Authors: Alice Borchardt
“He has three children by my mother,” the young man said. “And while he was not the best father, gone most of the time, he was not the worst either. When he came to visit my mother, he was always kind and sober, and brought us all presents. A lot better than some of her other friends.”
How things work versus how they ostensibly work. Cregan’s men weren’t candidates for old age. Some might make it; most wouldn’t. But they would have the best of everything while they lived, including women. A connection, it did not have to be marriage, with the men in the war band could be a profitable thing for a woman. Red had done what he was supposed to as far as his woman was concerned, given her and the children lots of presents. And tactfully, he hadn’t hung around between bouts of lovemaking, leaving her well off and free to form other connections with more stable males, who would need her to do their dairying. Sheep and goats were herded for milk and wool as much as for meat. But every man needed a woman to make cheese, churn butter, and weave cloth. Here, as in his own land, women were wealth, and the possession of a skilled one was beyond price.
This was why Magda offered him her daughters. He was an investment.
“He was my friend,” Lancelot said. “I haven’t been here long, and even those I was friendly with I didn’t know well. But he guided me on my first patrol, and I believe on longer acquaintance, we might have become close friends. So I would like you to take something from my share for your mother and the other children.”
The young man nodded and took a set of six chased-silver cups. The metal was very soft, a rich prize indeed.
“Almost pure silver. I should think the price of a good farm or a small herd of sheep,” Cregan said in a low voice as the others, each in the order of seniority, came to claim their share.
He sighed. “In a way, I hate it. Some are born to sweet delight, others born to endless night. But you are generous as well as handsome and brave.”
“A winner in the lottery of war. At the moment. But have you ever considered the long-term odds?” Lancelot answered.
“All my life, me boyo. All my life. I can see even now that you will become a person of distinction. A well-respected man.” The jeering note was still in Cregan’s voice.
The oxen were unhitched from the wagon; the contents of the cart were distributed among Cregan’s men. The two prisoners were placed on the back of one of the animals.
Lancelot felt a terrible chill when he saw both men’s legs had been broken . . . after they were captured. Strong or not, they cried out when their captors placed them on the back of the big animal. The three corpses were placed on the other bullock’s back.
Cregan thrust the lead rope tied to the ring in the first bullock’s nose into Lancelot’s hand.
“Boy or not,” Cregan said, “it’s time you were blooded.”
Then they marched away with their plunder back into the mountains.
This was a new road for Lancelot. It led past the high pasture where the village was located into forbidding country, up a steep slope thick with tall pines bearing cloudlike tops interspersed with thick growths of cedar. After they paused for the night, they watched the sun begin to set in a sea of purple clouds.
Most of the men were gone by then. They carried the other ox and their own dead with them. They turned off when the party reached the same elevation as the village, to return home. Only six, including Lancelot, remained. Six and the two prisoners.
The Pict was sitting hunched over the ox’s neck; the Hun looked semiconscious and was leaning against the Pict’s back. When Lancelot pulled them off the ox, the Pict screamed and the Hun vomited and fainted. Both men stank. At some time during the day, they had fouled their clothing and their bodies were slick with oily perspiration.
She had given Lancelot some opium, among other things, when she left him at the pool. He washed his hands at a spring, whose water was so cold it numbed them, then mixed some of the opium with wine.
Cregan seized him by the wrist as he was walking back toward where he had placed the prisoners.
“Poison?” he asked.
“No. Opium,” Lancelot said.
Cregan shook his head. “I want them alive tomorrow.”
“It’s not that much,” he replied. “If I could, I would. But I don’t have enough.”
“It’s a waste. The stuff is expensive. But it’s your drug.” Then Cregan shrugged and released him.
The Pict swallowed the opium and wine quickly. The Hun threw up the first mouthful, but then took the rest and kept it down. When both men were quiet and seemed stupefied, Lancelot returned to the fire.
“What are you doing here, fool boy?” Cregan asked.
“Hell, I’m not sure myself,” Lancelot answered.
“You’re young,” Cregan continued, staring into the flames without looking at him at all. “Obviously, you’re a powerful sorcerer. You have a beautiful immortal for a mistress.”
“She’s not immortal,” Lancelot said.
“As far as someone like me is concerned—I probably won’t live much past fifty—she might as well be immortal. And I suspect, so might you. Go back to her dwelling. Spend a few thousand years lying in each other’s arms.”
“No!” He spoke in an impatient, angry tone. “I . . . I want to find out things about the world and life. The bad things as well as the good.”
Cregan snorted. “Fool! You’ve made a good start today, and believe me, if you continue the way you’re going, I guarantee you won’t lack for occupation. Because, me boyo, there are far more bad things in the world than there are good. Likely, you’ll get your craw full quickly enough.”
“She said you were the greatest warrior in the world. That’s why I came to you,” Lancelot said.
“The greatest warrior in the world? Amazing. She thinks so, does she? Amazing. It’s not an accomplishment I ever cared for. But . . . tell me. Did Red ever confide in you about why he came here?”
“No.” The abrupt change of subject disconcerted Lancelot. “And I hate to keep calling him Red. What was his name?”
“He didn’t have one, not a real one. Slaves don’t. They called him Red. Only in Latin, Rufus. He was a smart man, Rufus was. He could read and write. His parents were the administrators—business managers—for a Roman noble. You know what they are called. Honestores.”
Lancelot nodded. “As opposed to the common people. Humilores.”
“Just so,” Cregan replied.
“I don’t understand. If they managed the Roman’s business affairs, if they were that high placed, why were they slaves?”
“Why indeed,” Cregan said. “Think about it, boy. A free man might cheat his master and disappear, but a slave? Oh, a slave can always be caught and done to death slowly. And often as not, quite horribly, by the
carnifices
most Roman aristocrats employ to control their slaves.”
“Carnifice?”
Lancelot asked.
Cregan gave a nasty chuckle. “From the word
meat
, boy. They cut a lot of it. Most of them are specialists at torture.”
“I see,” Lancelot said slowly.
“No, you don’t. Not really,” Cregan said. “But you comprehend enough for the purpose of this story. In any case, Rufus was doing most of the work the old couple had once done. His father was far too forgetful to be trusted, and his mother was crippled badly by an inflammation of the joints. The Roman lord was very tired of the aggravation and expense involved in caring for them. So he told the old couple that if they didn’t drain the cup—a cup rather like the one you gave the prisoners, only with a lot more opium—he would sell the three of them to a nearby Frankish landlord. The Frank, not being a Christian, would have no compunction about putting the two of them to death and using their very strong son for the heavy work on his estate. The Frank, you see, had no big properties to manage as the Roman had. He didn’t need an educated man to keep accounts. He needed beasts of burden. So, faced with this choice, which was no choice, the old couple drank laudanum and opened their veins.”
“Opened their veins?” Lancelot asked, the horror of the tale reverberating in his voice.
“You cut the arteries at the wrist and groin. You have to use a poniard, boy. Of course, the owner of the villa never told any of this to Rufus. To this day, I don’t know who did. I think it may have been the Frank. The Roman would lend Rufus out from time to time. Who can say? But someone did.
“Rufus lay low. See, he found his parents in each other’s arms, together in their blood-drenched marriage bed. And he was sick with hatred and sorrow. Besides, his master was guarded by a contingent of Hun mercenaries. He didn’t trust either Latins or Gaels to protect him. But Rufus took some money and made a present of it to the captain of the Hun guard. They drank deep and that night, Rufus cut their throats—and his owner’s. A kindness, cutting the Huns’ throats. Had they survived, their master—his family—would have crucified every one of them.”
“So Rufus had to run,” Lancelot said.
“Oh, yes. And fast. Two nights later he joined my band.”
“He believed in what you are doing—in the Brotherhood of the Bagudae,” Lancelot said.
“Did he?” Cregan answered. “I wish I did. He wanted a world where people couldn’t control other people’s lives. Where no one could become a means to another’s end. Rufus was a true dreamer. Oddly enough, many of my men, many who come to me, are such dreamers. And, oh, I make cynical use of them to protect my land and my kin. I think such dreams are a lost cause, but who can deny the dreamers and the dispossessed? With every child who slides wet, bloody, and screaming from his mother’s womb, the dreams of men like Rufus are born again. Bloody and dangerous the child is. Rufus’s sons will likely not remember him, but they will be who and what they are because he dared and dreamed, hoping for justice for himself and those whom both man and God seem to shunt aside and whose misery is forgotten. Like his forgetful father and his crippled mother who were no more use to a Roman lord whose annual income came to five or six pounds of gold a year. A gold-plated asshole, who couldn’t find the few coins necessary amid all that vast wealth to care for two slaves grown old in his service until they died of natural causes.”
“What are you doing with the prisoners then?” Lancelot asked. “The Hun is slowly drowning in his own blood and the Pict’s leg is mortified and turning black. He has gangrene.”
Cregan looked at Lancelot. “Fool boy. You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? I pay my debts, all of them, even to the dark Gods. Now go to bed. In the morning you will find out more than you want to know.”
Whatever drugs the ravens had given him before the attack had long since worn off and Lancelot was sodden with weariness. He wrapped himself in his mantle and fell into darkness. When he woke at dawn, he knew.
The wind had changed in the night, and it brought the stench to his wolf nose. The wolf whimpered, whined, and wanted to heave, though by rights the smell should have drawn him. It was the stink that hovers over every battlefield since the beginning of time. The stench of decay, human decay.
The Pict was awake, but the Hun was convulsing, obviously dying.
“Bring him,” Cregan said, pointing to the Hun.
They did, and entered a strange, twisted forest. They were above the tree line now. But once in a warmer past, it must have extended higher, and the hard, storm-polished wood still stood where living trees no longer grew. They reminded Lancelot of masses of driftwood on some long abandoned shore, silver-white and shining in the sun. For it was a very clear day and the sky above was as blue as some fine turquoise or a piece of lapis unmarked by cloud, fog, or even smoke.
Beyond the trees, they saw the fence—or at least, it looked like a fence. Posts and boards, bottom, middle, and top. And every few feet along the fence, a headless corpse was nailed.
The fence ended at a ridgeline and it had a few remaining spaces. The two men who had been helping Lancelot carry the Hun dropped back immediately to let him drag his burden alone. He was strong and the last few feet didn’t trouble him much. Then he stood at the end of the fence. The Hun began to convulse again, body twisting back, arching violently.
Cregan took a deep breath. “Look, boy,” he said, and pointed out over the ridge, at their feet, at the mountains in the distance.
Lancelot turned and the sight took his breath away. He found he was looking out at the heart of the Alps, snow-clad peaks that seemed to march on out into infinity, their lower slopes thick with pine, cedar, and fir. Blue lakes gleamed like so many scattered sapphires among fertile green valleys. A vista of almost unimaginable beauty, yet oddly fragile, did the white peaks seem as they floated above an unbelievable abundance of living gifts against the perfect blue sky.
The gouts of blood hit him like a blow. His head was half-turned as he gazed out at the glory beyond. The blood filled his eyes and splattered into his mouth. He had still been holding the Hun by the shoulders. He let go, staggered back, and crashed into the last post on the fence. One eye was blinded by blood, but the other saw only that Cregan had beheaded the Hun, and the resulting spray of blood from the headless trunk, driven by the last wild heartbeats, had drenched him.
“You are well and truly blooded now,” Cregan said.
Lancelot was glad his stomach was still empty. His gorge rose and he emptied what little was in it on the rocks at his feet.
“What’s the matter, boy? Did you think it was a game?” Cregan asked.
Lancelot’s sword cleared its sheath with a shriek. The eyes of the raven on the pommel were open, red and glaring. Cregan’s men drew their weapons as one.
“No!” Cregan shouted, and jumped between the five men and Lancelot. “We can’t afford any more casualties, and he—is—just—too—good. Why heaven smiles on him and”—Cregan looked down at the Hun—“abandons others is not known to me. But for the time, he lives. No one will ever defeat him. Now, leave it, all of you.” And he gave Lancelot one long, sour look. “I believe his time with us is almost finished. Both he and I have done what was necessary to do.”
“The Pict,” Lancelot said.
Cregan nodded, then pointed to the Hun. “Nail him to the fence. One is enough. If he will, we will give the Pict the choice between having his leg off at the knee and having his throat cut. If he chooses to let us cut off his leg, and if he recovers from the amputation, we will give him a horse and let him ride out. If he prefers to try another life and let us cut his throat, then we will bury him according to his people’s rites. That is, let the carrion birds clean his bones, grind them, mix them in oil and spices, and send them into the heavens when we make the autumn bone-fire at Samhain. You have my word on it. And my word is good.”