by Walt Socha
* * *
Hatimu leaned against the weathered oak as he peered around its ancient girth. Below, the small valley constricted as it and its accompanying stream escaped to the bay through a narrow cut in the hills that bordered the salt water. He massaged his leg with one hand. The trail—never more than a game path—had deteriorated into small tunnels through the thick brush. It had taken him a lot longer than expected to work his way across country. Hunger gnawed at his stomach but small streams kept him hydrated.
He moved uphill for a better perspective and, once there, lowered himself into a clump of bushes to view the landing area. A hollowness settled in his gut not related to hunger. Three longboats were pulled up on the rocky beach. How had the other two gotten here? At night?
A shiver ran through his body in spite of his sweat. He could only see enough men milling around the ships to fill one. Where were the rest of the Northmen? Hatimu turned in slow, deliberate movements. His eyes, partially blinded by the deep shadows from the low sun, swept the hillside and the valley below. Retreat became a priority. This wasn’t just a scouting party. Three ships meant at least 60 or more men. He needed to get back to Sui Finn.
Picking out a path with cover, he crawled into thicker brush. Crouched, he scurried from one shadow to another. Once back on Sui Finn, he’d get someone to run to Sanctuary with the news. The next hillside provided a welcoming dark shadow. He could make better time once in its safety. Wincing from the fire in his leg, he jogged into its embrace. And froze.
A dark shape stepped from behind a leaning birch, a man with a smirk half hidden by a thick beard. He wore a chain mail vest over a leather tunic and stained trousers. Boots laced up his leg and gauntlets covered his hands and forearms. The man’s smile widened and he said something in a low voice.
A sharp pain stabbed Hatimu’s left thigh. He brought up his bow, his right hand flailing at his quiver. A noise from behind. A second explosion of pain…
Chapter 32
August 22
Ragnar rolled over, extending his arm. Nothing. With a sharp intake of breath, he sat upright. The early morning light cut through the tent’s entrance. He flipped off the blanket and crawled to the door. Outside, the dawn revealed the camp nestled in a narrow valley that lay between the mountains that formed the backbone of the peninsula and the small hills that bordered the bay. A small stream followed the valley before tumbling down the steep shoreline on which his three longships lay beached.
He slipped out of the tent, pulled on a wool tunic, and looked around with a frown. Scattered over the narrow valley, mounds of wool blankets breathed and snored. Most had scouted the region to the south and east yesterday—confirming that the strangers only had one base—and deserved a late morning. Nearby, a small open-sided shelter protected their cooking supplies from the frequent rain. There, Orla’s familiar form knelt at a cook fire. Ragnar relaxed.
The murmur of voices turned his head. Scouts picked their way through the sleeping men, two carrying a litter.
“We found this stranger last evening.” The lead man dropped his end of the litter, evoking a moan from its contents. “We were assigned to monitor the area between here and the mountains and to view the valley for lights during the night. So we did not bring him in but left him tied up overnight as we continued our task.” The man looked down at the injured captive. “On our return, we found him still breathing.”
Ragnar squatted and turned the man’s head. “Not from Eire. Not from our lands.” He slapped the captive. The captive moaned again. “Who are you?” Ragnar said in Norse. Then repeated the question in Eire.
“Trader,” the captive said in Eire. “Trader from...” His head lolled to one side.
“Weapons?” Ragnar said, looking up at the scouts from his position at the side of the unconscious man.
The scout handed Ragnar a bow and a quiver of arrows. “Well made.” He pulled a sheathed knife from his belt. “Very well made.”
Nodding, Ragnar pulled one of the arrows from the quiver and brought the arrow’s tip a hand’s width from his eyes. A familiar tip of hard iron. He scraped one of the sides of the arrowhead across the back of his hand, leaving a hairless strip. “Tell me what you found,” he said, handing back the bow and quiver, taking the knife. He frowned as he withdrew the hard metal from its sheath.
“We could see fires from the summit. But only at their settlement.” He turned and pointed toward the skyline to the east. “There are guards posted at the northern most peak. But they did not see us.”
Ragnar’s eyes followed the scout’s outstretched arm. A line of mountains formed a wall to the east. Three prominent passes broke the chain, the lowest being the middle.
He returned his gaze to the warrior as he handed the knife back. “You and your men can wager for the stranger’s weapons. Leave the captive here. I will have my thrall attend to him. Feed your men and have them rest in turns, but keep one on the captive and one at the boats.” He gazed toward the campfire. “And one to guard the thralls.” Two other women had joined Orla. One wore a silk trimmed wool cloak—probably Gunnarr’s wife—and was giving orders to Orla and the second thrall.
Ragnar had not been happy to have wives on this journey but his ship captains had that right. He had to admit that they did help run a comfortable camp. And their presence helped keep the female thralls from being too damaged to work by some of the rougher men. He turned and looked over his men. As the shapeless mounds stirred, his eyes unfocused. The strangers would have most of their defenses at the lowest pass. He smiled.
* * *
Hatimu choked as water filled his mouth. He opened his eyes to find a young woman leaning over him.
“Drink,” she said. “You need water.” She lifted his head then repositioned her hand as he stiffened from pain. “Apologies. I did not realize you also have a head wound.” Fingers crept along the back of his head. Soft but insistent fingers. “A blow. But the skin is not broken,” she said in a soft voice.
He swallowed. “Who are you?”
“I am Orla.” Her voice broke and a sob escaped. “Daughter of Ros.”
“Ros?” Hatimu started to rise, but the world spun. Nausea threatened to bring up the water he just drank.
“Don’t get up.” Her hands pushed, gently, on his shoulders.
“Is Cassan your brother?” Hatimu asked, eyes closing.
“Cassan?” A hand rested on his chest. “Is he safe? Is he with the strangers who came to trade?”
Hatimu forced a weak smile. “He escaped with us. We are the traders. Fled into the mountains.”
“Hush, Ragnar returns. Drink this.” A hand raised his head again. A bowl of liquid pressed against his lips. A broth.
* * *
“Is he alive?” Ragnar said, kneeling at Orla’s side.
“Weak but alive.” Orla shifted backward, then stood and retreated.
“Speak, stranger,” Ragnar said. “Tell me who you are and why you are here.”
The captive opened his eyes. His features were unfamiliar. Darker skin than Eire or Norse peoples. Long black hair. Prominent nose. Sparse beard. Well-sewn clothes of leather and flax. And a tunic of wool, finely stitched.
“I am called Hatimu.” The stranger met Ragnar’s eyes. “We came to trade.”
“You came to kill.”
“We kill only when attacked.”
Ragnar sat back on his haunches. This man’s face twitched, but his eyes did not waver. “Where are you from?”
Hatimu narrowed his eyes. “We live in the west,” he said after a long pause. “About three weeks travel by sea.”
Ragnar shifted to the left and pulled out his knife. He reached forward and placed the tip on Hatimu’s cheek. “You lie, nothing exists in the west but rumors and children’s tales.”
The man’s eyes crossed as he focused on the knife. “Poorly made.” The eyes refocused on Ragnar’s. “Maybe you would like to trade for better blades?”
Ragnar increased the pressure, a bead of red a
ppearing. This man was mad. He had an arrow wound in his leg and a bash on the back of the head. Yet he spoke as if he was an equal. Maybe it would be better to just kill him. Yet curiosity stayed his hand. Who were these intruders? And could he profit from them? He withdrew the knife and sat himself on the ground, feet at the stranger’s torso. The knife he kept in his right hand. “Tell me of these lands that do not exist in the west.”
“It is a long sea voyage from two great lands that lie to the west and to the southwest.”
“I have only heard of a large island,” Ragnar said. “But it lies to the northwest.” He frowned. He was talking with this captive as if he were an equal. “So you lie.”
“Have you been west of Iceland?” The captive’s face showed nothing. “There exists another large island. Green pastures lie in the southern part but ice covers the rest.”
Ragnar should just kill him. But knowledge of hard iron could be important. “What of your weapons?” He unfastened a small pouch from his belt and spilled the contents into his left hand. “What do you know of this metal?” he said, showing Hatimu one of the metal arrow points.
“Steel from Haven’s forges.”
“What is Haven?”
Hatimu described the coming of the Far Ones, the war with the warlord Tork, and the founding of Haven. “They can die, but their power is great.”
“If they can die, why should I be concerned?”
“Because you can also.” Hatimu shifted his gaze to the hills on south side of the camp.
“What if I kill you?”
Hatimu shrugged, glancing into Ragnar’s eyes for a brief breath. “I will be remembered by Haven.” The captive returned his gaze to the hills.
“No one is hiding in the hills in order to rescue you.” Unease crawled through Ragnar. Was this man brave or just mad? Were all the strangers like him?
“I enjoy the view.”
“Before you enter the underworld?” Ragnar said, smiling.
“Before I cease to exist.”
Ragnar watched the man for many breaths. Maybe just mad. But tales of powerful men from the west could be true. An island did exist to the north and west. It was a land of both green pastures and ice, and there were rumors of a second.
He stood and nodded to a waiting guard. “Put an arrow in his other leg if he tries to escape.” Ragnar turned, seeing Orla attending the cook fire. “Orla, see to the captive’s wound.” He turned to another guard, “Find Gunnarr. His tent is down near the boats.” Ragnar snorted as he pointed north between the low hills to the sea. Gunnarr’s demon wife insisted he stay away from the thralls. “Tell him to gather the men into two bands. The returned scouts will rest here and guard. Overnight packs for the rest. We march.”
* * *
Larry looked up at the sound of running footsteps. Heads turned away from their breakfast porridge as Matuso entered Sanctuary, sweat streaming off his face and soaking his tunic. Larry’s clay bowl shattered on the ground as he stood and moved to intercept his young friend.
“Hatimu’s missing,” Matuso stammered between gasps of air. “There are Northmen warriors to the west of the mountains.
Larry bit off a reply as one of the kids held up a mug of tea to Matuso. “How many?” Larry asked after Matuso gulped down the contents. “Cassan told us yesterday there was a ship.”
“At least one.” Matuso exchanged his empty mug for a full one. “Can’t see that section of the coast from the lookout.” He stood, looking at the full mug. “Hatimu went yesterday to scout them out. But he should have returned last night. There was adequate moonlight. I ran here after being relieved by Marcan and Brynjar.”
Larry looked around the gathering audience. Hatimu was good, even with his injured leg. Unlikely to get caught unless he ran into a lot of Northmen. “This doesn’t mean he’s in trouble. Maybe just delayed. But we will send additional men to the lookout.” He scanned the mountains, lingering briefly on the easier passes. “And men to the passes.”
Fergus appeared at his side. “Send a large force?”
“No. Just scouts.” Larry sighed. “With orders to retreat if they run into anyone.”
* * *
Over the lip of his mug, Larry watched the off-duty warriors and his charges mill around the evening cook fire. The minty tea soothed his thirst but did not settle the ache in his gut. He couldn’t even think about dinner. What would happen to these people if he couldn’t get them out of this mess? A murmur arose, and heads turned to the northwest. Guts twisting in a knot, Larry stood and stared in the same direction. A runner from the Sui Finn lookout. Legs leaden with worry, Larry moved to meet him.
“Troops,” Brynjar gasped in English. “Even through the trees, we could make out dozens of men.”
“Give him water and food.” Larry’s eyes scanned the worried looks of the refugees and the open faces of the Havenites. “Then meet in ten minutes.” He made eye contact with several of the refugees. “Meet in one finger of time,” he said in Eire.
* * *
Larry watched as, dinner forgotten, Havenites, Icelanders and Eirefolk crowded around the cook fire. Niam approached and he gave up, handing her his dinner bowl, still half-full of stew. She nodded instead of scowling.
He watched her fuss with the bowls, letting his mind escape from the coming conversation. Niam had adapted well to her freedom, making peace with her former owners. That had been helped, no doubt, by the attention the young lady received from the warriors. Rumor had it that a couple of the men had pressed a bit hard, but she had deflected their advances with apparent good humor. He’d also heard that one of the Icelandic warriors, who had not grown up in Haven culture, had not accepted her rejection. Until Niam talked to Deirdre. Who, in turn, had Fergus take the warrior for a long walk.
If only all problems were that easily solved.
“Any plans?” Fergus said, sitting on the bench nearest the cook fire.
“Nope.” Larry sat next to him. In minutes, the milling crowd settled on the remaining benches or on stools dragged into place.
“As you have heard, Hatimu is missing and warriors, probably Northmen, are approaching.” Larry said as silence overtook the gathering. “I am thinking that we should avoid a direct battle until we are in a better defensive position.” Larry forced his eyes to sweep the crowd, meeting one pair of eyes after another. “As exposed as we are here, even winning would decimate our ranks, leaving us vulnerable to any further encounters.”
“Should we surrender?” one of the new refugees who sat next to Marcan asked, rising from his seat to emphasize his question.
“No.” Larry met the man’s gaze. “We run. And make it painful for them to follow.”
The man nodded and sat. Marcan placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a quick squeeze.
“To the south?” Fergus said.
“Teltina knows the mountains.” Larry stood, his eyes searching the crowd. She stood at the edge of the gathering, only her head showing. As their eyes met, she nodded. “She could lead us into the mountains while some of us hold back to make pursuit painful. Teltina?” He held out a hand in her direction, directing everyone's attention.
Teltina stepped onto one of the benches. “When should we leave? Tonight? Tomorrow?”
Larry looked at his son.
“I am expecting our scouts from the east.” Fergus got to his feet and looked about him. “Once we know more of the Ur Neill’s tactics, we can pick the best route into the mountains.” He hesitated before turning to Teltina. “Your choice.” He shifted his gaze to Larry. “We should leave no later than tomorrow evening. We will have a half moon. Good enough to slip away.” He turned to the crowd. “First prepare what you can carry on your back in case we have to leave sooner than that. And then prepare bundles of food and spare weapons to load on the horses. What is left we will bury or hide if there’s time.” He turned toward the river and the ships. “Or scuttle.”
“I will leave now to check the passes and join you tomorrow befo
re midday.” Teltina stepped down.
As the crowd dispersed, Larry intercepted her. “You can not go alone.” Larry swallowed bile. This woman was crazy. “It is too dangerous.” They stood at the edge of Sanctuary, away from the crowd milling around and exchanging rumors after the meeting.
Teltina smiled. It was an infuriating smile, one that an adult would bestow on a child. “Agnes will remain here but Rory will accompany me. These mountains are our home. I must confirm which passes are not being watched.”
“I will go with you.”
“You will stay here. And hold this community together.” She reached out with her right hand to touch Larry’s arm. “We will not be seen.”
Her touch burned his forearm. Larry opened and closed his mouth, his tongue impotent.
“Tomorrow.” Teltina turned and, in a few minutes, was lost in the dim evening light.
* * *
The lake cut into the valley like a knife. Ragnar smiled. If the mountains were taller, this could be a scene from home. The smile sagged as he closed his eyes. But it was not crowded with brothers and cousins seeking land. He must not fail them.
Movement at his side jarred Ragnar back to this place and time.
“I see ships.” Gunnarr pointed with his left hand, his shortened little finger held at an angle.
At the end of his outstretched arm, fields broke the forest about a rost up the small river feeding the lake. “I will trust your good eyes,” Ragnar said. “How many?”
“Three. The smaller one is the size of our missing coastal ship.”
“They will die.” Not only did these foreigners disrupt his plans, they also humiliated him.
“Shall I move the men downhill?”
Ragnar’s eyes swept the valley. To the north, the lake curved through the hills and mountains. To the east, passes among low hills provided access for the Ur Neill. If they fulfilled their oath. To the south, the valley disappeared into broken mountains. “No. Let them rest. We will await our Ur Neill allies.”
