by Walt Socha
“At least we have good weather,” Matuso pointed south. “And a clear view of another finger of land. Something to add to the map I’m sketching.”
“Thanks for doing the map thing. What of boats?”
Matuso stood and gazed at the bay for several minutes. “Nothing now. I’m sure I saw two boats less than an hour ago outside of the entrance to Ros’s bay. Both larger than Stormchaser.”
“Shit. Well, your eyes are better than mine.” Larry slipped his water skin into his pack. “Let's just hope Stormchaser got away.” He paused. “Undermanned, their only option would be to head back to Iceland.”
“What’s your count on the number of attackers?”
“I’m thinking around 50. With maybe a couple dozen of ‘em on horseback.” Larry closed up his pack. “I figure we dropped a dozen or so.” He forced his jaw to unclench as he remembered their own loss.
“Plus a full longboat, maybe two,” Matuso said. “They appeared to be large ocean going ships.”
Larry stood, scanning the southern peninsula as he adjusted his sword sheath. “How are your eyes? Ain’t that a deep valley at the east end?”
“I have the binoculars. Had them stashed with my medical supplies.”
“How much?” Larry said. “The meds.”
“Salt. Half a bottle of alcohol; used a lot of it on Hatimu’s leg and Sigfus’ arm. Tinctures of poppy, cannabis, and herbs. Needles, forceps, and flax.” Matuso slipped his water skin back into his pack, dug around and pulled out a scratched and worn leather case. After removing the binoculars, he stood, focused, and peered southeast. “I would guess it's a valley. The mountains appear folded enough to contain one.” He turned to Larry. “You thinking of a defensive position?”
“Yeah, another Haven.” Shit, what had started out as a trading mission was slipping into killing and war. He was too old for this. But at least one of their main trade items was axe heads. The way the shit was flowing, they’d need them. “But first, shelter and food.” He looked around at the mountaintop landscape of grasses and low shrubs. The lack of trees hinted at harsh or windy weather.
“Sure as shit ain’t gonna have a fire at this elevation. Even if we dared, there ain’t no wood.” He slipped on his pack, signaling the men to do the same. “And we need to stay high for the view.”
He glanced west along the Dingle peninsula, frowning at the mid-afternoon sun. “We'll at least find someplace out of any wind for the night.” He turned toward Cassan still sitting alone with head down. “Hey, Cassan.”
The youth looked up and at Larry’s wave, stood, and jogged over to join them.
“This peak have a name?” Larry said.
“We call it Croaghskearda.” Cassan looked up at the mass of broken rock interspersed with stubby heather that formed the peak. “It means pile of stone.” He shifted his gaze back toward his former home. And stiffened. “The invaders are coming.”
Larry followed his gaze and, after a few heartbeats, made out a swarm of moving black dots, maybe a couple miles below them. “Good eyes. Looks like our friends got their nerve back.” He shifted his eyes to the falling sun. “They’ll be here before dusk.”
He turned to his young language teacher. “Any narrow ravines or steep trails nearby?”
Cassan’s eyes unfocused for several heartbeats. Then he smiled, his first since they had entered the bay.
* * *
The backs of two limping men disappeared to the north as Doalty climbed the last few strides to the saddle between the peaks of the wind-stripped mountains. He turned and urged his men on with sharp swings of his arm.
He’d left half of his ground force at the farmstead, taking the remaining twenty men to run down and kill the strangers. He had also ordered his horsemen to scour the lowlands for any stragglers and had sent a runner to the boat people to search the shoreline.
“Move it.” His men avoided his eyes as they passed. “They’re cutting down that side valley.”
After a half-dozen men passed, Doalty jogged to catch up to the head of the column. Those curs had gotten lucky when Ros’s daughter slipped out while he had been distracted with her mother. That alerted the strangers, but it would not happen again. And as for the daughter, he would decide about her after a bit of fun.
His men swore one of the strangers was a black devil who killed with an outstretched arm. Trickery worked on them; it wouldn’t work on him. Thanks to a few coins of silver and the local Abbot—a distant relative on his mother’s side—he was a priest of the man-god Jesus and had no need to fear devils.
He easily followed the tracks of the strangers through the low brush and broken rock. He grinned at a discarded, bloodstained piece of cloth. Devils don’t bleed.
After a few hundred strides, the tracks passed between two small ponds and veered north, toward a small valley that led down to the north side of the peninsula. Doalty smiled in spite of his labored breath. All the paths on the north side of these mountains lead down to a large bay that the Ur Neill presently held with their boat allies. Even if he didn’t catch the sarding strangers, he’d be praised for herding them in the direction of the main Ur Neill and Northmen forces.
Climbing the small rise to the lip at the beginning of the valley, Doalty paused for a breath. Below, the forested, lower end of the valley was partially blocked, forming a long jagged lake, which spilled through a small ravine. A steep cliff flanked the west side of the small valley, while the upper end of the other side consisted of a hillside of grasses, stunted shrubs, and misshaped boulders. The low sun cast a shadow that stretched halfway up the eastern slope.
Two men caught his attention as they ran along the rocky side of the water. No, they staggered.
“Get them,” Doalty screamed at his men. “A silver for the first kill.”
Smiling, he urged his panting men down the rough terrain after the fleeing strangers. They ran then slowed as they stumbled on the treacherous footing of the narrow valley.
As he followed the last of his men, his eyes narrowed. The boulders on the west side of the valley were strange, almost a uniform grey or brown. And similar in size. As he slowed his steps, his curiosity turned to dread.
“Stop,” he managed to croak out as the boulders stood, throwing off grey-brown blankets, to become a half-dozen bowmen firing arrows.
From the tree line at the bottom of the valley, other men appeared brandishing swords, blocking the path.
Doalty watched as his men, swords sheathed and bows unstrung for running, were slaughtered. He turned to run, only to find a giant black man standing in his path.
As he clutched the cross hanging around his neck, Doalty’s final vision was the black devil’s cold grin.
Chapter 3
July 9
Larry rolled over and heard a grunt as he bumped into something soft. He shifted his weight away from the sound and opened his eyes. A dark boulder appeared and, in a few moments, transformed into a blanket-covered man. In the pre-dawn light, the slow rhythmic movement of the shape matched low thrumming snores.
Images flickered through his head as Larry stared at the soiled blanket. Scenes of yesterday’s fights vied with hours-old nightmare reenactments. His jaw muscles tensed as he struggled to determine if the images were real or imaginary. After failing, he shook his head clear of both sets of visions and struggled to his feet. Stepping slowly over sleeping bodies, he left the small gulley that served as a sleeping shelter for his men.
Over the dark masses of the surrounding mountains, the eastern sky showed the promise of a new day. Larry wondered if it would be his last or, looking back at his still sleeping companions, their last. His now empty revolver had won the fight at the farmstead. And last night’s slaughter had been just luck. His stomach lurched as he looked west to the shallow cairn. Another dead man. And another wounded.
They needed shelter and a place to recuperate. And to mourn their losses.
He stumbled out of the shallow bowl formed in the broken mountain ri
dges, stopping at one of the small lakes to drink. A half-mile climb brought him to a small saddle overlooking the fog-covered bay between their peninsula and the one to the south.
“How’s the arm?” Larry asked the figure who stood staring south.
“Painful, but it will heal.” Matuso turned, holding his left arm with his right. A bloodied cloth bound his forearm.
Larry nodded. Matuso was Kristi’s best field healer, with knowledge beyond Larry’s medic skills from his old life. Matuso had Joe’s frame and Alita’s eyes, and Larry would die for him. But he hadn’t been able to prevent Matuso from catching one of the invaders’ arrows last evening. The jerks may have been totally surprised but they were skilled fighters and had recovered quickly enough to kill Pondusu and wound Matuso before being cut down.
Matuso’s eyes shifted to the mountains behind Larry. “Been quiet. Too quiet for the damage we’ve caused.”
“I’ll rouse the men. I’m still thinking about that valley at the west end of that peninsula.” Larry pointed south at a hazy landscape across the bay.
“About 30 or 40 miles,” Matuso said. “Sigfus’ shoulder wound should heal easily, but movement will be painful. But Hatimu’s leg wound is going to slow us down.”
Larry gazed south. “I’ll carry him if I hafta. But we’ll need food first.”
“I think there’s another homestead below and to the east. Maybe four or five miles. Longer on foot.” Lowering his left arm to dangle, Matuso pointed with his right to the flat land between the mountains and the low hills that border the bay’s shore. “Take the binos, you can just make out tilled fields and maybe a building.”
Larry stepped to Matuso’s side, taking the binoculars and directing his gaze along the younger warriors outstretched arm. “Looks like there’s a cut through those hills along the coast. Maybe that farmstead’s got a boat.”
“I thought I saw a sail disappear behind them. But it could have been a wave reflecting the sunrise.”
“Well, we got stuff to trade for food or a boat,” Larry said. “Plus a few coins and the weapons stripped from those dead fucks last night. Almost more than we can carry.”
“Their metal isn’t as good as yours.”
“Thanks, but their edges still kill.” Larry turned and handed the binoculars back to Matuso. “Let’s get the guys up. Time for a talk.”
* * *
Larry stood in the middle of the eleven men. He forced his shoulders back and his spine straight. Two men lost and three wounded. Men he’d known since their childhood. He’d have to face their families when he got back. He exhaled through his nose. If he got back.
“We’re in a world of shit.” He looked around. “But you know that. Stormchaser will return for us.” If Samatu and the others survived. “But until then, we need a plan.” He looked at Matuso, who nodded. In spite of his youth, the men looked to him as second in command. Even Gatanu, who was over a decade older.
“One idea is to head for a valley in the peninsula to the south,” Larry said. “It's bounded by mountains. We can’t see any settlement on the nearby shore. Or ships.” He forced himself to stare a few seconds into each man’s eyes. “I don’t have a better plan. This peninsula is overrun. And we’ve been lucky, if that’s what it can be called, so far. Thoughts?” Larry sat down.
“What about the north side of this peninsula?” one man asked.
“Probably where those attackers came from,” Larry said. “That trail we crossed likely connected the two sides. It had plenty of recent tracks, human and horse.”
“I saw smoke,” Matuso said. “And several longboats.”
“Inland?” Hatimu said. He sat, leg splayed out, face lined with pain.
“My history isn’t very good,” Larry said from his sitting position. “But Eire had a lot of infighting between tribes about this time. I’m guessing it was one of those factions that we ran in to yesterday. These outer peninsulas are probably safer and easier to defend than anywhere in the interior.” His mouth tightened. “Except here.”
“Those ships?” another voice said.
“Again, my history is a bit foggy. But besides raiding, the Vikings—they called them Northmen in these times—set up their own territories and sometimes allied with the locals.”
“Torben’s people?” one of the men asked.
“Unlikely. Lots of different Northmen groups. An it’s been over twenty years since he’s been in this part of the world.”
“How will Stormchaser find us?” the first man asked.
“There are peaks around that valley,” Matuso said. “We will need to set up watches. Have smoke fires ready.”
“You must go.” Hatimu’s voice quivered. “Leave me.”
“Fuck that.” Larry forced a smile. “I don’t leave anyone behind.” He looked beyond his men and frowned, thinking of the body they’d left in the forest near Ros’s and the one buried beneath rocks nearby. “As soon as we get down to tree level, we’ll make a litter. Until then, we’ll switch off carrying you.”
Chapter 4
July 9
Grunting, Larry squatted to allow the injured Hatimu to slide off his back. He grunted again as he stood and enjoyed an unencumbered breath. Hatimu wasn’t big, but he wasn’t light either. Larry stretched out his back as two of the men helped the injured warrior start down a steep section of the narrow valley that led to the flatlands below.
The sun was high in the sky, maybe 45 degrees. About as high as it would ever get at this latitude. Below, a lake formed at the lower end of the valley. The valley sides curved, cutting off any view of the farmstead and, hopefully, hiding their descent from any watchers. Beyond the valley and the low hills along the coast, the bay shimmered in the sun. No ships broke its surface. Where was Stormchaser? Had they escaped the longship? They had the flintlocks but were undermanned. Not knowing where the shore crew had fled and with one, maybe two, warships in the bay, they should have gone back to Iceland. That was a ten-day journey at best. Probably longer.
If they got past whatever longships had been out there.
Sighing, Larry started down the faint deer trail after his men. Piles of small round pellets confirmed local fauna. And maybe dinner. Thoughts of dire scenarios clouded his concentration and he slipped, falling on his ass, armor clanking.
Swearing and shifting onto a more comfortable patch of rock-free dirt, Larry allowed himself the luxury of watching his men descend for several minutes. The land folded into small drainage ravines, which fed into a broken stream that disappeared into the lake. The men at the head of the column stopped at the lake’s upper end, probably to fill water skins or check weapons. Larry clenched his teeth. These men trusted him to get them out of this mess. Heaving himself to his feet, Larry followed, mind diverted from further dark thoughts by the uncertain footing.
After a few minutes the trail flattened out and followed the now babbling stream. In another quarter mile, Larry joined his resting men and checked on the injured. Hatimu’s pale face forced a smile. Strips of flax cloth and leather immobilized Sigfus’s left arm. Matuso started to speak but turned as a runner joined them from the south.
“The farmstead is being attacked.” The runner, Hallur, bent over and gasped for air.
“I sent scouts to check it out,” Matuso said to Larry before he turned back to the runner. “Gatanu?”
“He stayed. Sent me back.” The young Icelandic warrior stood tall and brushed his straw blond hair from his eyes. “He’s behind the trees that line the opposite side of the main stream from the farmstead buildings.”
“How many attackers?” Larry dropped his pack.
“About a dozen,” Hallur said. “They dress like Northmen. They had already taken over the farmstead when we arrived.” He paused, his mouth tightening. “They are now enjoying the captives.”
“I’m going.” Larry avoided looking at any of the men. “I can’t ask you to go with me. These Northmen are experienced warriors.”
Larry leaned over
and pulled his axe from his pack, moving it to a loop on his belt. “Hallur, describe the layout.”
“I’ll lead you there.” Hallur turned and started jogging.
Larry ran, smiling tightly as multiple footfalls followed.
* * *
Larry peered around the trunk of a battered oak. Across the shallow stream with its thick brush edges, the farmstead’s main building dominated an open area several hundred strides in width and half that in depth. In front of the dwelling, a body hung by the arms from a crossbeam. A handful of men stood around drinking and shooting arrows into the twitching body.
To the left of the wattle and daub building, three others herded a half-dozen or so sheep along a path that followed the stream. To the right stood an open-air shelter half full of hay. Several men, naked from the waist down, gathered around a thrashing body. Fear and anger clouded Larry’s thoughts. He had to focus. Looking over his shoulder, he saw matching emotions on his men’s faces. A sliver of pride cut through the anger; all the uninjured men had followed him.
“Gatanu, Tamatu follow me. Swords only.” Larry shifted his gaze to Hallur. “Give me a finger of sun movement. Then volley arrows. Your longbows have the range over their shorter bows.” He turned to the young teen. “Cassan, you guard their backs. Don’t let anyone sneak up on them.” That should keep the youth out of danger.
Cassan’s knuckles whitened as his hand tightened around a sword he’d appropriated the previous evening. The men nodded. Larry backed away from the tree-lined stream and started jogging.
