The Forgotten Land (17 page)

“Oi,
come look at this!” Will called, seeing Steve and Matt were awake.

Steve
pushed himself out of the low shelter, and jogged over to Will. He was closely
followed by Matt.

“We
got a village down there. There is some movement, probably several hundred
people. Definitely not Iraqis. Dunno what’s happened, mate, not even sure where
we are. But there’s people down there and they might help us.”

Steve
admired Will’s mind which had switched straight back onto the ball game as if
nothing was amiss. Steve was still confused.

“Several
hundred you reckon?” muttered Steve.

“Yeah,
not your average Joe Blows either. I dunno what the hell’s going on Steve, but
these buggers are knocking about with swords strapped to their sides. They are
dressed like they just stepped out of the thirteenth century.”

Steve
took a knee, brought his rifle up and looked down the ACOG scope at the huddle
of buildings in the distance below.

“What
the hell,” he muttered to himself. As Will had said, the men wore sheathed
swords by their sides, they were dressed in long sleeved shirts and long
trousers that were either dark green, brown or black. Many of the villagers
also wore thick cloaks. Apart from the boys, all the men had long hair and
beards. The women wore their hair pulled away from their face, whereas the
girls and younger women wore their hair loosely about their shoulders.

“What
the hell,” Steve muttered again. He lowered the weapon and looked at Matt. “What
the bloody hell’s happened?”

Matt
shrugged.

“Righto,
where the fuck are we?” Scott shouted in the distance, he was sitting in a
hunched position with his head touching the ceiling of the shelter.

Matt
pulled a pair of binoculars from his webbing and stared down at the distant
village.

“Bloody
hell,” Matt said.

“Yup,
you said it,” Steve replied, his weapon held across his body.

“Wouldn’t
have a bloody clue what’s happened.”

When
Scott saw the village his response was much the same.

“Well
they certainly ain’t fuckin’ Iraqi,” said Scott flicking off the Minimi’s
safety catch. Steve initially thought Scott would open fire and had moved to
stop him, but Scott simply began pacing backwards and forwards swearing to
himself.

“I
reckon we should go down there,” said Steve. “Yup, agreed,” said Scott.

“Ya
can’t,” said Will turning towards them. “Ya can’t be serious!

Those
bastards’ll probably want to cut us up and feed us to the pigs!”

“Only
one way to find out, I guess,” said Matt as he stood up. “Get your arse in gear,
mate, let’s go,” growled Steve.

Will
reluctantly joined the others, and the four soldiers made their slow way down
the hill towards the village. Towards uncertainty.

*
* * * *

The
sun was warm as it rose over the distant mountains. Yet the wind was cool and
gentle on Tharkol’s skin as he stepped out of the house. He stretched, yawned
and noticed that the sky was beginning to clear. The rain had passed and his
corn crops seemed all the better for it. In the distance, it looked like heavy
rain clouds were moving in from the north.

He
turned as a shout broke the silence. Berag and his wife were standing outside
their home in the distance. Their daughter, Tina, was jumping up and down
pointing at four tall men making their way towards the village from Romhalf’s
Hill. They carried what appeared to be dark pieces of wood and were dressed in
a fashion that Tharkol had never before seen.

“Ho!
We have visitors.” It was Nyarl.

“Aye,
it seems that way,” the man responded, not taking his eyes off the distant
newcomers.

Nyarl
gestured as he came alongside Tharkol. “Let us go and greet them.”

The
two men started walking towards Berag, whose distant figure remained
motionless. His hand was shielding his eyes from sun so he could better see the
men who approached.

*
* * * *

The
whole village had noticed them. Some did not leave their homes, as they had
decided to watch events in comfort and safety.

Many,
however, gathered around Berag, unsure who these men were. They had their
weapons at the ready in case it was a Viking raid.

For
Berag it was a tense time. He watched the figures, who he could only assume
were the Tuatha-Day-Dannan, approach. These were not men visiting or looking
for a home to stay the night before moving on. These were gods sent to earth by
Odin.

They
were tall and all wore strange, dark, identical patterned clothing. Each was
heavily bearded, with unkempt hair that protruded out beneath strange helmets.
Each had an odd looking piece of equipment fastened to their chest. Attached to
this were compartments of varying sizes neatly placed across their chest. They
moved carefully, but with purpose. In their hands they held oddly shaped items
that ended in a round tube. It was possible that they were some sort of weapon
Berag conceded. Their eyes were hard, but not cruel. They had a toughness about
them that young Viking warriors only developed after many battles.

“Who
are they?” came a voice from the left of the gathered crowd.

Berag
noticed it was Kettle, a young man who had not yet seen fourteen summers. Eager
to see battle, his hand was clasped upon the hilt of his sword. It would be a
good time, he decided, to explain that the men who approached were not enemy.

“Stay
your hand, young Kettle!” Berag said. “These men shall be welcomed into our
village like long lost relatives.” “How do you know that?” asked Kettle.

Agnost,
Kettle’s father, slapped him on the back of the head. How dare he speak to the
chieftain in that way!

“Trust
me, my young friend,” Berag replied.

*
* * * *

“Hearts
and minds,” reminded Steve as the patrol moved down the hill towards the small
village. The houses were narrow and long, and looked like old rowing boats that
had been turned upside down. One enormous house, which dwarfed the buildings
around it, stood in the centre of the village. It must have been more than half
a football field long. Neatly spaced crops surrounded the village, although he
did not know what they were. In the distant background to the west stood an
enormous mountain that dominated everything in the immediate vicinity. Each man
was on instant, their fingers gently touching the triggers of their weapons.

What
had happened, God only knew. But these people did not look Iraqi. Their clothes
were different. They had swords and some of the men had what looked like round
shields slung across their backs.

Maybe
they were some kind of medieval re-enactment group. But if they were, what the
hell were they doing in the middle of the Iraqi desert in the middle of winter?

As
they approached, a tall man, presumably the leader of the rag tag group,
stepped forward. He had obviously put a lot of work into his costume, because
it looked real as did the massive axe he had slung on his back. The older man,
his grey hair and beard making his piercing blue eyes even more intense, held
up his hand in greeting.

“G’day
there!” called Steve, waving.

The
group of people immediately began murmuring amongst themselves. The man who had
greeted them let his hand drop by his side and seemed unsure.

“What
are you guys doing all the way out here?” Steve asked.

The
four soldiers came to a halt before the old man who was staring with intense
interest at the weapons.

The
grey haired one smiled. “Veelak thengis,” he spoke holding out his hand. He was
obviously trying to make the newcomers feel welcome.

The
man pointed at Steve’s weapon. “Was Baten Arkleerin mer daost see traagon?”

Steve
looked at Scott. “Do you know what language he is speaking?

Is
it some derivative of Bedouin?”

Scott
shook his head. “My god,” he spoke softly, his eyes wide almost in shock.

“Scott!”
Will tapped him on the shoulder.

“No,
it isn’t Bedouin, it isn’t any form of Arabic, it sounds Danish, but all fucked
up.”

“What
do you mean?” Steve asked.

“Um,
it’s hard to explain….okay, you know how Shakespeare wrote his plays? The
English is all arse about face and you have to really think about the words to
understand what the hell he’s saying?”

Steve
nodded. “Yeah sort of.”

“Well
it’s the same with this, it definitely sounds Danish, but it’s all muddled up
and hard to understand. I think he wants to know what our rifles are. I think.”

“Denmark,”
breathed Steve. “But how is that possible?”

Scott
stepped forward. “Veepons,” he said, holding his rifle up.

“Was
sund eer naamon?” the grey haired man asked, eyeing Scott’s rifle in such a way
that it seemed he doubted such things could be weapons.

“I
think he wants to know their names,” Scott told the other soldiers who were
listening intently.

“Our
names?” asked Steve.

“No.
The names of our weapons.”

“Our
weapons?” asked Steve bewildered.

“This
is a fuckin’ set up surely,” chuckled Scott. “Sex machine!” shouted Scott
holding the weapon high above his head, laughing.

The
group of people flinched at the sudden noise and movement. There was a metallic
hiss from the right and the old man roared at a young man, whose eyes were wide
with fear. His sword was half unsheathed. The boy, who could not have been
older than fifteen, slowly sheathed his weapon, but kept his hand on the hilt.
Steve noticed his knuckles were white.

“This
isn’t any set up,” said Steve quietly.

“Wartoz!”

A
cloaked figure picked his way across the muddy ground towards them with a
staff. As the figure approached, he threw back his hood. The man’s eyes were
pale blue, his grey hair and beard streaked with brown, telling of younger
days.

*
* * * *

Romeeros
studied the four newcomers. They were tall, but one more so. The men did not
seem frightened, he noticed, their eyes were more curious then anything.

Romeeros
came alongside Berag.

“What
has happened?” asked Romeeros.

“Where
were you?” responded Berag, a touch of anger in his voice. “That matters not.
What has happened?”

“Nothing.
We cannot understand each other.”

“I
see.”

Romeeros
gestured for the men to come closer. Making his movements slow, he gently
grabbed one of them by the wrist and led him back through the crowd, which
parted to make way. The other newcomers followed.

As
Berag watched them move off into the distance, Tharkol came to his side.

“What
in the name of Odin is going on?” he asked.

“I
know not,” Berag said. “I know not.”

*
* * * *

“Where’s
he taking us?” asked Matt.

Despite
being led by the wrist, Steve managed to turn to him. “I don’t know, but if he
makes a move put a bullet in him.” He kept his tone light and friendly so as
not to cause suspicion.

They
entered one of the houses. Even up close the house looked like an upturned
boat. Inside was a large, long room, in the middle of which was a fire with a
hole in the room for the smoke to escape. The room reeked of wood smoke, so the
hole was only partially effective.

On
the walls were shields of various colours and sizes. A huge axe, the haft of
which must have been four feet long, was mounted on the wall above a primitive
looking dining table. The preserved head of a bear, frozen in time hung next to
the axe. Its face was snarling and revealed huge canines in its mouth. The
beast must have been massive in life. Hanging near the bear’s head was a large
fur rug, presumably the bear’s skin.

The
house was split in two. The first, and largest part, was obviously where the
owners ate, slept and lived. The second part, which was separated with a four
foot high wooden wall and a small lockable door, was obviously where they kept
their animals during the winter months.

As
Steve’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed a pig on the other side of
the partition that was pushing the ground with its snout and grunting softly.
Nearby stood a horse that looked up at the newcomers, chewing contentedly on a
mouthful of fresh grass, some of which protruded from its mouth.

He
could see some smaller animals moving around near the pig but could not make
out what they were in the poor light. The smell of the animals mixed with the
wood smoke but was not particularly repulsive. The cloaked man led them to the
table and they sat down.

“Sujet
lungaj spoten,” he said slowly.

“I’m
sorry mate, we’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” said Steve.