The Forgotten Land (47 page)

“I
wish I was stuffin’ about, mate, I shit you not,” Steve said.

Steve
spent the next half hour explaining their journey.

“You’ve
gotta be shittin’ me,” Greg said at last.

“I
told ya, mate, this is what happened.” “What were they like?”

“The
Norse?” asked Steve. “Yeah.”

“As
tough as nails, mate, like nothin’ you’ve ever seen.” “Sorry if I look stunned,
I’m still taking this all in.” “Thought you couldn’t be shocked,” Steve smiled.

“Yeah
well, you just blew that theory clear outta the water.”

“The
real McCoy, mate,” said Steve, handing the sword over to Greg. “This is a real
Viking sword, not some gimmick. This thing has killed men.”

Greg
held the sword in his hands. It was a one-handed weapon and the weight felt
perfect in his hand. Greg could see the hundreds of individual hammer blows that
had been used to shape the weapon. It was as sharp as sin and obviously not
some cheap replica. The dagger was a wickedly curved weapon, its hilt carved
from bone. The crecent- shaped blade was sharp on both sides.

“Looks
real enough,” said Greg.

“They’re
real, mate.”

Greg
finished his beer and placed it down gently. “I’m gonna head off, sorry again
for intruding so late. I’ll give you a call in a couple of days.”

“No
worries, Greg, hear from you then,” said Steve walking the RSM to the door.

“By
the way,” said Greg turning back. “I got a phone call yesterday about some
insubordination incident that some British officer wanted to press against you
and your men. Something about being abusive and insubordinate.”

Steve
suppressed a grin. “Yeah.”

“Don’t
worry about it, I threw it in the bin,” said Greg. “Will I see you back at work
after your leave?”

Steve
decided to square with the RSM. “Yeah, you will, mate, but only to hand in my
discharge.”

Greg
nodded. “I thought as much, you’re gonna be missed, mate. I’ll see you in a
couple of weeks.”

“Yup,
righto,” said Steve quietly closing the door and padding back to the lounge
where he turned on the television.

EPILOGUE

As
coincidence had it there was a program on ABC that had been made in the
late-80s. It was called simply “The Vikings” and outlined the spread of the
Norwegian Vikings towards Greenland and Iceland. The Swedish Vikings ventured
east and became known as the Russ. They pushed into and conquered lands that
would later become known as the USSR. The Danish Vikings, however, travelled
south and enveloped present day England, their influence still apparent in
place names such as York. The Vikings called the city Yorvik; it was the trade
capital of the northern world. Steve was half asleep at this point, but
something about the programme made him sit up. The presenter was explaining
that the Viking influence had spread to the Middle East. He was standing
outside the cave where Steve and his men had been sent back in time. Steve was
sure it was the same cave. On the inside of the cave was the familiar
rectangular obelisk almost five feet above the ground. The presenter moved to
the rock and pointed to it, the camera zooming in.

“Now
this is interesting,” he said in a strong Yorkshire accent. He ran his fingers
over the strange writing. “These are Norse runes and, if I’m not mistaken, it
says here ‘Let it be known that Olaf and his Varangians did great battle here
and were victorious against the savage horde. Let it be known that Thormdall of
Ulfor fell here and took many enemy with him to the great hall.”

“I
can only assume by great hall they mean the hall of Valhalla,” said the
presenter. “This is incredibly interesting,” he continued, “but I don’t understand
it. Why were these Viking warriors here? And what were they fighting for?
There’s nothing here, no precious jewels, no coin, nothing to loot or pillage,
certainly no slave girls to be had. This,” said the man with his hand on the
rock, “is a testament to a great battle that took place here, and the Vikings
were victorious. As to why, or what, they were fighting for, or even against
whom, we will never know. Thank you for joining me, I’m Jeremy Summers.”

Steve
tried to turn the television off but pressed the wrong button. The television
changed to a soccer game hosted by a very loud, French commentator. Steve swore
and turned the television off. He sat there for some time before finding the
sword and drawing it from its sheath. The metal glinted from the light thrown
from the kitchen.

“Daddy!”
Kathy called from her room.

He
could hear the creak of the bed as Judy rose to check on her daughter.

He
put the sword down and went to the master bedroom. “I got this babe,” he told
Judy. She mumbled something sleepily, before getting back into bed.

“It’s
okay, baby, just a bad dream,” Steve called to his daughter. “Just a bad
dream,” he said to himself.

*
* * * *

Steve
was keen to read as many history books as he could on the Norse. He wanted to
find out if the final battle in which they had been involved had ever been
recorded.

Steve
sat at the desk in the library. Unaware of the time, he had been reading for
the better part of three hours, learning about the Norse culture, their beliefs
and the terrible violence the Vikings brought to the world. But as he continued
to read he realised that the Vikings were no more violent than those whom they
attacked. It was a violent time, an age of sharp steel and ever watchfulness.
Steve did not find any mention of the village of Ulfor, although he did find a
saga about a man called Berag who had been captured by the Vikings. The saga
stated that Berag was looked upon kindly by Odin, and as such had been
liberated by the Gods of Light, who did not use swords or arrows, but commanded
the thunder and lightning of Thor, striking down those before them as if by
magic.

“You’re
kidding,” he said out loud.

He
read another book about the Varangian Guard, a host of some six-thousand Norse
warriors hired by the Byzantium king as his personal bodyguard. A Byzantine
priest named Ahmad Ibn Fadlan was quoted to have said, “I travelled across land
and sea with a troop of Varags, to a small Norse village, Ulfor, in order to
seek counsel with those named Tuatha-Day-Dannan. I did not see godliness
amongst them, they were merely men.”

The
book went on to mention a long-faded rune stone found somewhere in present day
Turkey. A small host of Varangians had led the Gods of Light home, where they
were sent back to Odin’s hall of heroes. The author interpreted a small
inscription that stated, “The Tuatha-Day-Dannan never again entered the world
of men.”

Towards
the end of the book, the author mentioned that Olaf, one of the senior officers
of the Varangian Guard, led some three thousand guardsmen on a rampage into
present day Bulgaria. They destroyed villages, burnt crops, slaughtered
livestock and killed all in their wake. They took nothing. The attack only
lasted about two weeks before the guardsmen returned to Byzantium. On the
return journey, it was recorded that the guardsmen carried with them the
skeletons of eight Varangians who had fallen long before.

Another
book he stumbled upon mentioned tiny, hollow vessels in which women kept perfume
and which they wore as necklaces. The tiny vessels had turned up in coin hordes
and in archaeological digs. One had even been found welded into the pommel of a
sword hilt.

“This
seems such a poor analogy in the face of such an ancient people,” the author of
the book wrote. “However, one could be forgiven for thinking that these tiny,
unexplainable vessels look like spent cartridges. It seems ridiculous, believe
me, but they bear a striking resemblance to today’s ammunition cartridges!”

“Bloody
hell,” whispered Steve.

“Excuse
me,” a woman said.

Steve
looked up.

“We’re
closing soon.”

“Ah
okay,” Steve said, gathering up the books. “May as well take these with me
then.”

The
librarian smiled.

*
* * * *

Steve
discharged from the army, deciding that he wanted to spend more time with his
family. Securing a managerial job at a local security firm meant that he would
be home most nights. Two years after his discharge, Steve took his family on a
holiday to the Middle East. They visited the pyramids, the Sphinx and watched
the sun rise over the beach of ANZAC cove. The war in Iraq had finished twelve
months before, so he also took his family to an obscure cave on the border of
Turkey. While his kids played amongst the sand and his wife half- heartedly
berated them, Steve placed his hand on the stone and looked out at the familiar
view. The following year they booked a five-week holiday to Denmark.

Will
and Heleena were married a year later; it was only a small wedding, but nothing
was left to chance. It was the first time Heleena ventured out in public
without her knives. Heleena gave birth to two beautiful, healthy children, a
boy and a girl. They both had the strong eyes of their father, and the thick,
curly hair of their mother. Will deployed twice more to Iraq, once to
Afghanistan and spent one deployment in East Timor, which felt like a holiday.
He remained in the army, reaching the rank of Warrant Officer Class 1.
Eventually he became the SASR’s Regimental Sergeant Major.

Matt
discharged from the army two years later. He studied medicine and eventually
became a doctor in a busy emergency department.

Scott
remained in the army, although he was not promoted beyond the rank of Sergeant.
He deployed three times to Iraq, twice to Afghanistan where on the second tour
of duty he was wounded badly in the leg. During three weeks’ leave, he
travelled on holiday to Turkey, where he visited a cave on the border of the
country, a cave with which he was familiar.

ABOUT
THE AUTHOR

Keith
McArdle was born in Sydney, 1978. He spent 3 years in the Royal Australian Air
Force where he saw service in the Middle Eastern Area of Operations.
Transferring to the Australian Army he served for 4 years, where he saw active
service in East Timor and Afghanistan. He lives with his wife in QLD,
Australia.