"I say we cut the wench's throat and get moving." The speaker's appearance was as cruel and wild as his words and surroundings. The Saxon warrior pulled his wolf pelt cloak close and gestured with a spear still spattered with the blood of his victims. The wind howled as if to emphasize the man's statement. Here amidst the boulder strewn downs of Kent, under gray skies passing into night it seemed almost natural for three men to be discussing the cold blooded murder of a girl. She listened closely for she had learned enough of the Saxons' language to understand them.

Despite herself Varronia shuddered. She had been raised from birth to always bear in mind the dignity and courage of a Varroni and a descendant of illustrious generals and ancient Belgic kings. But her current surroundings would have tried the mettle of many a strong man let alone a girl of nineteen summers. She bent her head and her face was streaked with tears.

Varronia had seen her kinsmen and servants cut down by the Saxon invaders. Her home had been looted and burned and Varronia had been bound and dragged with kicks and curses to this lonely spot where her captors discussed her fate. As she lay beside the boulder where they left her, Varronia wondered which was the worse fate; to be slain here or to be carried off to the strongholds of the Saxon pirates on the Kentish shore. Far better, she thought, to have her throat cut and lie on the grass near the forest called Cernanswood. The grim tales superstitious peasants told of Cernanswood could be no worse than the all too real horrors of Saxon slavery.

"She'll fetch a good price from the slave dealers. Some chieftain will pay good silver for this one."

"Well, whatever we decide we can have a bit of fun first." Leering he turned to Varronia, "How'd you like a real man, eh? Not one of your weak-kneed British milksops. We're Kentings, the toughest Saxons of all!"

"Enough!" The first Saxon's voice betrayed his impatience. There had been twenty pirates at the start of the raid. They had followed their usual tactics by splitting into small groups to confuse pursuit. They were afoot, for the Saxons never fought from horseback. "I don't want to be cut off in this open land by the British horse patrols."

"We can go into yon wood."

"Nay, it is an evil place, where druids hold their rites." He held up his first and last fingers to ward off the evil eye. "Besides we are near the meeting point with Aethelwulf. From there it's smooth sailing. Let all the Britons come a-horse, on foot or flying they'll fall to Kentish spears."

At the mention of Aethelwulf Varronia's heart raced in fear for that name was a byword for terror. He was but newly come to the isle of Britain yet already he had earned a shocking reputation for ferocity. His horde of Saxon and Angle pirates pillaged and destroyed throughout the isle of Britain. Fiendish torture, slavery or death awaited all who fell into their power. Varronia clutched tight the image of the Blessed Virgin she wore on a chain about her neck and began to pray for strength. As she mumbled the words to herself a new sound gradually became audible over the bickering of the Saxons and the moaning wind. It was a pounding drumbeat of hooves.

A lone horseman galloped toward the Saxons who gathered into a tight knot, presenting shields and spears. From the chest of the horseman scale armor gleamed and a Roman-style helmet obscured his features. As he raced forward Varronia glimpsed the design on his shield, the Chi-rho of a Christian warrior. Controlling the reins with his shield arm the horseman's right was free but not empty. It held a javelin that he hurled with incredible force. The dart flew with pinpoint accuracy to strike the barely exposed shoulder of a Saxon. As the pirate sank down the horseman wheeled and dashed away.

The remaining Saxons began to panic. Almost as quickly as he departed the horseman returned at the charge, leveling a spear he had previously cached among the rocks. With devastating power he drove it through the shield and chest of one of the pirates. So powerful was the blow that the very wood of the shaft splintered in his hand. Whipping out his sword he turned on the remaining pirate. The horseman rode down the fleeing Saxon. His sword flashed and the Saxon fell dead, cleft from shoulder to breastbone.

Quickly the horseman shifted his shield to his back. He wiped his blade clean and sheathed it. Wordlessly he extended a bloody hand to Varronia. Looking into his grim scarred visage she asked, "What manner of man are you?"

"I am from Arthur Pendragon, Dux Bellorum."

From a distance a great shout came. Glancing back Varronia could see armed men topping a nearby ridge. At their head marched a warrior in gleaming mail with a gilded helmet and a vermilion shield. The javelin wounded Saxon laughed, a horrible cackle that brought bloody froth to his lips. "Aethelwulf is here. He'll pull you down and roast you on a fire. You'll wish you had never been born Briton!"

The warrior wasted no words on the dying Saxon. He pulled Varronia into the saddle as easily as one lifts a wine cup. A clap of his spurs and the horse surged away as bowstrings began to twang from the advancing horde.

They bounded across the plain to the edge of the wooded area where the closeness of the trees and brush forced the rider to slacken his pace. The war-horse was agitated and difficult to control so they dismounted. The warrior saw that an arrow had found its mark in the horse's hindquarter. The unfortunate beast was foundered from exhaustion and loss of blood.

"Well friend, you've carried me far. But all you're good for now is an Irish stew. If we don't get some distance from Aethelwulf all we're good for is to feed the crows." Deftly he pulled the arrow free and led the horse to a small brook. The animal was too weak to drink. Morvran gave it the only kindness that was left, a swift slash of a razor sharp dagger across the life vein.

Addressing Varronia he asked, "Can you walk lass? We must move fast. We have shelter from the archers here but it will be easy for them to overtake us now."

"I can walk." For the first time Varronia got a good look at he warrior. He was tall and lean with black curly hair and a drooping mustache. His piercing blue eyes looked out from a scarred face. His arms were covered in blue tattoos of writhing designs interwoven with fantastic beasts and shattering arrows. "Who are you sir? You've saved me but I don't know your name."

"Introductions were ill suited to the moment. I am Maximus Corvinus Tacitus. In the British tongue, Morvran Tegd."

"I am Varronia Constantia. My father is a landowner in these parts. He and my mother are with Arthur at Caerleon on Ywsg now, God be praised for were they not the Saxons would have slain them. How did you come by those marks?"

Morvran laughed. "You're a direct one aren't you? I was captured and enslaved by the Saxons once but I ran off and joined the Picts. The Saxons gave me scars, the Picts tattoos. Enough of old tales, we must move. There isn't much daylight left so let's use it." Varronia was glad for she didn't want to tarry in Cernanswood. "Now take this." He pulled a sturdy dirk from his belt and handed it to Varronia. She slipped the sheath on her belt. Well-bred ladies were little used to knife play but she would wield it with determination, if not skill, when the time came.

They plunged through the forest as the gloom deepened. Morvran's face was a grim mask in the shadow of his helmet. They entered a small clearing astride the forest path. A standing stone, the height of a man was there. Rough symbols of the Druids etched its surface. A sound came of many hounds baying, whether near or far or from what direction it was impossible to say.

"Morvran did you hear them? Those beasts make such a horrible sound. Are the Saxons hunting us with dogs? The country folk call this Cernanswood, the forest of the Horned One. I like it not."

"Do you believe in such girl? I've seen many strange things among the Pictish heathens and the Irish druids. Even so, the Horned One resides in Annwvyn, the land of old wives' tales. Who knows what god or gods rule the other side. Still this I know for sure: alive, a man must first trust to quick wit and sharp steel."

"Then see how sharp yours is!" A bellowing voice announced the newcomer. He was a sinewy Saxon encased in a mail shirt and rawhide leggings. An evil grin showed over his blond, forked beard and his right hand wielded a massive battle-axe.

"Osred Forkbeard! The most foul persecutor of the Britons!
Britain's soil, blood
Will drink when
Fountains from the
Saxon's heart flow."

"Well said. I've a poem of my own you will enjoy before I chop you apart.

Gift giving Aethelwulf
Golden rings will give
To the warrior bearing
Morvran's severed head."

Challenges hurled, the fighters advanced. Varronia watched the struggle in horror. Osred's axe had the power and speed of a charging bull. There was no subtlety in his attack, but ferocity and deadly force aplenty. Morvran had the speed of a tiger and as much strength. His sword wove an arc of steel about the foe and sent sparks flying when the weapons clashed.

Varronia's heart leapt when Osred's axe came crashing down in a hurtling overhand blow sure to crush Morvran's skull like an eggshell. But the Briton reacted with lightning speed. His sword darted into the Saxon's unguarded throat, slashing the life vein. Osred's axe continued its fatal descent and a metallic crash rung out as Morvran's helmet cracked and flew off. His head snapped back, wet with blood and both men crashed to the forest floor.

Varronia rushed to Morvran's side. Her stomach was a solid knot of fear as she knelt to look in the warrior's bloody face. His eyelids fluttered. She tore a strip from her dress to mop the blood from his wound. It bled freely and Varronia feared the worst.

"Manawydan MapLlyr! My throat is parched, for the love of Jesus give me water."

"For the love of Jesus yes. But swear not by heathen gods like Manawydan and Llyr. That lets Satan in."

Once again hounds howled in the forest. Varronia looked around. The woods had grown quite dark, as the feeble rays of the setting sun could not penetrate the forest shade.

"There is a huntsman near. Find him girl, he may have a shelter nearby. Hurry back with the water." Morvran groaned and feebly tried to rise from the ground.

"Lie still. I will return." She fashioned the bloody rag into a bandage about Morvran's head and rose to hurry away. Morvran lay on the grass, only the shallow rise and fall of his chest to indicate life. Nearby the dead Saxon sprawled grotesquely in a pool of blood. Between them lay Morvran's sword and shield, its Christian symbol barely visible in the gloom.

Night had truly fallen as Varronia hurried to where she recalled passing a stream. Her mind raced with the horrors of the day. Captured by barbarians, rescued and now lost in this desolate wood. In spite of hr patrician dignity, she let fall bitter tears.

The echoing cry of the hounds snapped her away from self-pity and she listened keenly. The night was chill and she wished for her fine woolen cloak. But there was more than cold wind to make her shiver. An icy spike of fear shot through her as she remembered tales her nurse had whispered in the dreary British nights.

The old nurse was a midwife and wise woman who knew if folk were ill or bewitched or elf-shot. She told stories of a huntsman who rode a chariot in the night. Black hounds followed him, yet they were not whelped by any mortal bitch. Witches made their obeisance to him and named him the Horned One.

She also told of a huntress. A maiden goddess, honored by the country folk who were still pagan. Indeed not so long before the Varronii had considered her a special patron and had maintained a shrine to the goddess they called Diana. Although the shrine was abandoned the statue was still inside and occasionally flowers could be seen laid at its feet. Varronia put such memories aside as heathen rubbish. She stiffened her resolve to hold fast to the Lord Jesus and the Holy Virgin Mother as a Roman lady and not a barbarian.

Varronia was despairing of finding the stream when a sudden splash and wetness about her feet solved the problem. In the dark she'd stepped in it. As she knelt she realized she had nothing to carry the water in. Swiftly she submerged the hem of her dress and scooped out some water. The water was icy torture in the cold wind but Varronia was determined to bring water to the warrior who had risked his life for hers.

She was following what she hoped was the way back to Morvran when she saw lights. A shifting blue glow came through he trees. A gust of wind brought the sound of turning wheels and a growling as of a mastiff dog. Varronia began to hurry toward it, almost in spite of herself, so desperate was she to find a living soul in the wilderness. But just as suddenly as it had appeared the glow vanished. Varronia stopped in her tracks as a dim moonbeam reflected on a something on the ground. Stooping she saw it was Morvran's Chi-rho shield, but there was no sign of Morvran.

The hem of her dress slipped from her nerveless hands and spilled the last few drops of the water she had saved. Her mind reeled. Where before there was a dead man and another so close to death he could touch it now there were none.

She had scarcely recovered from this shock when a new one hit her. Again she saw lights in the forest, but this time it was the ruddy flare of torches and she heard men's voices. With horror she recognized their language: Englysc, the hateful guttural tongue of the barbarian invaders. She understood what they were saying well enough though. They were hunting her.

"We'll flush them from their cover and take them! A curse on Osred Forkbeard! Where has the fool gone? If he doesn't help find the Britons he'll lose the spoils. The lass I'll honor by taking to my bed!"

"What of Arthur's man? What do you plan for him Aethelwulf?"

"We'll flay him alive and nail his skin up in the feast hall!"

Now Varronia panicked. She ran blindly from the Saxons. The thought of being enslaved to such brutes filled her with revulsion. She would run until she could run no more. And then there would be the dagger Morvran had given her.

Branches hit her and brambles tore her clothes and skin. Her lungs burned and her limbs ached. Still she ran, frantically determined to escape the Saxons. She knew not how far she had run nor did she care save that it was away from the barbarians. Her breath came in great gulps but she still had strength for she was young and robust. What weariness couldn't accomplish luck did. A gnarled root, growing above the loam, caught her foot and sent her headlong to the ground.

Varronia lay still, gasping for breath and desperately trying to gather her wits. Over the sound of her own gasps came a deeper sound, that of a great beast panting. Looking up she saw the muzzle of a huge black hound, fangs bared and eyes ablaze with a hellish red tint.

"Lord God no!" Varronia cried.

"Call not on that one here girl, for you are in my realm now." The voice came form the heart of a blue glow that suffused the glade where she lay. Coming from nowhere and everywhere it expanded, infusing all it touched, grass, leaves, trees, Varronia herself, with its sickly sweet corruption of death.

Now she could see the speaker clearly. A tall man, dark of mien, standing in a chariot drawn by black horses whose eyes flashed and glared. On his head grew tall stag's antlers and around him thronged shapes in the darkness. Some had the form of beasts that growled and others seemed to be women, but they made the sounds of chittering birds. One had the shape of a man but went on all fours like a beast. When it lifted its face as if to howl it made only a horrible gurgling as if from a cut throat. Varronia saw silhouetted in the glow a forked beard on its chin.

"Morvran." Varronia sighed, fearing for his very soul on this hellish night. No sooner did the name escape her lips than one figure detached itself from the thronging shades and stepped forward, suddenly illuminated by the unclean witch glow. Horror shook her as she recognized the warrior.

"Morvran we must flee!" He stood still, staring at her, naked sword in hand. "Come! The Saxons aren't as foul as these. They can destroy the body but the foulness of fiends poisons the soul." Morvran looked on with an expression that held neither love, nor pity, nor fear, nor hate, nor anything human at all as if the very essence of himself had been ripped away leaving something polluted and unnatural. "Answer me, you must answer me!" Varronia's voice rose to a shriek in her rage and fear.

"He cannot answer girl." The Huntsman's voice was like a whiplash. "He no longer needs the power of words for Annwvyn is the land of silence." The Huntsman's eyes fixed on Varronia's. They were pools of dark water that pulled her under. She sank into the depths and entered the Other World. Reflections of alien landscapes shimmered with hazy delights and horrors that lurked in every shadow.

"Morvran will run with my hounds and howl praises to forgotten gods. He'll feast on the carrion of the battle field and dig for the corpses of the slain." The hounds bayed mournfully and pawed at the earth as if remembering where familiar bones had been dumped in shallow graves.

The Huntsman gestured to Varronia. "Join us. You'll fly naked on the winds and drink blood and it will be as sweet as nectar." The witch shades tittered in dreamy pleasure at the mention of sanguine repasts.

His eyes were drawing her further in. She could feel her will slipping away. Convulsively her hand clutched at the dagger Morvran had given her. She felt strength flowing from the steel forged at Arthur's court. Once again Varronia was the proud daughter of Rome and Britain. She pulled the dagger and held it before her.

"I'll never yield to your foulness, be you god or demon!" Even as she spoke Varronia realized how pitiful her weapon was against the forces of the Outer Dark. The throng drew closer, Morvran at their head. At least she could face the power of Hell as a noblewoman. Taking hold of the holy medal at her neck she called, "Holy Virgin, give me strength now."

A blast of wind blew across the glade. Varronia felt a presence behind her. A woman came striding into the glade. The shades drew back and even the witch glow receded as if recoiling from the aura that surrounded the woman. She wore only a skirt about her waist and carried a bow and quiver. Her features were of a beauty so powerful that they were painful to look on The loveliest girl in the Isle of Britain was but a withered hag beside the terrifying beauty that had entered the glade. The features were shockingly familiar to Varronia. They were carved on the statue in Diana's shrine.

As fast as thought the Virgin nocked an arrow and shot it into the ground in front of Varronia. The Huntsman and his throng recoiled as if from a flame.

"This one is mine." The Virgin's voice was as a hundred ringing bells and splashing waterfalls, a rich music that penetrated every particle of the forest and set it aglow. "She called upon me in her need. Her kind and I have ancient oaths and I will not be denied."

"Sister, she knew not who she summoned. She worships the new god of the East."

"She called on the Virgin, not the one who dies and lives. Adonai, alas for Adonis." There was sorrow in her voice as if recalling a tragedy so long ago it had almost faded. "I do not forsake my oaths." Another arrow appeared in the bow.

"I yield. She is yet among the living, but like all that live she owes me a debt. We will withdraw now."

"No!" Varronia's scream shook the night forest. Terrified of own recklessness she spoke. "I'll not leave Morvran. He breathed still when I left him and I'll risk the fires of Hell for the warrior that risked his life for me."

The Huntsman laughed, a mirthless sound that carried the howl of the wolf. "Take him, he shall feed full the carrion hounds and the earth will drink deeply of the blood that flows where his sword passes. Take him, for he shall be my most blessed priest and the feasts of ravens on men's corpses will be my holy offerings."

With a flick of his reins the Huntsman's chariot started away and the hell-shades went with him. The Virgin likewise was gone and Varronia found herself alone with Morvran. Day was breaking. Morvran sheathed his sword and stooped to pick up his shield from the ground where it had lain all unnoticed.

"What happened? What gods or devils did we see Morvran?"

"I know not girl. I do know that a lass showed more courage against powers beyond our imagining than many a man does when faced with mortal steel. The night is gone and it seemed to have just begun. The poets say that is the way in Annwvyn, the Other World."

Wearily they began to walk back to the British lands. The morning air was refreshing though. Despite hunger, thirst, weariness and danger Varronia felt joy in surviving. She had stood firm in the face of Hell. No peril of Saxon steel or slavery daunted her. She imagined the reunion with her father at Caerleon. In the hall of Arthur Pendragon there would be feasting and music and the tribal kings with all their ladies and warriors would attend.

Her reverie was cut short as Morvran halted and drew his sword. The path had led into an area where the underbrush grew thick and tangled. Varronia could hardly see a foot into the matted thicket.

"What is it?"

"Silence. I heard a footfall." Warily he scanned the brush. Varronia stepped back sheltering behind Morvran. A frightful bellow split the air and a spear wielding Saxon burst from the thicket. His spear thrust missed but Morvran's sword didn't and the man crashed to the ground spurting blood. Morvran glared wildly as the sound of spears clashing on shields filled the forest. He pushed Varronia behind him and backed up to the bole of a massive oak.

"We're caught now. At least we can show them how Britons face barbarians."

Saxon warriors filed in ringing the tree. With shields to the front and spears presented they formed an impenetrable scyldburg. A lone swordsman would be pincushioned with ease and Morvran knew it. From behind the grim faced Saxons came a rumbling laugh.

"We have you now British dog. When you get to Hell tell them Aethelwulf's steel sent you." The chieftain stepped forward. He wore a mail shirt and a gilded helmet. Gold gleamed from his belt buckle and his sword was excellent Rhineland steel, in his hand was a vermilion shield. Varronia knew this was Aethelwulf the cruel.

"Come on then. Morvran Tegd fears no man in a fair fight. Let us battle my steel to yours."

"Foolish Briton. My men's spears are my steel. We'll spit you like a hare for roasting." Aethelwulf roared with laughter as his warriors began to tighten the ring. Morvran braced for the onslaught and Varronia closed her ears to the Saxon's hateful laughter even as an animal snarling echoed in her ears.

A great black hound came bounding into the open. The ring of spearmen gave back from the apparition. The animal crouched with its fangs bared between Morvran and Aethelwulf. With a tigerish leap its jaws clamped on Aethelwulf's throat. The Saxon's laugh turned to a shriek then silence as the beast's teeth clamped down. The man collapsed under the hellhound. It picked up the chief and shook him like a terrier shakes a rat.

The Saxons watched in horror as they saw their chief's lifeless form mauled. The beast lifted its bloody muzzle to them and growled. Howling pleas to Wotan and Thor the Saxons fled. The hellhound looked over its shoulder at Morvran. Their eyes locked for a moment. Varronia saw the expression on the warrior's face. He seemed a man soul blasted. She knew why, for in an instant she glimpsed what he saw in the hellhound's eyes. Because in that demon's eyes he had seen a brotherly tenderness from one to a fellow slayer in the Huntsman's pack. Turning, it dragged Aethelwulf's carcass away and vanished in the undergrowth.

"A death I would not wish on a Saxon," Morvran gasped.

"Good Lord, Morvran! What has happened here?" Varronia's voice was a whisper.

"Our safety has been bought, but at what price I cannot say." Varronia looked at him and marveled. Morvran's face was set in grim lines. Here she saw the true nature of the warrior's courage. It lay not in risking one's life to protect the weak but in risking one's very soul and sanity. This terrible burden carried at once the noblest sacrifice and the cruelest excess. In the struggle with the barbarians which would predominate?

"Let's get moving." Morvran's spoke calmly as of a matter of fact. "It's a long way back to Arthur's court."