Stranger from Another Land

by Hector Miller

  I found my way back to the stern and glared at the fast approaching purple-black clouds on the eastern horizon. The steersman still had his gaze fixed on the prow of the ship and paid me no heed.

  “Will we outrun it?” I asked.

  His eyes did not leave whatever they were looking at and he issued a humourless cackle. “Only the gods are able to outrun a storm, boy. It is a big one, but it is moving south. We are moving south and west. It may pass us, but mayhap we will get caught in the edge.” He paused and added: “Better pray to the gods, boy, either way, we are in for a pounding.”

  Chapter 27 – Fox and Wolf

  Thrice I spent time at the oar throughout the night, and each time Boarex relieved me within the hour.

  When morning finally arrived, everyone was close to exhaustion, but the gods had granted us a reprieve. The dark clouds had moved south and the sun was visible above the eastern horizon.

  Before long the wind died down and the sea flattened.

  Mourdagos allowed the men to ship their oars. From a chest he produced an amphora of wine and after giving praise to Ulgin, he poured the dark wine into the sea as a libation.

  The men opened a barrel of pickled herring and although I never developed a taste for the disgusting little fish, it was all that was available and I reluctantly partook in the feast. The warriors were soon all snoring away, some flat on their backs, others leaning against the board of the ship.

  Eventually I too dozed off.

  Moments later I woke with a start, with Mourdagos’s hand shaking my shoulder. He put a finger to his lips, indicating that I should remain quiet. I then noticed that the sun was already low in the sky and realised that hours, not moments, had passed since I had fallen asleep.

  Mourdagos motioned for all to move to one side of the ship, causing it to lean over. He nodded his approval and peered through an oarlock to the western horizon. The warriors busied themselves with donning their armour, taking leather covers off shields and readying their weapons.

  Boarex whispered: “There is a Sea-Dane ship heading our way. We wish to make them think that our ship was damaged in the storm”, he said. A savage grin split his face that caused me to briefly pity the men who were about to fall into the trap. He bent his horn bow and slipped the string into the groove, then tested the tension by drawing the string. Lastly he took four arrows in his draw hand.

  I owned no armour, but I did remove the leather sheath from the head of my axe and tested the blade, which was, predictably, as sharp as a razor.

  Boarex was clearly relishing the prospect of clashing with the Danes. “The sheep is wounded and the fox comes to investigate, but the wolf is waiting”, he said, and again he issued a grin that bordered on being unsettling.

  We did not have long to wait. The familiar splash of oars combined with the excited voices of men grew louder until I felt the slight shudder when the Danes’ boat bumped against our own.

  “Kill them all”, Mourdagos roared, and the Heruli warriors attacked. Two men, one at the stern and one at the prow cast grappling hooks onto the deck of the Danish ship. The Hun giant at my side drew back the string of his enormous horn bow and released four arrows in less than the same number of heartbeats. The broad-headed arrows toppled two men over the far side of the enemy ship while two more were hit in the torso and fell into their boat, screaming.

  It took a few heartbeats for the Danes to realise that they had been ambushed. During those precious few moments the Heruli secured the Danish ship with the grapples. The giant Hun dropped his bow and with his round shield protecting his body and a shortsword in his right hand, he jumped over the side of the ship into the ranks of the enemy.

  Unsure of what was expected of me, I followed in the wake of the big man. Boarex swatted a Dane aside as he landed, using his shield as a weapon. The protruding iron boss hit the Dane square in the face with a sickening crunch. From a crouch, he launched himself into the gap left vacant by the Dane. The warrior facing Boarex lifted his shield, but the Hun grabbed it by the rim and used his immense strength to rotate the shield and fracture the arm of his unfortunate adversary. As the shield dropped, he thrust from low to high, his sword penetrating deep into his opponent’s ribcage.

  From my left a Dane jabbed a spear at my face using an overhand grip. I blocked it with the haft of my axe. He drew back to strike a second time and I followed suit and hauled back the axe-head over my right shoulder, feinting the overhead strike favoured by a novice. He lifted his shield to meet the blow, but I pushed the head down and backwards with my right hand, then released my grip on the haft. My left hand gripped the butt end and I rotated my hips, allowing the head to gather momentum in an underhand swing. Guided by my wrist, the blade smashed into his leg just below the knee. Although he wore greaves, the metal plate was not made to stop a blow from a war-axe. With his knee shattered, he lost his balance and fell over the side, his armour dragging him into the depths.

  And then there were none left to fight. An almighty cheer emanated from the Heruli.

  Mourdagos’s warriors mercifully finished off the wounded, and stripped the dead of anything of value before gifting the corpses to Ran.

  But it was not the loot or the coins which pleased him the most. He stroked the side of the boat still tied to ours. “This is a well-built ship. She is beautiful and will be useful to us.”

  The treasure that was gained was split equally among the warriors, Mourdagos content with the Dane ship as his prize.

  Although mead and ale were among the looted commodities, the warriors refrained from drinking, which again emphasized their respect and fear of the erilar.

  * * *

  We rowed south and west for four days, towing the captured ship. On the morning of the fifth day after the skirmish, when our last barrel of water was half empty, we sighted land on the steerboard side of the ship. The oldster at the steering oar gestured with his chin. “The land of the Angles. The Angles, Saxons and Heruli live in peace.”

  Mourdagos turned to the helmsman and said: “Take us to the river, Pharus”.

  The old man nodded and the prow of the boat turned towards the south. He pointed across the port side of the ship toward the thin sliver of land on the horizon. “The lands of the Varni, the Thuringians and the Scirii.”

  “The man who rules these tribes is an ally of the Heruli”, Mourdagos added. “His name is Edeko.”

  Many years before I had saved the life of the Scirii prince, Ottoghar the son of Edeko. I nodded and kept my council.

  By the middle of the afternoon we had left the Austmarr behind and were rowing up the River Trave.

  Mourdagos held his hands on either side of his head. He indicated his right fist. “This is the Austmarr”, he said, then he indicated his left fist, “and this is the North Sea, but between them is a protrusion of land, not unlike my head. To journey between the two, around the head, takes many days in a ship and it is a treacherous route with many enemies and dangers along the way.”

  “But”, he said and grinned, “where my neck is, are two rivers which all but meet in the middle, separated by only twenty miles. The Trave flows into the Austmarr and the Elbe flows into the North Sea.”

  He pointed with his finger to the middle of his neck. “The Heruli have their camp in the middle of the neck and then it is but ten miles to where we moor our boats, in either of the rivers. We will now travel up the Trave, until the river becomes too shallow. There we keep our ships that raid”, he grinned, “or trade, in the Austmarr. When we wish to row to the North Sea, it is but ten miles journey to the boats moored in the Elbe from where we easily reach the Sea.”

  The oldster skilfully navigated the channels and sandbanks of the Trave. More than once I felt the hull scrape over a submerged obstacle, but the man knew the river like the back of his hand and when the sun was near the western horizon, and the river was only thirty paces across, we moored alongside the western bank.

  The old steersman explained. “This is the furt
hest we can go upstream and still turn the ships, boy.” He pointed to the eastern bank. “Still need to know your business though, else you will get stuck.”

  Mourdagos issued instructions to his underlings, then he strolled over to where I was standing at the stern. “You have done well, Ragnaris”, he said.

  “And”, he added, “you wish to know about the village in the land of the Svear, yes?”

  I nodded.

  “We did not raid the village because it was defended by a high wall and many men with iron-tipped spears. To lose men and gain the loot of peasants is the doings of a fool.”

  I sighed with relief. He grinned and asked: “So what is her name?”

  “Unni”, I said.

  He slapped me on the back and gestured for me to follow him.

  “Tonight, we will feast our success”, he said. “Then we will go and find your grandsire.”

  Chapter 28 – Messenger

  Close to a hundred Heruli tents occupied the mild slope overlooking the river.

  Before long we were drinking looted mead while juicy joints of mutton were roasting over the flames.

  I drank sparingly while I listened with half an ear to the warriors reliving the fight against the Sea-Danes, obviously exaggerating their own feats as well as those of their kin and companions. My mind was occupied with the enormity of what had transpired over the last few days.

  Again the gods had intervened and changed the direction of my life. Was my rightful place with my kin, the Heruli, or did I belong with Unni and the Svear? At least I knew that the village had been spared, but what would happen to Unni? Would she take another husband?

  And Trokondas? Would he stay as their protector? Would he return to the Great City of Constantine?

  When I was sure that all was too drunk to notice, I slipped away to sit under a nearby tree on the hill overlooking the moonlit river. It was the first time since my capture, or rescue, that I was not under the eyes of the warriors. For long, I cried in silence for all I had lost.

  Much later, when my tears had dried up, I heard footsteps approach. It was Mourdagos.

  “See the river cutting through the landscape like a silver snake?” he said.

  I nodded, not sure whether he required an answer.

  “See how it turns west, then south, then north again. But inexorably the water flows towards the Austmarr. There is no escape. It is the will of Ulgin and the fate of the river.”

  He placed his huge hand on my shoulder.

  “Do not be troubled overmuch, Ragnaris. As we all, you are caught up in the river of life. Only the gods know which way it will flow tomorrow or the day after, but inexorably it will take you to your destiny. You will do well to remember that.”

  Then he turned on his heel and re-joined the feast, leaving me to cry some more, of course.

  * * *

  Early on the morrow Boarex woke me. “Come, lord, your presence is required.”

  I washed my face in the horses’ drinking trough and followed the big man to the tent of Mourdagos. As we approached we noticed a man leave. He appeared tired and was covered in dust and grime. The man inclined his head when he passed me and I pushed aside the flap and entered the tent, while Boarex returned to his duties.

  Mourdagos wore a serious expression. “Ragnaris, again the river has changed course”, he said.

  We were alone in the tent and he motioned for me to take a seat on the furs next to the fireplace.

  “The man who you saw leave is a messenger from afar. He has come to bring urgent tidings from your grandfather”, Mourdagos said.

  He poured two horns of ale, handed me one, then took a seat opposite me on the furs.

  He drank deeply and sighed. “Know you of the Ostrogoths?” he asked.

  “Very little, Uncle”, I replied. “Only what I remember from the lessons of my Greek tutor.”

  “Tell me”, he said.

  “Many generations past, the Ostrogoths lived north of the Dark Sea, far from here, on the Sea of Grass.

  They became a great people and ruled most of the lands from the Dark Sea to the Austmarr. A hundred years ago, the hordes of the Hun, who lived even further to the east, moved west. Some tribes of the Goths fled west to Roman lands, but most were brought under the heel of the Hun and became their allies.”

  Mourdagos nodded. “Your tutor taught you well, boy, but allow me to enlighten you further.”

  He took another swallow from the ale-horn and continued. “In the year that you were born, after the death of the Great Khan, his sons took power.” He drank and stared into the fire, rekindling memories of old. “The Romans said that Attila was the punishment inflicted upon them by their god. It is true, the Great Khan was not one to be trifled with, but he was fair and he was wise. But, as is often the case, his sons were not his equals, and soon their bickering tore the alliance apart. The Germani tribes decided to throw off the Hun yoke, and near a river called the Nedao, we spilled a sea of blood to achieve it.”

  “But”, he said, “Valamir, the king of the Ostrogoths, betrayed us all. He arrived at the battle with five thousand men, but rather than fight at our side, he abandoned us to our fate.”

  I could see the rage rise within him as he recalled the cowardly act. “That”, he hissed, “the tribes will never, ever, ever, forget. In fact, we have all taken an oath of vengeance.”

  He breathed deeply, calming himself with great effort. “Yet we were victorious that day. All of the tribes, even the Ostrogoths, gained their freedom from the Huns.”

  A slave appeared with a platter heaped with smoked wild boar and rounds of cheese.

  Mourdagos indicated for him to place it next to the fire so both of us could reach it.

  “Share the morning meal with me, nephew. There is a reason I must tell you all”, he said and stuffed a handful of meat into his mouth, then swallowed it down with ale. I followed suit.

  He wiped the juices from his mouth with the back of his hand. “The Eastern Roman Emperor allowed Valamir and his people to settle in Pannonia, within Roman lands. In return, the Ostrogoths provided soldiers to fight in the armies of the East and were paid much gold.”

  “For years all was peaceful, save for the odd raid across the borders, but then things took a turn for the worse.

  Hunimund, a Suebi king, captured a herd of cattle which apparently belonged to the Goths. Theodemir, the brother of the Ostrogothic king, went too far and ambushed the Suebi, killing most of them in the process. The rest, including Hunimund, were taken captive.

  When King Vidimer found out, he was enraged. He commanded Theodemir to release Hunimund and his men, but the damage had been done. The Suebi had been humiliated.”

  “Hunimund craved vengeance and appealed to some of the Scirii tribes to which he was allied. The Scirii raided the lands of the Ostrogoths.” He rubbed his face with his palm in a gesture of desperation.

  “Is that so bad?” I queried.

  “And”, he continued, “Vidimer, the Ostrogoth king, was slain in the raid.”

  “That”, I said, and nodded in agreement, “is bad.”

  Mourdagos took more meat from the plate and continued. “Already, Theodemir has exacted vengeance on the Scirii tribes involved. None were spared. Not the women, not the children. Everybody was killed. If we do nothing, Theodemir will attack the tribes one by one and annihilate us all. All the nations that fought side by side against the sons of Attila have once again united.”

  Mourdagos sighed again and continued. “So, yes Ragnaris. The situation is dire, we are marching to the aid of our kin. We are marching to war. I trust that Abdarakos will do the same.”

  “When?” was the only question that came to mind.

  “The Western Heruli will march in five days’ time”, he answered.

  “But”, he continued, “you and Boarex will accompany the messenger to your grandfather. You will depart today.”

  I nodded in acceptance of his words. I stood to leave, then asked something that ha
d been bothering me for a while. “Why”, I asked, “would Boarex call me lord? I do not even carry the markings of a man yet?”

  Mourdagos sighed deeply. “You do not know who your father is?” he replied.

  “No, Uncle”, I answered earnestly.

  “There are rumours that he is the Great…”, he stopped mid-sentence and regarded me with a frown. “That is a question you should ask Abdarakos.” He waved me away. “Go with the gods, nephew. I will see you soon.”

  * * *

  We rode south and east for many days. Initially we traversed the lands of the Thuringian and Scirii tribes, then finally skirted the lands of the Rugii to the south. The messenger skilfully avoided larger settlements. From time to time we noticed horsemen in the distance, but none displayed any inclination to pursue us. Twelve days after we departed from the camp of Mourdagos, the messenger announced that we were close to the lands of the Heruli.

  “Today we will reach our destination”, he said. “We are but fifteen miles from Budorigum.” It was excellent news, but the messenger appeared all but excited, in fact he wore a frown.

  “But what?” growled Boarex.

  The messenger scowled at the big man. “But we have to travel through what is now the land of the Longobardi. They are no friends of the Heruli. Should we to fall into their hands, we will die.”

  In response, Boarex strung his horn bow and slung it across his back.

  The messenger was no fool and rather than travel on the main road, we made use of the lesser known paths, of which he had an intimate knowledge. “I am of the Suebi”, he explained. “I grew up in this area, before the time of the Longobardi.” He spoke the word ‘Longobardi’ with the same vehemence men use when referring to a sickness or an affliction, which explained his feelings towards them. I decided not to probe as to his reasons.

  The messenger, called Sido, informed us that he was a scout who just happened to be a messenger in this case. He rode fifty paces ahead of us, acting as an advance scout.