyes.

She was smiling as the changed words she spoke echoed in her heart. “Forgive me my weakness, warrior of the Heruli. In the depth of my love for you, I forget my oaths and duties. You were, you are, our greatest warrior, and we the Heruli are a warrior people. If Valhalla call its greatest warrior, you have no choice but to go.”

From her kneeling position before the body of her husband, her white linen garment now stained to the knees with his blood, Lorasinthe looked toward the fighting raging throughout the room. She heard something, a sound above the roar.

The bloodied girl noticed at once the presence of a silent figure standing as if unnoticed by the others near the place at the table from where the dagger had been thrown. The figure seemed unperturbed by the raging of combat all around. The specter was a female, naked save for a shield held to the front. Her sandy brown hair was long and braided on each side of the shoulders, parted in the middle, hanging almost to the floor.

A band of light-colored hair circled her brow as ornament. Within eyes of the darkest brooding blue color light sparkled, causing her face to be hued with a radiant paleness. The shield she held covered nothing, yet all, but the men fighting nearby took no notice of her presence. It was as if they could not see her.

Eyes tear-stained and swollen, hands and arms now coated blood-red, her dress spattered and drenched, Lorasinthe rose to her feet to stand over the body of her husband. Her gaze met that of the strange and somehow cruel looking female who stood so seemingly without fear just across from her.

Lorasinthe moaned in her pain, “I hear and obey, Soul-Taking Woman. You have come for him. It is right you do.”

Shade of the mind, or a reality of her faith, the seeing of the Valkyrie was the last of the terrors with which Lorasinthe's mind could cope. With these words, she fainted. Before she passed into the dark completely, she felt a whirl of cooling wind upon her face. Her eyes opened briefly and she saw what seemed to be the same female warrior figure gather up the spirit-form of Wodan-Ase in her arms, her shield held o'er him as cover. Then the darkness took Lorasinthe at last.

CHAPTER 28

THE DARKNESS

Duke Rado was one of the few Franks to survive the battle that erupted in the Saxon hall after the death of Wodan-Ase. He did his best to prevent the bloodshed that followed the throwing of the dagger but was seized by Saxon warriors and ushered from the hall before he could even get to the spot where his man Uodalrich was seated.

“Unhand me, man!” cried Rado. “It is quiet in the hall. My men are slaughtered.”

“Do not struggle, Your Grace,” urged the yet frightened and traumatized Saxon Chieftain Waifar. “This right-thinking move by my soldiers may yet prevent an all out war between the Saxon and Frankish peoples. Let us not compound the incident.”

“Where is Uodalrich?” asked Rado. “He is kin to my king.”

“Uodalrich lived only a brief moment longer than did his victim. It was one of your Frankish warriors cut him down with one stoke of his sword.

“I warned that swine,” screamed the Duke, now almost completely out of control in his rage. “I warned them all before the court appearance that any man creating dissension between Saxon and Frank would pay with his life. The drunken Uodalrich probably had not enough mental awareness remaining to understand the reason behind the blow that felled him.”

“Bishop Angiram was the next to fall,” added Waifar, trying to break all of the worst news at once. “Killed by a Saxon warrior who was enraged he had not been able to reach the already dead Uodalrich. For that I apologize.

“It was a one-sided fight,” cried Rado, who was anguished over the death of Bishop Angiram and so many of his followers. “Saxons far outnumbered the Frankish warriors and, as all warrior peoples know, numbers in a battle where equal bravery exists are always telling.

“True,” Waifar nodded his head sadly. “There are but twenty Franks alive and wounded out of the seventy who entered the hall.”

“Merciful Christ!” cried Duke Rado. “I am saved by Saxons, as my men died fighting those same Saxons.” Tears came to Rado's eyes.

“Your life guarantees the fragile peace between our peoples,” said Waifar. “We must agree there will be no fault called beyond that placed upon the head of Uodalrich. His death balances the death of my friend, Wodan-Ase.”

“Your wish for forgetfulness will never be granted, Waifar. The slaughter will remain vivid in the memories of Saxons and Franks for our lifetimes, at least. Legends will arise surrounding this incident. You know that. The death of Wodan-Ase, that one who seems to mean so much to you, will be forgotten. Only what Saxon and Frank have done to each other will be remembered.”

“Would that you were wrong, but you are probably not.”

The church will martyr Bishop Angiram.” Duke Rado moaned. “His death will haunt the Christian world. The fact that Franks dealt the first blows with Angiram's words and Uodalrich's knife will not be remembered.”

Waifar nodded his head in agreement, a wry smile turning the corners of his mouth. “The Saxons will tell of the striking down of Uodalrich and his Frankish bodyguard over and over in the years to come until a listener will think the Franks numbered hundreds and the Saxons but a handful.”

“Such things cannot be helped, said Rado. “It is the way of humans.”

Only one remembered the truth of the incident without embellishment. In a darkened alcove of the Heruli hall where none might enter unless bidden, Lorasinthe cried herself to sleep that night, and for the many that followed. She lay huddled on the straw mat she once shared with her husband, refusing even to attend Wodan-Ase’s cremation. For days she would not put off the white linen dress, although it reeked of blood and foulness.

“Lorasinthe, it is Gerte, your servant and friend. You must let us remove your dress. You must allow yourself to be cleaned.”

The young girl would not, curling tighter into a ball on the straw mat on which she had been placed following the death of Wodan-Ase.

“It is useless, Thord. She will let none of us touch her.”

“Then force her!” commanded the man, a youthful warrior leader, most recently aide to Wodan-Ase.

“We would not dare!” snapped Orme, the older woman assigned to the girl to help her through the days after the terrible tragedy.

“We must. Thord is right,” mumbled the old warrior Chatt. “Come Thord, you and I will help.”

“You will not!” exclaimed Orme. “That would not be right. She was the chieftain's wife. You will honor her privacy.”

“Don't worry, woman,” jeered Chatt. “Her modesty is not in question. She is a mess.”

“She has the darkness,” whispered Gerte.

“More so the cause we will have to do her will for her,” reasoned Thord. “She is also the Master of Runelore. The people are as nothing without her.”

The attendants finally took matters into their own hands. The men were ushered out of the room. Although they feared that they were somehow wrong to force her, the women stripped the girl of the bloody clothing, bathed her and washed her hair. In all the time that they did this, there was no sign or reaction from Lorasinthe.

The darkness, an expression the people used for those who fell before a tragedy with no wounds that could be seen or touched, stayed with Lorasinthe for two full weeks. During that time, she ate and drank only what was forced upon her.

When Lorasinthe did come around to a seeming return to health, there were changes quickly noted. There was a deep sadness in her eyes that could be felt by anyone looking there. Her face was wan and pale, her frame thin. None knew of her pregnancy. None knew this was the only reason she arose at all.

On the first day Lorasinthe took the high seat in the Hall of the Heruli, she was ready for the appointment of another leader in her place. She had planned what she would say in offering her loyalty to the one who followed Wodan-Ase to the position of Herzog.

“We have gathered here together to elect a new chieftain,” cried the warrior Thord to the subdued gathering.

Lorasinthe showed no emotion as Thord said these words. Her face was pale, the rose on her cheeks gone, her hair tied severely back, her smile nowhere apparent. She sat upon the high seat rigidly, as if she herself were one of the terrible bodies in the tomb of Wittha.

“There is only one choice,” Thord thundered. “Lorasinthe.”

Lorasinthe blinked her eyes, but showed no other emotion.

“Yes,” echoed Chatt. “There is only one. Lorasinthe must lead us!”

A voice from within the crowd shouted, “No!”

“Who says no?” asked Thord, his voice tinged with anger.

“I, Iringar, son of Iring, say no.”

“And I too say no,” added Orme. “But for a different reason. Lorasinthe has the darkness. There is no way to know whether she will ever return to us completely.”

“We have never had, nor will we ever have, a woman as chieftain, a woman as Herzog,” said Iringar, looking around him and noting more than a few nods of support.

“Who is Master of Runes?” cried Thord. “Who is the last of the Nine among us?”

“Lorasinthe is,” shouted Ottokar. “I, Ottokar, don't care if she is a woman. She is all there is.”

“Not for me,” cried Iringar.

“Nor I,” said the youngster Agathe.

Iringar pushed his way through the crowd to stand beside Chatt, facing the seated Lorasinthe on her dais. “I will have no woman tell me what to do.”

The rigid mask that was Lorasinthe’s face showed no emotion at the cruel-sounding words.

“Lorasinthe will tell you what to do!” shouted Chatt over the rising calls of support that sounded around the hall. “If that is the will of the Heruli people.”

“No woman may lead us,” cried another dissenter. “This has never happened before.”

Thord looked at the man, his expression filled with surprise and anger. “Who holds the command of our faith? Who else aided Wodan-Ase in all decisions? Who else would be so qualified to lead? Name another then.”

The dissenter relented, noting an unfavorable reaction in the people around him. “It is true, I have no other name, but she is very young and is not a warrior of battle.”

“We must nominate a warrior,” urged Iringar. “We must be led by a wielder of a sword, not a maiden with potions and Runes.”

“Beware your words, Iringar,” shouted Chatt, his face livid, his tone tinged with hate. “Before I make you swallow them with your own blood.”

Thord acted quickly to avoid bloodshed. He grabbed Chatt's wrist, stepped between the two antagonists.

“Name another, if you will!” cried Thord. “Who is better prepared than Lorasinthe?”

“You, Thord.” shouted the young girl Agathe. “You will lead us.”

“And what would give me the right to do so. I have not the sanction of the Nine, nor am I born of a chieftain's blood.”

“Then Iringar will lead us,” said Agathe. “He is the son of the Chieftain Iring who died with the others.

Iringar's pleased expression showed that this was what he was waiting to hear.

“Little mouths should make little sounds,” Chatt responded angrily. “If Iringar is named Herzog, I will name a blood feud between us.”

“I accept that!” shouted Iringar, reaching for the axe that he always carried at his waist.”

“Stop,” shouted Thord. “Have we so many people left that we would kill each other? Iringar, Wodan watches you. If Arnulf were here you would already have paid for your words about potions and Runes. You would be lucky if you were allowed to live. Have you lost your fear of the Runes? Have you lost your belief that Lorasinthe has the power to use them?

“No,” said Iringar. Thord's words as well as the rising anger in those who supported Lorasinthe's candidacy made him feel this was no longer the moment to display his ambition. “It is true. My anger overcame my thoughts. I fear Wodan and the Runes. I have no wish to challenge them. But she is a woman. Her rise to such a position is unheard of. Wodan would damn us himself for taking such a decision.”

“Wodan has already accepted her,” Thord stated. “He gives the power of the Runes only to those He chooses. Do you deny that?”

“No,” replied Iringar. “I dare not”

“Do you Agathe? How about you Orme?” Thord’s gaze moved from one to another of the women looking for dissent. He pointed at others. “What about you? And you?”

None dared deny.

“She is the last of Mittane's family. She was Arnulf's favorite and his choice. Can she be anything but ours also, no matter the precedent that is established by her rise.”

“But she has the darkness,” said Orme. “How can we be sure she will return to us.”

“She is not a warrior,” cried a voice from within the throng. “Who will lead us in battle?”

“We will choose a war leader to assist her,” Chatt concluded. “What we need now is a tradition leader for a peaceful end to our current problems. Lorasinthe may be young, but she has never been a youth. Arnulf and the strictness of our law ensured that. Lorasinthe is all that is left of the old religious and leadership structure. She is all there is. As to battle leader, I nominate Thord!”

The shouts in the hall grew louder as many backed that decision. The one who showed no emotion was Lorasinthe herself. She stayed as if one uninvolved, neither objecting nor commenting.

“She is still in the darkness,” whispered Orme.

“She will come out of it,” replied Gerte. “We must ensure that she does.”

“Then it is to be Lorasinthe as our Herzog!” shouted Thord.

There were dissenters still, but in general the decision was affirmed by the majority. Thord was named warrior leader.

Lorasinthe did come out of the darkness although as a changed and more somber person. She accepted without reservations the duties the tribe assigned her. Without Wodan-Ase, it was as if she were living once again under the hard rule of the Nine.

The remaining days of winter passed, spring came. There had been little contact with the Saxon leaders following their expressions of deep sadness at the death of Wodan-Ase. For one reason, Lorasinthe would not leave the compound. For another, the Saxon leaders had heard of her election as tribal leader and, finding that outcome unacceptable, had not known quite how to interface with so solitary and withdrawn a figure.

Finally, one day in late spring, at a time known as sacred to Wodan, Lorasinthe emerged from the darkened hall at last. The brightness of the spring sun was almost more than her eyes could take. Her skin, pale-white and dull, made her look as if she were at death's door. The grimness of her countenance and her tangled unkempt hair were the clear outward signs of one struggling with the illness of the darkness. The coming of the child, for it had lived through the very worst, was visible for all to see under the folds of the white linen dress she wore.

It was the same dress she had worn the night Wodan-Ase was struck down. She would not have it burned or put away. Her servants scrubbed it with all means and substances available. But even yet were there stains, especially along the hem, which would never come white again. Lorasinthe asked for the dress that day, the day the Lost Ones, for so they still called themelves in front of others, were to leave the safety of the Saxon camp for the unknown path once more.

“We are ready, Lorasinthe,” Thord said. “We await your command. The Saxons seem anxious for our departure that they might occupy this great new hall they are by custom to inherit from our labor.”

Lorasinthe seemed as deep in her dark mood as ever. She still held in her hand the torch which she had used to light her way into the sunlight. Thord thought she did not hear his words. He was just beginning to repeat them when she interrupted him with a whisper.

“They shall not have it.”

“What?” Thord asked.

“I said, they shall not have it.” As she repeated the words, the young girl of seventeen, ruler of three hundred, Master of Runelore of the Heruli, tossed the burning brand onto a pile of wood shavings she had her servants place there earlier. The dry tinder flared up.

Other Heruli standing nearby took up her lead, many with somber expressions on their faces. Thord seconded her terse command, others quickly followed, until a low-spoken chant could be heard from among the many. “They shall not have it. Burn the hall!”

Lorasinthe turned around and, ignoring the beginning fury of the blaze, walked slowly to her wagon at the front of the train. She mounted quickly, staring straight ahead. Thord took her silent command as speech and gave the order for the wagons to move out.

As her wagon slowly moved forward, Lorasinthe did not look back to the now quickly flaming building, nor did she heed the cries of the Saxons who had come forth from their quarters to try to put the fire out. They were working in vain, for her servants and the Heruli people had done their job well. The hall would burn to the ground.

The Saxon village soon disappeared behind the last wagons. Lorasinthe drove the lead wagon, the escort and scouts riding some distance ahead or to the sides. She was alone with herself and her thoughts.

A spring wind came up, soft, gentle, with a tinge of warmness. A light gust blew her un-braided blonde hair over her eyes briefly, forcing her to brush some strands to the side in order to see the trail.

Had anyone been with her who cared to look into the blueness of her eyes they would have seen a tiny and momentary sparkle of light. Were they to have paid attention to her forehead or to the white paleness of her cheeks, a slight quivering could be seen. Had they observed but one heartbeat longer, the presence of a tear at the edge of a flickering lash would become obvious, followed in profusion by others so that soon her cheeks were wet and moist.

Had there been anybody there to see, they might have felt her grief. But there was no one there and the wind had grown suddenly cold.

CHAPTER 29

HOMELAND

It was just a hill, a rising mound of earth that could be seen a long distance off as one approached it over the rolling countryside from the south. The Heruli were aware of the presence of the hill for quite some time and it was to the near vicinity of its base that the slow-moving wagon train came on a bright morning in late summer. The warrior scouts leading the train had an early morning clash with a small raider band. An old man was captured, the raiders driven off. One of the scouts rode back from the skirmish to report to Lorasinthe and Thord. The youth was flushed with excitement, happy with the victory.

“Lady Lorasinthe, a slave we captured is being brought in, an old man who speaks a language strange to our ears. It is like ours, but yet different.”

“Like the mixed-Germanic tongue we took for our own during our travels in the south?”

“No, Lady, it is like our Heruli tongue, the language we speak only among ourselves. German in form, but with certain words of the Heruli dialect not normally encountered.”

“Bring him to me.”

She took up the moments waiting for the captured slave to be brought to her in tending gently to the heavy basket situated behind the wagon seat. In the basket was the tiny baby boy which had come from her love of Wodan-Ase.

The little boy to whom she gave birth was the solitary thing with the power to bring Lorasinthe out of the darkness of her hatred and self-pity. He demanded not only most of her time but the time of her servants and male retainers as well. He was as all babies. He wanted everybody's attention and would accept no less. Besides, he was beautiful, or so his caretakers said, and engaging, having the blondness of his mother and the light hazel eyes of his father.

The Heruli did not normally use inheritance as a factor in determining rank and position but this baby, being the child of one of the greatest of all Heruli warriors, was given special consideration.

Lorasinthe said no. Her son would earn his way by his deeds or not at all. If he were the bravest of the brave, like his father, she would not stand in his way. She would make his shield for him, as his father would have done had he lived.

Yet the women, who cooed and softly smiled at the little boy in hopes of a like return, showed him deference anyway. They called him Little Wild Boar, a childhood name some thought a reference to his chubby face and long extended body. But those close to Lorasinthe, and to the baby as it grew within her womb and was born, knew the name was also a compliment to his tenacity in demanding his right of birth. Too often, his mother seemed as if she wished both of them would simply die.

Lorasinthe named him Fridigern, a Germanic warrior's name of Gothic origin. That name had a long lineage back to the time of the Roman Emperor Trajan, who had reason to rue the day he heard it used. But to all the rest of the surviving Heruli people, the chubby little baby boy was simply Little Wild Boar. There would be time enough later to take on manly names and shields and weapons. For now, it was enough to coax a smile from him or to look upon his face, so soft and gentle-appearing as he slept. He was his mother's salvation, perhaps even that of the Heruli.

Lorasinthe felt a tinge of regret as she had to take her attention away from the sleeping form of her son to tend to the business of questioning the old slave man brought into her presence by Thord.

“He says that he is from a land across a sea that lies not far distant to the north. He was captured by sea raiders who, under the banner of some unknown sea-god and led by a human monster named Undorich the Troll, struck the coast where his people were living. Apparently these warlike people of the sea found the task easy, for his folk are peaceful and do not willingly practice war.”

“Sea-gods? Undorich the Troll? What strange names are these?” Lorasinthe asked. “I have heard of these sea people somewhere. Arnulf mentioned such a name to me.”

“I can speak to you of them myself,” interrupted the slave, a roughly dressed old man of perhaps fifty seasons, mostly bald of head yet coarsely bearded.

Lorasinthe smiled at the tone of pride in the man’s speech, an attitude that was certainly belied by his appearance. “How are you called?”

“I am Baltar the Good, servant of Frey and his good sister, Freya. I was captured by the raiders led by that madman Undorich while on a mission from my people to this coast, a mission having to do with my faith.

“I am Lorasinthe, chieftain of my tribe. This is Thord, warrior leader of our people. Were your Master Frey and his sister here, I would bid them greeting in the name of my people.”

“Chieftain?” The old man smiled as if at some private jest. “You and your people must indeed be from far away and distant lands since you know not the names of our most precious gods, the Lord Frey and the Lady Freya. We and they and those who serve with them are named the Vanir.”

“Vanir,” Lorasinthe repeated. “As with other names, my teacher Arnulf used to mention the Vanir sometimes, not always as gods and goddesses. Perhaps you could tell me of Freya and Frey. Are you and your people guided by them as we are in our search for a homeland by the presence of Wodan and those others who serve Wodan?

“UUU-odin!” bellowed the man, a seemingly uncharacteristic impediment in his speech making him drop the “W” sound. “Do you speak a different name for Thor, the scourge of the sea, or is this another name for another god?”

“I don't know the name of which you speak, but our Wodan is god of war, of music and dance, poetry and knowledge.

The old man winced at her reference to war. “Once my people were warlike, as violent as many others. Some followed Thor, who is not unlike your god. Since the great Lord Frey came to us in his sacred cart from a village far away in the northern ice fields, we have been a peaceful people. Frey and his sister, along with the other deities of the Vanir, have shown us that peace and the yield of our crops are more beneficial than any amount of false courage shown in battle.”

Lorasinthe had not heard such thinking as this. She had never known the day when her people were not in danger of being overrun or destroyed by one ferocious force or other. She did not know whether to take offense at his remarks about warlike peoples or to listen further in order to better understand.

As the old man went on speaking of his people and his way of life, Lorasinthe began to develop in her mind a picture of life among a very strange people indeed. She heard how the god Frey blessed the earth with rain and sun in changing proportions so the growing of the crops might benefit all the people in the land. She heard how the goddess Freya was sent through the land at certain times of the year to ensure spring would come on time and winter depart.

She heard how the god of the sea, Niord, father to both Frey and Freya, gave up the bounty of his great expanse of sea only if properly treated under proper sacrifice. Lorasinthe wondered at this. Perhaps, she thought, the poorness of Heruli crops were a result of not giving such deities their proper due. Wodan had little to do with crops.

It was as he was speaking of other points of his people's life that a truly strange thought crossed her mind. The old man's spoken dialect contained many words of which Lorasinthe had no knowledge. What she did understand, she understood very clearly indeed. She wondered how it was this old man, who came from a land she had never heard of before could possibly be able to communicate with her so well. “You have not told us where your land lies and what you call yourselves?”

“I am full of pride to tell you my tribe lives in the uplands land, although that name will mean nothing to you. We were once called the Herudi, but we are all one now, one people under the guidance of the Vanir. And you? Are you Saxons or Thuringians, perhaps Jute or Goth? Even worse, are you Roman? We have not seen Roman traders in many years. Perhaps you are they returning among us?

Lorasinthe smiled at the thought he would think them Romans. Indeed, since the fall of the empire the trade that had once taken place between the northern lands and the merchants of the former Roman Empire had fallen off drastically.

“We have no people, Baltar the Good. We call ourselves the Lost Ones, although we search for a homeland thought once to be our own. I am curious. Have you not wondered that you have never heard of us, or seen our people, yet we speak a language where most of what we say together is understood? I must admit there are words and pronunciations you use that are very different, but on the whole I can understand most of what you have said.”

Baltar looked at her with a truly puzzled expression. Indeed, he had not thought of the oddity of that situation. He'd had much trouble conversing with his former captors, yet he had not even noticed the differences between these people and himself. “Who are you? Baltar asked, now truly puzzled.

“Who are the Herudi, a name so close to another I know of?” asked Lorasinthe, posing question against question. “Where is upland? As you see, there are many questions we might ask of each other. Perhaps one day we will complete this conversation. For now, Baltar the Good, we must be on our way. You are free of this raider warrior, Undorich. Go now if you wish. If not, travel with us a while.”

As she spoke, Lorasinthe reached down at her feet to pick up one of her walking sticks that had fallen from her lap. This long piece of ash wood, made from a cutting from the huge ash tree in the sacred Heruli grove, was carved with the twenty-four Runes, the entire series of symbols which made up the Rune character set.

Baltar's eyes widened at the sight. Although Runes were known, if only through rumor and legend, throughout the lands of all German peoples, few would dare to carry an entire carved set on a walking stick. The magic of Runelore and the use of the Runes for inscribing were said to be the gift of an ancient goddess to the few among the peoples who were selected for that purpose most carefully. In fact, only a few Germanic tribes excelled in the use of the Runes, one of which was the Heruli. Most feared the Runes as instruments of magic and sorcery.

“Who are you that you dare carry an inscribed stick bearing Runes carved upon it? None in my land would dare such, even if we knew all of the symbols.”

Lorasinthe was somewhat taken back by the audacity of the man in questioning her right to carry her personal walking stick.  She had never been asked such a question before. “Who are you to challenge my right to the study of Runelore, a life task given me as a youth by my people? No slave from a non-warrior tribe will ever earn that right, not while the Heruli have the strength to strike any enemy down who dares challenge it!”

The dread word slipped out during her moment of anger, but that it happened was enough. Lorasinthe knew she endangered her people, that the man's life might now be forfeit for her mistake.

“What name was that you spoke?” Baltar asked.

Motioning with her eyes to Thord, who stood just behind the man, Lorasinthe bid him to prepare. Thord immediately brought his sword arm down to touch the hilt of the captured Roman-style short sword he wore. He heard the name spoken also.

“What name did you hear?” she asked, her right arm tense in anticipation of the visual command she would give to Thord.

“I heard a name pronounced I have not had the honor of hearing since I was a child living in the hall of my great-grandfather, Ulaf the Uitlander  - Olaf the foreigner. He spoke to me of the Heruli, a tribe to which he once belonged in the years of his youth in a land far to the south, a land wherein also lived the people who came to trade for amber and furs in those days.

Lorasinthe's hand relaxed.

“My great-grandfather told me that in his father's father's time there were still links between the Heruli in the south and their ancestral people. That is why he went to search for them in his youth. The Heruli welcomed him, but they no longer had any but the most ancient lore concerning the matter. He did not find out how we had come to be separated, if indeed we were. There is a tale within our oldest lore that once part of our people left during a time of famine to find new lives elsewhere. The land could no longer feed all. But that was before the Vanir came.”

Lorasinthe leaned forward, spellbound by the man's words. Even Thord dropped his sword arm to his side and was listening raptly.

“Do your people live in a land far from here, close by a sea but a great distance away by land?” she asked.

“From here, Lady, the journey by sea is but a comfortable sea raider's distance from our closest shores. By a land journey around the great water, such a distance to our homeland would indeed be long, but agreeable.”

Lorasinthe was delighted. “We would make that long journey, Baltar the Good, for we are the people of which your grandfather spoke.”

Baltar looked at the young woman in amazement. As if he could think of nothing to say for a moment, he brushed his hand lightly across his mouth.

“Once, the legends say, the land upon which we stand was land that belonged to the Herudi and others. This was sacred land held in trust to tribes with which the Herudi were united in peace and belief, before we merged into the Vanir. If you are of our people, you may wish to seek your fortune here, for in this land lies a sacred site, a holy place now encircled by enemies who know it not for what it once was.”

“What and where is this place?” Lorasinthe asked.

Baltar turned and pointed to the northeast. “There, on that hill you can see off in the distance. That is where the holy place lies.”

“And how did the combined tribes lose this sacred place to their enemies? Where are the villages of those enemies now located?”

“Few lived here from among the people, although there were small villages,” Baltar replied. “This was a land where all had free access, lately with the blessing of the Vanir gods. The hill that stands there was a place to which many journeyed in reverence who believe as we do. We had no force of arms here, that being forbidden, only the good will of those who came and went. All was in the peace of the Vanir, until raiding peoples came to pillage among the travelers, killing indiscriminately and stealing as they would.”

A frown creased Lorasinthe's brow, showing her distress at the telling of so cowardly a people as those of which he spoke. She wondered in her mind that these same folk could be related in any way to the Heruli. “Your people did not defend their holy place? What kind of a people are those who would not defend their homeland?”

Baltar informed, “In our homelands in the north there is no strife of the kind that felled the innocent victims here. We are many tribes but one people under the leadership of the Vanir gods. We handle all problems through the councils of our people.”

“What would you do if invaded in your own lands?” Lorasinthe asked.

Baltar snorted, “We would not be invaded. Frey would not allow it.”

Lorasinthe looked past Baltar to Thord behind. “Were the world so just.”

“It is, if you are under the protection of the Vanir.”

“I would see this hill closer,” Thord interjected. “Perhaps it is high enough to provide us a defensive position through the winter. Does anyone occupy it now, old one, or the others in the same vicinity?”

Baltar looked harshly at the young Heruli warrior. “In the old days it would have been sacrilege to put an armed force where the gods were born. For there stands the great tree from which the people believe all gods and mankind were descended. Ages before ages was it young. Ages since ages has it refused to die. Ages from ages have we tended to its bones. It has been here longer than the Vanir.”

“The bones of what, old one?” asked Thord, who had gotten confused by the man's allegorical speech.

“Yggdrasil,” Baltar replied. “I speak of Yggdrasil.”

Lorasinthe raised one hand to her mouth. “The Tree of Life! Arnulf spoke of it, as a legend, not as something real.”

“None know its true origin, only that in the legends of our people there is the lore that the tree is as old as time itself. If it be not Yggdrasil, it might be.”

“I must go there and see this place,” said Lorasinthe. “Thord, make ready to leave for a camp near the hill. I would go up to the top of that hill tomorrow.”

Thord nodded, “Yes, Lady.”

“Take care,” warned Baltar. “You do not know where you go. There can be great danger there, since it may be the site of a raider stronghold now, although I doubt that possibility. The spirits of the hill would not allow it. If you go, go in the afternoon and come back in the early evening before darkness has fully set. It would not be wise to remain there after dark. Few remain there after dark.”

Baltar's words of warning thrilled her even more. She had not anticipated such a holy site in this strange land. Thoughts raced through Lorasinthe's mind, Rune thoughts. If the spirits were there, perhaps Arnulf would come . . . If the power of the Heruli ancestors were there, perhaps the Runes would allow . . .

Lorasinthe brought herself back to the present, bidding Thord take the old man away to see to his needs. As they left, her thoughts turned back once more to the barren hilltop and the ancient tree that stood there. Of all the wondrous things that had been revealed today concerning her people and their homeland, the greatest of all was the tale of the holy site. Such a site was magic, especially so for those who bore the knowledge of the Runes. No old man's fear of spirits would keep her away.

And she would stay the night.

CHAPTER 30

THE HILL

It was a windy and cold afternoon. The sun was shining but there came a constant flow of clouds in the sky, threatening to catch the sun and hold it. When the sun vanished, the cold came. Old legends spoke of wolves and dragons chasing the sun across the day sky, the moon across the night. There were tribal members who took time to analyze the cloud flow that they might discern the shape of the chaser there.

It was said that on such a day as this, both cloudy and bright, one of the raging monsters would catch up to the sun and moon and devour them. On that day, the legends foretold, the world would end.

Lorasinthe had her baby strapped in a carrier on her back. Her servants pleaded with her to leave the child with them for fear of danger, but she would not. Whatever dangers there were, they would face them together.

She was dressed in a heavy black woolen dress over a linen inner garment, also dyed black. Her light skin was sensitive to direct contact with wool. A black woolen mantel covered these garments, used as both a wearing cover and sleeping blanket against the coolness of night. She carried the Rune staff with the twenty-four Runes carved upon it as her only protection. She was otherwise unarmed and unescorted when she first set foot upon the overgrown path, moving upward.

That morning Lorasinthe gathered all of the people to her. She told them she felt that this place would be where they should winter this year. She told them of what the old slave Baltar said, indicating that if she received proper guidance on her visit to the site on top of the hill this might even be the homeland that would be theirs.

None of the Heruli objected to her words. Most were weary of wandering. Almost any suitable place would have pleased them. Some even asked her why it was necessary she brave the dangers of the hill to get an answer from Wodan. The place seemed satisfactory enough and they could afford to take their time in clearing out any danger the hill or the surrounding country offered before she undertook the journey. But she was insistent, and they yielded to her right.

As she slowly struggled along the path upward to the top, Lorasinthe had time to reflect on her reasons for undertaking the quest. She knew the reasons given to the others were not foremost in her mind. They and she felt Wodan would not have allowed them to come here and be stopped were this place not where He intended they be.

The Heruli looked for and obeyed the spiritual signs around them. As a people they always had. They believed little happened of its own accord. All of the ordinary events taking place in their world were the result of divine action. The arrival of their wagons in the vicinity of the hill, coupled with the appearance of the old slave who claimed knowledge of their ancient heritage, was not coincidence.

As she slowly moved up the narrow brush and weed-covered track, Lorasinthe pondered why Wodan picked her. When Wodan-Ase was killed, she had not blamed Wodan. From birth, she had been trained to understand that it was not from evil that bad things happened, but from need. As she walked, she listened. She heard and felt her baby moving within the pack. Lorasinthe smiled at the hearing. He was not crying but making the little sounds of happiness that children his age made when amusing themselves.

Lorasinthe spent time in examining the dense covering on the sides of the hill. She could see only a little distance to the left or right. The strongly gathered growth of many varieties of tree and plant life prevented a clear view. Behind her, the base of the hill quickly disappeared in the covering of the brush. To the front, there was the narrow one meter or so wide rut that showed the single-file way in which the feet of the human travelers once followed one upon the other in the past. She was like those who had come before. All outside the rut was unknown.

Lorasinthe soon lost track of how long she had been walking. The sameness of her surroundings remained unbroken, save for the occasional cry of a bird or the sound of a small animal rustling through the growth about the daily business of living. Only once did she stop on her trek to tend to her fussing, hungry baby. When this need had been taken care of and he was again content, the upward journey continued.

It was not until she climbed very near to the top that the dense vegetation and trees began to thin. Breaking through the last of the heavy growth, Lorasinthe was startled at what she found. There, close to the very center of the top of the hill, stood a monstrous ash tree, huge of girth and hoary with age.

Here and there, growing from what must have been a truly gigantic root system, there were several smaller ash trees, very small. Lorasinthe understood at once what the old man never knew. The tree was not dead, had never been dead. The tramping of too many feet, the touching of too many hands, had hidden life below the surface.

Approaching the monolith that dominated the world at the top of the hill, Lorasinthe noted the presence of a rocky alcove fitted within the grip of twisted giant roots. These roots, risen out of need from the very earth itself and the desire of the tree to survive, had reached above ground for moisture and sustenance. The huge circumference of many of these roots, almost trees themselves, gave only slight hint of the enormous reach of the tree deep, deep into the earth below.

Looking upward, Lorasinthe slowly traced the gnarled and wrinkled outer skin with her eyes. To all appearance the rising tower of wood was indeed nothing but dead matter. Burned, broken, storm smashed, the tortured remains of a thousand times a thousand mutilated twigs and branches stretched high into the heavens. There was not a leaf visible anywhere on the bottom branches. Here and there sap was flowing, to remind one of the long and ageless suffering the tree endured from the hand of nature and the hand of man.

“Look, son of Wodan-Ase. Is this not a creation of Wodan at the beginning of the world? Surely, a giant planted a giant's seed!”

Man in his multitudes had been there. Of that there was no doubt. All over the base and stretching up as far as she could see were carvings, burnings, the presence of paints and dyes. Wood bark had been stripped and removed in many places, both from natural action and human intent. There were names and symbols, drawings, the marks of weapon-strikes. Some of the weapons themselves were there, having been struck deeply into the tree and abandoned in offering to the tree itself.

Here and there among the branches were the remains of frayed strands made out of different materials, swinging in the late afternoon breeze. Lorasinthe thought these must be the fragments of rope from which had once hung sacrifices, both animal and human. Lorasinthe wondered at the few remaining pieces of bone and skeleton that still hung swaying high up in the air. She wondered if the humans were war prisoners, or whether these people had seasonal sacrifices as Arnulf had told her some tribes of the north did.

It was natural to reflect on the god or goddess to whom these sacrifices were offered. Were they for Frey and Freya to ensure a bountiful crop? Perhaps to Nerthus or Hulda or Frouha, the earth goddesses so many Germans worshiped. Were Wodan and Donar – Thor - honored here? If not before, she thought, they soon would be.

As Lorasinthe walked across the southern side of the base of the giant wonder, she came across the remains of more sacrifices. Some appeared to be human bones fallen from the dangling ropes as the bodies decayed. There were a surprising number of horse, tame cattle and sheep, and even perhaps the bones of the now extinct aurochs. These were strewn all around the base, greater in number than the human remains.

Near the base of the tree around the left side between two large and extended roots was a small spring containing clear water. The water poured out from below the tree in a thin stream, gathering in small pools of clear liquid for some short distance before disappearing once more into the ground near the edge of one of the larger roots. Lorasinthe suddenly felt the thirst the excitement of her find delayed. She dropped to her knees before the spring and scooped up handfuls of the clear liquid.

Thinking this would make a fine place to camp, she proceeded to undo the straps that held the baby's pack on her back. It was a relief to get the weight from off her. She took pleasure in being able to turn back the cover that protected the face of the little one and look upon him. The baby was asleep. She placed him gently in the lee of a large root so she might be free for a moment to explore further.

On the side of the tree facing the north were carved countless representations of symbols, some very close to Runes in character. Many of the carvings were stained red with blood or some paint mixture. Others were stained black or white.

Standing a few meters out from the center of the north-facing part of the tree was a large rock monolith. This was about six feet tall. There was nothing on the reverse side. The front had been chiseled with the representation of a long winding snakelike figure that might have been meant to represent some mythical animal, perhaps a dragon, and also a tree. Whatever it was supposed to be, the rock carving was ancient. Fragments of color - red, black and white - appeared here and there.

Wishing she could explore more but feeling the call of a mother to the safety of her child, Lorasinthe did not stay to try to interpret any of the messages. She decided she would bring the baby here to the north side of the tree where they would spend the night.

Lorasinthe stopped to pick up a staff from near the standing rock. This was the first relic she found with what appeared to be Runes carved on it. Lorasinthe decided to translate the inscribed message later when she had more time. Perhaps it carried the words of a long ago sacrificial offering or a warrior's battle song. It would serve her as a fine walking staff, no matter the intent of its message. It did not dawn on her to wonder how something so familiar to her people would have gotten there.

“I am back, my child,” Lorasinthe whispered upon returning to the side of the still sleeping little one, the sound of even that slight human disturbance distinct among these wooden canyons of silence.

Later, Lorasinthe examined a second spring more carefully. She at first thought it an extension of the first but was proven wrong. Upon tasting the water she understood one reason for so much human activity here. The water tasted of salt. Salt was the salvation of any tribe. Salt was the first need item to locate if a people were to sustain life.

Lorasinthe didn't understand or consider the oddity of there being one type of spring on the south side of the tree and one on the north. She thought it magic, not the presence of a rock salt cavern situated on the north side fed by a trapping of ground water under pressure. The slight salt taste gave her the answer to the most important question she had come here to ask. This was the place Wodan intended the Lost Ones make their own, at least for a while.

Pleased with her exploration of the holy site, Lorasinthe quickly prepared a fire to ward off the chill of the early fall night. She heard the rumblings of a storm far off in the distance to the north, strange rumblings that grew first softer then louder as she made her preparations. Being wary of getting caught in a downpour, she spent a good deal of time clearing a place underneath one of the giant tree roots of the resident vegetation and rocks. Here, in this natural place of safety, she and the baby would find rest for the night.

Later, as she was feeding the young one at her breast, Lorasinthe had time to look out of her protective place upon the scene. The sculpted rock stood to her left, allowing her a clear view to the north and the approaching storm.

At times she could hear a distinct low rumbling as if of horsemen at a gallop along a hard-packed road. The sound reminded her pleasantly of a day long past when she had watched Rain Warrior coming down the road toward her, leading his valiant band.

Looking down toward the face of her baby, she began to cry softly, more in the joy of the remembrance than in sadness. She was reconciled to a life without her love in only one way, and that way lay there in her arms.

When she finished the feeding, she lay the baby down on his secure warm wolf-skin wrap where he played for a while quietly before passing into a deep sleep. Lorasinthe planned to fall asleep early also. It was in that moment that her attention was once more drawn to the north, and the strange sense of gentleness mixed with an odd rumbling sound that the oncoming storm presented.

The storm approached slowly, quietly, visibly. Darkness was now quite near. The clouds were grey and threatening above. She saw what appeared to be fog or wet mist, rising silently as if on invisible legs up the hill on  the north toward her. High up within the slow-moving mist-cloud there appeared bursts of light at irregular intervals. There was no sound of matching thunder.

The mist quickly approached the place where Lorasinthe and the baby were hidden. Curiosity caused her to extend her arm forward to touch the mist. She did so without haste then drew her arm back. Her entire arm was covered with a fine and instant wetness like that of dew that settled around and on a beautiful flower on a cold clear morning.

Charmed by the feeling of softness provided by the tingling mist-rain upon her arm, Lorasinthe leaned forward, extending her face outside of the protective ash-root covering into the mist. The effect was instantaneous. Her entire face was covered with a haze of water. She marveled at how clean and clear the mist was, yet how penetrating was the quality of its wetness. She once more extended her arms, noticing how lightly the rain touched the surface of her skin.

Fortunately, Lorasinthe had moved some of the fire into her hidden niche in the great root of the tree. That which once blazed outside was now muffled and wet, nearly out entirely. The temperature had grown cooler with the coming of the rain, and she was glad of the shelter afforded by the hideaway.

For some time she sat there, reflecting on the events that transpired since that long ago day when Arnulf handed her the stone knife and she had used it. Would anyone ever perform such a rite again?

Lorasinthe knew when she returned to the camp of the tribe she would tell of the tree and her decision they stay here and hold the land. Also, she would pick from among them those who would follow her in life as she had followed Arnulf. And he had followed. . .

Suddenly she felt tired, so very tired. She decided to lie down and rest for but a moment, just a moment, then she would wait for the night and what she believed in her heart would come, whatever that was. Just a moment to rest . . .

Lorasinthe was startled by a whirring sound and a great rustling of wings coming from somewhere outside her place of safety. She stared out into what had become the grey of the pre-darkness but saw nothing that might have made such a sound.

The sound of rustling came again, this time accompanied by a screeching cry. Caught in the dim light cast by her fire, and perhaps startled by its presence, she saw the shape of a large bird coming in to land with flapping wings. The bird appeared to be an owl. Before she could fully confirm that, there followed a rumbling, pounding sound; first low, then ever louder, as if something else approached from out the dark.

“The Hunt!” Lorasinthe cried aloud into the night.

Her eyes wide now with alertness, her mind a dizzying whirl of thoughts and fears, she stared into the darkening gray gloom.

“The owl leads The Hunt! That is what the old stories say!” she cried into a strangely disturbed outer world. Lorasinthe's heart pounded wildly, more in anticipation than fear. She knew well that the legends of her people told that at certain times of the year Wodan would lead his band of dead warriors and hunting creatures in search of game and sport across the sky. Mounted on flame-snorting horses, the game this ghostly band searched for might be anything from the natural choice of real deer and boar to the search for the souls of men who needed taking. Woe befall any man who came upon the Wild Hunt in progress, or so the legends told.

The silent, gentle rain had passed, its soft beauty replaced by the crackling sound of thunder and a steady drum, drum, drumming of something large and potent approaching. Lorasinthe thought she heard the rush and call of many voices still some distance away. An as yet unseen mounted host seemed to have gathered somewhere near the bottom of the hill on the north side, over the edge where she could not see.

There was only the owl, that creature now calmly perched on a broken branch. The bird's face was turned away, facing outward toward the north, from where the rising wind of sound, climbing steadily as if part on land and part in the air, came forth.

Suddenly the dark was silvered with streaks of moving light, shadowy light, shifting light. Lorasinthe, in great concern, reached down and took up the sleeping form of her child, moving forward to the edge of the hovering root that she might face directly that which was coming.

Standing now and facing the roar of sound, Lorasinthe saw the silver-blue light bend before her, amorphous and indistinct at first, then slowly melding into the running shape of a demon-horse far away in the wind. It was coming closer by the moment. She could see there were other horses, many others, following behind. Some were riderless, as if perhaps expecting a new soul to mount their ghostly backs this very night.

The blue-white scene was flickering and indistinct save for one clear entity. A single rider had reined in allowing the rest of the wind-flowing pack to pass by, their clamor and shouting lessening as they swirled over the other side of the hill and down. This rider was cloaked and faceless, almost indistinguishable from the darkness out of which he rode. The specter remained mute, reining in only a short distance from her, turning to face her.

As the last of the hunt passed by, a second rider broke free of the end of the spiritual train. This one halted near the first for only a brief moment. The rider's mount was restless and eager for the chase, its blood up, head straining to the wind and the hunt. The rider could barely hold the animal. In a moment's clarity before the ghostly mount could speed away, the face of the rider was revealed.

“Wodan-Ase!” Lorasinthe exclaimed.

The rider pulled hard upon the rein of the crazed phantom that was his horse, forcing the unwilling creature to a momentary snorting pause.

Holding her child aloft, Lorasinthe screamed into the terrible wind, “Wodan-Ase, I have your son!”

The ghostly rider that would always be her love smiled, seemed to wave his hand in recognition of her words. A brief moment later, the strength and eagerness of his haunted mount would bear the stopping no longer. The silver-blue-traced animal raced off in the direction of the distant howling pack, the rider's body still turned toward her, hand outstretched.

The other horseman remained, quietly mounted facing her. Lorasinthe's attentions were drawn back to him, she wild with feelings of delight and terror. Through the tears that glistened in her eyes, she saw that the specter-horse this man-specter rode had only three legs upon which to stand. Yet the animal managed to appear balanced, although as restless and eager to be away as had been the mount Wodan-Ase rode.

Lorasinthe's heart pounded. She did not fear the apparition. No daughter of the Runes would have. A reflection of the blue-silver color of the vision clouded her eyes. She faced the specter as if it were a familiar friend. “Why, Wodan?”

The rider made no attempt to speak.

“Why did your people the Heruli have to bear this ordeal? Why is my love with you now and not with me? Why, Wodan?”

The rider said nothing, merely lifted his arm to show he held a wooden staff of some kind. This he threw to the ground in front of his horse. Then the rider turned the animal in the direction of the disappearing hunters, preparing to leave. For some reason Lorasinthe felt the specter was smiling at her. She felt he was somehow pleased with her. . .

“What!” A startled Lorasinthe awoke from sleep to find herself in near darkness. The fire was almost out. She was disoriented, still very tired. Picking up the baby she rose to her feet and looked out into the darkness. Memories of seeing the Wild Hunt flooded back to her. “It was nothing but a dream,” she said aloud. “He was not here at all, nor was my Wodan-Ase.”

Holding her baby to her breast, she stepped forth from the shelter momentarily, stopping briefly to pick up the wooden staff she brought back from the rock of the dragon. She remembered that in her dream of the Wild Hunt Wodan had thrown such a staff to the ground in front of her in answer to her question. She remembered that Runes were carved on the surface of the staff she brought back from the rock monolith.

Lorasinthe carried the staff back with her into the light of the fire that was again beginning to roar. Holding the wooden shaft to the light, she read aloud the meaning of the Rune carvings.

“Everything is ordained. What must be, must be, if we are to have balance in the Runeworld.”

Lorasinthe turned away from the light to look out once more upon a lonely and darkening hilltop world. “Why must everything be in balance? Why, Wodan?” Lorasinthe stopped, realizing at last that no matter what answer Wodan might give, a human would question that answer. No answer would ever be enough. Wodan, God, being infinite, knew the human would question, must question . . . Why?

Off in the distance there came the single sharp crackling sound of a lone strike of lightning. This sound disturbed the peaceful rest of a large ominous bird, an owl, which had been perched on a dead branch of the great tree. The bird hastily departed. A low rumbling response followed the single strike, a sound as if of the beat of many distant horses' hooves upon some trackless waste. The owl winged toward the sound, disappearing over the crest of the hill.