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by Patrick R. Burger Without warning, without
honour, they attacked. Men, women and children
clad in leather and furs – who a moment ago had been playing in the snows of
the Alps, whooping with delight as they tobagganed on wooden shields down
slopes glittering in the sun – screamed as Roman legionnaires charged from the
dark forest. Grim-faced demons in
scarlet cloaks, they hacked and stabbed, little caring whether men, women or
children fell beneath their bloody blades. Wolfhart, a young man of
this wandering people, saw his love, Sieglind, fall: her loose blonde hair
waved wildly as legionnaires surrounded her. Wolfhart’s scream stuck
in his throat – he leapt up from the shield he had toboganned down on and
ran. Weaponless, desperate, his boots
sinking in the snow, he saw only bloody bodies and shouting Romans where
Sieglind had fallen. His eyes smoking
with hate and burning with tears, he struggled up the slope. Unseen in the chaos, he bore down on the
cowardly murderers. With a lunge he broke into the crowd around Sieglind -- and
stepped into the Roman short sword intended for her. He gasped as the blade
drove into his gut, and stumbled into his startled opponent. The strange red
crest of the man’s helmet waved as they lost their footing, then the bronze
helm fell as they toppled into the cold, biting snow. They tumbled and skidded down the steep slope, every rolling toss
of Wolfhart’s limbs sending snow flying and jamming the blade deeper. Bitter snow caked his face, and all he saw
on the slope above as his bleeding body finally came to rest was the legs of
countless Romans and the bloody, hacked bodies at their feet. The hot pulse of Wolfhart’s life drained
into the snow; darkness claimed him and the screams of his dying people faded
away. A tempestuous grey fog
obscured the world beyond the crenellated battlements of the Citadel. Wolfhart – still clad in leather, wool and
fur – leaned upon his spear and gazed out angrily. He stood upon the
northwest-facing battlement. Several
dozen paces to his right a gleaming white marble minaret rose into the grey
sky, marking the place where the northwest-facing battlement met the
northeast-facing battlement. Wolfhart could see the
minaret clearly as the roiling and churning fog slid off its glistening ivory
sides. In fact he could see most of the
white marble minarets that marked the six points of the star-shaped fortress.
The southern point was hidden from view by the bulk of the great ebony tower
that rose from the inner lawn of the Citadel.
It stood at a height twice that of the
minarets. Fixing his eyes upon
the top, Wolfhart clearly made out its upper platform where a ring of black
doric columns supported a gleaming gold cupola. He turned back to the
fog outside the walls. He could not see
two paces beyond the battlements.
Indeed, thick fog curled and roiled like a thing alive, seemingly intent
upon storming the Citadel’s high, steeply sloped ramparts. The boiling mists could
easily conceal an army approaching any of the six great gates set in the
crotches of the star-fortress – or the seventh, small sally portal in the
southern wall. Although the Citadel’s
battlements could accommodate a legion of archers who could cut down any
attacker with shaft after feathered shaft, all the archers had long since
discarded their bows and left the walls to join the crowds on the lawn
below. In fact, the six mighty
arched gateways with their gates of wrought adamantine – and the gate of the
small sally portal – had been left open for centuries. The sorrowful faces of six forgotten gods
looked out into the fog. Carved into the weighty lintel stones over each
archway, their sightless stone eyes, like Wolfhart, despaired that the attack
the Citadel had been designed to withstand would never come. Wolfhart gripped his
spear grimly. The elder gods – if any
had survived the apparent triumph of the One God – seemed too weak to rescue
those who had once worshipped them.
Wolfhart glared down into the centre of the Citadel where crowds of
souls strolled aimlessly across the great lawn. They meandered about the foot of the ebony tower. Two torches
burned in brackets at its doorway; the reflection of the flames slithered like
liquid fire in the jet-black gleam of the polished stone. These alarm torches were kept burning to light the way up the tower’s dim,
winding stairs and ignite the great brazier of oil that stood on the high
platform below the gold cupola. The assault must still be possible,
Wolfhart thought. It might still happen! But he – Wolfhart of the
Kimbri, his long blonde hair stirred by the winds that roiled the fog – was the
only warrior left upon the Citadel’s far-flung battlements. He alone kept watch. Not to warn the
Citadel’s aimless inhabitants should the long-forgotten assault finally come,
and not to rouse them to the defense of their own captivity. No, he kept watch because he yearned with
all the desperate passion of the eternal youth given him – for rescue. But it never came, and
the gathering dead weight of his faltering hope fed his anger – and his hatred
- of those within the Citadel. He looked down upon the
hopeless fools, and watched them stroll through the shadows of the Citadel’s collonades
and arcades, past unfinished sculptures of the most exquisite artistry ...
marble faces with cheeks smooth enough to kiss, but with chins left rough-hewn;
detailed locks of hair that abruptly yielded to chunky indistinctness; torsos
celebrating the exquisite beauty of the feminine that did not taper into
shapely thighs and calves but into ugly lumps of stone as if the tools of the
artist had succumbed to his material and his fashioning hand had fallen
silent. Wolfhart watched as the heads of the Citadel’s wanderers
bobbed by murals on the walls, murals that were wrought by masters. He couldn’t make them out from where he was,
but remembered them – scenes of satyrs dancing, of a god named Dionysus holding
court over an orgy, of armies of Roman legionnaires, ranks upon ranks of them,
their faces and limbs so lifelike that it seemed their very souls were trapped
in the stone. But not a single scene
was finished: armies, satyrs and revelers faded again into the preparatory
whitewash that was each work’s final message. He watched the idlers
trample over unfinished mosaics, remnants of which glittered like gems on the
fringes of the brown-green lawn. His
gaze fell upon a clustered group somewhat livelier than the rest. One amongst them spoke animatedly. While his individual voice didn’t rise above
the numbing murmur that filled the Citadel, Wolfhart could see him declaim and
wave his hands emphatically, his blazing eyes raking the faces around him,
seeking agreement. Philosophers, Wolfhart thought. The great pagan thinkers. He remembered the conversations of these
learnèd ones. At the beginning he had
listened until he realized that these were only circular chants. Chants that
sank the listeners into melancholy boredom as the speaker’s chain of logic
wrapped around himself and he was driven to the edge of madness, and finally,
to silence. But that sudden silence
could not be borne by these philosophers, mathematicians and rhetoricians. Soon a new flurry of fevered speech would
burst out, and its very intensity would draw again those who had lapsed into
silence and begun to wander away. He
remembered the chilling dismay he’d felt as part of a group huddled around one
of these speakers. As they made their
way through the arcades and collonades of the Citadel, he realized that each
one in the group was deliberately forgetting that they’d all heard this before
– until the manic energy that propelled the speaker drove him, again, into the
same ever-constricting spiral of logic that left his listeneners shaking their
heads sadly at yet another failed attempt to break the mental chains that bound
them. Wolfhart’s gaze trailed
the group of philosophers, focussing not on the intense speaker, but on a bald,
older man, a listener, who seemed to be the actual centre of attention. Plato, Wolfhart remembered. He and the other Greeks and Romans – these
‘virtuous pagan thinkers’ – propounded again and again the theorems that had
secured for each of them the dubious honour of this afterlife granted by the
One God. Wolfhart looked away, glad
that he couldn’t hear their blather about the revaluing of values that would
somehow turn this defeat into a glorious triumph. Instead, he looked upon
the warriors languishing in the arcades and sitting with their backs to the
columns in the collonades. These, he’d
been told, were the heroes of Ilium and the benchmates of Odysseus. They
suffered more in this soul-crushing peace, in this spiritual defeat no force of
arms could reverse than the thinkers who could at least delude themselves for
brief moments into believing that they were accomplishing something. He focussed on one group lolling about a
niche in an arcade. None were armed –
their swords, bows, spears and shields had long ago been discarded. In a distant echo of the
spirit of the champion, one who steps before the host to engage an enemy in
single combat, a broad chested, iron-thewed giant with blonde hair abruptly
rose to his feet. He began to speak and
Wolfhart recognized him as the one they called Achilles. No doubt he was
recounting his exploits in a battle long ago.
One by one the others raised their heads to listen, and Wolfhart could
almost hear the clinking of bronze and iron as their bodies shifted. Despite the obvious gore, terror and glory
in Achilles’s tale, Wolfhart saw him falter, his hands grew more helpless in
their gestures as his companions one by one looked away again, some spitting at
the pointlessness of all the blood and suffering. Wolfhart looked up to
the dark sky, his gaze flashing past the black tower’s cupola. These were the ways the One God made certain
that the hopelessness of those condemned to the Citadel was reflected in all
things. But he was not like the
Greeks and the thrice-cursed Romans below!
Not anything like them! – yet…why was he here? Why was he among them? He
had died bravely in battle – he had died for Sieglind – so why was he not in
Valhalla? He was the only one still on
the battlements, the only one who still held a weapon! He gripped his spear’s
haft with a grim strength as he turned back to the fog. Abruptly, angrily, he leaned his full weight
upon it, daring it to snap. A soul fled across the
top of a barren escarpment, the hot air shimmering around him as steaming gas
rose from a trench of bubbling pitch below.
His naked body was blistered and streaked black, and his grey-blonde
hair was caked with hardening tar - behind him came a black demon with
outstretched bat-wings. “Thisss too isss a race
you cannot win, my liberal grafter!” the reptilian horror bellowed. As it whirled a rope with two blackened
grappling hooks over its head, pink folds of skin rippled at the corners of its
snake-like mouth. With powerful ease the demon stretched out one black-scaled
arm – and the sharp hooks launched after the fleeing man. They pierced white, sinful flesh – blood
spurted and the naked soul screamed. “Thisss time you will
not pay for two antidotessss and ressceive only one,” the demon hissed, “for
there isss no cure for the pitssch!” He
yanked on the grappling rope as he alighted upon the escarpment with a leathery
rustle of wings – and the shrieking soul was torn from his feet. The naked blonde man fell with a viscous
splash into the bubbling tar. Scaly black arms bulging,
the demon Malacoda wrenched and snapped the rope – until the hooks, shedding
globs of pitch and blood, flicked up out of the hot ooze. Anger smoldering in his
eyes, Wolfhart shouted to the sky. “Where are the halls of
the heroes I was told of? Where is
Sieglind? Wotan, hear me! Holle, hear me!” The dark fog gave no
answer. A hot flush of shame burned Wolfhart’s cheeks as he suddenly realized
that he was too much like the others – too cowed by this Citadel, by this grand
and mighty manifestation of the One God to even think of escape! But how could that have
happened? How had the hopelessness of
the others so thoroughly infected him that he had waited for rescue instead of
acting? Was that why only he, of all
the Kimbri who had fallen that snow-blind day at Vercellae, had ended up
here? Was his passivity and cowardice
akin to that of the honourless Romans and weak-kneed Greeks? No! It could not be! It must not be! The gates
were open! All he need do was stride
through them and demonstrate he had courage. Demonstrate that he was worthy of
the name Wolfhart of the Kimbri. He did
not belong here! Demons would be
dispatched to find him no doubt. There
might even be demons waiting in the fog to devour him, as various philosophers
of the Citadel believed. But so be
it! Better the eternal death of the
soul than this unending unlife! Gripping his spear
fiercely, Wolfhart abruptly turned and jogged down the narrow stairs from the
deserted battlements. Now – finally! –
he would pass through one of the Citadel’s seven gates and plunge into the
forbidden unknown. He strode into the multitude on the lawn, his anger blinding
him to them – and abruptly collided with the muscled form of a Greek warrior of
the Bronze Age. “Ah, the Kimbri
child! Where do you go, angry
Wolfhart?” Wolfhart immediately
recognized Achilles, son of Peleus. “I am leaving!” Wolfhart
snapped defiantly. The son of Peleus seized
Wolfhart’s arm in an iron grip. “A vain and hazardous
venture it is to attempt to leave from where there is no leaving,” the famed
warrior warned, pulling Wolfhart closer.
“This is our fate. Accept it as
we have all accepted it.” “No!” Wolfhart shouted
as he wrenched his arm from the hero’s powerful fingers. “I refuse to suffer this any longer!” “I also would rather work as a day labourer in the fields of a
poor man than while away eternity here,” Achilles muttered. “Yet it is a destiny we may not escape, for
we were born before the Son of God came to the world.” “I know nothing of this
‘God’ who keeps me prisoner here!” Wolfhart retorted. “Holle and Wotan guided my steps in life, and I belong to them!” “And who was it that
chose this relationship, Wolfhart, son of barbarians?” asked an old Greek in
long robes as he stepped around Achilles’ bulk. “You or these gods whereof you speak?” Wolfhart recognized
Plato – bald, bearded, fragile-seeming, but the most outspoken of those who
wandered aimlessly about the Citadel. “Do not try to confuse
me, philosopher. I am not one who
thinks the world is made of words. I
know what is true and what is not!” “Ah, but you
misunderstand me, young one. I do not
think the world is made of rough words – but of fine questions. Some of which you would do well to ask
yourself.” “For a long time I
waited for an answer to a question,” Wolfhart shot back, irritated by the old
man’s air of superiority. “But now I
know that it isn’t the question – or even the answer that is important.” “Perhaps you have been
asking the wrong question then.” “No, the mistake was
asking a question at all!”, he turned
to go. “If this is your
newfound truth, do you not think you would be better served asking yourself if
you are simply persisting in error?” the old man warned. Wolfhart stopped. Plato moved to face
him. “I, too, thought existence beyond
the veil of death would be otherwise, but do you not realize that our presence
here is proof of the dictum that the illustrious son of Peleus cites?” Wolfhart tightened his
grip on his spear. “Your endless
talking proves nothing – only that you don’t have the courage to challenge this
living death!” Achilles’ battle-scarred
face darkened. “I – who terrified the
heroes of Ilium with the irresistible power of my hands – I – do not have the courage – !?” Wolfhart -- realizing
the fury he was provoking – turned and strode toward the gate. “Do you think it courage
to run into the darkness of error and despair?” Plato shouted after him. “Can you not see that it is merely the
headstrong folly of youth?” But Wolfhart
didn’t stop. “You will see – and you
will be back before long!” Those words haunted
Wolfhart more than he liked to admit – for words like those had kept him bound
here for ages. Cold dew glittered like
gems on the adamantine bars of the open northwestern gate. He stalked through it. Grey darkness loomed
before him. It seemed the world beyond
the walls of the Citadel was nothing but thick, roiling fog filling a vast
emptiness. He clenched his fist tighter around his spear, determined to cast off
his fear of the omnipotent ‘One God’ and escape. Or die. If he could. “The lad is not
stopping,” Plato realized. He turned
fearfully to Achilles. “Why do you not
hurry and fetch him back, son of Peleus?” Achilles glowered down
at the philosopher. “My divine mother,
accompanied by her maids, rose from the sea at my death. All nine muses led the funeral songs in my
honour while the great gods and all my countrymen wept for seventeen days. Only on the eighteenth was my body finally given over to the flames – so great
was the mourning for me, the hero of the slaughter at the gates of Ilium. And although I would gladly exchange this
shadow existence for that of a day labourer under the sun, here in the
afterworld I am still he who was honoured in death like no man before -- and
you expect me to go chasing after a barbarian boy?” “Where is Thetis, your
divine mother, now?” Plato countered.
“Where are your sea maids, your muses, your divine gods? It is not a question of honour, oaf! This is a violation of the very precept that
is the cornerstone of the mild republic we have here! Reprisals for this sort of transgression could be swift! Go and light the signal fire at least!” Achilles hesitated. “Reprisals?
For what?” Losing patience, Plato
gathered his robes and marched to the black marble tower in the centre of the
Citadel. Before it, he turned
dramatically and -- over the heads of a few wandering souls -- shouted: “Our
afterlife need not be this easy! We are
left in peace because we uphold the justice which shaped the very walls that
shelter us! We must play our part – for
we too could suffer – and will, if we do not at least warn our masters!”
With that he plucked a
torch from its sconce by the ebony tower’s entrance and disappeared into the
gloom, his shadow flickering briefly on the wall. Stumbling in the dark
fog, tripping on rocks, Wolfhart found his way
suddenly lit from behind. He
looked over his shoulder and saw the crown of the Citadel’s ebony tower burning
golden-bright in the mist. He fought down a chill
of fear – he knew that the fire was meant to alert demonic watchers many levels
below, in the towers of the Iron City of Dis.
He swallowed nervously and
picked up his pace. He knew in those
iron towers rebellious angels would see the warning fire from the Citadel and
light their own signal…to summon one from even farther down. “Ceasssse your futile
strugglesss!” Malacoda hissed as he stabbed repeatedly into the bubbling pitch
with his pitchfork. “You will find no
rock to hold you up!” His wings suddenly
twitched; he turned his ebony reptilian head and saw the summoning flame of Dis
gleaming like a star high above the barren terraced hillsides of Lower Hell. Nodding in
acknowledgement, he unfurled his wings.
With a leathery rustle, he bounded to the top of the escarpment. “Catclaw,” he
called. A tawny-scaled demon patrolling
farther along turned, and in the heat
shimmer rising from the trenches his golden cat eyes gleamed weirdly, the
pupil-slits widening in anticipation. “Obssserve thisss one,”
Malacoda ordered, pointing to where his quarry remained sunk in the bubbling
pitch. “I have been sssummoned to
thwart an essscape from the ssCitadel.” “The Citadel?” Catclaw
hissed in amazement. “Yesss. It hasss long been clear to me that we have
granted those ancient dodderersss far too much freedom,” Malacoda said, tensing
to leap. “Yet, only when sssomething of
thisss sssort occurssss….” Leaving his sentence to
die away unfinished, Malacoda turned away from Catclaw as his powerful leg
muscles released like steel springs. He
soared away, bat wings flapping, over the steaming ditches and the terraced
slopes, finally disappearing over roaring falls that glistened and steamed as
hot tar splashed down. Wolfhart was making good
progress up the foggy incline north of the Citadel because his eyes had
adjusted to the darkness, and – ironically -- because the signal fire from the
Citadel provided just enough additional light.
But perhaps – he unwillingly recalled Plato’s words – the darkness of
spiritual error was his natural environment.
The thought he had wrestled with throughout the ages flared in his mind
again: could the philosophers of the Citadel possibly be right? Could Wotan and Holle have merely been
delusions of his people? Plato’s words were hard
to ignore. Wolfhart’s very presence in the Citadel among the virtuous, who had
worshipped so-called false gods, seemed to prove the old Greek right. But where were Sieglind and the rest of the
Kimbri who had died valiantly that day on the snowy slopes. Where were those
who fought unarmed against the enemy – against unprincipled murderers? Surely the fallen of his people were virtuous too?
At least some of them? At least
Sieglind! Wolfhart angrily seized
on that thought and used it to drive the doubts from his mind. Of course his Sieglind was honourable and
virtuous! I am sorry to doubt you, Lady Holle, he prayed fervently to his Goddess.
I dishonour you and my own family…. He came upon a path that
wound through the dark and stony land…a wide and distinct path, apparently
walked by many before him. And yet the
stones and pebbles upon it were still sharp, unsmoothed by the nearly
weightless tread of spirits.
Concentrating on wishing weight to his own steps, wishing life to them,
Wolfhart followed the way. Sunk in concentration,
heedless of the fever that was taking hold of him, it was only when a sudden
chill brought his trembling hand to his forehead that he realized he had been
hearing the tell-tale liquid whisper of a mighty watercourse for some
time. The Acheron! Forgetting his sudden
weakness, he quickened his steps – the Acheron was the first of Hell’s circling
rivers, and thus, for someone coming from the Citadel, the only one that needed
to be crossed to get away. He had to
find some means of getting to the other side – ! As Wolfhart neared the
Acheron, his strange feverish queasiness intensified and his arms and legs
weakened. He gritted his teeth and
pushed on through dead, dried brush, trying to get to the river bank…all the
while hearing thin, wailing cries eddy across the unseen coursing river. Twigs snapped and branches cracked as he
finally broke through the brush. The wide river stretched out like a cold black
plain before him. He could make out the
faint line of the far bank, but through
the gloom he could not discover the source of the cries haunting the air. Squinting as he scanned
the shore, his eyes found the hull of a boat, flourescent white in the oily
black water on his side of the river. A
ferry moored to the shore! His grip tightening on his spear, Wolfhart hurried
toward it – if only he could get in and cast off quickly…! As he neared the craft, a darkly robed
figure appeared abruptly upon deck. A
skeletal hand emerged from a sleeve, pushing back the robe’s cowl, revealing an
emaciated face crowned with a stiff bush of white hair, and with eyes that were
circles of fire. A bony, accusing
finger pointed at Wolfhart and the figure demanded, “Who comes from whence none
may come?” In answer, Wolfhart
began splashing through ankle-deep water toward the boat, shouting, “I am
Wolfhart, son of Arnulf of the Kimbri, and I must cross the river!” The water was icy and his feet froze – but
he reached the ferry and seized its low gunwale. “Do not touch my ship!”
the old man shouted, wheels of flame flaring around his eyes and illuminating
the ghastly pallor of his face. “Charon
ferries only the damned who wait and wail on the far shore. I carry no passengers from this bank!” Wolfhart would not be
denied. He leapt into the boat, his feverish weakness and terribly chilled feet
making him clumsy so that he lurched awkwardly against the ferryman. “You must take me across
old man!” Wolfhart demanded, pushing Charon.
Then Wolfhart turned with a swipe of his spear and cut the rope holding
the ferry to a jutting rock at the river’s edge. “I do not belong in this place and you will not stop me from
leaving it!” Charon’s bony fingers
seized Wolfhart with startling strength.
“Only the Almighty may
compel me to do what is not in my nature to do! I will not be commanded by a pup who has no respect for the
ferryman of the dead!” Wolfhart struggled with
Charon as the ferry slipped into the river’s irresistible flow. The ferryman’s strength was incredible,
while Wolfhart’s arms trembled and his feet were numb – he staggered as Charon
wrenched at him. “Fool!” the ferryman
sneered, his overwhelming corpse breath billowing into Wolfhart’s face. “If I don’t row us back to the mooring you
cut us from, we will be at the mercy of the Acheron!” Wolfhart dug the fingers
of one hand into Charon’s robe and pushed the shaft of his spear against the ferryman’s hollow chest with the other. “Row us across,”
Wolfhart gasped, trying not to breathe the charnel stench. “Row us across or I will let the river take
your precious craft and us with it!” “Never!” With a violent heave,
Charon cast him overboard. Wolfhart splashed into
the icy water -- stunned by the cold, his fingers cramped about his weapon, his
heart seized at the shock. Like a stone
he fell through the icy black waters, and terror gripped him. In the water’s surge there was a whisper: You
need not fear, for there is no hope. No
hope of denying the justice and love that built Hell and causes the Acheron to
flow. And he succumbed. Why had he thought to hope? The water towered over
him as he sank, the surface so far above,
blackness enveloping him. He let
himself fall and his mind go free. His
lungs burned; the blackness around him sparkled, blossomed with a myriad of
colours. Fascinated, he watched the
motes of rainbow colour form a winsome smile – and the glitter in a young
girl’s eyes. Then he saw her face and
remembered – Sieglind! And it was her
voice that whispered to him now in his liquid fall: “Yes! There is great
wonder! Yes! There is great happiness!
Yes! There is great pleasure and
great joy!” Life surged in Wolfhart,
his heart thudded with sudden pain, and he remembered his body. Sluggishly, he moved – kicked – stroked,
through the cold, up through the icy flood. Desperately he fought against the desire to take a breath, a fatal
liquid breath, and he focussed on the tip of his upward-pointing spear…as if
it, in reaching the upper air first, could breathe for him. And then, suddenly, he
broke the surface splashing. He gasped
open-mouthed, moaning, thrashing like someone who couldn’t swim. Sweet cool air filled his aching lungs as he
struggled to keep his nose above water.
Wearily he tried to orient himself and, struggling against the leaden
weight of his limbs, he set out toward
the faint sound of voices. He would
cross the Acheron – or sink into its foul depths to be lost for all time. His clumsy strokes, hampered by his spear,
brought some warmth to his chilled heart.
Somewhere behind his thrashing arms and kicking feet was Charon’s ferry.
“You will drown, you
fool! Come back and accept your
fate!” The ferryman’s call
faded as the ferry was swept along by the river’s thunderous flow. Wolfhart fought against the current and the
cold, trying only to keep his muscles moving. But the Acheron’s cold
was arctic, and Wolfhart’s limbs finally froze up; the Acheron’s flow was
unwavering, and Wolfhart’s mind succumbed again to its dark. Yet his hand refused to release his spear,
and at the moment body and soul failed, the spear tip jabbed into the river
bank. Startled to
semi-consciousness, Wolfhart grabbed wearily at a jutting rock and hung
on. Long moments went by before he
pulled himself up onto the bank. His
knuckles white on his spear, he collapsed, half-aware of the naked feet of a
crowd around him. “Gatesss open wide – no
sssentriesss upon the battlementsss – !” Malacoda strode angrily through the
southern sally portal of the Citadel. Suddenly a muscular
human in bronze armour blocked his way through the gloomy tunnel. “You are the hunter?”
the human asked. Malacoda stopped. With a gruesome smile he set the butt of his
pitchfork against the stone floor. “You are no
philosssopher,” he hissed. “The
obviousss isss the lassst thing to crossss their lipsss, not the firssst. Ssso – Achillesss, isss it not? – who hasss
sssucssceeded in essscaping thisss well-guarded ssCitadel?” “A Kimbri – ” Achilles
began. Emerging abruptly from
the shadows of the tunnel, Plato came rushing up to them. “A barbarian boy,” he gasped, “ – too stupid
to listen to reason!” Achilles looked at the
philosopher. “Were you not in
conference with the others?” “Democracy…unfortunately…is
too slow to reach a decision in a crisis,” Plato said breathlessly. “I take the responsibility upon myself to
act quickly and decisively for us all.”
He turned to the demon. “You –
and your superiors – do understand that we had nothing to do with this? You know, do you not, that we do not condone
this behaviour?” “I am not ssso
sscertain,” Malacoda hissed slowly.
“You have left the gatesss wide open and have no sssentriesss posssted
on the wallsss.” Achilles stepped forward
threateningly. “Do not impugn our
honour! No denizen of the Citadel has
ever before deigned to do such a thing, and thus we could not be expected to
know it could still happen. It is
beneath our dignity to patrol the walls every day for the rest of time when
there is no call for it!” “Beneath your dignity,
Achillesss, corpssse ssson of a corpssse?
Thisss dignity of yoursss – open gatesss and unmanned wallsss – will not
be permitted to continue.” Achilles’ nostrils
flared and he curled his hands into massive fists. Gripping his pitchfork
with both claws, Malacoda stepped forward to meet the challenge. He glared into the Greek hero’s smoldering
eyes. “Or elssse sssome more sssuitable
punissshment will be found for you blasssphemersss and idol worsshipersss!” “The Kimbri child is
armed with a spear, as is the custom among his people,” Plato intervened. “If you do not hurry he may well elude you!” Malacoda aimed his
pitchfork threateningly at the philosopher’s face. “Do not attempt to dissstract me, old man. I do not require a reminder of my dutiesss
from sssomeone who doesss not know hisss.” Beads of sweat broke out
on Plato’s pate as he glanced down nervously at the pitch-caked trident beneath
his nose. “But I grow weary of tarrying here,”
Malacoda muttered. “The ssstench of
humansss uncleansssed by the burning pitssch is offensssive.” He slowly lowered his pitchfork. “Your fatesss will be desscided by One far
greater than I.” With a last cold glance
at the fuming Achilles, the demon turned and stalked back down the tunnel
toward the open gate. “Fuck you, mom! Just go fuck yourself you fucking
bitch! Look what you did to me! Look where I’ve ended up! If I get across and I find out you’re not
here too I’m going to hate you even more!
Fucking bitch!” “…and I wish I was never
even born. I wish you were never born
either dad – and your father and every single generation before. If I could, I’d go back in time and wipe out
our first ancestor so that our family would never have existed at all.” “…a piece of human
shit! That’s what I am! A piece of shit going into Hell like I
deserve!” Wolfhart opened his
eyes, glimpsing the legs and feet of a wailing crowd all around him. He was terribly cold and
shivering – but he abruptly realized that he’d made it. He had crossed the Acheron! Now, somewhere – away
from this cursed river – there had to be a way out. He rose painfully,
dazedly, and tried to push through the naked crowd. But they resisted him. “Hey!” snapped a pudgy
woman in her 30s with stringy brown hair.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, dickhead?” Her name had been
Melissa, and the road that had led her to the shores of the Acheron had been a
painful one. Psychologically painful,
for she was a lesbian whose response to the dawning realization of what she
was, was to deny it. Every time she
denied herself, every time she lied to herself, she masked it by lashing those
around her with the foullest of curses.
Every time she harmed herself, she took a step closer to the
Acheron. And every time she hurt
others, she took another step. By the
time the final darkness claimed her in her mid-30s, she discovered that she’d
traversed the whole distance and now stood on the banks of Hell’s first river,
cursing her mother, cursing all those she knew, and finally cursing even
herself. “I must pass,” Wolfhart
said wearily to her. “Like fuck you do! You’re going to cross this river and get
what’s coming to you – like all of us!” “Yeah,” a thin man with
crazy eyes, yellow teeth and a patchy hint of mustache added. “You’re in this with us, dude. All for one and one for all!” His name had been
Keith. He had been gifted with a love
of language and literature – and cursed with parents who could not understand
that. With a father who demanded
excellence in things that mattered, and with a mother who insisted upon a room
so neat that he could not sit upon the bed once it was made, nor play on the
polished floor, nor have more than one pencil and one piece of paper on his
desk at any one time. He took his first
steps toward the Acheron in his child’s evasion of these expectations. He lied about his grades, and instead of
cluttering his room, he cluttered his mind.
When he left his parents’ house he could have turned away from the
Acheron, but he found that he had acquired a taste – and a talent – for
mendacity. He enjoyed the advantage it
gave him over the unsuspecting and he preyed on those less loquacious than
himself. Faking a hipster’s expertise
in Freud, he made himself everybody’s psychoanalyst and proceeded to tear them
down so cleverly and so relentlessly that they became weak enough that even he
could dominate them. And every time he
could have confronted the reality of his predatory life, he took refuge in the
cluttering of his mind. He did not turn
away from madness, but he embraced it – and the freedom from responsibility it
brought. And so, Scavenger King of the
underside of the city, the sickness in his mind fed the sickness of his body,
until he found that he had chauffered himself on the backs of rats to the
shores of the Acheron. Wolfhart brandished his
spear in Keith’s face. “Step aside or,
by Gungnir, you will die again.” “Fuck you, buddy.” Before Wolfhart could
turn to see who had spoken, a fist
hammered into the side of his head.
Staggering, his hand
coming up at the pain in his temple, Wolfhart turned and saw a large and
solidly built young man with an incongruously child-like mop of curly locks
standing there. His name had been
Patrick, and there could hardly have been a bigger physical difference between
him and Keith. Patrick had early
realized the enormous power that his physical size gave him. He slipped into the role of bully easily,
and had early felt the delight that came from having his every cruel and
aggressive whim realized. To his
credit, a niggling sense of remorse stole its way into his heady reign of
youthful terror and he turned to drugs to quash it – to give him that thrill of
surging power even in the quiet moments when that little voice tried to get his
attention. Ah, he loved that high, and
his bullying ways helped him get his hands on what he needed. The things he’d done to get the stuff…! Afterward, he always liked to take refuge in
the word “addiction”, but even that didn’t stop those awful moments of lucidity
when he suddenly remembered all the little decisions, all the moments when it
was up to him, and all the little surrenders he’d done to get where he was – on
a steady trek to the Acheron. He had
long been in sight of its cold black waters when he finally drowned the lucid
voice inside him forever. “At the end I was taking
coke just to feel normal,” he said, his fists clenched. “You can’t get to be normal– ” his fist
suddenly lashed out again and smashed
into Wolfhart’s chin “– that easily.” Wolfhart crumpled to the
pebbly ground. “You can’t just walk in
the other direction,” Patrick lectured, standing over Wolfhart, “ – against the
flow of everybody else!” “Yeah,” Keith with the
crazy eyes concurred. “If it was that
easy – fuck!” – he giggled – “I would’a done it a long time ago, bro! A long time ago!” Wolfhart, his head
ringing, struggled to his knees. “I
have no quarrel with any of you.” He
planted the butt of his spear against the ground to help himself up – but
Melissa grabbed a hold of it. “But I’ve got a fucking qwor-rell
with you, asshole! You think you can
just come here and act like you’re better than us – like you’re some kind of
exception to the rules of God? Fucking
asshole! We should kick you
across the fuckin’ river!” “Yeah,” Keith agreed,
“you need a good butt-kickin’!” “Kick him!” somebody
screamed. And they did. Again and again. “Charon!” The robed ferryman
looked up from his work on his boat’s cut mooring tether. His fiery eyes flared in disbelief: another
one? “Who approaches from
whence none must approach?” “Malacoda.” With a weak flutter of his wings, the demon
hopped onto the river bank. “I quessst
for an essscapee from the ssCitadel .
Have you ssseen him?” “That barbarian boy?” Malacoda shifted his
grip on his pitchfork. “Yesss. Where isss he?” Charon gestured
dramatically at the rushing river. “Acheron has taken him.” “He hasss drowned?”
Malacoda asked doubtfully, stepping closer to the water line. “You are sscertain?” “He dared to set foot on
my ferry unbidden. So I threw him into
the river.” Charon folded his
arms. “No one can survive the icy
despair of its kiss.” His clawed toes spasming
suddenly, Malacoda gingerly stepped back from the edge of the bank. “I feel the truth of what you sssay. It makesss one feel weak jussst to ssstand bessside
itsss flow. I do not believe that I can
ssstill fly acrosss.” “Luckily you do not need
to cross, demon. Your hunt is
ended. Your quarry has perished.” Charon bent again to his work. “And it is also strictly forbidden for
anyone to cross from this side.” Suddenly furious,
Malacoda strode to Charon’s moored boat and pointed his pitchfork at the
ferryman. “Do not try your power on me,
old one! If I require passssage, you
mussst take me – and quickly! I am
quesssting for a fugitive, and the integrity of Hell isss a matter of the
highessst order!” “You do not need to
cross.” “Ssso you sssay….” Malacoda’s small, pointed ears swivelled at
sounds from across the river. “Do they
alwaysss make sssuch a din over there?” “Yes, yes,” Charon said
dismissively. “Wailing and cursing –
constantly. It is the music of the Acheron.” “No – not that –
fighting.” “Fighting?” Malacoda fixed the
ferryman with a determined look. “You
had bessst take me acrosss.” No matter how they
savaged him, Wolfhart did not relinquish his spear, for even as he fell he tore
it from Melissa’s grasp. His substance
was assailed by their cruel blows and brutal kicks – but the lingering numbness
of the river’s grasp somehow protected him.
During a lull in the storm of blows, Wolfhart staggered to his feet and
slashed about wildly. “Back, you cretins!” he
snarled through bloody lips. Stabbing
and slashing, he waded into the naked crowd – and they yielded before him. Parting, they allowed him to slowly move
away from the river. Wary of treachery,
Wolfhart whirled every few seconds, his iron speartip whistling in a deadly
arc. “You’re a fucking
prick!” “You think you’re
special and we’re not?” “Eat shit, leather boy!” “You can’t get out of
Hell! You’re dead, you moron!” Wolfhart ignored their
cries and forged out of the press – and onto a path leading uphill. The exit must be at Hell’s highest level, at the very top of the
spiralling pit, he thought. But the last shout of those waiting to be
ferried across the Acheron worried him.
Could the dead actually
leave the afterworld? He reached for a source
of hope: this wasn’t the afterworld
that the wise men and women of the Kimbri had spoken of. He knew he had died bravely in battle and
that he should have gone to the hall of the heroes to be greeted by the
Valkyrja with a horn of heavenly mead!
But a new, terrifying
doubt suddenly assailed him: could it
be that his death counted as a dishonourable one because he could not save
Sieglind? Was this then Niflheim, the
land of shadows and, thus, his true fate?
Malacoda leapt
impatiently off the ferry before it touched the shore. Wings fluttering weakly, he landed amidst
the throng on the beach. “Oh my G…” somebody
choked. “A demon!” “You would crossss the river sssomewhat more
quickly if you had sssome competition,” Malacoda called back to Charon before
turning his attention to the crowd. “Ssstand assside!” he
hissed. Screams and shrieks
resounded along the river bank. “Sssilence!” Malacoda
shouted as he swung his pitchfork. He
felt his strength return with every step he took away from the river. “You will all feel the tormentsss of Hell
sssoon enough!” The crowd parted at his
jabs; then Malacoda recognized one of them.
“You! You will be coming to the
pitssch! Isss it not fassscinating how
your talk of ticking clocksss whilssst you yearned for war brought you to
thisss?” Malacoda abruptly lunged
and ran the naked sinner through – the man’s small black eyes widened in pain. “How doesss it feel?”
Malacoda gloated at the writhing wretch.
The scaly muscles of the demon’s arms rippled as he twisted the fork in
the wound. “The sssweet
sssensssuousssness of war!” Then he
wrenched the fork out violently and a trail of blood spattered the crowd. “But enough, junior – I
have busssinesss to attend to before pleasssure.” He turned to the cowed
mob. “I ssseek a young barbarian. Where isss he?” Thin Keith, all yellow
teeth and crazy eyes, stepped forward. “Dude – ” He paused.
“Can I call you dude? I mean, I
don’t want to insult you or anything – I mean, I’m kind of new here and I don’t
know the etiquette – ” “Sssilence!” Malacoda
snarled, his reptilian eyes narrowing dangerously. “Ssspeak to the point: where isss he?” “Okay, right, yeah,”
Keith sputtered, strangely excited at his own terror, “you’re a busy demon – I
forgot – so sorry – have pitchfork will kick butt, eh?” Malacoda stepped forward
threateningly. “That way, dude!” Keith
announced with a flourish, making his whole body point in the direction that
Wolfhart had gone. Only his terrified
brown eyes were turned to Malacoda.
“I’m serious! The kid said, ‘I’m
getting out of here!’ and then went that way!
I wouldn’t lie to you!” Malacoda sniffed Keith,
and then glowered at him. “Yesss, you would…but
not thisss time.” And with a buffet of
leathery wings that knocked crazy-eyed Keith down, Malacoda flew heavily over
the crowd. Not far from the Acheron
the air darkened; a droning buzzing filled the black haze and was accompanied
by sighs, cries and wails in a confusion of languages and accents – shouts of
pain and of anger, hoarse voices, shrill voices and the repeated sound of
blows. Wolfhart stopped as a
white banner materialized out of the darkness and whipped past his face,
seemingly borne by the wind. The next
instant a stampeding storm of bodies smashed into him. Wolfhart was trampled by
a shouting mob running at high speed.
Above the cacophony of their raucous voices and trampling feet, the
deafening buzz of a cloud of wasps and hornets made its way down to his
ears. He grunted in pain as feet
slammed into him again and again, and he became aware of fluid spattering him –
gouts of pus and blood dribbling down like rain from the mad men and women
rampaging over him. He was driven
deeper with every impact into a ground that was soft, slimy and squirmed under
him. Maggots! he realized as
they wriggled against his face and into his hair. Worms! Abruptly, the stampede
ended. Dazed, Wolfhart tried to push
himself up but his arms sank down to the elbow in the slippery, wriggling
mass. Disgusted, he tried to find some
footing – and was so pre-occupied by this that he only had time to grunt in
surprise as he was knocked face down in the slime again by the last stragglers
of the circling mob. Groaning, he finally
managed to push himself up, crushed insects smearing his hands, his face, and
his clothes. The insistent background
buzzing suddenly got louder – and before he could react, a swarm of wasps and
hornets engulfed him. Thousands upon thousands
of yellow and black bodies blurred his vision while their terrifying drone
filled his ears. Madly he waved his
arms to fend them off – but he felt no bites.
And, just as abruptly, the sound lessened – the cloud of insects passed. His heart thudding,
Wolfhart wondered why he was spared.
His thoughts were cut short – the white banner flickered in the darkness
behind him, coming on again with stunning speed, pursued by the wild, shouting
mob. Lurching, trying to gain
purchase in the swamp of maggots, Wolfhart waded desperately to get out of the
way. But the shrieking of the
fighting and cursing mob swelled insanely and Wolfhart was blown face first
into the writhing maggot mess by a hurricane push as they stormed by. Spitting maggots,
Wolfhart realized he was lucky to have been a step outside of the mob’s
orbit. He stood up as the solid mass of
the mob – and their pursuing swarm of wasps and hornets – raced away. He marked where they turned to follow the
white banner into the darkness. He
guessed the path of their circle and how soon they would return, and then waded
furiously to be completely out of the orbit of their passing. After a few breathless
moments of slogging, the shrieking crowd raced by again, but this time the
hurricane winds they produced only served to give Wolfhart a final push out of
the swamp of maggots and worms -- and onto solid ground. Gasping with relief, he
stamped the slimy insects off his boots.
He looked up into the gloom – and saw a dark stone archway at the crest
of a small hill. Back on the other side
of the maggot field, Malacoda watched the white banner flash by. Leaning into the storm winds, he forged
through the maggots toward the racing crowd.
He held his arm out – and clotheslined a member of the whirling mob. Dragging the choking
wretch back from the stampede by his hair, Malacoda dropped him onto the hard
ground beyond the glistening worms. “I
will sssimplify mattersss for you, fensce-sssitter,” Malacoda growled. “You will not have to weigh sssidesss to
determine which one isss likely to impossse itssself – I am imposssing
myssself, and you will do asss I sssay.” “What…do you want?” the
spirit croaked. “A barbarian boy. Have you ssseen him?” “There was somebody
wandering about out there – but I didn’t pay attention. Alone, isolated – he can’t be a factor, I
figure.” “Not like the banner, my
friend? The banner that leadsss to
victory?” “The banner! I have to get back! I can’t let the others be first behind
it!” The spirit struggled to rise, but
Malacoda pushed it back down with a clawed foot. “Not ssso hasssty. Did you and your compatriotsss trample him
into the maggotsss or did he crosss?” “How should I know? Like I said, he’s a non-entity.” Malacoda pressed down
with all his weight. “Consssider.” The spirit’s cunning
eyes flashed with alarm. “Okay, okay, I
remember. He crossed over. He’s on his way to the gate.” “Are you sscertain?” “Hey, it’s what you want
to hear, isn’t it?” Malacoda reached down
with sudden fury, grabbed the startled spirit by the hair and threw it
violently into the crowd that stampeded by again. “Damned opportunissstsss,” the demon
muttered to himself. “I mussst asssume
the worssst.” He leapt up, wings
flapping, and plunged into the cloud of wasps and hornets pursuing the
screeching mob. Wolfhart trudged the
last three dozen steps to the stone gate, his eyes fixed on the area around his
goal. There was solid darkness to the
right and to the left of the archway – and above it -- for as far as he could
see. The chill of nothingness emanated
from the blackness, and Wolfhart guessed that he could not step into it. Within the stone arch there was a nebulous
greyness, bright in comparison with the utter blackness. The gate itself was the only way out…and
suddenly he was afraid. Could he really pass through?
Would he find himself in the hall of heroes on the other side? Or would this ‘God’ somehow prevent his
escape at the last moment? He whirled at a
sound…but nothing moved on the barren slope down to the hazy maggot plain. He was hearing things…. He turned to the gate –
and a blast of wind came from above. A nightmare creature
dropped from the endless black sky, landing with cat-like grace to block
Wolfhart’s way. The black, scaly
lizard-like demon levelled a pitchfork at Wolfhart to drive him back. No! Not now! Not when I was so close! A black, forked tongue
flicked out from the demon’s scaly lips. Wolfhart resolutely gripped his spear. “Child,” Malacoda
snarled, taking a step forward, “you have come far enough! You have led me a merry chassse, but now you
mussst return to your little ssCitadel.
If, however, I could desscide,
you would come back down to the pitssch with me inssstead! Along with all the ressst of the
blasssphemersss in the ssCitadel!” Wolfhart stepped up to
meet the demon’s challenge and held his spear for a sudden thrust. “I would rather die than go back!” Malacoda laughed -- and
with a lightning-fast strike of his pitchfork batted Wolfhart’s spear
aside. “You are dead,
child! One way or another, you will
return with me.” “You would not have been
sent to stop me if I could not step through that gate!” Wolfhart snapped,
striking back at the demon’s pitchfork with his spear. “Interesssting.” Malacoda tightened his grip and aimed his
fork anew at Wolfhart’s mid-section.
“And the philosssopher claimed you were ssstupid! Yet the fact of the matter, child, isss that
you will not ssstep through that gate – because I will not permit it!” Malacoda suddenly thrust
– but, using his spear like a quarterstaff, Wolfhart caught the pitchfork
between two of its tines. “If you are all that stands between me and Sieglind,” Wolfhart snarled
as he strained against the demon’s
strength, “– between me and Valhalla – then I am almost there!” With explosive push he abruptly threw
Malacoda back. Stumbling, the startled
demon regained his balance on the threshold of the gate. “Where did you acquire
sssuch ssstrength?” Malacoda muttered in amazement, his reptile eyes narrowing
suspiciously. He unfurled his wings. “Perhaps you are unused
to dealing with those who have a will,” Wolfhart shot back, “with those who do
not succumb to you – with those who do not fear you!” Wolfhart stabbed at Malacoda -- and wondered even as he did it, Can demons be destroyed? “No,” Malacoda uttered,
expertly parrying the thrust, forcing Wolfhart’s spear tip down and to the side
before whirling into a swinging counterstrike, “ -- it must be an effect of the
Acheron!” Wolfhart ducked beneath
the pitchfork’s whistling arc and struck up at Malacoda’s unprotected belly. But Wolfhart stabbed
into emptiness as the demon’s flapping wings bore him to safety – behind
Wolfhart. With a triumphant snarl
Malacoda jabbed at the youth’s unprotected back – but Wolfhart spun with
blistering speed and parried. Quickly bringing his
speartip up to point at the demon’s forehead, Wolfhart gasped, “So now the gate
is behind me – I have but to take one step back…!” “If you do,” Malacoda
hissed, “you will be ssset upon by three wild beassstsss – the lion of pride,
the leopard of fraud, and the ssshe-wolf of desssire – who will tear your
sssoul to ssshredsss. And an alarm will
sssound in Heaven bringing a messsenger of irresssissstible power to return you
to your rightful place. Ssso, you
sssee, resssissstance isss pointlesss.” “Interesting choice of
words,” Wolfhart snapped as he jabbed at the demon’s face. Malacoda immediately commited to a parry –
but Wolfhart swiftly pulled back his
head-high thrust and rammed the spear into Malacoda’s belly. For a terrifying instant
the creature’s gleaming ebony scales resisted the bronze speartip – but
suddenly gave way and the spear plunged deep. Wide eyed, Malacoda
staggered back, dropping his weapon and clutching the spear in his
stomach. Even as the demon fell,
Wolfhart did not release his grip on the spear. He looked down on the writhing demon – and grimly wrenched his
spear free. Gouts of green ichor
burst from the pulsing wound in the torn black flesh, spattering over Wolfhart,
the barren ground, and the stone archway itself. A hideous smile crinkled
through bubbles of green slime on Malacoda’s reptile lips. “You have – sssealed –
your fate,” the demon gasped. “My blood
– will sssummon – the Almighty.” A sudden chill doused
Wolfhart’s hot sense of triumph. He
wanted to immediately turn and run through the gate, but…for long seconds…he
remained frozen, watching the demon’s body melt as if it were wax. The humanoid shape shrunk to lumps which
dissolved into black puddles which evaporated before Wolfhart’s eyes to become
a threatening black vapour. Wolfhart finally tore
himself away and, holding his breath, dashed through the stone archway – Into a world of
sunlight. Blinking against the
sudden brightness, he saw a deep valley stretch out below him. At its far end rose a small, grassy hill –
and directly under him waved the green leaves of a dark, inviting wood. Freedom! How long since he’d seen
more than the trodden grass of the Citadel?
In that forest, among the comforting boles of trees dappled with light
and shadow by the play of rustling leaves, in there he’d find freedom! Wolfhart’s mind filled with visions of the
holy groves of his people – those sacred spaces in the depths of the forests
where Holle and Wotan touched the Kimbri with their mysteries. With renewed hope, he
bounded down toward the trees -- but as he began his descent, he glimpsed
movement on the hill at the far end of the valley. He stumbled, forced himself then to concentrate on his footing –
but kept glancing at that hill. Three
shapes – large animals he guessed – were running down its slope. Wolfhart remembered
Malacoda’s words. The animals were
heading for the forest to intercept him! He tried to reassure
himself with the thought that they had the whole valley to cross, that he would
get into the sheltering wood before they reached him – but another glance
revealed that their speed was awesome. He redoubled his own
efforts and clattered madly down the stony slope. For the first time in his flight he truly felt the hardness of
the earth through the soles of his boots.
He skidded on loose shale, scraped his hands, his elbows, his knees, but
got up and ran on; the waving crowns of the nearest pines seemed to beckon him
to hurry. Something gleamed
suddenly on the summit of the hill at the end of the valley. Unable to stop himself, Wolfhart looked into
a blinding white light that flared on the hill’s crest. Immediately he tore his
eyes away from the winged being materializing in that blistering corona and
dangerously increased his speed. He
tripped, tumbled, rolled, was dashed against rocks until, dazed and blind with
pain, he came to a crushing stop against the trunk of an oak. Head spinning, Wolfhart
blinked up at the wavering pattern of the the bark…and suddenly
remembered. His eyes widened as
suppressed images flooded into his mind.
Forgetting his pain under the onslaught of memory, he rose shakily to
his feet. He took a few halting steps
up the slope, picked up his spear, then limped into the cool safety of the
forest. With every step the pain
lessened, and memory after memory flared in his mind. Soon he was loping among the trunks and roots without really
seeing them as the practised ease of one raised in the woods came back to
him. A flying white mare –
and his own bloody body held firmly in the lap of a Shield Maiden – a Valkyr –
her one white arm around his chest while she held the reins of her flying steed
in the other. The dizzying, majestic
vista of the Great Mountains, the Alps – gleaming white peaks with purple
shadows – far below. The mountains paling
beside the breathtaking vision around him: dozens of white horses, spears
strapped to their sides, gallopping through the blue sky, each ridden by a
Valkyr in steel breastplate and flowing skirts. Bronze shields strapped to their backs, each Shield Maiden held a
brave Kimbri soul they had chosen for the hall of heroes. Then, scenes of terror: a horde of naked
winged men glowing with unearthly golden light swooped out of the sun – winged men like the one that had just
materialized at the top of the hill at the other end of the valley. The Shield Maidens had
snatched up the spears strapped to their mounts to fight off their attackers
and had fought valiantly – but one-handedly, for they held fast to the fallen
warriors they had chosen. They were
Valkyr, and lost only one of the Kimbri destined for the hall of heroes. Him. That bitter memory made
Wolfhart’s eyes glitter with tears – he
was torn from the Shield Maiden’s arms by one of those unearthly,
inhumanly beautiful winged men. The
angel had quickly veered off with his prize and fell into a steep dive,
swooping down into this very valley. He
had shot through the archway, and only then slackened to glide through the
gloom and fogs of upper Hell to the vast star-shaped Citadel. Wolfhart remembered now being dropped on
that trodden green lawn, dropped at the feet of a group of robed philosophers. By Holle! By Holle! That was how the hall of
heroes had been stolen from him! And he
had been chosen! He had been chosen! But instead of the
comradeship of great warriors, instead of celestial mead and long evenings in
the company of Shield Maidens, he had been condemned to an eternity of
soul-numbing despair! Fury filled him,
fury drove him and he redoubled his determination to make good his escape -- he
would undo the terrible injustice that had been done to him! A roar suddenly blasted
through the trees, and the very ground shook beneath his feet. Wolfhart faltered as the roar was followed
by a blood-freezing howl. It echoed eerily among the cathedral-like trunks of
the trees, as if he were surrounded by wolves.
He tightened his grip on
his spear, and ran on, the sounds of pursuit – the swish of brush, the fast
padding of huge paws on the earth – growing ever louder, ever closer.
Abruptly he broke into a clearing ringed by stately oaks and beech trees
– and what he saw in its centre made him trip in surprise – and fall at the
hooves of a holy white horse. Stunned,
he looked up at the rider -- at the familiar skirt and steel breast-plate of a
Shield Maiden. Then his heart stopped. Spear in one hand,
shield in the other, Sieglind – his Sieglind -- smiled down at him. Wolfhart leapt up. “Sieglind!
By Holle, Sieglind!” He touched
her skirt and felt the leg beneath it, unable to believe that she was real. He looked
into her blue eyes. “I did not
even dare to hope for such a meeting…!
But – but, but how is it that you have become a Shield Maiden?!” The laughing, innocent
girl with wild unbound hair that he had known was stern and serious now, her
tight blonde braids emerging from under a battered steel helm. “Wolfhart,” she said
with a voice heavy with melancholy, “the ranks of the Valkyr have been thinned
in a long war that we have been losing.”
She turned her head at sounds of animals crashing through the wood. “Human-born maidens have been called upon to
take up the mantle of goddesses,” she went on, looking back to him. “But now ready your spear, because our foes
are upon us!” Branches and leaves
where Wolfhart had entered the grove suddenly shook and gave way. A massive tawny lion with a great black mane
and burning green eyes, a sinewy spotted leopard and an emaciated silver-black
she-wolf broke into the clearing at a run – and leapt for Wolfhart. Instantly he knew he
could not avoid their attack and so did the only thing he could: he braced his
spear against the earth and met the charge of the most powerful one. The snarling lion pounced -- into a
shivering shower of blood, the ripping crimson tip of Wolfhart’s spear emerging
between its shoulders. The mighty beast
buried a staggering Wolfhart beneath its bulk and its claws tore at him in its
dying frenzy. Wolfhart hissed in pain,
but still kept his hands on the butt end of the stout spear that jutted from
the great cat’s chest, his fingers sticky with the lion’s hot blood. Slashed, winded, crushed, Wolfhart pushed
vainly against the dying beast while the snouts and claws of the leopard and
the she-wolf scrabbled under the lion’s bulk to get at him. Abruptly he found himself staring into the
leopard’s luminous orange eyes – eyes that suddenly widened in pain. Snarling, the big cat’s face disappeared. Wolfhart, his slashed
skin burning, pushed up with every shred of strength in his trembling limbs and
heaved the dead bulk of the lion off.
Gasping, he tried to pull his deeply embedded spear out of the massive
corpse -- but the slavering she-wolf pounced on him. Her sharp teeth closed on his forearm – and he bit back a
scream. Falling beneath her, he punched
wildly at her nose with his free hand.
She yelped and released his arm – but her foam-flecked jaws descended
for his face. Wolfhart desperately
jammed his bloody hands into her chest, pushing back against the momentum she
was using to bear down on him. He
stared into her glittering brown-black eyes as her sharp canines snapped shut a
finger’s breadth from his nose. Scarlet blood suddenly
spurted from her black nostrils – and her dark eyes glared with outrage. The she-wolf turned to see Sieglind pulling
her spear from a deep gash the she-wolf’s side, the bloody corpse of the leopard
lying at the Shield Maiden’s feet. With
a howl that checked Wolfhart’s heaving chest in mid-breath, the she-wolf leapt
for the blood-spattered Shield Maiden.
But a second thrust from Sieglind’s spear choked the howl into a dying
whimper. The she-wolf collapsed
and lay in a pool of blood; her open, angry eyes slowly lost their glitter. Breathing heavily,
Sieglind held her hand down to Wolfhart.
He grasped it and allowed her to pull him up. “Are you hurt?” he
groaned. “Not as much as you,”
she answered, catching him as his knees suddenly buckled. He waved away her hand
and straightened painfully. His
breathless gasp -- “Just a scratch“ -- was cut off by Sieglind’s white
mare. A terrified whinny filled the air
as white light exploded above, blinding them. Shielding their eyes,
Wolfhart and Sieglind saw an angel, perfect and inhumanly beautiful, flaming
sword in his grip, alight in the grove.
Bright light streamed from his pristine nakedness as his large white
wings folded against his back. He
turned the cold beauty of his eyes first on Wolfhart, then on Sieglind. “He is Ours,” the angel
intoned, majestically pointing his flaming sword at Wolfhart. “Surrender him at once, or face the wrath of
the Almighty.” “Begone, arrogant one!”
Sieglind shouted back as she tightened her grip on her shield. “Your god has no rights in this sacred grove
– and no claim to this warrior. Concern
yourself with those who give themselves willingly to your god!” “The Almighty is the
ruler of all Creation” the angel retorted with a voice that echoed like brass.
“Repent your sinful heathenism and surrender to His justice.” “Never!” Sieglind
shouted. With a roar deeper and
more soul-shaking than that of the lion, the angel swiftly unfurled his wings
and launched himself at Sieglind. She raised her shield,
stopping the angel’s fiery sword from cleaving her in half – but the stroke
splintered her shield to atoms and threw her into the centre of the clearing. The angel did not give
Sieglind a chance to recover: with another powerful beat of its wings it landed
astride her. “When you leave that
little corner of the universe in which you hide yourselves, you expose
yourselves to the power of the Almighty,” the angel exulted, raising his
crackling sword high for the killing stroke.
“Long have you all been sentenced to death – I merely execute a Divine
command!” Wolfhart, who had been
wildly wrenching at his spear in the lion’s body, suddenly came up with his
bloody weapon. In this holy grove, may Gungnir itself guide my aim! he prayed as he drew back his arm and quickly let the spear fly. At the last instant the
angel became aware of the missile and turned, his blade a fiery arc through the
air. The flaming sword sheared the
spear in half – but what remained of Wolfhart’s missile, not much more than a
thick arrow, sped on and bit deep into
the angel’s naked side. Beams of
silvery light instantly burst out from the gash and the angel went down to his
knees in pain. “Hurry!” Sieglind
shouted to Wolfhart as she seized the reins of her restless steed and mounted. Wolfhart ran and leapt up behind her, but
before he had properly settled, Sieglind touched the sacred horse’s flanks with
her heels and the mare surged into the sky.
Cold wind coursed over their faces, and in instants they were high above
the trees. Wolfhart held Sieglind’s
waist tightly as he looked down. With a convulsive effort
the angel tore the speartip from his body– and another gushing flare of white
light escaped from his side. Pressing a
hand there, wings beating erratically, the angel rose from the grove to give
chase. Sieglind leaned forward
on her gallopping horse, guiding the sacred steed higher. Sieglind’s braids brushed Wolfhart’s face –
and suddenly he glimpsed a rainbow above the clouds. His heart leapt – the rainbow bridge to the home of the gods, it
must be! He looked down again –
and the smile froze on his face: the angel’s wings beat strongly and the
messenger of the One God streaked after them, flaming sword held up to cut them
down. “Faster!” Wolfhart
whispered into Sieglind’s ear. “We’re almost there!” Wolfhart looked down
again – and saw that the distance that had been closing was widening
again. The angel faltered; beams of
light shot out in all directions from between the fingers the angel pressed to
his side. The angel’s wingbeats became
erratic again – and even as Sieglind’s mount gathered for a leap into the
saving glimmer of the rainbow, the angel’s wide white wings gave out completely
and he dropped away, spiralling helplessly downward. “Now!” Sieglind threw one leg
over her mare’s withers, turned in the saddle, and kissed Wolfhart, her hot
tongue entering his surprised mouth.
His eyes widened: her lovely face was alive with shimmering motes of
rainbow colour. Then he closed his eyes
and gave himself completely to the kiss.
When it ended a
breathless eternity later, he opened his eyes to see the sacred mare gallopping
within sparkling rainbow mist and Sieglind’s arms around his shoulders. She smiled at him. “Now, Wolfhart of the
Kimbri, now you are finally free!”
Mr. Burger tells a tale to warm my heart. I love stories about my home…
Forgive Us Our Trespasses
Their eyes were cast down on the ground.