Krieg Verzehrt
#12 of Olivia Shuck
War Consumes
_ Krieg Verzehrt _
_ 2023 by Zorha _
**_Lechfeld, Bavaria
August 10th, 955_**
As the fierce mid-day sun beat down upon the battlefield, the unending clash of metal tipped spears against shields filled the air. The cacophony of twenty thousand hooves driving into the spongy soil barely drowned out the dying screams of heavy cavalry and equine archers alike. Blood and Death reigned here. The Magyar left flank pulled back, but Otto's knights were wise to this favorite feint played out 45 years earlier. They stood their ground on the right flank, refusing to chase after the invaders into a certain ambush.
Konrad der Rote, Duke of Lorraine, used this lull to re-survey the battle. He paused just long enough to wipe away the thick sheen of sweat from his furred brow with the back of his feline paw. The lynx found himself short of breath, the chain hauberk he wore stifling in the late summer heat.
Three supply carts he personally reclaimed from a Magyar ambush a day earlier burned near him. Extreme heat exhaustion sapped his strength. Sweat and blood stains soaked his personal bodyguards' surcoats. Thick billows of black smoke churned up into the turbulent clouds above, threatening more rain.
For decades now, the nomadic raiders from the Urals had plunged deep into Frankish, Swabian, and Bavarian holdings. Up until now they seemed content with exploratory raids, plundering farms and undefended towns, taking only what they could carry. The recent unrest between the Christian Franks and Pagan Saxons however provided an opening for a concerted strike at their preoccupied backside.
This would not stand.
Upon hearing the Magyars lay siege to Augsburg, Otto the Great brought an alliance of Dukes to the floodplain of the River Lech. Rather than scatter, Bulcsú gathered his tribes and stood their ground. In their arrogance, their arrowtips would shatter against heavier Germanic armor. The battle tipping now in favor of the regnum Teutonicorum, Konrad loosened the straps to his hauberk, just enough to draw in a deep breath.
A sudden arrow pierced his exposed neck, killing the lynx instantly.
As the Duke collapsed forward, his three equine guards spun in the direction of the arrow's flight. Near one of the burning carts, a lone Magyar archer pulled another arrow from his quiver. The group of three cavalry charged on battle honed instinct. The archer let his arrow fly, piercing the right eye of one of the bodyguards. He toppled forward in a calamitous crash of broken limbs, but not before his brothers in arms closed the distance to the archer with blinding speed.
The ruddy steppe wolf stepped to the side, pale eyes narrowing. When the calvary turned to track him, the lanky lupine's eyes widened in surprise. The fickle, flickering shadows of the nearby pyres offered no escape. A split second later, a metal spear tip scraped along his leather chestpiece. Had he not twisted at the last moment, dropping the bow, the bodyguard's spear would have most certainly run him straight through. One wing of the spear however, caught the wolf's necklace.
In one smooth stab the silver chain snapped, flinging its silver locket into the blazing cinders of a nearby supply cart.
The archer curled and rolled backwards with nimble grace. He dodged the second charge by a mere fingerbreadth. As soon as his hind feet found purchase in the crouch, the wolf drew two long, thin obsidian skinning knives. He lunged past the second charging cavalry, swiping. Sparks flew from the bodyguard's chain mail as one of the two knives broke. Crafted in a much earlier time, their practicality had not kept up well with iron age advances. A Vindelici curse spat out from the wolf's black muzzle lip. The two remaining equines spun, born a thousand years too late to understand what the supposed Magyar had just said.
The archer's snarled, pale eyes smoldering with resentment, and charged at the incoming armored cavalry. He twisted sideways at the last moment, dodging the first spear, before slicing up and to the side. An explosion of crimson erupted from the cavalry unit's exposed neckline. The archer ran up on the knee and thigh of the equine, which pitched into the moist ground. The Magyar used the momentum to launch off his fallen foe towards the remaining knight.
The tip of the equine's spear caught the wolf in the shoulder, and he drove the archer straight into the ground. Its impact was savage, rattling the equine's own flat teeth. The steel wings stopped dead as they crunched into the archer's clavicle with a wet snap. The equine didn't think he'd see the broken bones poking through the steppe wolf's fur from under the leather chestpiece.
The warhorse let out a guttural whinny and twisted the spear. He snapped the wooden shaft off inside the nomad, avenging his fallen Duke. The bodyguard let out short, angry exhales, towering over the wolf pinned to the ground. Sweat dripped from the eye slits of his helmet. Ominous thunder clapped above them. His own heart thundered under his chainmail.
He wanted to watch the invader die, slowly, pitifully.
When the next few moments passed without the wolf's cold stare changing, only then did the equine realize that any other warrior would have been howling, writhing in agony. No, the equine watched in dumb stuck horror as the smoldering resentment from the wolf's pale eyes began to actually burn.
The equine pulled off his helm, not believing his own eyes. He found it increasingly harder to breathe. He dropped to his knees, helmet hitting the torn up ground and rolling away from him. The sounds of battle grew distant as the Magyar front line routed, fleeing to the nearby river. A fat drop of rain, the first of many, splattered on his armor.
The wolf's fur darkend. The once thin steppe lupine grew broader hips, bosom budding up from the leather armor, now also turning black. Ancient runes that the warhorse could not understand appeared on the archer's bracers. The muzzle lips were decidedly feminine.
The armored horse labored to breathe now. Horrified. Paralyzed. His heart galloped erratically. Exquisite knife edged pain shot through his chest and shoulder. He fought to loosen the straps to his armor. His hoove nails were clumsy, sluggish, unlike the wolf. She stood before ripping the speartip from her shoulder and tossing it aside. There was no blood, for Death can not Die. Instead the Hellhound strolled through the thickening drizzle to the kneeling warhorse. She gently cupped the flat cheek of his long, quivering face.
She wanted to watch the invader die, slowly, pitifully.
His big, dull brown eyes stared back into the burning, ghostly eyes of Eternity. His heart gave out and he fell to his side, armor chinking in final service to his fallen Duke.
Satisfied, the hellhound sheathed her remaining skinning knife and turned to leave this bloody affair. Though a hunter and archer since the advent of chipped flint, she found her equipment and skills rapidly growing antiquated. She had come here for a singular purpose: The only reason she had left to exist now that Queen Abnoba had faded from this corporeal trapping ...
The hellhound reached for the only thing she had left of Abnoba on instinct. Her smoldering pale eyes widened when she realized the silver locket was gone. She turned about, her stoic muzzle barely contorting despite the subtle panic coursing through her. Something glinted in the dying embers of what used to be a baggage cart. She marched over to it through the thickening downpour and without hesitation scooped the item out of the sizzling hot coals. Borne of the infernal; she had little to fear from earthly flame. Ironic then the only thing she had feared up until this point in these long, countless years now came to pass.
The remains of the silver locket Abnoba had given to her melted away in the pads of her outstretched paw.
Her paw clenched on instinct. The liquified remains of her only love in this otherwise meaningless existence squished between her claws. The hellhound's pale eyes quivered, but the burning determination that once filled them was gone now. Instead, a terrible yawning emptiness filled her. And it was here, on a pointless battlefield among countless others, that the nameless hellhound began to lose her way.
Before she could mire in her loss, a crack of thunder boomed above her. Its divine force rattled her, and a sudden flash of lightning broke her from the fugue. It touched off a memory from the Black Forest long ago. She looked back to the River Lech and was reminded of a surging Danube. She watched on stoically as hundreds of Magyars drowned trying to flee their pursuers. Those unlucky enough to survive would find themselves hung from the small smattering of trees dotted around Augsburg.
All those Souls. So little Time.
She turned abruptly and marched back to Konrad; the wraith still standing gobsmacked over the unexpected sight of his own corpse. The hellhound grabbed him by the nape of his hauberk and dragged him backward through the mud to a pool of deepening shadow in the charred remains of a wagon. They disappeared down through it without anyone noticing, Otto's men focused instead on their imminent victory ...
Höxter, Westphalia
_ December 25th, 1004 _
As the cruel winter gale howled, it flung icy flakes into the sturdy stone of a Benedictine abbey. Despite the bitter chill settling deep in the late Solstice night, the warm glow of hearth lights lit up the stained glass windows. The whistling wind muted revelry and celebration from deep within its hallowed halls of Fürstliche Corvey.
Brother Widukind had no time or patience for the raucousness coming from the dormitory. The devout wildcat found himself alone, stroking the small fireplace of the abby library. In truth he spent a lot of time here, studying, chronicling, but most importantly, tending to a potted olive tree. It was a gift, given to him from Matilda, Abbess of Quedlinburg, and daughter of Otto the Great. Brought up from Italy it required constant turning, pruning, conservative watering, but most diligently, dry warmth from the fireplace in winter.
Once satisfied, the elder wildcat sat stiffly down into his favorite seat in the quaint library. Hundreds of Latin transcribed volumes sat on dusty shelves around him. He shuffled through an extensive stack of paper on the mahogany writing desk to find a few particular pages of interest. The feline squinted, his eyesight failing in his advanced years. He took his time to flip through the most recent manuscript of Res gestae Saxonicae before dipping a somewhat dull quill into an inkwell, and scribbling revisionist history.
Hours passed. But for Widukind of Corvey, absorbed in his passion, it seemed like an Eternity.
A sudden crash of the library doors swinging open woke him. Widukind found himself draped over the writing desk and his manuscript. He rubbed his bleary green eyes before turning around to address the commotion. When had he fallen asleep?
The wildcat found himself dumbstruck as a student pranced through the oak doorway, the merriment in the distance now booming with the clatter of banged pots as improvised drums. The effeminate vulpine continued to dance, his neophyte vestments twirling about. A full book bag slung around him haphazardly. His blue eyes lit up, black muzzle lips bellowing out a rather irreverent little verse:
Ecce torpet probitas,
_virtus sepelitur; _
_fit iam parca largitas, _
_parcitas largitur; _
verum dicit falsitas,
veritas mentitur.
Omnes iura ledunt,
et ad res illicitas;
licite recedunt.
Despite his sore back, Widukind stood at once beside his chair, outraged at such vulgarity.
"How dare you say such things in the House of God ..." He began, but sputtered as the slender fox skipped right up to him and planted a less than chaste kiss upon his own chapped muzzle lips. Again, Widukind was struck dumb.
"No, Brother, how dare you write such lies in the Home of your God." The vulpine slammed his book bag down, and a single volume among six others skidded out. The book appeared deeply aged; the leather of its binding brittle. Widukind's green eyes widened as he read its title.
Ab Excessu divi Augusti Historiarum Libri
Book I
Tacitus
The pious feline ran his trembling paw down the spine. His lips felt dry despite the dying embers in the fireplace. The monk recognized the name of the Roman historian. Books One through Six of Annals were thought lost to the ravages of Time. His stomach felt queasy from its implication.
"How ... Did you get these?" Widukind stammered.
"Because ..." The vulpine flashed him a maleficent grin and stepped forward. "I was there when Tacitus wrote it." Widukind took a hesitant step back. "I was there when your Saint Christopher, Reprobus of Canaan, had his moment of doubt ..."
Widukind looked the unassuming fox up and down. The once vibrant eyes began to pale, the colorful red fur darkened. His vestments, once indicative of the Church, melded seamlessly into a black leather chest piece. The bust of the chest piece swelled. Black, etched runes appeared on his ... her ... archer's bracers. Being of Saxton descent and proud of his Nordic heritage, Widukind recognized them as Elder Futhark.
?????. But most of them were perverted; twisted, inverted, rotated, or otherwise mirrored.
Take joy in the Twilight of the Gods, and rejoice in Men ...
"Blasphemer." Widukind whispered.
He made the sign of the cross and muttered an ineffectual prayer. The hellhound growled, phantasmal eyes narrowing as the demon advanced on him. Widukind backed up involuntarily with mind numbing terror now. He stopped dead when his buttocks backed up against the writing desk. The monk had no place left to hide; the black wolf's pale eyes burned with accusation, judgment. Her square nose almost touched the monk's own.
"Descendant of the Forest Child, do not speak to me of blasphemy. You can not celebrate the history of the Old Gods while wearing the vestments of the New." The Hellhound pointed at the manuscript on the desk. "You can not celebrate your Legacy while ignoring the crimes of your Order. Nowhere do you write about what horrors came of Verden!"
"Charlemagne wasn't the invader ... they resisted conversion ... " Widukind's green eyes were wide, trembling.
"You don't get it, do you ... historian? ... Those that remain to write history ... are always the victor." The infernal fire in her eyes blazed. The fireplace flared suddenly. Widukind cringed from her venomous words, green eyes now sealed in abject fear for his very soul.
"Celts, Norse, Roman, Franks, Magyar. You are all invaders here. And your lies on the battles of the past create more battles for ..."
Before the Demon Dog could finish her accusatory little tirade, the feline monk interjected.
Vade retro Satana!
Nunquam suade mihi vana!
Sunt mala quae libas.
Ipse venena bibas!
Bitter cold and darkness descended throughout the library. Cautiously, Widukind opened his eyes, paws still up in a futile act to protect himself. The hellhound seemed deflated now, eyes no longer ablaze. She seemed to contemplate the last line, mulling over her own hypocrisy.
The wildcat looked about the fireplace and found the embers all but cold. Silence filled the frigid library. Widukind wondered absently why his breath wasnt visible. His hand groped for the manuscript on the desk but instead closed around a clammy paw holding a quill. Through the gloom he realized that some lifeless doppelganger sat in his chair, slumped over his life's work. It didn't take him long to realize what had happened.
"I ... died in my sleep ... didn't I?"
"Yes." The eerie glow from her pale irises focused on him. The fire of her wrath seemed spent. Her voice was like ice now. Chilled. Bitter.
"Not on the field of battle. As Konrad did." Small tears formed at the corners of his eyes. He stepped over to the potted Olive tree, touching the leaves that would surely die now without him to tend to it. "All I ever wanted to do was serve my King. Was that so wrong?"
The hellhound's eyes softened. She thought about her own Queen, and for the first time in almost a thousand years, felt for a mortal. She contemplated why she tortured Widukind's descendant so. Was the absence of Abnoba also blinding her as it did for him and Otto? Would she have enough free will to turn away from hate, or was her sole purpose doomed to eventual corruption?
"Facilis descensus Averno." She offered, more to herself than her latest charge. The monk seemed to accept his fate gracefully and with reluctant stoicism.
"Tell me your name, Demon. So I know who will lead me there."
It had almost been a thousand years since a half mortal had asked her that. She stood there, pale irises trembling. She could not claim to be Abnoba's consort anymore. Nor could she ascribe herself akin to Anubis, Cerberus, Garm, or C?n Annwn. The hellhound looked at the small potted tree. Reprobus had brought olives into the Black Forest. The olive tree had a very checkered association with War and Peace.
"My name ..." She hesitated ... "Is Olivia ... of Abnoba mons." The once nameless hellhound contemplated her new identity. With the destruction of the only material link to her old fealty, Olivia no longer felt bound to the Black Forest and its surrounding lands.
"Very well, Olivia of Abnoba mons. Lead on."
Oliva held out her paw, and Widukind of Corvey took it. Together, they walked to the fireplace filled with death and ash. They slipped through it to a portal leading to the Underworld, leaving Tacitus' Annals behind them. As they passed from the living world, Olivia seemed curious about the monk's pre-conceptions of mortality and the afterlife.
"Tell me of this ... Satan ..."
~ Fin ~
When morning was come they set up an eagle at the eastern gate, and erecting an altar of victory they celebrated appropriate rites with all due solemnity, according to their ancestral superstition: to the one whom they venerate as their god of Victory they give the name of Mars, and the bodily characteristics of Hercules, imitating his physical proportion by means of wooden columns, and in the hierarchy of their gods he is the Sun, or as the Greeks call him, Apollo. From this fact the opinion of those men appears somewhat probable who hold that the Saxons were descended from the Greeks, because the Greeks call Mars Hirmin or Hermes, a word which we use even to this day, either for blame or praise, without knowing its meaning
- The Deeds of the Saxons