by Walt Socha
* * *
“Damn.” A stinging burn erupted on the back of Larry’s hand as he moved through a field of tall plants. The square stalks and short oval opposite leaves hinted at nettles. Rubbing away the itch, he continued to the post and wattle fence. Sheathing his sword, he grasped the bottom layer of interwoven branches and pulled. As he grimaced with effort, the nearest post cracked and gave way. Staggering to regain balance, Larry brushed aside the remains of the fencing.
The screams from the far side of the farmstead died away as Larry, followed by Gatanu and Tamatu, jogged, hunched over, to the blind side of the largest building.
Muffled moans greeted Larry as he crouched behind the structure’s wattle and daub wall. As he unhooked his axe from his belt and hefted it in his left hand, the moans stopped. His right hand unsheathed his long sword as a cold hate shoved aside any fear. But he had to wait for his men to loose their arrows from across the stream.
On his left, Gatanu, sword in hand, stretched his back from one side to another. Once just an orphaned boy from another continent, he’d insisted on following Larry, leaving a wife and two kids back in Haven.
On Larry’s right, Tamatu stood, eyes staring nowhere, probably meditating. Also one of Haven’s many orphans and now one of Brent’s Buddhist warriors, he had also left home to follow Larry. Larry’s eyes blurred. He forced himself to breathe deep and long. Brent’s breathing exercises might be based on Buddhist pseudo-science, but they damned well helped.
A shout. Several shouts. Gatanu disappeared around the building. Larry followed, Tamatu’s footsteps sounding behind him.
As the three men rounded the squat building, they encountered a maze of running men. Keeping their relative positions, Gatanu veered left and Tamatu right. Larry charged straight, sword swinging at the back of a bowman aiming across the stream. Larry felled a second man before the invaders realized they had been flanked.
“Larry.” A shout from the right. Abandoning his buried axe in the head of a slumping warrior, Larry charged the three men who were backing up a staggering Tamatu. The first died without realizing he was being attacked. The second turned, his face savage and angry. He died, face frozen.
The third man, distracted by Larry’s appearance, gagged as Tamatu’s sword slid into his throat.
“They’re retreating,” Gatanu’s voice rang out over screams.
Larry glanced to the right. Gatanu’s sword plunged into the belly of one of the partially clothed men. The dying man’s deflating penis made a pale contrast to the dark blood welling up around the steel blade as Gatanu withdrew it. Other bodies lay twitching, hands grasping arrow shafts. On the mound of fodder, a naked woman lay unmoving, legs spread and blood welling from her groin. To the side of the fodder, a small battered and bloody body lay in a pool of coagulating blood.
To Larry’s right, Tamatu limped toward the bay in pursuit of several retreating men.
Screaming, Larry retrieved his axe and started out in a jog, breaking into a run as he passed Tamatu. His pulse pounded in his ears as images of the child, his injured men, and the dead woman overwhelmed his thoughts.
Behind him, more shouts followed.
* * *
Ignoring the growing protests from his knees, Larry ran along the trail as it paralleled the stream, plunging through the trees.
“I’m behind you,” a voice said.
“Look out for,” Larry said between gasping breaths, “an ambush.” His eyes flicked from side to side. Hills rose on either side of the narrow path as it wove among thick bushes and overhanging trees.
A flash of metal. “Look out,” Larry yelled as he twisted away from a spear tip that scraped his breastplate. He beat the spear point down and lunged. His arm jarred as his sword tip hit metal before slipping into soft flesh. Bringing up his left arm, he parried a second attacker with his axe.
Voices behind Larry mixed with voices from the trees as he thrust his sword. Withdrawing the dripping metal, he spun around to find only his own men standing. He glanced at the three men on the ground, noting unfamiliar faces. He turned back to the trail and continued running. The slaps of following footfalls mixed with the sounds of the babbling stream and Larry’s pounding pulse.
The trail opened onto a rocky beach. Twenty paces out, three Northmen leaned on poles as they attempted to leverage a small dragon-headed longship into deeper water. As Larry burst into the open, they abandoned the poles and unsheathed their swords.
Larry screamed as he plowed into the water, sword extended in his right hand, axe in his left raised over his head.
When he was still ten paces away from the three attackers, they staggered as arrow shafts blossomed from their chests.
Larry slowed to a stop as the three bodies fell, one only a few inches from his feet. He turned. Behind him in the water were Gatanu and Disunu, steel in their hands. Beyond them, four bowmen drew back additional arrows. After a heartbeat, they released the tension on their weapons.
“Thanks.” Larry leaned over, hands on his knees, still holding his sword and axe, gasping for air. “I’m too fuckin’ old for this.” As he stared at the spreading red stain in the lapping water, the two nearest men slogged past him and prodded the floating bodies with their swords.
* * *
“Larry,” a voice called from the longship.
Larry gave the knot a final tug and turned to inspect his work. Two lines secured the ship to the twisted trees that bordered the shoreline.
On the rocking vessel, Gatanu stood by the gunwale, holding a large bundle upright. “Found this,” he said, turning the bundle to reveal a young woman bound with ropes. Her wide eyes moved over the shoreline where the three Northmen bodies lay before coming to rest on Larry.
Now what? Larry shook his head. “Well, untie her.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Gatanu held the now squirming woman at arm’s length. “She’s already bitten me twice.”
Larry stared. Gatanu had just killed three or four Northmen warriors. Larry started shaking. Slowly at first, then with heaving gasps, he roared with laughter.
A second warrior, Disunu, appeared next to Gatanu, holding a second bound woman. Both men appeared confused. And scared.
Larry leaned over, hands now resting on his knees, howling through broken breaths. After a minute, his breath came easier. He stood and wiped his eyes. Faces uncertain, each man still stood holding a bound captive. Larry shifted his gaze to the bodies lying face up on the shore. Humor fled. How had they survived a third encounter? He fisted his hands to keep them from trembling. After several long breaths, he could finally loosen his fingers.
“Hand one down to me. I’ll untie her.” After dropping his sword belt and axe, Larry stepped through the saltwater, now clear except for debris raised by his sloshing footsteps. Ducking under one of the mooring lines, he stood knee deep next to the port side of the boat. Gatanu moved to the lower part of the boat and, with a grunt, lifted his captive over the side.
Larry grabbed the girl. Ropes bound her ankles, thighs, and arms. She squirmed at first when he took her weight in his arms. As he turned toward the shore, she went limp. At least she was lighter than Hatimu.
“Help Disunu with his captive,” Larry said over his shoulder before stepping carefully through the water. The bound girl tensed as he carried her onto shore. Her staring eyes bored into his as he lowered her to the ground. “Do not fear,” Larry said in Eire. “I will untie you now.”
The ropes were wound tight and the knots a solid mass of fiber. The woman flinched as Larry withdrew a small knife from the inside of his right boot’s shaft. “I am going to cut these ropes.” Leaning over, with one hand around the woman’s left calf, he slid the point of his knife into the center of the knot and twisted. After several breaths, the knot disintegrated, the rope falling to the woman’s bare feet. Standing up, Larry cut off the rope binding her arms to her chest. Her one-piece tunic of coarse wool was torn at the front. Greasy handprints covered the whiter
skin of her heavy breasts. Larry glanced from her chest to her eyes. Tears dripped down to her tight lips.
“You are free to stay or go,” Larry said as he cut the remaining rope around her wrists. The last rope fell. The young woman stared at Larry for a heartbeat. She stepped back, turned, and ran up the path toward the farmstead.
“One more.” Gatanu and Disunu set the second woman upright next to Larry. This woman was similarly bound. Her tunic was of finer cloth—maybe linen—and was also ripped in the front.
“Who are you?” she said in a demanding voice, with only a trace of a tremor. Her eyes held Larry’s.
Larry stared back, eyebrows rising. “Enemies of your enemies.” He leaned down to cut her legs free. “I am Larry.” He straightened and cut the ropes around her chest.
She held up her hands. Larry slid the knife between her skin and the rope, feeling her eyes still on him. The ropes parted.
“I am Deirdre. Accompany me back to my father’s farmstead,” she ordered.
* * *
Leaving Gatanu and Disunu to finish securing the longship, Larry strapped on his weapons and followed Deirdre up the path between the two low hills. She only paused once to glance at the three Northmen bodies still lying next to the path.
As the path emerged into the open fields around the farmstead, she slowed. Larry’s men had laid out seven bodies in a row in front of the main building. To the right, next to the open outbuilding containing the fodder, the dead bodies of the invaders lay in a pile. Near them lay a heap of weapons and outer clothing.
Deirdre’s steps faltered, and she staggered to the bodies. “Mother.” A small cry escaped her lips as she knelt next to an older woman. After several shuddering breaths, she shifted to the body of an older man. She slid her trembling fingers across his battered face, closing his eyes.
Larry moved closer, careful not to interrupt the young woman’s grieving. His eyes flicked over the bodies and some of the tension from the encounter drained away. None of his men lay on the ground.
Three more times, Deirdre touched the bodies. One, the woman who had been raped on the mound of fodder, appeared to be a slightly older version of Deirdre. The facial features of the second, a man in his late twenties, hinted at non-family member or a spouse. Deirdre choked as she closed the eyes of the battered infant. Then she looked up as if suddenly realizing that strange men surrounded her. She stood and turned to face Larry.
“My parents and my sister’s family.” Her voice shook. After several long breaths, she said, “I place myself in your care.” Deirdre glanced around as Larry moved closer. “Where is my slave?”
Larry’s eyes furrowed. “Slave?”
“The other captive from the ship,” Deirdre said.
Larry stared at the woman. This bitch's family had just been wiped out and she wanted her what? He opened his mouth but closed it as several of his men started murmuring. Beyond Deirdre, Matuso exited the main building, his uninjured right hand steadying the other woman. Crying, she clutched a small bundle of cloth to her breast. The material left black stains on her torn tunic and her hands and arms.
“So Anya’s brat survived.” Deirdre’s harsh voice carried over the sobbing of the other woman. “Hidden in the ash of the hearth. How appropriate.”
Anya stopped at the line of bodies. Holding the bundle close, she knelt between the two bodies that had been ignored by Deirdre. Anya touched the forehead of the woman and then the man, both middle aged. Her tears dripped into the opening at the top of the bundle.
Deirdre turned and took a step toward the other woman. “I require your services to prepare my family for burial. Now.”
Deirdre’s body jerked as Larry laid his hand on her shoulder. “We will prepare your family,” he said, his voice a low whisper that cut through the silence around the buildings. “After we prepare Anya’s.”
Deirdre spun around, face red, teeth bared in a reply. Her eyes met Larry’s and she deflated. She jerked loose of Larry’s hand and strode around the bodies into the shambles of her home.
At the line of bodies, Matuso helped Anya to her feet.
Chapter 5
July 10
At the sound of running footsteps, Larry reached for his sword but only found air. His gaze swiveled from his sheathed sword lying in the prow to the sight of Cassan emerging from the worn path to the farmstead.
“People.” Cassan heaved in another breath. “Scouts just reported a small band of people.”
“How far?” Larry stood, abandoning the packing of supplies into the coastal longship they had named Seabird. He had been puzzling out how to stuff all his men, the two women, and their equipment and supplies in their newly acquired ship that was about three-quarters the length of Stormchaser and only half its width.
“Less than an hour away. Matuso’s setting up defenses. Anya and the injured are coming down here.”
“Stay with the ship.” Larry grabbed his sword belt and swung his legs over the ship’s side. He dropped, wincing as the cold salt water re-soaked his boots and leggings. “Finish stowing the supplies in case we hafta leave suddenly.” With a forced smile over his shoulder to Cassan, Larry moved into a jog.
Halfway back to the farmstead, he passed Anya and her son. A few steps behind them, three of the injured men hobbled along, lugging their packs and weapons. Larry slowed to squeeze each man’s shoulder as he passed.
Only Matuso was visible as Larry jogged out from under the canopy of trees and into the open farmstead area. The young warrior turned at Larry’s presence and nodded, face tight. “We got visitors?” Larry asked as he approached Matuso. “Where’s Deirdre?”
“Gatanu and three others are shadowing them.” Matuso looked east, into the trees at the edge of the farmstead’s fields. “Hallur, Kequit and Fistav are in the buildings or in the bushes. I asked Deirdre to wait in the house in case they’re friendly.”
“Good.” Larry turned in place. Over a fire in the common area in front of Deirdre’s home a battered copper kettle bubbled unattended. From the outbuildings, several men held out hands or swords to alert Larry to their positions. The place looked peaceful if one didn’t notice the series of graves scarring the field of grain. Other than wood fences, the place had nothing that provided cover. “We’ll hafta rely on surprise again if it gets ugly.”
“Supposedly it’s a mixed group of men, women, and children. They have a couple of horses with packs.”
“You stay with Deirdre. I’ll wait with the pigs.” Larry nodded to the small hut to the east of the main building. “Their grunting may help mask my movements.”
* * *
After a half hour, and with the pigs finally quiet, Larry heard approaching footsteps.
“Hail. We seek shelter,” a voice quavered.
Through the doorway, Larry watched as Deirdre stepped out of the house, followed by Matuso who held his sword in his uninjured hand.
“Who are you? Why do you request shelter?” Deirdre’s voice rang strong and confident. Larry allowed a smile. Meek she wasn’t.
“We flee before the Ur Neill. They follow.”
“You are leading them here?”
No one answered her.
“How many are you?” Matuso broke the silence, his stilted Eire in contrast to Deirdre’s melodic voice.
“Three men,” the voice answered.
“Looks like more than three.” Matuso’s voice dripped annoyance.
“Also five women and four children.”
“Come out of the trees. Let us see you.” Matuso stepped into the middle of the open area in front of the farmhouse. With deliberate slowness, he resheathed his sword but kept his hand on its pommel. Ready but neutral.
Voices murmured from the direction of the visitors. They sounded both frightened and angry.
“Given that you are surrounded, I suggest that you do as he says.” Deirdre’s voice cut like a knife. “How far behind you are the sarding Ur Neills?”
The voices quieted. After sever
al heartbeats, two men stepped into the open, the first holding a small axe, the second a pitchfork. Both wore soiled linen tunics tucked into frayed trousers of wool. A third man appeared, a younger man in a dusty grey robe holding a thick walking stick. Behind them, two women led horses loaded with large bundles, followed by several kids. The women wore long linen dresses partially covered with woolen vests. The kids, two boys and two girls, sported clothing similar to the adults but smaller and well patched.
Bringing up the rear, two younger women leaned forward under smaller bundles strapped on their backs. Their attire consisted of patched and discolored wool dresses.
Larry sheathed his sword and stepped into the open. Several of the newcomers took a step back. All stared, first at his face then at his weapons.
“You are welcome here.” Larry pointed toward the fire pit with his left hand. “Will you accept our dinner?”
The women and kids’s eyes followed Larry’s hand. The young ones swallowed as they looked at the steaming pot.
At the edge of the fire, a stack of clay bowls teetered on a flat rock. Larry walked over to it, picked up one of the bowls, blew out the dust, and filled it from the copper pot with a wooden ladle. He held it out toward the ragged band of visitors.
One of the women carrying a bundle stepped around the others and approached Larry. Shifting her load to the ground, she held out her hand. Larry placed the bowl in her hand. She took several steps backwards, dragging her load, eyes on Larry.
After a long moment, she brought the bowl to her mouth and sipped, still looking at Larry over the edge of the bowl. She drank more deeply and then used a finger to direct the chunks of meat into her mouth.
Behind her, the others moved forward, tentative at first, then in a fast walk.
“Back up,” Larry shouted as the two older men pushed in front of the others. They stepped back, eyes flicking from Larry to the pot of stew.
