The Forgotten Land (15 page)

The
judge paused, then held up a large, old, yellow piece of paper.

“Here
before me do I have a scroll upon which thy name shall appear. This scroll,
upon the morrow, and well after thy death I should add, shall be sent forth to
the king.” The judge pointed at the prisoner. “Thy king! It is a scroll asking
for pardon from him. If thy name should appear here,” he continued to hold the
scroll up. “Then thy death shall be swift and just. Else it will be slow and
painful.” The judge smiled. “Very painful, let me assure thee.”

Almost
as if in a movie, Steve watched the view pan around so that he was now looking
into the face of the prisoner. His eyes were a deep green. Hatred, defiance and
pride were visible in the man’s eyes.

A
white scar ran down his face and another across his chin. There was a scar on
the bridge of his nose, probably from some minor scuffle.

Through
gritted teeth and with hatred burning brightly in his eyes, the man made his
reply. “I cannot be a traitor for I owe him no allegiance.” The voice was a
strange combination of both Irish and Scottish. Steve had never before heard
such an accent. “He is not my sovereign; he never received my homage; and
whilst life is in this persecuted body, he never shall receive it. To the other
points whereof I am accused, I freely confess them all. As governor of my
country, I have been an enemy to its enemies. I have slain the English. I have
mortally opposed the English king. I have stormed and taken the towns and
castles which he unjustly claimed as his own. If I, or my soldiers, have
plundered or done injury to the houses or ministers of religion, I repent my
sins, but it is not of Edward of England I shall ask pardon.”

“Then
it is set,” said the judge, with a malevolent grin. “Take him away,” he said
with a flick of his wrist.

Silence
followed. The image disappeared and again Steve felt himself freefall, with the
familiar cold wind enveloping him as he fell.

CHAPTER
8

Steve
cried aloud as his body hit the ground hard. He tried to roll to break the
impact but failed. He was paralysed. A mighty crack exploded through the
heavens, more powerful than any he had ever heard. He could not be sure, but
Steve thought he had seen a bright blue streak across the sky that accompanied
the blast. It was still dark. He lay on the ground, motionless, silent, for
almost two minutes before he felt a cold wetness seeping through his clothes
and chilling him to the bone. Steve could feel tingling in his hands and feet
that bordered on painful, but with some effort he was able to move. It is
bloody pouring, he thought, wiping his face and sitting up. He picked up the
rifle and put it across his lap. His master hand instinctively curled around
the pistol grip. The crystal, still in his left hand, remained uncomfortably
warm. Steve pushed the crystal into one of his pockets, feeling the warmth
against his leg. He could hear the quiet hiss of the rain as it pattered
relentlessly upon the ground, turning the cold earth to slush. A flash of
lightning revealed thick cloud covering the sky. The powerful thunderheads
threatened flash flooding. A crack of thunder which accompanied the lightning
rolled through the heavens twenty seconds later, so the lightning had struck
more than five kilometres away.

“Steve!”
the voice hissed quietly. “Steve!”

It
sounded like Scott. Steve walked in a half crouch towards the voice, but
quickly lost his bearings. He stopped and knelt.

“Where
are ya?” Steve called quietly.

“Over
here, mate,” Scott sounded closer.

Steve
moved forward again and finally found the remaining three soldiers huddled
together under the protection of a small overhang of rock.

Steve
was forced to crawl on his stomach; it was so low to the ground. There was
plenty of room once he was under cover though. The others had arrived in much
the same way as Steve. Matt even thought he had broken a rib because he had hit
the ground so hard.

Unlike
Steve, the other three seemed to have arrived close together. They had found
each other quickly and then located to the closest dry area. The three soldiers
estimated they had been there for the better part of an hour. That can't be
right, Steve thought.

Only
five minutes had passed since he slammed into the ground, but he knew when
shock set in it was easy to lose track of time.

“We'll
wait the storm out until morning and then go for a look around,” suggested Steve.

Although
none of the soldiers had spoken of it, they did not know where they were, or
what had taken place in the cave. The main thing was they were alive and safe.
For the moment anyway. When the cold glow of morning made itself known they
would quietly scout the area for enemy.

*
* * * *

It
was a dark night, darker than usual. The chill air was warded away by the fire
burning brightly in the centre of the room. The flames cast long shadows. The
stars, usually blazing clearly, were not to be seen. The dark storm clouds were
keeping their beauty from sight.

Tharkol
sat before the fire, staring into the flames. Behind him, on the earthen bench
that ran around the perimeter of the long house, were his wife and his wife’s
mother. They were talking in hushed whispers. His son lay beside them, deep in
sleep. He was three summer’s old and already showed signs of becoming a good
man and a fine warrior. The boy filled Tharkol with pride.

Outside
he could hear the distant, muffled sound of Thor as the Storm God went about
his business. The village of Ulfor needed rain. In fact it had not rained in a
season, and the crops were badly in need of water.

A
mighty roar of thunder exploded, louder than any Tharkol had ever heard. It was
as if the sky itself had been split asunder. He physically jumped and touched
the hilt of his sword as he felt the war spirit rise inside him and sweep away
the cobwebs of lethargy. Around the edge of the closed door that guarded the
dwelling from the elements, Tharkol thought he had seen a bright blue flash
that had accompanied the powerful thunder. Perhaps he had imagined it. The
women were staring wide eyed towards the doorway. Perhaps he had not.

Tharkol
strode to the thick, wooden door and the hinges creaked in protest as he swung
it open.

He
held his sword fast as he stared out into the dark night, but saw nothing.
Something had changed. He saw nothing, and smelled nothing, but he could feel
it, like a silent fog sweeping across the valleys. Something had changed. The
stories of old told of Odin coming to earth to walk amongst his people. The
earth shaking thunder and bright blue light foretold something. It was almost
as if something, or someone, had entered the world.

Tharkol
stood in the doorway for a long time watching and listening, but seeing and
hearing nothing. Closing the door he walked back to his sleeping son, the women
having long returned to hushed conversation. In truth the sound of the storm
outside pleased the farmer. His family would eat well this winter. Providing the
coastal vermin did not venture inland. If they did, they would kill and steal
what they could before taking those they deemed satisfactory slaves, either to
keep as their own, or to sell to the highest bidder. Last year had been a good
year. Thinking of day to day happenings served to calm Tharkol, tearing his
mind from the stories of the gods.

The
inland community of Ulfor had only suffered one raid and that attack had been
mostly by young warriors who had never been a- viking. The attackers had been
defeated. But two Ulfor farmers lost their lives in the skirmish.

Tharkol
stared into the fire as he remembered Yarmok and Sven, both good men who had
lived in Ulfor for nigh on twenty summers. They both had families and it was
with much grief that the people of the village attended the departure ceremony
of the fallen farmers who had contributed so much to their way of life. They
had died as heroes and would dine with Odin for all time.

A
hand shook his shoulder. “Tharkol!” It was his wife, Ulkeena. “You are growing
deaf in your age. Come quickly!” she beckoned him outside.

He
looked out into the darkness. The rain was heavier than before and was almost
deafening as it hammered on the ground and hissed amongst the crops in the
distance. He smiled as he looked up into the dark, cloud-filled sky, giving
silent thanks to Thor.

“Look!”
Ulkeena said, pointing into the darkness.

Tharkol
followed her finger and squinted against the darkness as he saw a dark robed
figure clutching a staff, making his way towards the chieftain’s long house at
the other end of Ulfor.

The
figure walked with a slight limp and his hooded cloak was wrapped closely
around his body against the cold. A chill passed through Tharkol as he realised
it was Romeeros, the rune singer. Rune singers were magical folk about whom not
much was known. But one thing Tharkol did know was that rune singers only ever
appeared in times of trouble.

*
* * * *

Berag
threw another log on the fire at the centre of the room and turned to watch his
daughter of thirteen summers sleeping peacefully. Nearby his wife dozed.
Rubbing his swollen shoulder, the chieftain sat down near his sleeping family
and stared into the fire. Sleep would not take him. His right shoulder always
swelled and pained him when a storm was near. Berag had taken a spear in the
shoulder as a younger man during a conflict with a group of coastal warriors
who had travelled inland a-viking.

It
had been a terrible day, his father lay slain, his brother had taken a sword
through his stomach and had writhed in agony for hours. The Valkyries had come
for him close to dawn the next day, and with his sword tightly clasped in his
hand, the spirit of Berag’s brother had been taken away to the halls of
Valholla.

As
chieftain of the Ulfor village, Berag cut a dominating figure. Although his
hair and beard were grey with age, and his skin sagged with the years that lay
upon them, his bright blue eyes still shone with a cunning intelligence and his
frame showed what it had once been. In his younger days he had been a formidable
man, massive across the chest and fit enough to run in full armour for most of
the day. It was no secret in the village that he had served with the Varangian
Guard for almost five years.

The
Varangian Guard were a large group of warriors chosen from villages and cities
all over the Northlands. They were predominantly masters of the battle-axe
during conflict and had been recruited by the Byzantium king to serve as his
personal body guard during times of war. The stories and history surrounding the
Varangian Guard was legend.

Berag
rarely talked about his younger days in the guard, but when he did there was
utter silence from his listeners. The chieftain was literally a living legend,
particularly amongst the younger men of the village.

There
were several thumps on the door and Berag groaned softly as he stood up.
Wondering who could be calling upon him at such a time he walked slowly to the
door and swung it open. Stepping aside, he gestured for Romeeros to enter his
home. The rune singer nodded and brushed past the giant old man, leaning his
staff up against a wall. His cloak was soaking and Romeeros moved directly to
the fire, holding his hands out, he allowed the heat thrown from the bright
orange flames to penetrate his cold skin.

Berag
gave the rune singer time to warm himself. He sat near his sleeping family and
watched as steam rose from Romeeros’s clothing. The cloaked figure rubbed his
hands together and cleared his throat softly.

“What
brings you here, Romeeros?” asked Berag, not sure he wanted an answer.

Pushing
the hood back from his face, Romeeros looked around and fixed his pale blue
eyes on the chieftain.

“It
is not good Berag as, I’m sure, you already surmised. Something dangerous has re-entered
this world. Something deadly. And that something is here, near this village.”

“What
is it?”

Romeeros
shook his head and did not reply. Instead he looked into the flames and took a
deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh.

“The
Tuatha-Day-Dannan are here my friend. They have arrived.”

Berag
sat in silence with his eyes fixed on the rune singer.

“But
how could that be any threat to us?” whispered Berag.

“You
misunderstand,” replied Romeeros. “It is not they who are dangerous, I, like
you, am happy to see them in this world, but they carry something deadly.
Something that should never have re-entered this place. I sensed it the moment
they came here.”

“What
is this…this thing they carry?” asked Berag, his voice bringing a soft groan
from his daughter, who rolled over in her sleep.

“At
this moment, it does not matter what it is. What does matter, however, is that
a Kadark also sensed the Tuatha-Day-Dannan enter this world and he, like I,
knows what it is they carry. More than this, the Kadark wants it. He wants it
more than anything he has ever craved. As I speak these words to you, he is
already rallying coastal warriors to him in order to journey inland a-viking.

He
will do anything to get what the Tuatha-Day-Dannan carry and he will destroy
anything or anyone that comes between him and what he seeks. At this moment,
Berag, your village stands in his way.”

Romeeros
watched in silence as the Ulfor chieftain struggled for words. At last he shook
his head.

“Prepare
yourself, my friend,” spoke the rune singer, clasping a hand on Berag’s
shoulder. “Prepare your people, for there is a hard fight ahead of them.”

For
Berag the news came as a double blow. It was hard enough to accept that the
Tuatha-Day-Dannan were here, near his village, let alone that his people would
soon be under attack. The Norse children often fell asleep to tales of the
Tuatha-Day-Dannan and the good they would reap throughout the land when they
arrived. Berag himself as a child had been told many tales by his father about
the power of the gods of light. Never had he imagined that they would appear in
his lifetime.

The
Tuatha Day Dannan, the gods of light were here!

“How
long do we have?” asked Berag.

“Nine,
maybe ten days before the Kadark and his followers arrive.

Keep
your best warriors here and send the women, children and older members of the
village into the hills.”

“But
the older men will want to stand and fight. It would be a grave injustice and a
great humiliation to send them away.”

“I
understand this,” Romeeros replied. “But it is why you were chosen as
chieftain. You must convince the elderly men to leave. As I said, it will be a
hard fight. These warriors come inland not for loot, food or slaves; they come
for the item carried by the gods of light.” Romeeros sat down, sighing softly.
“It is not a battle that you fight, but a war. You must prevail, or this,”
Romeeros swept his arm to encompass the home that Berag had worked so hard to
create, “and everything you know will be gone. Mark my words, if they succeed,
not a house will be left standing. And not a person left alive.”