Stranger from Another Land

by Hector Miller

  erilaR

  Stranger from Another Land

  “Here strolls the Herulian with his glaucous cheeks, inhabitant of Ocean's furthest shore, and of one complexion with its weedy deeps.”

  - Sidonius Apollinaris (478 AD)

  * * *

  Stones, weapons and ornaments bearing ancient writing have been unearthed throughout Scandinavia.

  The men who fashioned the inscriptions referred to themselves as “erilaR”.

  One of these stones, which dates back to the fifth century AD, depicts twelve images of boats, with an accompanying inscription: “I, the Stranger from Another Land”.

  Prologue

  On the 8th day of June, in the year 793 AD, a band of heathen Northmen from Scandinavia attacked the priory on the island of Lindisfarne in the north-east of Britain.

  In the years following the raid, the predations intensified.

  These Vikings, as they became known in later years, first raided, then colonised many lands, including Britain and France.

  The rest is, as they say, history.

  Yet a question remains.

  Who were these warriors and where lay their origins? Were they Scandinavian farmers who one day decided to cast away their ploughs and take up the sword? Not likely.

  The story begins three-hundred-and-forty years prior to the raid on Lindisfarne, on the Great Pannonian Plain, north and east of the Danube…

  Chapter 1 – Great Khan

  The Great Pannonian Plain, east of the Danube – March 453 AD

  (Present day Hungary)

  Concealed by the moonless darkness, he watched the entrance to the tent, remaining motionless until he was sure that all was abed.

  At a crouch he approached the tent of Ildiko, the daughter of Abdarakos. Like all who met her, the Gothic prince was mesmerized by the beauty of the daughter of the Heruli war leader.

  He pushed aside the flap and looked over his shoulder one last time. Better to be safe than sorry, he thought.

  An hour passed before Theodemir, prince of the Ostrogoths, returned to his quarters.

  He nodded to the two Heruli guards at the entrance of his tent, placed there for his protection. They were dressed in full armour and wore full face helmets. One held a spear, the other, a bear of a man, gripped a bearded war-axe. For a moment, the prince’s eyes lingered on the intricate etchings decorating the iron head of the vicious weapon, then he pushed aside the felt cover and entered.

  He sensed a presence inside and his hand found the hilt of his dagger.

  “Stay your hand Theodemir, son of Vandalarius”, growled a voice from the far side of the tent.

  His eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and he noticed the outline of a hulking warrior, the dim light reflecting off his armour. His massive chest slowly expanded and contracted with every breath, the motion causing the many overlapping iron scales to emit a soft hissing sound, like a serpent ready to strike.

  “Sit”, the voice commanded.

  Abdarakos, the war leader, the erilar of the Heruli, was a man best taken seriously.

  Obediently the Ostrogoth prince sat down on the furs, cross-legged.

  “We are but two days from his camp, Theodemir. My daughter is promised to him.”

  The big man drew breath again, audibly, and slowly exhaled through his nose, controlling his anger. “Not to you, Theodemir. To the Great Khan, the ruler of the world.”

  “You have seen what he is capable of. If he finds out, you will die. Ildiko, my daughter, will die with you, and your passing will be agonisingly slow. Then there will be war within the alliance. Your people, the Ostrogoths, will be wiped from this earth.”

  The Heruli chieftain was a man of few words, but the seriousness of the situation warranted an exception.

  “Theodemir, you are no pup. You have seen more than thirty summers. You are a war leader of a mighty people. Do not allow this foolishness to destroy all.”

  The big Heruli stood then, towering over the prince. “If you come near her again, Theodemir, as the gods are my witness, I will kill you myself.” For a moment he paused. “Your father would support me in this. Remember, you are not the only son.”

  With that, the Heruli turned his back on Theodemir and left the tent.

  The Goth prince had the utmost respect for Abdarakos. The Heruli was a favourite of Attila’s, a pillar of strength that helped to keep the alliance of the Scythian tribes intact.

  The Goth remained seated for long, pondering the foolishness of his actions.

  Eventually he came to a decision. He would heed the wise words of Abdarakos. Among the Scythian nobles, marriage was a tool to create power, nothing more, nothing less.

  Come morning, Theodemir was ready before first light. He patiently waited outside the tent of the erilar.

  The big man emerged at long last, half a scowl on his scarred, tattooed face.

  Theodemir inclined his head. “Lord, I have received ill tidings of an incursion into Gothic lands. Please pass on my apologies to the Great Khan.”

  A hint of a smile touched the corners of the Heruli’s lips. “I will do as you ask, Prince. Go with the gods.”

  Theodemir mounted his magnificent gelding, looking resplendent as the first rays of the sun lit up his gilded scale armour. He kicked the horse and rode off, his band of oathsworn following close behind.

  * * *

  The wedding of the khan was a lavish affair.

  The king had many wives, but Ildiko was by far the most comely. More than that, the mighty Heruli would now be bound by marriage to the house of Attila.

  The festivities carried on deep into the night as the host and his guests surrendered to Bacchus.

  On the morning after, all was slow to rise. Some die-hards only retired to their tents as the first rays of the sun breached the horizon.

  At midday, guests assembled at the gates of the palace of the king to bid him farewell and start their long trek home.

  But of Attila there was no sign. None would dare disturb him and risk his ire.

  Eventually, an hour after midday, his guards feared that some ill had befallen the king. They summoned the only man who would be able to disturb the king and live: Atakam the shaman.

  Under the watchful eye of the wise one, the ornately carved doors of the khan’s private quarters were opened.

  They found Attila long dead and cold to the touch. He had drowned in his own blood.

  In the corner, weeping, they found Ildiko. The oathsworn of Attila suspected murder and wished to put the girl to death, but their hands were stayed by Atakam, who could find no wound on the body of the king.

  The shaman explained to all. “Tengri came from the heavens to take the king to his abode.”

  With great skill, he channelled the anger of the men into the arrangements for the funeral.

  So came to pass the death of Attila, son of Mundiuch, ruler of the Sea of Grass, overlord of the Germani and Scythian tribes.

  Ildiko escaped death by the intervention of Atakam the shaman, and Abdarakos, great warlord of the Heruli who gave his daughter in marriage to the eldest son of the king, Ellac the Hun.

  Chapter 2 – Shaman

  Moesia Superior – December 453 AD

  (Present day Serbia)

  Atakam slowly drew the blade of his dagger across the surface of the bone. Again and again he repeated the movement, applying just enough pressure to remove the flesh and sinews without cutting into the delicate surface.

  As usual he found comfort in the familiar task.

  He had been on edge for days. At first the omens were good. But all had changed in the blink of an eye.

  For at least another hour he continued, until the shoulder bone of the sheep was
smooth to the touch. The shaman put it aside, careful not to place it too close to the hearth fire in the centre of the tent.

  Near the felt covered door, on a flat stone, lay the liver of a freshly slaughtered sheep. He had personally chosen the animal earlier, a magnificent ram without blemish or deformity.

  The shaman lifted the stone slab and placed it on the furs in front of the fire.

  He rummaged through a nearby chest, producing a fired clay model of a sheep’s liver, wrapped in soft leather. The clay piece was worn smooth from many seasons of use. It was as old as the plains, handed down from generation to generation. The model was studded with holes, each one representing a feature of the real organ, only discernible to the trained eye.

  Atakam traced his bloody finger over the still-warm surface of the liver, then transcribed the features onto the model by inserting wooden pins into the appropriate holes. When he was done, he reverently placed the meat on the glowing embers, watching intently for any sign of rejection as the fire-spirits consumed his sacrifice.

  He walked to the door and unfastened the leather cord keeping the felt flap from closing.

  With the opening secured, he took a small golden container and expertly scooped a glowing coal from the flames. The shaman placed a smaller bowl, similarly decorated, into the first bowl and positioned it on the bloody stone which had held the liver moments before.

  The rain of blood that had poured from the heavens only a day before, was a message from the gods, one he was unable to interpret. There was only one solution: Atakam had to visit the sky-world, ruled by the son of Tengri.

  From a small leather pouch, he poured hemp seeds into the golden dish. He inhaled deeply, the sweet smoke filling his nostrils. The shaman removed his upper garment, revealing a torso covered with swirling tattoos, the magic markings of his cult, necessary to secure his passage.

  He sat down cross-legged in front of the fire, chanting an age-old mantra, allowing the vapour to seep into his being.

  Slowly, the spirit of the shaman took the shape of a bird and ascended to the realm of the sky-god.

  When Atakam woke from his dreamwork, drenched in sweat, the inside of the tent was near pitch-black. A few coals still glowed faintly in the hearth. The air was stale and suffocating, but the shaman felt invigorated, filled with the power of the gods.

  Without delay he stacked dried sticks onto the dying embers. Before long a raging fire replaced the smouldering coals. Atakam took the cleaned shoulder bone of the ram and gently placed it in the fire. When it was ready, he removed it from the coals, and holding it up against the light, read the message from the gods.

  He gave the bone back to the fire, his hand moving across the pegs in the clay liver.

  A smile broke the face of the god-touched shaman.

  He had confirmed the strange message from Tengri.

  The meaning he did not understand, but he knew what had to be done.

  * * *

  The two burly Hun warriors who guarded the door wore full lamellar armour, rounded off with conical plumed helmets. Their left hands held the hafts of spears while their right palms rested on the pommels of their swords. The man who approached paid them no heed. He bent low, pushed aside the felt flap and entered the spacious tent of the king.

  Ellac, son of Attila, raised his eyes from the sword he was studying.

  “It is not yet midnight, shaman. Were you unable to delay it for a couple of hours?”

  Atakam dropped his gaze in shameful resignation. “Not even the strongest of the herbs has the power to hold back the spirit when it is sent back to this world by Tengri.”

  “It is said that a boy-child born in the last month is destined to cause the fall of the dynasty. That you know, shaman.”

  Atakam nodded, but did not offer an answer in reply.

  “Lord, the wine for the bath of the child has been poured. You are needed to perform the ritual.”

  Ellac sighed. “I did not wish to marry her, shaman. She should have died with my father.” He continued: “Abdarakos of the Heruli is likely to leave me in peace while I am married to his daughter. Mayhap he is craftier than I thought. Mayhap this child will be the one to bring the Huns under the rule of the Wolf without a fight.”

  Deep in thought, the king walked from his tent accompanied by the shaman.

  The tent of Ildiko, daughter of the war leader of the mighty Heruli, was but fifty paces away. They could hear the crying of a babe above the howling of the wind as it raced across the plain.

  “To me, shaman, the portents are not good. First the rain of blood, then the timing of the birth.” He gestured with his chin to the clouds gathering above, slowly obscuring the full moon from view. “Now, a storm is brewing.”

  Ellac turned to the guards following a respectable distance behind. “Wait outside”, he commanded.

  He paused a moment before entering the tent, drew breath, and said: “Let us find out what the gods have planned for us.”

  Inside, the tent was richly decorated with thick woollen carpets from Persia and multi-coloured furs from the forests of the north. Ildiko, the Heruli princess, was wrapped in a cloak, reclining on a couch at the far side of the tent. She held herself well, even though she was clearly exhausted from the ordeal of childbirth.

  Clustered around the mother was an older woman and her helpers. She cradled the babe in her arms. When all was staring at her for the inevitable sign, the midwife indicated that the child was male and placed it on the furs.

  On a low table, two paces from the young mother, stood an ornate infants’ bath of silver and gold, filled with wine. Once declared healthy by the father, the babe would be bathed in wine, as a sign of its acceptance into the community.

  The crying of a little one filled the tent and everyone’s attention was drawn to the newborn wiggling on the furs in front of the couch.

  Ellac stepped forward and nodded to Ildiko. The midwife waited for the king to approach and inspected the babe under the watchful eye of his father.

  Once the babe was bathed in the wine, there would be no turning back. The hands of the midwife probed the little boy, finding no obstruction or imperfection.

  Suddenly she held up her hand, pointing to his right foot, partly covered by the furs. She righted the foot, which was bent at an angle to the inside. Immediately the foot returned to its crooked position.

  “I have seen this before, lord”, she said. “The child will be a cripple for life.”

  There was a collective intake of breath as all in the tent realised the enormity of the situation.

  Ellac was at a loss for words, while Ildiko’s whole body was shaking with sobs she tried to contain.

  Atakam watched the situation unfold. Now, the rain of blood and the timing of the birth made sense. Somehow, Ellac’s people had offended the gods. The words that milled around in his mind, the god-message, came upon his lips.

  “The child has to die”, he screeched.

  All stared at the wise one, wide-eyed, as he repeated the words slowly and deliberately.

  “The child must die tonight. It is the will of Tengri.”

  Chapter 3 – Champion

  Sigizan, son of Akum, had only seen twenty-one summers, yet he was the champion of his king. Like all Huns, he excelled at riding, but his skill with the bow, the sword and the spear was unsurpassed.

  His god-given martial talents did not go unnoticed. In his thirteenth year he had joined the hearth warriors of the king, where his skills were honed by the veterans of countless battles. When he turned twenty, none of his teachers could prevail against him.

  On this night he was on guard duty outside the tent of the queen, to where he had followed his king.

  All within the sprawling camp knew that the queen was about to deliver a child into the world. The Hun champion was no fool and he realised that the king’s presence at the queen’s tent was related to the birth. Although the portents leading up to the delivery were mixed, the rain of blood, days earlier, ha
d cast a shadow over the forthcoming event.

  It was with much trepidation that he stood outside the door of the tent, trying to ascertain from the hushed voices inside whether the news was good or bad.

  All of a sudden the voices increased in volume and he heard the queen call out in despair. Then she started to scream. He knew better than to enter the tent. Ignoring the command of the king could only end badly. Ellac was no monster, but like his father Attila, not one who appreciated his patience to be tested.

  The sobs and wailing increased in volume as the felt parted momentarily to allow the king and his shaman to exit the tent.

  At first Sigizan did not notice the small bundle in Atakam’s arms. Even when the crying started, he did not take notice, but stared into the darkness, as was expected of him.

  It was rare for the king to address him, but he did so then. “Sigizan, son of Akum. Collect two horses and accompany the shaman to Wolf Hill. The child is an abomination and not worth rearing. We will return its spirit to Tengri.”

  Then came the essence of the instruction. “You are to ensure that none interfere with the work of the shaman. Make sure you are armed well. Kill any who dares to approach. Meet us at my tent.”

  “Yes, lord”, he said, and jogged off into the night to give effect to the commands of the Hun king.

  * * *

  When Atakam and Sigizan left the camp, heading west, it was the eighth hour of the night.

  Their destination was five miles away, but the path was well-travelled and safe to use in the darkness.

  The shaman held the little boy in his arms to make sure that no harm would come to him. Returning a dead infant to the god would cause his wrath to descend on the tribe.

  The Hill of the Wolf was a sacred place. The rocky outcrop was the highest ground for as far as the eye could see, closest to the realm of the sky-god Tengri.

  Only Ellac wielded more power than the shaman. Sigizan was intimidated by his brooding presence, so the pair rode in silence.

  The hilltop could not be gained on horseback. When they reached the end of the path, they hobbled the horses and continued on foot.