The Forgotten Land (28 page)

The
other two backed away with fear in their eyes. They too were torn from their
feet. The soldiers had been guarding a small prison. Prison cells lined the
small corridor, each separated by a thick stone wall. The place stank. Will and
Steve looked into each barred cell. Heleena remained outside the prison a look
of disgust on her face. Half the cells were empty, one contained a dead man,
another housed a filthy young lady who was living in her own excrement and
three other men who had obviously been beaten badly. One was dead. Steve forced
himself not to dry retch.

Berag
was not here. They turned back to the second door.

*
* * * *

Foothark
had joined the headlong rush towards Ulfor in pursuit of the Viking raiders. He
pushed through the mass of Ulfor warriors and sprinted towards his home. The
raiders had spread out so that enemy warriors were streaming in all directions.
Foothark watched four Vikings barge through his front door and disappear into
his home.

"Marie!”
he screamed. "Marie!"

Fury
fuelled him, hatred coursed through his veins dissolving his fear. He flung the
round shield away, almost slid over in the snow, righted himself and carried
on. He heard distant shouts as battle was rejoined elsewhere in the village,
but ignored it. Marie was the only person that drove him on. The power of the
fury coursing through him served to drive him forward at an inexhaustible speed
and for a moment he knew what it was to be berserk. Launching a kick at the
front door of his home the hinges ripped free and the entire door hit the
ground with a crash. He stepped through and saw the invaders in his home. His
home. One was already dead, Marie's knife still embedded in his throat. Without
thought Foothark brought his sword down hard on the head of the closest Viking.
Blood exploded from the mighty wound and the enemy crumpled without a sound.
Marie was dead. She was lying on the ground near the fire, her dead opponent
nearby. Her throat had been cut, blood soaking into the ground. The Viking
closest to her had untied his breeches and was about to rape her deceased body
before Foothark kicked down the door.

“Marie!”
roared Foothark.

Levering
the sword clear of the Viking’s skull, Foothark felt a sharp pain explode in
his belly. The Viking closest to him had stabbed him almost to the hilt. The
blade of the sword had exited near his spine. The Viking was grinning at him.

Foothark
grinned back. His eyes were wide with madness. His teeth were stained claret
and blood dribbled down his chin. Swinging the sword with all his diminishing
strength, Foothark watched his opponent’s eyes widen in shock moments before
his head departed his body.

The
third Viking darted forward and brought his sword down on Foothark’s shoulder.
The blade cut deep, shattering the collar bone.

The
old man crumpled to the floor, but kept a firm grip on his sword.

“This
is where you die old man,” growled the Viking over him.

“It
is,” agreed Foothark. With one last mighty effort, Foothark drove his sword up
and into the Viking’s groin. He felt the blade sink deep. His opponent screamed
and dropped to his knees, clasping his blood-drenched breeches. With a snarl,
Foothark stabbed the sword into the abdomen of his enemy. He twisted it violently
before ripping it free and hacking the blade into the Viking’s throat.

“This
is also where you die boy,” Foothark said, as the Viking collapsed to his side.

*
* * * *

Welf
drew his sword as the thunderclaps sounded again, this time outside his door.
They were loud and piercing. There was something inhuman about them. He could
hear a man shouting a war cry before more thunderclaps rang out. Within seconds
all was silent again. It was like the very gods themselves were roaming through
the house, slaying as they saw fit.

“There’s
nothing you can do, boy. You chose the wrong side,” chuckled the prisoner.

“I
said shut up!” Welf shouted. “Shut up! Shut up!”

A
loud crash made the boy jump. The door opened and two tall men appeared with
metal pipes pulled into their shoulders. In the half second he had, Welf
noticed that neither of the newcomer’s eyes registered anger, hate or fear. But
they did radiate a purpose he had never seen, and it frightened him. Welf saw a
bright flash. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Steve
went straight to Berag and hauled the man to his feet. “How do you feel?” he
asked.

“Not
well, they have hurt me badly.”

Will
and Heleena forged ahead, providing them with cover. In the second room they
searched the dead bodies until a set of keys were found. They swung each cell
door wide to allow the prisoners to escape. They did not have the manpower, or
the time, to drag each prisoner out.

“Let’s
go,” Will said, his right arm supporting his rifle, while his left trailed behind
him with the mag light so that Heleena, Steve and Berag could see where they
were putting their feet. It was a long slow climb to the top, but no more
enemies were seen during the ascent. Outside they saw Tharkol and Scott waiting
nearby. Loping past them, Scott called out to Matt. It was time for them to
leave.

Returning
the way they had come, the soldiers left the corpse-filled building standing
silent.

*
* * * *

“Can
you hear the mountain’s song?” whispered Thormdall. The Berserker had found
Foothark and dragged him outside so he was facing Mount Skane. He had carried
Marie out and gently laid her beside him so they would be together in death.
The snow around Foothark was stained red with blood. Foothark tried to shift
himself into a more comfortable sitting position, but winced as pain from the
sword wound flared.

“No,”
replied Foothark. The older Norseman was holding his sword tight and looking at
the distant peaks of Mount Skane and the smaller mountain ranges nearby.

“It
is the mountain. She is singing, be still, you will hear,” Thormdall’s voice
was almost inaudible.

Mount
Skane stood like a mighty oak within a forest of saplings; it was like a bright
beacon amongst candles. The rising sun gave it an immensity and beauty that was
incredible to behold. Foothark noticed the awesome beauty of the mountain for
the first time and a realisation hit him. The mountain’s song was not audible;
it was a feeling, an appreciation of nature’s power, of her beauty.

“I
can hear her song,” said Thormdall quietly. “Be still and you will too,” the
Berserker looked at Foothark.

The
old warrior’s dead eyes stared at the mountain and his face was content. The
man had died a hero, a warrior who had died fighting for all in which he
believed.

It
was said that a mountain remembered all that had occurred upon its slopes. In a
thousand years when the faces of the present generation were long gone, the
memory of a single warrior’s sacrifice would be carried on the breeze and his
epitaph would appear on Mount Skane as the sun rose in the sky.

CHAPTER
14

Heleena
screamed when they returned to Ulfor. It was a low growl which ended in a long,
high pitched shriek filled with anger and loss. Her parents had been washed and
dressed in clean clothes prior to their burial. Others who had died during the
raid had been buried nine days earlier, but Heleena’s parents had been left in
the hope of her return. Crushed herbs and flowers had been rubbed into their
skin and clothes to ward off the smell of death. Heleena knelt by them for
hours, sometimes in silence, and others in shuddering grief. Her tears spilled
on their cold, dead skin. When the sinking sun met the horizon, Will knelt
beside her and gently pulled her to her feet. He hugged her to him, listening
as she sobbed into his chest. He stroked her back and held her, wise enough to
know that no words would ever make up for her loss and soul-rending grief.

They
also learned that a young girl by the name of Hilda had been stabbed in the
stomach during the raid. She had survived the wound, but had been clinging to
life ever since. Matt tended to her at the parent’s house as soon as he heard.

Foothark
and Marie were buried as darkness claimed Ulfor. Thormdall recounted Marie’s
bravery and Foothark’s skill. He told of the last moments of Heleena’s parents,
of two elderly Norse farmers who had taken on and conquered four armed Viking
raiders. It was a story that would never be forgotten.

“I
shall kill them,” said Heleena in the forest cave later that night.

“All
of them.”

“Who?”
asked Will.

“The
Vikings. Whenever, wherever I find them, I shall kill them.”

Will
nodded.

“They
have started a blood feud by killing my family, and so I shall send them to
their demon god,” Heleena snarled, a tear dripping from her chin.

Will
pulled her to him and kissed her. Part of him wanted to try and persuade her
otherwise, but he knew that if his parents had been horrifically murdered, he
would be head hunting the culprits as well.

“We'll
find them,” he said.

“I
want their heads,” Heleena said quietly.

 He
could feel her body shaking, out of shock or rage, he did not know.

“Tell
me about them?” asked Will.

“Father,”
Heleena fell silent for a long time then giggled. “Father was always mother’s
servant. He did everything she asked. Father loved her greatly. Originally, as
a young man, father had accompanied his merchant father. They visited Ulfor to
trade their wares perhaps three times a year. It was on one of these visits
that father spotted mother. From that moment on he could not be kept away.
Father was seventeen summers in age and mother fifteen, when they were bound in
marriage. Mother was eighteen summers when she gave birth to me. They were
always happy together. Although they bickered a little, it was never over
substantial matters.” She stared into the fire. “I shall miss them,” she said
slowly.

They
sat in silence for a long time, listening to the night life and the gentle
crackle of the fire. Outside, a thick blanket of snow had fallen.

“What
of your family?” asked Heleena.

“Not
much to tell,” said Will. “Dad was a boiler maker for a company contracted to a
local coal mine. Mum was a secretary at a law firm. They met, got married, had
me.”

“There
must be more,” she laughed.

“Oh
there’s more,” he smiled, but without warmth. “Dad was a drunk, got pissed
every Friday and Saturday night. Sometimes he was good, most times he wasn’t.
Me and mum could tell what mood he was in by the way he walked down the road,
you could hear him from the end of the street. On the bad nights he’d beat Mum
up, even put her in ICU once.” Will saw Heleena’s confused expression and
explained. “A place where only very sick or very hurt people are sent to get
better. Or to die. On the good nights he’d just shout at Mum and then fall
asleep on the couch in front of the TV and snore.” Will explained what a couch
and television were. “Shit he could snore,” he chuckled.

“When
I turned thirteen, Dad came home drunk and started beating Mum up. He had her
by the hair and threw her against the wall. She was pleading for him to stop
but he was drunk and wasn’t going to listen. Anyway I was ready for him that
night. Earlier I had hidden a piece of wood under my bed. I clubbed my dad to
within an inch of his life. I only stopped when he stopped moving. I wasn’t
there when the coppers or the ambulance arrived.”

“Coppers,
ambulance?”

“Think
of Thormdall for coppers and for the ambulance, well think of Matt,” he smiled.

“What
happened to him, your father?” Heleena asked.

Will
shrugged. “Who knows. Who cares? Mum and I left after that and never saw him
again. She met a half decent bloke who treated her well. She deserves that.
She’s always deserved that.”

Heleena
was silent for a long time. Will knew there were some things in his story like
the TV that she would not understand. But that was not what caused her silence.
She was stunned. Stunned that a man would strike his wife. A man was expected
to care for his family, to fight for them, to protect them and sometimes die
for them. That was the culture she knew. For a man to willingly hurt his wife
was alien to her.

They
sat talking into the night, before sleep took them. Twice Will heard Heleena
crying in her sleep. Instead of waking her he whispered quietly to her and
stroked her face gently, which seemed to calm her. Hours later he rekindled the
fire before quietly retiring under the blanket beside Heleena.

*
* * * *

Two
days after Heleena’s parents had been laid to rest, Hilda died despite Matt’s
best efforts. Whilst several women of the village comforted the grieving
parents, Matt left. He was angry with himself.

“I
did my best,” Matt said, trying to console himself. But his best had not been
good enough and he hated himself for it.

The
entire village was at Hilda’s funeral. They sent the girl on her way to the
gods. Steve was oblivious to those around him. His eyes were locked on the pale
face of the dead girl that reminded him so much of his daughter, Kathy.

They
could have been sisters, thought Steve. Hilda’s eyes were closed, but it was
easy to see she was not asleep. She had been washed and dressed in new clothes
that hid the terrible wound that had killed her.

What
the hell am I doing? Steve asked himself. He was missing out on some of the
best days of his children’s lives. He should be there to guide, teach and
protect them.

*
* * * *

Berag
had a pronounced limp and large bruises around his chin and right eye, but he
was otherwise in better health than he had been when the soldiers rescued him.
He called a feast in the Great Hall. The entire village was invited. Three wild
boars and two deer had been hunted and cooked for the occasion. The steaming
meat was cut neatly and placed on huge wooden platters on the long table,
garnished with cabbage, corn and mashed barley mixed with honey. Barrels of
mead had been rolled in and positioned around the great hall. Most of the
villagers carried their own drinking horns. Some carried wooden or leather cups
as well. The vessels were simply plunged into the open barrel and the drinking
began. Not the most hygienic custom, Steve thought, but the alcohol would
probably kill any germs.

Berag
pushed a drinking horn into Steve’s hand. “Drink,” he said. Some of the
villagers were already eating and talking amongst themselves, but the majority
of the village were standing around the hall, drinking, laughing or recounting
tales of the raid. There was a mixture of bitter sweetness in the hall, of
sadness and loss, of happiness and triumph. The village had lost almost thirty
people in the raid. It was the worst raid in Ulfor’s history.

“Shit
house,” observed Scott. “Fuckin’ shit house. Those villagers are dead because
of us.”

“Yup,”
muttered Matt. Steve was nodding, but Will was watching Heleena talking with a
group of women.

“It
is not your fault my friend,” Berag slapped a hand on Scott's shoulder. “A raid
like this would have eventually happened,” he added, gulping down some mead and
refilling it from a barrel.

“No
it wouldn’t, man,” said Matt to the Norse warrior, “and you know it. The
Vikings came here looking for the crystal. Once they knew you didn’t have it,
they had to come back here for it.”

Berag
shrugged. “It might have been much worse. They might have killed everyone.
Thank the gods my wife and child are untouched.” “Yeah, that might be the case,
mate, but they only mounted a large raid like this because of us and what we
carry. They weren’t after food or money. We’ve gotta leave, mate. As soon as
that Arab priest, or whoever the hell he is, gets here, we’re gone.” Steve took
a gulp of the mead. “Not that we don’t appreciate your hospitality,” he
continued, “but you and your people will be much safer without us here.”

“I
cannot deny that,” said Berag, “but raids will always occur against us. We are
a wealthy farming village, and when food runs short on the coast, Viking
raiders appear. It is the way of things. Do not think the village blames you
for their losses, for nothing could be further from the truth.” Berag grinned
at the soldiers. “You are one of us now. Even when you leave, stories will
still be told of you. Generations from now, children will fall asleep to
stories of the Tuatha.”

“Keep
tellin’ ya, mate, we ain’t gods,” said Scott.

“I
know,” said Berag. “I believe you, but you will be remembered that way. Do you
understand?”

Soon
the whole village was seated and the feast was well underway. The mashed barley
had been boiled in honey and water, imbuing the food with a sweet taste. A
thick, beef flavoured gravy was poured into small bowls lining the length of
the long table.

“A
mighty fine meal!” roared Korgoth, wiping grease from his beard. The man was
very drunk. When the raiders attacked the village Korgoth had been asleep and
his wife, Leeka was visiting friends several houses away. Korgoth had actually
slept through the raid. But when two raiders kicked in his door and entered his
home, the Norse giant met them with a bleary eyed war cry and fell upon them
with his battle axe. Korgoth suffered a superficial laceration to his arm, but
the Viking raiders had been swiftly slaughtered where they stood. Scott heard
that one had been decapitated, and the other had been hit in the face with the
butt of Korgoth’s axe, which staved in his skull.

Korgoth
downed the last of his mead, and sang and swayed in his seat. Most of the
villagers around him, ignored him, but a voice at the far end of the table
joined Korgoth’s slurred, mistimed song. Korgoth roared and raised his empty
drinking horn at the person singing along. Leeka hissed at Korgoth, but he
ignored her. He concluded the song with a loud belch and went in search of more
mead.

“The
man can sing.” Matt smiled at Leeka.

She
smiled and rolled her eyes as she heard Korgoth start up again at the far end
of the hall, this time accompanied by several other drunk men. By the end of
the night, most of the village had returned to their homes, well fed and for
the most part drunk. Not once was there any show of aggression or violence, it
was just a good-natured gathering.

The
village had been through an horrific event and now they had let off steam.
Steve and the soldiers were talking with several villagers. Heleena had her
head on Will’s shoulder. A few villagers were sprawled out asleep on the floor
near the fires. Korgoth was one of them. The giant Norseman was snoring loudly
and at one point he passed wind loudly, bringing the conversation to silence
for several moments. They chuckled and continued their conversation long into
the early hours of the morning. Berag was right. The villagers were no longer
wary of them, nor did mothers steer children away from them. They were now a
part of the village. Steve knew that in some strange way he would miss Ulfor
and her people.

*
* * * *

Over
the following days, the soldiers took instruction on archery and swordsmanship,
and accompanied hunting parties, using their rifles to stock up the village
supply of meat. Scott took a particular interest in learning the dialect. Matt
advised the villagers about sanitation, explaining that washing hands before
and after eating and relieving themselves was important. Matt also explained to
the women about how flies and other insects could spread disease, especially if
meat was left out for too long. Steve helped improve the village’s defences,
explaining how hidden traps and deep ditches could slow and demoralise an enemy,
giving archers ample time to move into position and fire on the enemy.

Two
weeks later, Ulfor was once again thrown into excitement with a group of five
newcomers. Four of them carried huge axes over their shoulders. Swords were
strapped at their waists and round shields were slung on their backs. They wore
gleaming helmets of steel and huge vests of chain mail that reached to their
calves. Their boots were made of deer skin turned inside out, thick leather
soles stitched to the underside of the boots. The chain mail shirts were split
to mid thigh height at the front and back, so they could wear the mail on
horseback. The fifth man looked tiny in comparison. He stood just over five
feet tall and wore a brown robe that covered him from his shoulders to his
ankles. His head was covered by a cream coloured material with a dark leather
band. Attached to a belt around his waist was a curved tulwar. He reminded
Steve of a high ranking Arab.