Contact (Crossover Series Book 2)

by Walt Socha

  “Wait until dawn,” Ragnar said. “I would talk with these people who honor their enemies.” And learn more of their hard iron. Winning this land would require more than just winning a battle.

  Chapter 37

  August 27

  Larry reached down and lifted Rory’s head.

  “Father,” the boy said as his eyes stopped seeing.

  A voice screamed. Larry flailed for his sword and axe.

  “Larry, wake up.” A different voice sounded through the fog of memory.

  Larry opened his eyes and turned his head in the direction of the speaker. In the dim morning light, a face peered back at him.

  “We have company. The men are gathering,” Cassan said, before withdrawing.

  Larry rubbed the sleep and dreams from his face and swallowed to relieve his hoarse throat. Rolling to his right side, he slipped on his boots one-handed and rose. Men and a few women were standing around the cook fire in the dim morning light as Larry limped to join them.

  “There are Northmen at the base of our hill and in the forests.” Matuso handed him a battered mug of tea.

  Larry sipped and then gazed into the swirling liquid. Would this be his last drink of tea? And how many were already dead? All because of some quixotic goal of maybe saving Haven from something that might not even happen.

  They could flee. Have the women and kids take off, with maybe a few warriors to break through the Northmen’s line, the rest impeding pursuit. Larry snorted. Then any survivors could be hunted down at the Northmen’s leisure. But what else could they do? “The only way is a direct attack.” Larry turned his head, meeting each pair of eyes. “Break through and run. Bowmen at the rear to discourage pursuit.” Maybe a few would escape. He’d ask Teltina to lead them away. “Up here on this hill, I am guessing we are evenly matched, given our advantage in terrain.”

  Larry lowered himself to the ground and rubbed his face with his hand. The men surrounding the small cook fire shifted nervously. Next to the cookfire, Keelin kept her eyes on a pot of steaming water.

  “If we stay here, we will eventually be starved out. Or we'll run out of water if the weather clears.” Larry scooted to his left, finding a slightly less uncomfortable section of rock on which to sit.

  “We have no gunpowder.” Fergus picked up a small twig and tossed it on the small pile of wood next to Keelin.

  “We wouldn't have time to reload once the shit starts.”

  “Off this hill, they have the advantage.” Fergus stared at Keelin’s small fire. “I would guess there are fifty to sixty Northmen surrounding us. That matches Hatimu’s report.”

  “Any chance of talk?” Matuso asked.

  “Talk? Those fuckers killed several of our people.” Larry followed Fergus’s gaze. They were even short on firewood. “And Rory.” His voice cracked as Rory’s last word echoed yet again through his mind. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sheathed sword.

  “Even if we win in battle, we lose.” Teltina shouldered into the circle of men around Keelin. “We would be so weak, the cowardly Ur Neill and Wildlings would be able to overcome us.”

  Larry gazed at her, surprised at her choice of words. Her red eyes met his before turning outward. He followed her gaze past the men to where several women stood listening, slings hung around their necks. The older kids had joined them, each carrying an improvised spear.

  Larry closed his eyes. In spite of Rory’s death, Teltina thought about consequences. “Maybe they’ll attack anyway.” He started to lift his right hand to his face but it still clasped his sword. He let it go and rubbed his face.

  * * *

  Ragnar stood, eyes on the rocky hill where all tracks led. “What did you find?” he asked, not breaking his gaze as the footsteps stopped at his side.

  “It seems that they are all up there.” The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It will be hard to climb that hill.”

  “Is Orla up there?”

  “Too far to tell. But one of the scouts saw a man who resembled the escaped prisoner. Two men were helping him walk behind a rock to piss.”

  Jaw clenched, Ragnar continued staring at the hill. That bitch had repaid his kindness with betrayal. Maybe he should have given her to his men. An ache gnawed his stomach. No, he couldn’t have. But maybe it was better this way. His wife would become his private Ragnarok if Orla still served him.

  He needed to secure this land by the following spring. Almost a hundred brothers and cousins planned to arrive, if one counted their families and thralls. Including Birgit and their two young children. All depending on him. His smile at the thought of his wife and two sons faded as an image of Orla’s bare form ignited a flash of longing and anger. May she anguish in the underworld, cut off from her family.

  Another set of footsteps approached. “Although scuttled, our ship is in good shape,” Gunnarr said, stopping at Ragnar’s side. “It will be easily repaired. As are the strangers’ ships. Most of the rigging has been removed and probably hidden. We’ll find it eventually.”

  “What of tools?”

  “Only a few items. But well made of hard iron.” Gunnarr turned to face the west.

  Ragnar turned to follow Gunnarr’s gaze. Mist rose from the valley as the sun dried the land. A beautiful country in spite of its poor soil. But the bottomland could be worked and the hills would support sheep and cattle.

  “What rigging remains is unfamiliar.” Gunnarr turned to face Ragnar. “But it is of interest. I would talk with their shipbuilders.” He grinned. “Before I kill them.”

  “Perhaps we should ally with these strangers instead of the Ur Neill?”

  “I have blood with them.” Gunnarr growled his reply. “As does Snorri.”

  * * *

  Aided by his crutch, Larry hobbled down the hillside and stood on a small flat outcrop of sandstone. Several hundred strides below stood a group of Northmen, staring upwards. These were the assholes who had killed one of Fergus’s crew, injured Hatimu, and killed many locals. Including Rory.

  The boy’s first and last word cut through Larry’s core. His right hand moved from his crutch to tighten around the grip of his sheathed sword, his injured left, threaded through the straps of his shield, remained limp. He turned and looked back up the hill. Teltina stood among the warriors, staring back at him. She’d lost a son to these fucks yet was able to take a long view. Should he also be able to do that?

  “There are at least sixty men.” Fergus joined Larry on the rock shelf. “Twenty more than us.”

  “Experienced warriors.” Larry climbed down from the rock, taking time to place his feet. “But with our defensive position and the longbows, we could hold our own long enough to decimate each other.”

  * * *

  “Brave or a fool,” Ragnar said to no one as the dark-skinned man, leaning on a wooden crutch, stumbled downhill about thirty strides, leaving his companion on the rock shelf. Uphill, nearer the summit, warriors, perhaps twenty, stood in a line.

  Ragnar stared. Several of the warriors looked like women.

  “Allow me to kill him.” Gunnarr’s sword slipped in and out of its sheath.

  “You will have your blood,” Ragnar said. “These strangers interest me. I will talk first. Wait here.” Gunnarr had no sense of anything past today. Hands held at his side, Ragnar walked uphill, matching the dark stranger’s movement.

  Again, the dark warrior limped downhill. Ragnar closed an equal distance.

  “What is your intention?” Ragnar asked when the distance between them had narrowed to forty strides. The man shook his head and Ragnar repeated the question in Eire.

  “I am called Larry,” the dark man said in Eire. “Why did you attack my men?”

  Ragnar watched the man’s face. The eyes stared with an intensity that chilled his gut. Grey speckled the man’s tightly curled hair and contrasted with his dark skin. An older and, given various scars, experienced warrior. “My name is Ragnar,” Ragnar said. “Strangers are enemies.” />
  The dark stranger turned and looked uphill. One of the women, her sex now obvious at this closer distance, stepped forward from the line of warriors.

  “We came to this land to trade. Strangers can be trading partners.” The man turned back to face Ragnar. His dark face frowned as his eyes focused behind Ragnar. “Do your men fear me or my words?”

  Ragnar turned to see Gunnarr and Snorri climbing to meet him. “What do you want?”

  “I demand my right to blood,” Gunnarr said.

  “I also.” Snorri’s hand tightened on his sword.

  Frowning, Ragnar studied the faces of his two men. They had the right to address their losses and had probably talked each other into pushing their claims. But he could not deny them their rights without losing the loyalty of their men. “Your men shed Gunnarr and Snorri’s blood or the blood of their oath followers,” he said, turning back to the stranger.

  “What does that mean?” The stranger’s face betrayed confusion.

  “Snorri challenges the captain of the ship that damaged his and killed several of his men in the bay.” Ragnar turned and nodded to Gunnarr. “And Gunnarr’s ship was lost on the river to the abbey. Along with several of his followers.” Ragnar turned to face the dark warrior. “They have the right to confront the men responsible in combat. Or that man’s blood brother. Nothing else can be discussed until the blood is settled.”

  Confusion faded as anger crossed the dark face. “I must talk with my men.”

  Ragnar held a hand up to the sun. “You have one hand of time.”

  As the dark stranger turned and hobbled uphill, Ragnar turned to regard his ships’ captains. Blood oaths did not apply in duels of honor. But the loss of either of these men would weaken his status with their warriors.

  “What if they refuse?” Snorri asked, his face dark.

  “Then we kill them.” Ragnar pushed between his two captains and worked his way down the slope. A slope that would impede any attack. The men had several seasons of raiding behind them. But their targets had been easy pickings that required little thought or skill. These strangers were no monks hiding behind weak walls and an impotent god.

  He froze, just strides from the bottom. Where had the strangers learned how to build longboats? By Hel, there were layers and layers here.

  * * *

  “What is it?” Fergus stared at his father’s stone face, etched with new lines. Fergus had worried about the two leaders killing each other while he waited at the rock outcrop. Now he dreaded what his father would say.

  “They won’t talk until some blood feud foolishness is settled.” Leaning against the protruding stone, Larry rubbed his face. Something he’d been doing a lot lately.

  “What does that mean?”

  “A duel.” Larry stared at Fergus for a minute before looking down at the Northmen. “Two duels.”

  “Who?”

  “The persons responsible for damaging or destroying their ships and killing their men.”

  Jessie, Matuso, and several men joined them. Larry repeated his news.

  “Those encounters were self defense.” Matuso stepped around the outcrop to stand next to Larry. “And a rescue.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Larry looked back at Fergus, then at the men who had climbed down the hill to join them. “They want revenge on somebody.”

  “Well that’s easy. It was my ship that rammed theirs in the bay.” Stepping forward to occupy a spot in the middle of the men, Fergus gazed around, daring any argument.

  “I led…” Larry said.

  “No, you’re injured.” Matuso stepped in front of Larry. “I was on the trip up the river toward the abbey. I’ll fight.”

  Larry shoved his way to the center of the group, wincing as he bumped his left shoulder. “No. My responsibility.”

  “I can handle this,” Jessie said, looking directly at Larry.

  “Someone needs to cover for this old fool,” Fergus said, shaking his head. Why were old people so bloody stubborn? “He’s too injured.”

  “I was there.” Matuso shifted to Larry’s side.

  “Me and Hatimu were there also,” Disunu shouldered his way into the argument.

  “Hey, the fight is with them.” Fergus pointed downhill before leaning over to pluck several pieces of grass.

  “Wait…” Larry said.

  “The idea is to win,” Fergus interrupted as he stepped from the group and, with his back to them, arranged the grass leaves in one hand. “Long one fights. Only people involved can pick one. No injured.” He turned to face the group and held out the hand with the grass leaves. “Start with the fight in the bay.”

  Larry snorted and started to reach out his hand. A smaller, more delicate, hand blocked Larry’s.

  “What is best for Sanctuary?” Teltina asked as she led Larry away from the group.

  Chapter 38

  August 28

  A light drizzle freshened the air, sweeping away the lingering odor of blood, shit, and death. Wearing only a wool coat and trousers over linen undergarments, Larry limped down the south side of their hill. Behind him he heard the footsteps and clanking armor of Fergus and Matuso.

  “Feel them out,” Larry said. “They’re experienced, but everyone has weak spots. Use your head, not your muscles.” By the time they reached a terrace halfway between the summit and the Northmen at the base, he’d run out of useless advice. He could only hope training would get them through this cluster-fuck.

  The semi-flat area chosen by Ragnar for the duels was a hundred strides wide along the south side of the hill. Up and down, it was only forty strides. Less broken by rock and heather, it was the flattest area between the two forces. And the most open.

  Larry stopped a dozen strides from the battle area, hearing the footfalls behind him divide. In minutes, Fergus took a spot at the west end of the terrace, facing the Northman called Snorri. Matuso stepped to the east, to face Gunnarr.

  Heart sinking, Larry noted the look of anticipation in the two Northmen. Almost joy. Orla had told him that the Northmen equated battle with religion, and dying in battle reserved them a place in some other world among the great warriors of the past.

  Dumb shit animals.

  Below, a hundred strides away, the Northmen formed a loose line, several with tankards or skins of liquid. Like spectators at a game. Cold seeped through Larry’s core; those fucks considered this entertainment.

  Across the terrace, Ragnar glanced at Larry’s crutch before locking on his eyes. “This is a blood fight, honoring oaths taken to serve and to protect brothers. No one may interfere on the penalty of death.” The Northmen's leader carried no weapons nor did he wear armor.

  “Proceed,” Ragnar said, backing up.

  Cheers and insults rose from the men at the foot of the hill. Silence reigned at the summit.

  To Larry’s left, Fergus moved to keep Snorri below him. Snorri slapped his sword against his shield, one slap for each step as he countered Fergus’s movements.

  To the right, Matuso stepped and thrust, his sword arm outstretched. Gunnarr planted his right foot behind him as he took the blow with his shield arm. Larry gasped as the Northman shifted his weight, his shield pushing Matuso’s sword to the side. As Matuso staggered to regain balance, Gunnarr thrust with his right hand, his sword blade slicing a gash across Matuso’s right side.

  Breathing forgotten, Larry could only snap his head back and forth between the two duels, hands squeezing the wood of his crutch.

  Fergus backed up, using shield and sword to parry Snorri’s pounding attacks. To the left, Matuso recovered by retreating, the shield held in front of him to take Gunnarr’s blows.

  Larry gasped in a breath as Fergus stumbled in a depression and recovered, dancing backwards in two quick steps.

  Matuso, favoring his right side, could only back up. Gunnarr kept up the barrage, his grin exposing stained teeth.

  Fergus took another step back, shield held to the side, sword tip low to the ground. Snorri lunged, h
is sword following Fergus’s before arcing upward, his leading foot coming down in the same hole that had almost tripped Fergus. As Snorri teetered, Fergus slapped Snorri’s blade an inch to the left and drove forward, the blade tip arcing up beneath the Northman’s chain tunic and into his groin. Red liquid pulsed as Snorri collapsed, his sword bouncing off Fergus’s shield and across his arm.

  Chest heaving, Matuso stepped back again, foot twisting on the broken ground. He fell to his knees as Gunnarr dropped his sword and pulled out an axe, the head a hand span wide, from his belt. Stepping into a charge, he swung it high over his head. Matuso lunged forward onto the ground, using the shield on his left arm to break his fall, and thrust his sword upward with his right. As Gunnarr’s axe descended, the tip of Matuso’s sword entered the Northman’s gut. The axe cleaved into the muscles between Matuso’s neck and shoulder, his spasming arm twisting his sword sideways along Gunnarr’s torso.

  Blood dripped down Fergus’s arm as he stood over Snorri’s body. As Snorri twitched in death, Fergus looked up, eyes widening. Larry followed his son’s eyes to see Gunnarr stand and wrench his axe from Matuso’s neck.

  Gunnarr raised his axe in triumph before collapsing to the ground, blood spurting from his abdomen.

  Larry ran, stumbling over the uneven terrain. Ignoring the flaring pain in his thigh, he fell to his knees at Matuso’s side, right hand moving to the young man’s neck, fingernails digging into the skin as they tried to force the gaping wound closed. Tried to stem the diminishing flow of blood.

  Someone knelt next to Larry. Hands pulled his fingers away from Matuso’s lifeless body. “He’s gone,” Fergus said, voice low and quivering.

  A cry turned Larry’s head. A woman, followed by several men, ran to Gunnarr’s side.

  Between the fallen bodies, Ragnar stood, eyes on Larry. “They died with honor and will sit with the gods until the final battle.”

  “No gods,” Larry said, his voice a croak. He looked down at the body of his young friend. “But he will live on in our memories.”