Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition

by Vijaya Schartz

  Ceinwyn lifted Jared’s shoulders. His head lolled as Pressine offered him the clove potion to drink.

  "Bitter." Jared slurred the word but drank some of the brew. He grimaced then fell back on the pallet.

  Pressine and Ceinwyn spent the night watching over the young prince. In the middle of the night, while the lass dozed in a chair, Pressine approached the pallet quietly. She wished Ceinwyn had returned to the women’s quarters, but it was too late for that. Now she hoped the girl would remain asleep.

  Pressine could do one more thing to help the child’s recovery, but she could not display her gifts to the common world. If it be known that a heathen could work miracles, Christian fanatics might accuse her of consorting with the devil. Unclear about how the Goddess would view her act, since Jared wasn't part of her mission, Pressine would accept the consequences. She could not let an innocent child suffer.

  Bending over the sleeping form of Jared, Pressine laid her hands over the knee joint and focused her thoughts. Her palms tingled from concentration, and heat surged through her fingers. While channeling the might of the Great Goddess, Pressine whispered old words of power in a long lost tongue.

  The sleeping child stirred but did not wake. For an instant, Pressine clearly saw through bandages and flesh the crushed bones of the delicate articulation retaking normal shape. Then the vision faded. With a sigh of satisfaction, she covered the feverish child with a blanket and kissed his forehead.

  Exhausted by the effort, Pressine dropped onto her bed and fell asleep.

  * * *

  Each passing day, Elinas grew less confident in Pressine’s predictions. What if Morgane had seen wrong? He feared the consequences of his military leap of faith. Too many unknown elements... not enough hard facts to throw at his generals, and no control over a myriad possible events.

  Yesterday, however, the scouts had found the battleground described in details by Pressine. Somewhat reassured, Elinas had set camp just out of sight, behind rolling hills. Still. As he faced the chieftains and barons assembled in his tent for the final battle preparations, he wondered whether or not the Vikings would attack.

  On the trestle table, Elinas unrolled a parchment. He indicated flowing lines on a rough map. "We are here, where the two rivers converge and flow as one into the sea. The confluent, one league inland, is sheltered from storms and tides."

  "These Northerners are good strategists." Dewain’s voice, still strong despite his age, rose over the drone of comments. "It is the perfect place to set a military base from which to invade, by land or by waterways."

  Elinas tapped the spot on the map with one sturdy finger. "I believe they will bring the longships inland through the estuary, to this fishing village, the one at the bottom of our hill."

  "Why not block the river to prevent them from sailing inland?" The naive question came from a young Earl, obviously a stranger to the battlefield.

  The generals glared at the man who dared question his king.

  Elinas smiled at the young noble’s lack of experience, relieved to recollect that the Earl held no commanding post. He attended the council only by privilege of birth.

  "If we build an underwater barrier," Elinas explained patiently, "the enemy will only sail further north or south. We need to trap them inland and humble them, or they will keep coming back."

  A scar-faced general from Galloway drummed his fingers on the trestle table. "What if they retreat back to the boats and down-river at the first sign of ambush?"

  "That is why we must destroy their fleet first." Elinas pointed to the estuary on the map. "With the help of local fishermen, we are stretching strong nets and drag ropes along the bottom at the narrowest point. After we let the longships sail into the estuary, we pull up the ropes tight to prevent escape. During the battle, the wreckage of the Drakkars sunk close to the nets will plug the river and prevent any ship from leaving."

  "I doubt they will want to escape." The slick baron in fancy silk looked like no warrior, yet Elinas had seen him fight with the agility of a wild cat. "They could overwhelm us on land. An enemy is most dangerous when cornered."

  "They are fierce." Elinas nodded, remembering reports of raids. "But they are on foot and do not expect our archers and our catapults. They have no heavy weapons, no cavalry. Our horses can plough through their ranks, causing great damage... and instill some fear."

  A minor chieftain raised one eyebrow. "From what I heard, these barbarians do not know what fear is!"

  "Every man knows fear." Elinas had his doubts, but wanted his men to remain confident. "We hold the element of surprise, since they expect no resistance from the villagers. Our numbers will probably even out once the reinforcements from Ayre arrive, which should be within the hour."

  The general from Galloway rubbed the scar on his cheek. "My troops are better trained than your fresh levies. Perhaps I should attack first."

  "No." Elinas hoped his generals would obey orders. "We start with the catapults as planned. And my archers are accurate with flaming arrows."

  Galloping hoof beats came to a halt outside the tent. Conversations ceased as the councilors turned to the open flap. Bursting in, the messenger ran to the king and knelt.

  "Sire, a great fleet with striped square sails, about five miles north, approaches fast on the tide." As if just remembering, the soldier added, "and our reinforcements just arrived."

  So, Pressine had spoken the truth. The war had started. Elinas gazed at his generals with renewed determination. "Do you all understand your orders?"

  Many nodded, others voiced their acknowledgment.

  "Get your men in position, and stay out of sight behind the hilltops at all times. The enemy should suspect nothing until I order the attack.

  After the councilors left, Elinas indulged in jubilation. A surge of new respect for his future bride suffused him. Not only was she beautiful and loyal to his land, but prescient, intelligent, and dependable as well. She deserved his trust, and he could now let himself love her unconditionally. It felt good, as a king, to have someone upon whom he could rely.

  After indulging in a moment of dreamy reminiscing, Elinas focused his thoughts on the coming battle. He had to prepare himself. According to Pressine, he faced a bloodbath.

  * * *

  Gwenvael leaned over the Drakkar’s prow, looking to port, toward the coast of Alba. The land where his sister had gone to become queen... the same land Bodvar’s brother coveted. The northern wind billowed the sail, thrusting the bow through the waves, splashing sea-spray on his face. The afternoon sun had disappeared behind clouds, and the sea looked opaque, almost solid under the longship.

  Once or twice during the voyage, Gwenvael had spotted a raven circling overhead. Was it Ogyr? He felt terrible about failing to warn Pressine, but what more could he have done under the circumstances?

  "What ails you, my friend?" Bodvar towered over him, his good eye drilling him down. "You should be happy to see familiar land again. Tonight, we set camp in Alba."

  "You shouldn't do that." Gwenvael realized the futility of his warning but had to try. "No one angers the Goddess and goes unpunished. Although I worship the Christian God, I would not risk the Ladies’ wrath."

  Bodvar dismissed the comment with a wave of the hand. "I am not afraid of women."

  "I remember you thinking otherwise when you saw that monster, Nidhogg, rising from the deep." Gwenvael allowed himself an ironic smile.

  "Do not say that name." The giant’s broad face paled. "It brings bad luck."

  Bodvar spit downwind, into the waves slapping the prow, then quickly averted his gaze from the sea, as if to evade the monster’s evil eye.

  He stared at Gwenvael. "You saved my life that day, and I am grateful. But never say that name to my face again." His tone left no room for protest.

  "As you wish." Gwenvael’s gaze searched the coastline. "But the Ladies will fight back. They have strong magic."

  Gwenvael did not say it, but he would not be surprised if
her sister had an army waiting ashore.

  Bodvar’s blue eye glared for a moment, then the giant rose to scan the coast. "Except for my brother Ragnar, no one knows where we are going, not even me. How could the ladies possibly find us?"

  "They have the sight..."

  Bodvar shrugged but looked uneasy. He barked orders for his men to tack, then walked on steady sea-legs toward the stern where Ragnar stood, also studying the shore.

  After a few words with his younger brother, Bodvar returned to midship. "Almost there." He turned to his men. "Get your weapons ready, in case we have to fight." Then he casually walked away.

  The last remark gave Gwenvael a chill. It dawned on him that he might have to take up arms against his own kind. Caught between diverging loyalties, his sister on one side, his vow to convert Bodvar and free Cliona on the other, what could he do?

  Falling to his knees, Gwenvael prayed the Christian god for guidance. After a while, calm and reconciled with his god, he rose and walked up to Bodvar.

  "I refuse to fight," Gwenvael said with a bravado he did not feel. "It is my sister’s land. I can help you build your camp, serve as a translator, establish trade routes, even collect taxes, but I refuse to kill my sister’s people."

  Bodvar’s brow knitted. "Would you rather fight me?"

  "I do not want to fight at all." Gwenvael’s legs weakened as he struggled to stand his ground. "I am a Christian monk, not a soldier. I vowed to stay with you until you convert to my religion, that's all."

  Bodvar scoffed. "A warrior has no use for your pitiful god. How weak is this Jesus, letting his enemies nail him to a cross! First you worshiped a female god, now a weak god. No wonder Britons cannot fight."

  "I hope to change your mind some day." Gwenvael calmly unbuckled his sword belt. "In the meantime, I refuse to use a weapon against my kindred."

  He handed his blade to Bodvar but the Viking did not reach for the offered weapon.

  "You are crazy, my friend, crazier than the Berserkers in Ragnar’s ships." Shaking his head in disgust, Bodvar walked away.

  Still holding the sword, Gwenvael wondered what he would do if it came to a battle.

  Chapter Ten

  From a shelter of trees crowning a hill, Elinas surveyed the confluent. Against a cloudy sky, in the gray afternoon light, the Viking fleet glided into the estuary. About eighty Drakkars, half furled, sailed toward the abandoned fishing village, in the crook of the Y formed by the two rivers. The inhabitants had fled at first sight of the sails.

  Elinas signaled the troops to remain quiet. Only the snorting of horses and the occasional clicking of weapons intruded upon the cries of seagulls. Despite the carefully planned trap, Elinas cursed under his breath. He had underestimated the enemy numbers. Was that the reason for his dread?

  As he scanned the forested hill north and south, he could not see the troops of Galloway and Ayre but knew they waited for his signal. The catapults stood on the slopes, camouflaged by green saplings and branches.

  The large fleet stretched along the river, then split at the confluence to line both shores of the village, just as Pressine said they would.

  Sails now furled, the wide-bellied ships thrust their dragon heads onto dry sand, in jagged rows. Amazing that such shallow boats could be seaworthy.

  Holding his breath, Elinas waited.

  The Vikings poured out of the boats, as if from huge black pods, bristling with barbed weapons, wearing metal helmets and armor plates. On the beach, a big man with an eye patch strode watchfully from boat to boat. He barked orders and posted sentries.

  Warriors drew planks from ships to shore and between ships to allow easy access from one Drakkar to the other. Then they unloaded the boats, lit fires on the beach, and carried on the routine activities of making camp.

  Still, Elinas waited. He wanted the enemy to feel safe and lower their vigilance.

  Some Vikings dug trenches, while others made for the forest, probably to check the surroundings, and find wood for fires and fences. Elinas would not let them venture far... just far enough to slaughter them out of earshot.

  When the isolated Vikings entered the forest, Elinas gave a brief order. Surrounded and outnumbered the Vikings took a volley of arrows from archers hidden in the trees. Several giants fell with a surprised look on their faces. Most of the darts, however, glanced on metal plated shields.

  Uttering foreign curses, the remaining wanderers rushed at the Britons with such fury that the spearmen fell back in confusion. Thankful for the thick forest muffling the sound of the skirmish, Elinas galloped into the fray. The Britons, heartened by their king’s example, overwhelmed and slaughtered the Viking stragglers. Muted cheers welcomed the easy victory.

  Elinas raised his sword. "To the catapults"

  At the signal, a score of men scrambled to remove the branches camouflaging the heavy war machines positioned on the hill the previous day. The huge contraptions of heavy timber and ropes could hurl a stone twice the size of a man’s head with great destructive force. But Elinas did not expect accuracy from the old Roman design.

  A soldier fitted a stone into the receptacle of the spoon-like arm, while others cranked the lever to draw back the long arm in a moan of twisting ropes. The catapult released, with a thump of the swinging arm against the padded crossbar.

  Elinas followed the projectile expectantly. It whistled overhead, hurled into the Viking camp, and crushed a pile of cargo. Another stone collapsed the roof of a shed, causing the thatch to ignite upon the hearth below. Barbarians scurried out of the burning shack. Soon, a steady hail of stones hit the enemy positions on the shore, breaking masts, wrecking ships and obliterating lives. The Vikings ran for cover.

  "Archers!" Elinas commanded.

  A line of archers marched out of the trees to set up on the slope just below the catapults. Each man carried a crossbow, arrows, and a cooking pot of burning pitch. The archers lit their arrows, fitted them into the slot, aimed, then let fly the first volley. A few darts fell off the mark, quickly extinguished by the river. But bright flames soon licked the inner ribs and the masts of several longships.

  Cheers erupted among the Britons.

  "Shoot before the smoke obscures the targets," Elinas shouted, cutting off the cheers. Fortunately, the smokescreen would also impede the enemy archers, already at a disadvantage at the bottom of the hill.

  Fire rained on ship after ship, swiftly spreading to other Drakkars across the bridging planks. Fanned by the wind, the flames rose, eliciting a flurry of activity on and around the longships. When yells and screams from the boats rose up the hillside, Elinas kept his excitement in check.

  Soon, black smoke engulfed the river banks.

  A good start for the battle to come. "Switch to sharp arrows!"

  The archers launched a volley toward the Vikings rushing up the hillside toward the catapults.

  "Sound the charge!" Elinas signaled with his sword.

  A horn blared. At the sound, the cavalry galloped downhill, past Elinas who remained at his observation post.

  Then he ordered the infantry charge, and the spearmen rushed out of the woods after the cavalry. Three hundred foot soldiers clamored their new battle cry.

  "Death to the Vikings!"

  "Bring forth our allies!" Elinas ordered abruptly, his impatience communicating to the steed who shied under him.

  Messengers spread out at a gallop toward the various generals.

  When a herald sounded the horn for the second attack. The forces of Ayre galloped from the north and Galloway’s cavalry from the south, converging on the Viking camp.

  Utter confusion seized the enemy. Elinas saw no discipline or organization among them. They neither formed ranks nor spread evenly to meet the attacking waves. Each barbarian fought for himself, compensating for lack of strategy with foolish bravery or individual cunning. Such reckless behavior... Elinas dared to hope.

  The Vikings met the horses head on. Uttering bloodcurdling screams, they punched the beast
s’ noses and hammered down the mounts. They drove swords, axes and spears into the horses’ broad chests and underbellies, eliciting rivers of blood.

  Elinas flinched at the slaughter. The frightened whinny of the dying warhorses mixed with the cries of agony from the wounded men. Soon, mounds of dying animals and soldiers surrounded the Viking camp at the base of the hill.

  "So much for inspiring fear," Elinas muttered, cursing himself for the useless carnage. Since the barbarians disregarded the respect due to horses in battle, he had provided them with a protective wall of horseflesh, and lost half of his cavalry.

  Half way between the Viking camp and the tree line, Elinas spotted a score of Vikings rushing toward him. Stark naked, bare-headed, unprotected but also unhindered by armor, they slew every Briton in their path.

  The mad men carved a gap in the Briton ranks and spilled through the breach. Elinas grew cold. He had heard of the crazy ones, lusty for battle, oblivious to pain. The barbarians called them Berserkers.

  The mad warriors raced straight for the archers and the nearby catapult... or did they aim for Elinas?

  "Archers!" Elinas shouted, steeling himself for the assault.

  The archers let fly a volley toward the Berzerkers. Several bolts found their mark. But even wounded, the mad warriors kept rushing forward.

  A herald blew a horn. Peril to the King! About time...

  Troops rushed toward Elinas from all directions. But the Berserkers ran faster, now too close for arrows. Drawing swords, the archers engaged in man to man combat. A losing battle...

  One archer threw his pan of burning pitch at a Viking’s head. The man caught fire but kept charging. Flaming and screaming like a demon, the human torch rushed blindly, battle axe in hand, straight for Elinas on his horse.

  The dappled gray reared and bucked and threw Elinas. He fell hard in the grass. His sword had flown out of his grip. Scrambling on all four, he retrieved Caliburn just in time to block a deadly blow. Then he rose and met the Viking’s broad axe in a clang of steel.