Strontium-90 (14 page)

“The cup of Victory does not lie,” Gudrun said.

Attila swilled again, and he smacked his lips like a lion at a feast.

“Marcian begs for mercy,” Attila laughed. “I sit upon the throne of Constantinople, my feet on the emperor’s bleeding back. He is my footstool and his lands are naked before my raging warriors.”

“You are fated to rule the world,” Gudrun said.

“Or you attempt to dupe me with dreams.”

Gudrun shook her head. “You are a greater magician than I, dread lord. You know the power of spells. You hold the sword of War. Does the cup lie or do you feel its strength course through your veins?”

Attila’s narrow gaze took in the shimmering cup. He nodded like a sage reading a scroll of wisdom. “More wine,” he said in a husky voice.

A maid refilled the cup.

Attila stared up at tender Ildico. He gazed upon the throng of kings and warriors. A malicious smile wreathed his features. He lifted the cup. “Feast!” he roared. “Eat and drink! Then take the naked wenches who are the daughters of our defeated foes. Ride them unto victory.”

A mighty roar of approval shook the rafters.

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

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

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

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

“You have cursed me,” he muttered.

“How so, my king?” she asked.

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

“You led a host, you said.”

Ardaric shook his head.

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

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

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

“Ah,” Gudrun said.

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

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

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

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

Ardaric glanced over his broad shoulder. He shrugged.

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

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

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

“Is that some riddle, witch?”

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

“A foul sorceress,” he muttered.

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

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

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

“That was long ago,” Ardaric said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re mad,” he said.

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

Ardaric asked, “Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I did not taste blood,” Ardaric said.

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

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

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

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

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

Gudrun laughed with wicked glee.

“I will warn him,” Ardaric said.

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

“Suicide?” whispered Ardaric, amazed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

“Disrobe,” he slurred.

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was wine,” said Irnac.

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

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

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

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