The Forgotten Land (36 page)

“Allah!”
shouted the warrior, bringing his tulwar down towards Steve’s head. Steve tried
to bring his sword up, but he knew he was too late. The blow was blocked by the
Varangian beside him.

“Odin!”
roared the Varangian, cleaving the axe through the Arab’s shoulder and pulling
it clear before sweeping the man’s head clear of his body.

Anger
coursed through Steve again and the next attack he met on the front foot,
stabbing his sword towards his opponent’s chest. The blow was blocked, but
Steve brought the weapon down and sliced the man’s arm off at the elbow. As his
enemy stumbled in pain, Steve charged after him and rammed the weapon into his
stomach, hacking again and again into the falling Arab. Even after all movement
had ceased, he continued to bring the sword down time after time. A hand
grabbed his chain mail and dragged him back into the defensive circle.

“You
fight like a Berserker!” shouted the Varangian, as he hacked the life from
another Arab. “You will have to teach me your war cry!”

“What?”
Steve asked, feeling the splattered blood beginning to dry on his face.

“Your
war cry! Teach it to me.”

Steve
almost laughed. “You mean shit?” he asked.

“Shit!”
repeated the Varangian.

More
black garbed warriors ran from the forest, leaping over their fallen to attack
the Varangian circle. The first was batted aside by the Varangian like a fly,
whilst the second fell upon Steve like a demon. Steve blocked the tulwar
awkwardly and the clash of weapons jarring his arm. He blocked the wild eyed
Arab time after time, but the warrior was so fast Steve could not attack.

“Shit!”
The scream was followed by the Varangian’s axe thudding deep into the Arab’s back.
The Arab fell away from Steve with a severed spine, and the Varangian pulled
his axe clear to meet another enemy.

“A
good war cry,” he laughed.

The
battle lasted for a few minutes more before the black robed Arabs withdrew. They
dragged their wounded into the night and left their dead where they had fallen.
Several Varangians had been wounded and three who had been slaughtered were
dragged into the centre of the defensive circle. None of Steve’s men had been
wounded. Thormdall was talking quietly to Will, probably passing on some
advice. Heleena was cleaning blood from her daggers.

A
brief ceremony was held for the three fallen Varangians that would see them
safe into the great halls of Odin. They were buried, side by side in a shallow
grave near a great oak that Olaf said looked like the tree of life. The weapons
of their fallen enemy, however, were kicked from their hands and their bodies
were left where they had fallen to be devoured by the animals of the forest. If
they had more time, the enemy weapons would have been destroyed as was the
custom.

That
morning they travelled around twenty kilometres before stopping for lunch.
Although they saw or heard nothing, the Varangians kept a close eye out for the
black robed enemy and a tight grip on their weapons.

The
Arabs knew of the Varangians and their battle skills. That they had been
employed by the Byzantium king did not mean they were happy the Varangians were
traipsing through their land, quite the contrary. The journey out of Bulgar
would take about three days and the Varangians knew the Arabs would attack when
they thought they were at their most vulnerable. Their journey would be long
and drawn out.

Steve
told himself that with each step he was closer to home and the thought gave him
the strength to continue and the aggression to wield his sword with ferocity.

They
made their last stop several hours before sundown on a hill, where they were
surrounded by thick foliage and protected on one flank by huge boulders. Any
enemy would be forced to fight their way uphill and through the foliage,
putting them at an immediate disadvantage. Firewood was collected and a large
fire was built at the centre of the defensive circle. Minutes later a large,
bearded Arab was escorted towards the fire, where Olaf and Ahmad met him. Steve
moved closer so that he could hear what was taking place.

“Welcome
to my camp,” said Olaf.

Ahmad
translated for him.

“On
my land,” the Arab said harshly.

“My
name is Olaf,”

“Bakri,”
responded the man.

“Bakri,”
Olaf repeated. “Why are you here?”

“Why
are you here?” Bakri almost shouted. “That is the question! Why are you walking
through my land as if you own it? You disrespect my land and my people!”

Olaf
held out his hands in appeasement. “It is not our intention to offer you or
your people any kind of disrespect. We simply mean to travel through your land
to Byzantium. We do not want to fight your people.”

“As
long as you are here, we will fight you,” snarled Bakri. “You are here without
permission and so you will be dealt with like trespassers, a crime punishable
by death.”

Olaf’s
face reddened . “I have told you that we mean no harm, and I stand by that, we
seek safe passage through your land.”

“Is
that your feeble attempt at asking permission to cross my land?” asked Bakri.

“It
is,” said Olaf.

“I
curse you!” Bakri spat at Olaf’s feet.

“It
is not my intention Bakri, to offend, we only mean to travel home.”

“You
may not walk upon my land,” said Bakri.

Olaf
sighed. “We will not go back the way we came. I ask you, as owner of these
lands, to let us pass.”

“I
will not let you pass.”

Then
so be it,” said Olaf. “We must disagree, I fear you may regret your decision.”

Bakri
smirked. “As we speak, your camp is surrounded. Not only will you not pass
through my lands, but you will die here.” “Is that so?” asked Olaf. He hefted
his great war axe.

Bakri
called out a single word. War cries erupted around the encampment as Bulgar
warriors charged forward to begin the slaughter.

The
leader of the Bulgars turned to flee, but Olaf grabbed Bakri’s shirt and hauled
him back.

Olaf
drew his sword. “You will regret that you little turd.” He slammed the sword
through Bakri’s body and the blade exploded through his back. Bakri slumped,
but Olaf kept hold of the sword hilt, forcing the Bulgar to die on his feet.
Olaf’s hate-filled stare was the last thing he would ever see.

Olaf
stepped back, kicked the Bulgar from his blade and turned to join the battle.

“To
me! To me!” roared Olaf, batting aside a Bulgar blade contemptuously. “To me!”

Olaf
could hear the horses whinnying in terror. This was followed by the thunder of
their hooves. The Bulgars had severed their tie-up line and their mounts had
fled. Now they were on foot. He cursed.

Thormdall
was the first to arrive with his face spattered in blood. There was a slight
smile on his face.

“Skyaldaborg!”
yelled Olaf as a large group of Varangians arrived.

The
Varangians rapidly made a shield wall against the Bulgar storm. As more of the
warriors arrived, the shield wall expanded and the Bulgars found it difficult
to break through the defence. A small group of Bulgars attempted to move around
behind them, but Thormdall saw the threat and led a counter attack that left
the enemy bleeding and lifeless on the leaf-littered ground.

Steve
was wedged in several rows from the front, and noticed that Ahmad, Heleena and
the other Australians were not far away. The battle was deafening with war
cries, screams of the wounded and groans of the dying, and the clash of steel.
The Varangians in the front rank thrust their swords below or above the
shields, dealing crippling wounds to feet, ankles, piercing throats or lodging
in skulls.

Varangians
in the second rank wielded the great war axes, or bearded axes as they called
them. The massive weapons were swung above and beyond the front rank where they
landed with incredible force cutting into shoulders, shattering weapons,
mangling limbs or severing heads.

Steve
stumbled on the corpse of a Bulgar. He continued to step back. Misplacing his
foot on the face of another Bulgar corpse, Steve fell but the tall Varangian
beside him grabbed him by the shoulder with a steel grip and pulled him back to
his feet.

“Mind
your footing,” the Varangian said, “it could be your death.”

Steve
thanked him.

The
shield wall, ten warriors wide and six rows deep, continued to slowly withdraw
from the Bulgar onslaught with effect. The Bulgars attacked but they fell
against the shield wall like water against a rock and many of them lay
bleeding, dying or dead as the Varangians continued to withdraw into the
blackness.

Eventually
the Bulgars gave up and melted into the forest to lick their wounds. The
Varangians broke rank and quickened their pace until they found a deep cave
that provided a good defence should the need arise. At dawn, the group departed
at a blistering pace, determined to increase the distance between themselves
and their foe. When the sun had come up, they stopped to rest.

“We
left behind eight dead,” muttered Olaf. “And lost our horses,” added another.

Olaf
nodded. “When this is over, I will seek council with the king and if he
permits, we will bring the entire guard back here. We will bring our dead
warriors home, and slaughter to the Bulgars. I want to destroy their villages,”
he snarled. “I want to kill their warriors, burn their crops and slaughter
their livestock. The next time a Varangian party passes peacefully across their
land they will know to damn well leave them alone.”

“Ahoy
there!” roared a voice.

The
Varangians were on their feet, swords drawn.

“Who
goes there?” snarled a huge man, his bearded axe clasped in two hands as he
strode towards the newcomer dressed in chain mail and a white robe. On the
white robe, from his upper chest to his lower abdomen, was a large red cross.

“Crusader,”
muttered Matt.

“Henry
of Yorik!” called the man in a strange accent.

The
axe-bearing man lowered his axe and grabbed Henry by the scruff of the neck. He
dragged him forward, stumbling and cursing until he was face to face with Olaf.

“What
is your business?” asked Olaf.

Henry
cleared his throat. “I am on God’s business!” he roared. “You are on the
business of the Gods?”

“No!”
said Henry making the sign of the cross. “There is only one God. I am on His
business, I am helping reclaim His land. His promised land.”

Olaf
chuckled. “Chreest man?” he asked.

“Yes,”
whispered Henry looking around. “I am a man of Christ.”

“I
am not,” said Olaf. “I do not suggest that your God does not exist, I simply
believe my Gods are stronger. Are you an enemy to the Bulgar?”

Henry
spat with contempt. “Show me one Bulgar and I will slaughter him like a damn
cow! A Bulgar is no different to a Moor, they should share the same grave!”

Olaf
sheathed his sword, although the warriors standing behind Henry did not. “Very well
then,” said Olaf. “You are welcome at my camp.”

Henry
untied a large drink flask from his belt and swigged from it. He wiped his
mouth and burped loudly. He swayed on his feet, burped again and retied the
flask to his belt.

“Have
you heard of Jacob’s hymn?” asked Henry.

“Jacob’s
him?” asked Olaf.

“The
hymn of Jacob?”

“The
him of Jacob?”

“It
is a song, a song to God,” Henry said.

“Are
you a mad man?” asked Olaf.

Henry
burst into a very loud song about a rainbow, a dove and some long forgotten
promise made by God. The poorly sung hymn went on for almost five minutes.

“We
are travelling into Byzantium,” said Olaf once the song had ended. He had
decided Henry was harmless. “Will you join us?”

“I
have just travelled from there. God forsook my men, leaving them rotting in the
sun, but perhaps you can help me bring retribution upon the Moors?”

“Perhaps,”
replied Olaf.

“Then
I agree,” said Henry, taking another drink from his flask. “I agree,” he
repeated.

“Very
well, we travel swiftly, so clear your head,” said Olaf.

The
group travelled on foot until dusk. By then the forest had slowly thinned into
non existence to be replaced by sandy, barren, unforgiving land. Steve knew
they had reached Turkey. There was no fire that night. There was no enemy
either. By sunrise they were once again on their way, ever watchful for another
Bulgar attack.

CHAPTER
18

The
sun beat mercilessly down as they walked. Steve knew that once the sun set, the
temperature would plummet well below zero. It was strange seeing this landscape
again; it was vaguely similar to the land in which they had fought their
withdrawal against the Iraqis. It was the same place he knew, only now they
were a thousand years in the past. The thought sent a chill up his spine. He
could make out some land marks, but the sand had shifted and this part of the
desert was flatter than he remembered. He swore, clasping the hilt of his
sword, to keep it from slapping his thigh. He had already tripped once when the
sword swang between his legs midstride.

“It
is treating you like a good woman,” grinned a Varangian.

“Always
between your thighs.”

But
the good natured banter had disappeared four days before when a large group of
Badawark warriors had spotted them and given chase. Each day the Badawarks
closed the gap. Outnumbered almost six to one, Steve knew the Varangians would
have to fight hard if he and his soldiers were to make it home at all.

“Fear
not my friend,” Henry stumbled alongside Steve, clasping him on the shoulder.
“The good Lord is on our side!” he slurred. Steve was sure that the alcohol
would have been hot under the indiscriminate blaze of the sun, but Henry did
not seem to mind. He stumbled a few steps and began into a loud song about a
Lamb of God, but Steve tuned him out. Almost ten minutes later and still
clasping tightly to Steve’s shoulder, Henry fell silent.

“Bastard
Arabs,” spat Henry, “bloody Moors, all of them to a man. They should be taught
a damn lesson.” He staggered towards a distant dust cloud thrown up by the
Badawarks.

“Bloody
bastards!” he roared, half running, half staggering away from the Varangian
column towards the Badawarks. “Feel the wrath of God!” he shouted. Henry
tripped and somehow landed on his back. He took another swig from his flask,
pushed himself into a sitting position and burst into song again. Using his
sword as a walking stick, Henry levered himself back to his feet and stumbled
back to the Varangians.

As
the sun began to set, Steve thought he could see the familiar mountain in the
distance. It was dark and snowing when he drove to the cave all that time ago,
but still he thought the feature looked familiar. He could not see the cave
where they had parked the Land Rover. They were almost home and a surge of
excitement passed through him.

“You
see what I see?” asked Matt, coming alongside Steve.

“Yup,”
he answered. “Bloody oath I do.”

“You
still got the crystal?” Matt asked, “I bloody hope so!”

Steve
patted his pocket. “Right here, mate, safe and sound.”

Matt
realised then that Steve had been unconsciously pulling the group along with
him, through the crystal’s power. It was Steve’s mental toughness emanated via
the crystal that had cemented their tenacity as a group. The one-minded, stoic
trek through endless enemy territory in order to arrive at their final
destination. Despite their casualties, Matt realised, it had been through Steve
that the Varangians had found the strength to continue.

The
temperature dropped quickly as night approached, and the group continued
towards their destination clutching cloaks or animal skins about them. To stop
and rest would be defeat. The Badawarks would be upon them by the afternoon of
the next day, and the closer they were to the cave, the more chance they had of
survival. The Varangians could defend a narrow space well, but they were
outnumbered and would be destroyed within an hour out in the open.

The
warriors travelled until the cold became overbearing and they were forced to
gather together as a group to conserve heat. They slept for several hours,
always maintaining a watchful guard. They moved off again, shivering and
cursing, before sun up.

As
they walked Steve gathered his soldiers around him.

“Okay,
no matter what happens up here, we need to get to the cave and get down into
that cavern where we were sent back in time,” said Steve.

“These
guys,” he said of the Varangians around them, “are gonna be defending that cave
mouth with their lives. Ahmad and us have to make it down to that cavern so we
can get back to our lives. But if the cave mouth can’t be held we will be
fighting with swords in the pitch black.”

Matt
and Will burst out laughing. “Oh we’re screwed,” chuckled Matt, grinning.

“Yeah
thanks for the pep talk,” said Scott, “I feel a shit load better now.”

“Yeah
yeah,” said Steve, “I’m just sayin’ be ready to fight if we need to. And also
if we do get back in one piece, don’t ever forget what these blokes did for us,
because sure as shit, a lot of ’em will pay for the return to our families with
their bloody lives.”

The
dust cloud which spoke of the Badawark pursuit was much closer now. The
Badawarks themselves resembled a dark smear in front of the cloud. The
Badawarks were pushing hard.

“So,
my friend, are you one of these Varags?” Henry stumbled alongside Steve.

“No,”
the Australian replied.

“No?
Tell me you are not a bastard moor?” he hissed.

“Nope,”
chuckled Steve.

“Then
what?”

“I
was baptised when I was a kid, as a Roman Catholic, but I don’t really follow
the religion. I’m my own man if you know what I mean?”

“A
Christian!” exclaimed Henry. “Another Christian!” he bellowed, but no one took
any notice.

“Piss
off!” Steve said, pushing the soldier away as he tried to put an arm around
him.

“Brother,
we must follow the grace of God,” continued Henry, unperturbed that he had been
pushed away. “For He will see us through, no matter what becomes of us in these
perilous times. We, the lambs of Christ, will see victory brought to us.”

“Oh
for Christ’s sake,” Steve groaned.

“Exactly!”
shouted Henry.

“Your
God?” asked a Varangian. “Your God is weak,” he spat. Steve watched as the
drunk soldier examined the Varangian thoughtfully.

“How
so?” he asked.

The
Varangian shrugged. “You must approach your god on bended, bruised knees, hands
clasped before you like some naughty child. You throw all your money into the
coffers of your corrupt, money-hungry churches. You sing the praises of your
god, for fear he will strike you down if you do not. Is that not a belief of
yours? Fear god?” Before Henry could reply the Varangian continued. “And yet
you proclaim that your god is all forgiving and all loving and that he is the
only true God.”

“We
do fear God, for He is the almighty, commander and creator of heaven and earth,
and what of your God?” asked Henry. He seemed genuinely interested in what the
Varangian had to say.

“My
God? I do not have one.”

“No?”

“No,
I have many. Odin is the lord of the gods. We approach him like a child would a
father, with respect, but with a straight back, looking him in the eye. We do not
snivel, grovel or whimper on our knees before some altar in the hope of gaining
his love and respect. Odin’s respect is earned, and most of our gods watch over
us like parents. We ask for their support in times of need, but if they refuse
then we make do as we must. We keep a keen edge on our blades, we keep our
bodies strong and our crops well tended. If your God refuses you, you
Chreestmen fall into a sobbing heap and whine about how hard your lot is.”

“I
do not snivel to my God,” said Henry with an edge to his voice. “Do you not?”
chuckled the Varangian. “The next time you sing one of your songs, you listen
to the words yourself. Your god is a weakling and his followers try to bully
and harass anyone who is not of their ilk. I do not care that you do not call
upon my gods I do not think of you any less that you are not one of us, yet you
are affronted that we Varangians do not entertain the idea of your god. Your
god is weak and your religion is full of contradictions.”

The
Varangian strode away leaving Henry in silence.

“What
say you?” asked Henry turning to Steve.

“I’m
no Varangian, I don’t believe in their gods, but shit, mate, I can see where
he’s coming from,” he chuckled. “It’s why I’m not religious, Henry. Too many
times I’ve been at a crossroads in my life, and once or twice at a dead end,
and prayed for help only for nothing to happen. So my religion’s myself. I
treat people the way I want to be treated, but I make my life what it is. It’s
family that makes life worth living.”

“But
surely, can you not see that it was God working through you, without your
knowledge, that has brought you through life?”

“No,”
replied Steve. “God had nothing to do with it. It might be different here, but
in the future where I’m from, most of the Christians I know pretend they are
somehow above and beyond the rest of the non-Christian population.

They
think they are better, when in fact, they live and behave exactly the same as
every other member of the population. Apart from the one hour a week when they
put a stage show on for their god about how devout they are. As a rule I do not
trust anyone who is devoutly Christian or who is a born again Christian. They
are usually untrustworthy people who come from questionable backgrounds.”

Henry
bellowed into song about an angel of God, as if Steve had never spoken.

“My
point exactly,” said Steve, leaving Henry to join Matt, Will and Scott.

By
midday, the group were exhausted. They stopped to rest in a little shade under
a rocky outcrop. When the heat of the sun felt like it could melt steel, a
little shade was better than nothing. The Badawarks were still pursuing
aggressively and would probably be upon them by late afternoon. The Varangians
had pushed hard during the day and made good progress, but the Badawarks knew
this land and were accustomed to the merciless weather. Before the sun died in
the sky, they would need to make a stand and fight, probably to the death. If
they could make the cave before the fight began, they would have a good chance
of success.

“God
favours the bold!” bellowed Henry.

“Does
he?” grinned the Varangian who had argued with Henry earlier.

“He
does!” Henry roared. “Who might you be, if you please?” Henry asked the
Varangian.

“Thrane,”
replied the man, his eyes glinting with humour.

“Henry!”
the drunk soldier shouted. Thrane nodded, committing the name to memory. It
seemed that these warriors goaded each other with good humour, in much the same
way as soldiers did on the modern battlefield.

“Henry,
before you go marching off to display your boldness, make sure you kneel down
and whimper to your god like a good boy, otherwise he may not favour you at
all!”

Henry
did not react.

The
troop moved back out into the torturous heat after about half an hour of
milling around in the cool shade. They walked on at close to eight kilometres
per hour. Some of the shorter warriors trotted to keep up. But they did this
effortlessly, never complaining.

The
cave was much closer now. Steve could clearly see the black opening and knew
that he was within reach of his wife and children. Their journey was almost at
an end. He glanced over his shoulder. The Badawarks were closing fast. He could
make out individual warriors now.

“I
notice your gods have done nothing to help us,” Henry slurred, stumbling
alongside Thrane.

“My
gods have kept us alive,” retorted Thrane. “I notice your god has helped keep
the distance between us and our enemy.” Thrane glanced over his shoulder and
did an exaggerated double take of the closing enemy. “Actually forget I spoke,
it seems your god is as useful as a blunt blade.”

“My
God has done His duty, but working alongside such incompetence, He is
attempting to keep us alive and maintain the distance between us and our foe.”

Thrane
roared with laughter. “I shall relent that one.”

Henry
grinned and took a long swig from his flask.

As
the sun began to die on the horizon, the Varangians started jogging through the
desert towards their destination. When the wind changed briefly, it was
possible to hear the distant shouts and war cries of the Badawarks. Within the
hour battle would be underway.

The
warriors ran through the sand, sweat pouring down their faces. There was no
talking now, just the sound of rasping breaths, the soft hiss as boots moved
urgently through the sand and the gentle clink of chain mail. Henry dropped off
to one side and dry retched. Thrane grabbed the drunk soldier by his chain mail
shirt and pushed him forward violently.

“Move,
you fool!” Thrane hissed. “You stop, you die!”

Henry
nodded but did not reply. His leather flask was tied to his belt now. It was
the last thing on his mind. He attempted to stop again, but Thrane shoved him
forward so that the Christian warrior was forced to vomit between his legs as
he ran.

Steve
ran alongside the crusader. “Keep going, mate, you can do it!” Strangely, Henry
seemed to gain strength from Steve’s word. “Yes I can, and I will!” he said.