Beyond the Wicked Willow: Chronicles of a Teenage Witchslayer

RISE OF THE VISIGOTH

Meanwhile, deep in the Crati Valley cloaked in the shadows of a steep coastal mountain range to the west and the imposing Sila plateau to the east sat the sleepy Calabrian village of Cosenza. Below the quaint hillside hamlet—carving a meandering channel through the valley floor—was the confluence of two storied rivers, the Crati and the Busento. Their waters shimmered as they met and mingled under an eerie yellow moonlight. At the very spot where the rivers joined, the water began to churn violently. So violently, that a large Eurasian Eagle Owl, roosting in an olive tree at shore's edge, was spooked from its restful perch. Its stunning burnt orange eyes—set ablaze by the light of the moon—widened with alarm as the impressive night hunter lofted into the air. Aside from a throaty hoot—and in spite of its amazing six-foot wingspan—the regal bird of prey was completely silent as it beat its wings and disappeared into the darkness.

The shiny black muzzle of a massive warhorse breached the surface of the turbid water. The beast snorted great billows of mist from its flared nostrils. As it rose ever higher, scaling the bank of the river, the imposing warrior mounted on its back became apparent. It was King Alaric I, ancient King of the Visigoths, and he was a dreadful sight to behold. Water sheeted off his lion-headed cloak, down his face, and filtered through his fulsome mustache and beard. Alaric was brutish in appearance and Herculean in stature. And though he, and his warhorse, had been entombed beneath the riverbed for the better part of a thousand years, they both brimmed with vigor.

There had long been rumors of strange circumstances surrounding Alaric the man, his reign as King of the Visigoths, and his death and interment at Cosenza. Over time, the rumors had only grown more elaborate and spread to the four winds. Some thought Alaric to be a madman, as legend held he had often been visited by spirits and haunted by voices. Others thought him to simply be a power hungry barbarian with an affinity for death and destruction. Before his first invasion of Italy around 401 AD, as recounted by the Roman poet Claudian, from within a sacred grove called forth a voice that commanded him, "Break off all delays, Alaric. This very year thou shalt force the Alpine barrier of Italy; thou shalt penetrate to the city."

Though the prophecy was not fulfilled during Alaric's first attempt, he did not quit until it was. He went on to invade Italy a second time and laid siege to the great city of Rome a total of three times, until he finally sacked the stronghold in 410 AD. Following his sweeping conquest of Rome, Alaric assembled his troops, amassed a drove of prisoners, and made a push south into Calabria. The caravan of marauders slowly meandered along the Appian Way sacking Capua and Nola as they went, adding to Alaric's already crushing load of Roman spoils. From there, Alaric and his Goth horde trudged down the Popilian Way, eventually reaching the coast of Reggio di Calabria, at the toe of Italy's boot. There, he requisitioned a fleet of ships and ladened them with his treasure, prisoners, and troops.

History proposes that Alaric's plan was to first cross the Strait of Messina and occupy nearby Sicily. After wintering on the Mediterranean island, it is said that he intended to sail on to North Africa where he would then settle his people. At least that's what historians would have you believe. Before he could initiate his plan in earnest, a violent storm swept in and destroyed much of his fleet. Alaric took this to be a sign, and it was at this point that he was finally able to alter his own dark destiny. You see, he had had no intention of settling his people in North Africa—it is on this very detail that history errs. And as for the truth, well, it has not been told until now.

As was said earlier, some thought Alaric to be a madman, but he was no madman. He was an ordinary man. An ordinary man under a very dark and powerful curse that he had struggled to resist from the moment it had been cast upon him. Even as a young teen Alaric excelled in battle, but he never took joy in it until the night the wicked curse befell him. It was after a particularly fierce battle, Alaric, then just fourteen years old, lay sleeping beneath the night sky in a provisional Goth encampment. Strewn all around him were his fellow warriors, filthy, bloodied, and slumbering heavily. Most were twice Alaric's age, yet his skills in combat proved as good, and often better. Unfortunately, for him, this distinctive trait did not go unnoticed.

During this period between the First Terror and the Second Terror, the Strega, ashamed of her current hideous form, remained secluded within her evil realm. A favorite pastime throughout her nearly twenty-four-hundred-year isolation was to gaze into her reflecting pool and watch as humanity's seemingly unending wars unfolded. The Strega had found long ago a twisted diversion: a wicked sport in which she took great joy and one which ensured her no shortage of macabre entertainment. She knew well that human nature was essentially a delicate balancing act between good and evil, light and dark. It was to her sinister heart's pleasure to sometimes tip the scales of nature in hopes of creating a monster. The Strega studied the conflicts between the various warring tribes and peoples: Egyptians and Hittites, Greeks and Persians, Vikings, Saxons, Normans, Goths, and on and on. Every so often, she would set her sights on a young warrior and cast upon him a horrid curse. The Inumano Totalis—a curse that lay festering within the deep recesses of the human soul. In most, the bane was eradicated by the purifying light of goodness, but in some it was fed by the bleak darkness of evil. Once these seeds of greed, hubris, and hate were allowed to take root within one's soul they were nearly impossible to resist. This is the curse that befell the young Alaric as he lay sleeping that fateful night. And though he struggled within himself to resist the darkness, it was not until the storms at Reggio, after a life of power hungry bloodshed, that he found the strength to do so.

Finally free of the Strega's curse, Alaric took his people and traveled back north in search of unsettled lands where he could put down stakes peacefully. For the first time in twenty-six years, Alaric neither felt the burning desire to wage war, nor impose his will on others. Unfortunately, for him, this did not go unnoticed. The Strega would not tolerate such a change of heart. If Alaric would no longer embrace his dark side, then he would pay dearly. So as he trekked northward the Strega struck him and his horse with a deceptive curse. They both fell ill and quickly worsened. By the time Alaric reached the village of Cosenza he could go no farther. It was there he sought respite in hopes of recovering, but after just three nights rest, neither Alaric nor his horse awoke.

To his people, it appeared that Alaric had died during his sleep. But in fact, he hadn't died at all. Rather, he and his horse were under the ghastly effects of the Inanimati curse. It was, most certainly, a dreadful pox to suffer. Anyone unfortunate enough to fall victim to the Inanimati would soon exhibit all the signs of death, just as Alaric did. But, at the same time, they would be entirely self-aware, just as Alaric was. As he lay fully immobilized, Alaric could hear his people mourn him. Soon his comrades placed his body atop a wooden bier for formal viewings. Having great respect for their king they set out to ready a grand sepulcher for his burial. Within it, they would inter him—along with his horse—and all manner of his riches. Never wanting his tomb to be disturbed, they determined to emplace it deep beneath the confluence of the Crati and Busento rivers, and that's exactly what they did. Over just two weeks time they diverted the course of the waters, constructed a tomb beneath the riverbed, and laid Alaric to rest.

There he stayed, under the crushing weight of the waters above, surrounded by torturous darkness, until now. As he and his horse paused at shore's edge, Alaric surveyed the surroundings he hadn't gazed upon in nearly one thousand years. His eyes were cold and vacant, and his manner severe. He was under the Strega's direct control. With her powerful reanimation spell strangling his will, he had no choice but to carry out her command to slay the slayer like a beast.

With a final scan of the area, Alaric flicked the reins sharply across his horse's withers, and they tore off along river's edge at a breakneck pace. Lashed crosswise on Alaric's back, running from above his left shoulder down past his right hip, was a massive Gothic sword that glimmered by the light of the moon as they galloped out of sight.