by Ste Sharp
He con tinued past the remaining cells to a building capped with a thick, wooden roof. ‘The good news is I have heard from the Draytor . ’ He punched the door open and a thick waft of foul air drifted out. ‘The Draytor is close to capturing a human soldier. So,’ Panzicosta gestured for Millok to enter the dark and damp building, ‘we must prepare for their visit.’
Inside, it took a second for Panzicosta’s variety of eyes to adjust to the low light. The slicing blades, rusted manacles and holding tables came into view , alongside pails of blood, lumps of fur and long- lost limbs.
Chapter 11
‘I can’t see any bodies,’ John said as a new battlefield appeared on the horizon.
‘Plenty of graves though.’ Crossley pointed to a series of mounds spread out in a random fashion, unlike the previous regimented graves.
‘Some have a stick at one end.’ Euryleia pointed.
‘To mark the head?’ Lavalle tried to catch her eye but she walked away.
‘They were big.’ Crossley coughed. ‘Humanoid.’
‘The others have a stone,’ John said.
Mihran stared at the white obelisk, then spoke to Li: ‘Scan this field as you have the others. I need more data and then–’
‘Halt!’ A deep voice boomed and a silhouette appeared of a tall biped.
‘Friend or foe?’ Bowman was nearest but received no reply.
John held his breath and took a step back. Even in the low light he recognised the figure.
‘What is your name?’ Mihran stepped forward, his scarlet robes flowing in the breeze.
‘I am Peronicus-Rax,’ the tall creature replied.
‘The watcher,’ John whispered and stared at the one large eye in his oval head, just like in the pictures.
Peronicus-Rax stood over eight feet tall, and his body was festooned with a variety of weapons and trinkets, dangling from belts and hooks. He didn’t move, yet the thickness of his limbs suggested great strength.
‘What happened here?’ Mihran asked.
‘Battle, war, death,’ Peronicus-Rax replied.
‘And then?’
‘I buried them where they fell.’ His voice was deep and full of sorrow.
Li stepped forward to get a better view. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Long enough.’ He winced and bent away in pain. ‘Desist your scanning, female.’
‘Sorry, I…’ Li looked away.
‘Your species is new to this land and you have questions.’ He looked from soldier to soldier. ‘I have answers but I doubt you want to hear them.’
‘We would appreciate any information you have,’ Mihran answered.
‘Do you have shelter?’ Lavalle asked.
‘Yes, but be careful not to draw attention.’
Crossley looked at John and mouthed, ‘What does he mean?’
‘There must be other armies about,’ John whispered back.
Peronicus-Rax strode off and John kept an eye on him, wondering what drew this creature to death.
‘This place feels creepier than the other battlefields,’ Crossley whispered. ‘I mean… he buried all of these guys?’
John agreed. ‘Maybe that’s why he brings us here?’ John replied.
‘I don’t know. It’s more like he’s here to clear up, like some kinda priest.’
‘We can’t trust him,’ John said.
‘Why?’ Crossley asked.
‘He’s drawn to death.’ John tried to find the words. ‘He looks for death… he’s dangerous.’
Crossley pointed ahead to the view unfolding in the low light. ‘But we’ve got somewhere to sleep tonight.’
The ground dropped away to reveal what looked like an elephant graveyard. Huge, motionless creatures lay scattered across the dusty valley floor. At first, John thought they were sleeping, but their loose skins flapped in the wind.
They descended the shallow incline and John stared up at the huge creatures, wondering if they’d been warriors or beasts of burden. Each carcase bore no obvious face or limbs, just a bulk of desiccated flesh, and a spicy odour wafted from the bodies.
‘Smells like cinnamon,’ John overheard someone say, and he had to agree it wasn’t a bad smell.
‘Like a pod of beached whales.’ Mata stared up as he walked through the rows of bodies, each of which stood three times taller than him and fifty paces long.
‘They’re long dead by the look of it.’ John pointed to one body where the skin hung in tatters to reveal a rigid, rib-like structure within.
Li was busy scanning a carcase. ‘Their organs were scavenged or wasted away, and the dry air has turned their skins to leather. A perfect tent.’
‘Whale tents in the desert.’ Crossley laughed and shook his head.
‘We just need an entrance,’ Lavalle said, slipped his longsword from its scabbard and slit a diagonal cut between two ribs, ‘and the tent is ours.’
The knight pulled back a flap and John half expected a cloud of bats to stream out. Instead, a gust of sweet odour greeted his nostrils.
‘And maybe a second door for ventilation.’ Lavalle disappeared into the dark cavity and shouted back, ‘The floor is dry!’
‘Right then,’ Crossley stepped in. ‘Time for some shut-eye.’
John followed into the dark cavernous belly. The exhausted soldiers who filed in behind him filled the leathery floor with their slumbering bodies. So, as he’d done for days now, John put his bag down for a pillow, unstrapped his gun-arm and lay on his back.
His mind wandered. He wanted to know more about the watcher – Peronicus-Rax. Was he one of a race of advanced aliens who had brought them here? More importantly, did he have the answer to how John could get back home to England and Joe?
Minutes passed as John’s thoughts wandered and he stared at the ribs above. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the smallest sounds around him grew into larger sounds in his head – a creak here or a swish there. The breathing of the men slowed and they snuffled or snored as they drifted off. Then a rustle outside caught his attention, footsteps… followed by a pair of quiet voices.
John was up straight away and tiptoed over the prostrate soldiers to the tent’s opening, where he hid in the shadows. From this distance he could just make out the deep voice of Peronicus-Rax, but who was he talking to?
‘…fought in many wars, but these were our match,’ Peronicus-Rax said.
‘Why did you bury them?’ It was Mihran.
Typical Mihran, John thought, always asking questions.
‘I was the last survivor,’ Peronicus-Rax replied.
‘And yet, you buried your enemies as well,’ Mihran said.
‘Yes, they deserved that.’
Was Peronicus-Rax just another soldier? John wondered. Another pawn pushed around by whoever was playing this game?
‘How did you survive?’ Mihran asked.
‘I was lucky and–’ Peronicus-Rax shuddered like he had when Li had scanned him. ‘Stop!’
Mihran stumbled backwards and clutched his head. ‘I…’
‘Do not enter a mind without permission!’ Peronicus-Rax kept his voice quiet but sounded more threatening for it.
‘I don’t,’ Mihran panted and John felt an urge to help his leader. It was the first time he’d seen him weakened like this. ‘I’m still learning how to use this… gift.’
Without pity or anger, Peronicus-Rax spoke: ‘Use it wisely. These gifts must be turned to your advantage in war. As leader, you must think of your battalion before yourself.’
Mihran was nodding, although breathing heavily still.
‘You should refine your skills to keep in touch with your warriors. For example, did you know our conversation is being listened to?’
‘No, I…’ Mihran paused, then spun round to look in John’s direction.
John pulled away from the tent flap, quickly tiptoed back and lay down. The sound of his pounding heart filled his ears as he waited for Peronicus-Rax or Mihran to burst in at any moment.
John calmed his breathing and wiped his mind of all thoughts in case Mihran used his skills to find him, but all he could think about was Joe.
***
John woke with a gasp, unaware he’d fallen asleep. The tent was dark and full of the sounds of men breathing. He sat up and looked around, unable to shake the feeling that someone had been calling his name. A faint, high-pitched sound came from outside the tent, and John pictured a cat or puppy. He had to check it out, so crept out over the snoozing warriors, sure he heard a light pattering of feet running from the tent along with – was that a giggle? John stepped outside and, in the low light, caught a glimpse of a shadow disappearing behind the nearest tent. He coughed as a cloud of dust wafted over from the desert and then ran after the shadow.
‘It can’t be.’ John caught sight of a leg and ran off in pursuit, holding his gun-arm against his chest.
He weaved around the tents and chased the little silhouette to where the tents opened up to reveal the open desert. John stopped to catch his breath and shook his head. Twenty paces away, standing on the rise of a hill with a cheeky smirk, stood a young boy no older than four years old.
‘Joe?’ John asked.
The boy’s mouth broke into a full smile as he held John’s gaze.
‘My boy.’ Tears filled John’s eyes. ‘You found me.’
He didn’t question why or how. John just stared: drinking in the sight of his son. This was no picture or faint memory – it was Joe in the flesh! He wiped his eyes and, when he could see again, Joe had run up to the hill’s brow.
‘Wait!’ John called out and started climbing.
***
Olan shook himself awake with a snort which, according to his wife, he always did when he slept on his back. It took a few seconds to recognise the lines of ribs above him; their bleached white lines glowing in the low dawn light. He licked his dry teeth and, with his trusty double-headed axe in one hand and his gleaming Incan chest plate in the other, stepped over the slumbering soldiers to the door flap. He noticed an empty space along the way but thought nothing of it.
The fresh air outside filled his lungs and cleared his mind. Thoughts of his wife, children and home village came to him just as they did every morning of this voyage. He had counted the days until he returned to his family, rich with plunder. But how long would it be now? Five more days, and then what? Just two more journeys, he had promised his wife, two raids would give him enough money to start trading furs and amber through the Eastern trade routes. Flashes of the butchery of war came to him: burning villages; earth pooled with blood; wailing children; frightened women; the dismembered bodies of fighting men.
He shook his head and made his way through the tents to where a winding line of small bushes scratched a living beside a clear, stone-bottomed brook. He dipped his elbow and splashed a little water onto his lips before drinking and refilling the goat’s bladder – runes sewn into its handle gave him strength: his family name; his wife’s name; and his children’s.
For two generations, Olan’s people had sent their warriors west to steal from the weak Britons and, being the tallest man in his village by the age of fifteen, Olan’s parents had little choice in letting him go ‘a viking’. Years later they said Olan was the strongest axe-man to set foot in a longboat, which was why so many men gambled and fought to be oarsmen in his ship.
His last raid, just a few days ago, had been like the rest: the fleet of twelve shallow-hulled ships had powered up the river with the tide when the clouds hid the moon. The scouts had told of decrepit guards defending a village nestling in the soft grassy hills of this timid and unthreatening country.
Not like this land, Olan thought, keeping one eye on the open desert. After a quick wash, he walked back to the tents to see Mihran and Samas stretching and talking.
‘And you think they’ll fight as one?’ Samas said.
‘We will fight in the next five days, so we need to be ready.’ Mihran gave Olan a look. ‘Our priority is to locate the gates, but we should think about training – manoeuvres and communication.’
Samas nodded and Olan wondered where the animosity between these two had gone.
‘The water’s clean.’ Olan held up the bladder.
‘Good. We breakfast then leave,’ Mihran replied. ‘Wake them.’
Olan smiled.
‘Quietly.’ The huge figure of Peronicus-Rax loomed up from behind.
‘Yes, of course.’ Olan felt like a child next to him and stepped away to the nearest tent.
‘We haven’t found out who decapitated the men at the castle,’ Mihran said. ‘And I’m not sure if it was one of our men.’
Olan felt Mihran staring at him as he walked away but, when he turned back, Mihran was looking elsewhere.
‘There are many forces here who want your army reduced,’ Peronicus-Rax said softly, ‘and it seems your presence attracted unwanted attention – creatures were here in the night.’
‘Who?’ Mihran asked. ‘Our enemy?’
‘A potential enemy if you choose. They didn’t stay for long,’ Peronicus-Rax said.
Olan kept listening as he walked from tent to tent. ‘Wake up, get up!’
‘Which way to the silver gates?’ Samas asked.
‘In that direction,’ Peronicus-Rax pointed.
Crossley was one of the first men Olan had woken. He joined the conversation. ‘You’ve been to the silver gates?’
‘I have seen them,’ Peronicus-Rax replied.
Olan visited tents further away. ‘Come on, time to get up,’ he called and headed back to Mihran as Li gave her morning report.
‘…supplies are low but we have a more pressing issue.’
‘What is it?’ Mihran asked.
‘We have a soldier missing – John Greene.’
Olan looked at Li. Was she telling the truth or was she the killer? Olan had grown fond of the little Englishman.
‘The short man with the arm-gun?’ Mihran asked and Li nodded. ‘Any sign of where he went?’
‘I found two sets of footsteps leading out of the camp and over the dunes.’
‘Listen.’ Mihran raised his voice to get everyone’s attention. ‘We need to keep walking, but it appears John Greene left the camp last night.’
‘What?’ Crossley jumped up. ‘He can’t survive out there. Why the hell did he run off?’
Li shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He’s taken his bags, so–’
‘John needs to be with us.’ Euryleia spoke out. ‘He has no weapon and he’s injured.’
‘We’ve got to go get him.’ Crossley was staring at Mihran. ‘Come on!’
‘No,’ Mihran said firmly. ‘We need you to find water in this desert – Mata too.’
‘I will find him.’ Lavalle stepped forward. ‘Point me in his direction and I will track him down.’
Olan smiled. Did Lavalle really think finding John would restore Euryleia’s faith in him?
‘Yes.’ Mihran stroked his beard. ‘Anyone else?’
Randeep stepped forward. ‘I will go.’
Olan shifted from foot to foot. It would be good to stretch his legs and get away from this monotonous march, but it could be dangerous and…
‘Olan and Samas,’ Mihran said, ‘you will join Randeep and Lavalle.’
Olan caught a glimpse of Samas’ face and recognised the old resentment rise in his eyes.
‘Li will give you directions and instructions on how to locate us,’ Mihran continued. ‘Good luck.’
Olan grabbed his rations and strapped his chest plate to his back, with an extra leash for his axe. ‘We’ll be back in no time.’ He patted Lavalle on the shoulder and tried to hide his smile.
***
As the four men jogged across the dry plain, Olan’s first raid came back to him. He had been the youngest on his ship, wearing his father’s armour and an iron amulet of Thor’s hammer, which his mother had tied around his neck. When they hit land, Olan had held back while the other men charged the Saxon village and, by the
time he walked through the broken wooden palisades and over the dead guards, the defeat was complete. But not the victory. Olan had watched in horror as his comrades hacked at defenceless people, burnt houses sheltering families and raped young women in the street. They tortured old men for their hidden silver and left the younger men writhing in agony, their wounds bleeding them dry.
His comrades had changed; Olan could see it in their eyes.
Shocked by the barbarity of his people and harassed by the sounds of torture and the stench of burning flesh, Olan had looked to the skies, asked Odin for answers. Was this how he was to act too? Attack the rich churches and monasteries, fight the men with swords? Olan had thought. Not this. Anything but this. He couldn’t be like them… surely there was another way. But what could he do? He would never fight his own men and, looking at them, they enjoyed it too much to be talked out of it.
Solemn and confused, Olan had toured the village, wincing at the screams and moans. Out of desperation, and to shut him up, Olan lashed out at an elderly man who lay screaming in the mud. With an angry chop he beheaded the man. Shocked at his actions, but content he had ended the man’s pain, Olan did the same with a young man dying from a stab wound. Then again and again. He couldn’t understand their words but carried on, putting the people out of their misery. His countrymen looked on and laughed, soon naming him ‘the beheader’ but, with each hack, Olan felt another soul had been released. He couldn’t protect them so he vowed next time he would kill the weak people before his comrades got to them. He would have to be fast and many would die but, standing in that burning village, he made his naive oath to the gods.
Over the years, Olan had kept his vow: cleanly killing as many villagers as possible before the rapists and sadists got to them. They had called him ‘berserkir’, but he wasn’t. He felt every cut and bruise deeper than any man sharing his battlefield.
As Lavalle, Randeep and Samas paused for a water break, Olan’s countless raids ran through his mind. Right up to his last battle. The flotilla had silently cruised up to the pontoons of the village and, as soon as his boat brushed the bank, Olan leapt onto land, his axe held high. Crashing through the barricade, Olan had been surprised to see soldiers drafted in by the villagers but he’d left them to his men. He scared the women and children out of the village with a yell and glare, and any men foolish enough to face him were hacked down. By the time the Viking vanguard had caught up, Olan had already saved a dozen lives.
