by Sandra Hill
“I kind of like it here,” Pretty Boy said.
They all snickered at that remark.
“Forget conveniences. I told Britta that she doesn’t need to use a shredded twig for a toothbrush. Everyone knows that kissing keeps the teeth white and healthy. Yep, tonsil hockey encourages saliva to wash food from the teeth. It even lowers the level of acid that causes teeth to decay and get plaque.”
“Fuckin A!” Cage saluted Pretty Boy. “Here’s to saliva!”
“Unbelievable,” JAM commented. “Where do you come up with this shit?”
“What did Britta say to that baloney?” Geek wanted to know.
“Oh, well, she told me to go kiss the backside of a sheep.”
Pretty Boy joked a lot about Big Mama, but Torolf saw something more. He’d fallen hard for her. In fact, they could be in a cave, and Pretty Boy wouldn’t object, as long as his personal Amazon was there.
They sat down on two sides of a long table, at the far end of the hall, waiting for breakfast. A huge fire blazed in the hearth, providing welcoming heat on this cool autumn day and some light. Even in daytime, the hall was dark and dreary.
If they’re expecting hotcakes, ham, eggs, and buttered toast, they are sure gonna be surprised. More like unsweetened gruel, except maybe for honey, and dry manchet bread, if they’re lucky.
“Let’s cut the crap here, cher,” Cage said, patting him on the shoulder, “Joke’s over. I fer one have had enough playacting, as if we’re freakin’ Vikings. When do we go home?”
“Yeah, this is taking reenactment to a new level,” JAM agreed, wiping his fingers with distaste over the tabletop to remove some of the ash from the fire. You could say JAM was a bit anal about cleanliness. In fact, he had a cleaning lady come to his Coronado apartment twice a week, and he lived alone. How much dirt could one man make?
“My family went to one of those time capsule kind of villages when I was a kid,” Pretty Boy said, “except it was Colonial, like Williamsburg, and people stayed there for vacations and pretended they were really back in time. Some vacation! My brother Danny and I got the only spanking of our lives for putting a bag of salt in the communal kettle of porridge.”
“My dad took me on one of those trail rides when I was ten. You know, like City Slickers. My mom had just died, and he wanted to cheer me up.” Now this was something. JAM rarely talked about his childhood. “I never ate so many baked beans in all my life . . . on tin plates. I always wondered . . . Did cowboys have permanent gas with all those beans they ate? I mean, really, do you think Roy Rogers farted in front of Dale Evans?”
They all grinned at that image.
“I’m confused about one thing. The language,” Cage said. “I can tell that these ladies are speaking a different language, but I can understand them perfectly.”
Torolf nodded. “One reason might be that Old Norse is similar to modern Icelandic, and we all took the short course in Icelandic before we went there last year. Old Norse isn’t at all like Norwegian today. Even a thousand years ago, though, there were enough similarities between the Viking and Saxon languages that people could speak to one another.”
“How do you explain the women being able to understand us?” Pretty Boy asked.
Torolf shrugged. “A miracle?”
“Seriously, Max, you’ve made yer point,” Cage said. “All that Viking crap yer always spoutin’ . . . we get it now. Life was hard, yada, yada, yada. Now, let’s go home.”
They are not going to believe me about the time travel. Not yet. “I want you to help me get rid of Steinolf first.”
“For real?” Pretty Boy asked.
“For real. He’s as bad a motherfucker as those crazies who took down the twin towers. He’s terrorized most of the people in this region. If someone doesn’t stop him, he’s going to take over all the Scandanavian countries. I’m not going home till he’s dead meat, along with his sadistic followers.”
“Okay, we stay till Steinolf is gone. Right, guys?” Cage looked at each guy in the group, individually. They all nodded.
“What do we use for weapons?” JAM asked. They were all sharpshooters, to some extent.
“Necessity is the mother of invention and all that. Yeah, we have no night vision goggles, or thermal imaging, or a boatload of weapons, but we’ll improvise.” He pulled the KA-BAR knife out of his boot. “This is all I have.”
The other guys had knives, too, and JAM had a ninja throwing star.
“Any of you good at archery?”
Cage and Geek raised a hand.
“I doubt if any of you have used a broadsword, but all you really need to know is how to swing it in an arc to lop off a head or slice off a limb. Aim for the neck.”
They all gave him a look of wonder.
“I can use a slingshot really well,” Cage offered. When Pretty Boy elbowed him with a chuckle, he added. “Hey, don’t knock it. I can down a rabbit at fifty feet with a slingshot. I even downed a bear one time, but then I had to finish it off with a bowie knife.”
“You are so full of shit,” Pretty Boy said with a laugh. “You had me till that bear bit.”
“Okay, so I knocked off rabbits, not bears. Same thing.”
“In what world?” Pretty Boy countered.
“Enough, guys! We can make some other weapons,” Torolf concluded. Besides, he didn’t need to tell these experienced SEALs that in the best battle no shots were fired. He doubted they would be able to claim that for Steinolf ’s gang when all was done. In fact, he wasn’t leaving till the bastard was lying in his own blood. Suddenly, Torolf went stiff and wide-eyed.
“What?” everyone asked as one. SEALs were alert to the least change in one of their teammates. They even knew each other’s scent.
“Sonofabitch! It’s the damn dog again.” He swung his right leg out from under the table and over the bench. Stig was clinging to his leg like a SEAL trainee hugging the greased pole on the grinder in BUD/S. He limped to the door with the stupid dog hanging on, then he pushed it outside.
When he got back and the guys were done laughing their asses off at his expense, the pragmatic Geek asked, “How far are we going to have to travel? And is that longship salvageable?”
“Feet on the ground all the way,” he replied. “As for distance, I’m not sure. As little as ten miles, up to twenty.”
They all nodded. Traveling by foot was no problem for a SEAL. They often ran thirty miles a day, just for exercise.
“As for the longship, I’ll check it out, but I’m not so sure we want to use it. Too visible.”
They nodded at this, too. SEALs preferred to travel under cover, usually at night. But then they had night goggles.
“Okay, then, we’re good to go. If all goes well, we should be back home within two weeks, sipping suds at the Wet and Wild.”
“Hoo-yah!” they all chanted.
Geek, who sat on Torolf ’s other side, looked at him strangely when the others began to talk about some of the women here who had been hitting on them and counting how many condoms they had among them. “This isn’t make-believe, is it?”
Torolf hesitated. “No, this is the real thing.”
Geek made a clucking sound of acceptance.
“You believe me?”
“I don’t know. I need to investigate more. All I know is . . . this is too authentic. Most of all, the thing that boggles my mind and convinces me something is askew is the language situation. I know they are speaking Old Norse, and we all understand them. I know we are speaking English, and they understand us. Either we have died, we have landed in some futuristic society where people have implanted translators, or we really have time-traveled to the past by some miracle of God or scientific method I’m unaware of.”
“And how do you feel about that? The time travel?”
A slow grin spread over Geek’s face. “Cooool!”
Who were these men . . . warriors or lackbrains? . . .
Hilda left the courtyard finally, as the women continued with
their seduction lessons and the divvying up of the men.
This was an absolutely ridiculous and pathetic effort on their part. But she could not blame them. Their goal was an admirable one . . . to have children. And she had to admire them as well for being receptive to bedplay after most had all been ill-used in that regard in the past.
She ran into Torolf in the corridor leading from the great hall to the scullery. Her head had been down, and she’d been muttering, when she hit his hard chest.
“Whoa!” he said, taking her by the upper arms so she would not fall. “What’s your hurry, sweetie? And what are you muttering about?”
“You do not want to know.”
He cocked his head in question. “Does it have anything to do with the meeting you women have been conducting outside?”
“You do not want to know.”
“Does it have anything to do with me, or the other guys?”
“Yea, unfortunately.”
“Tell me.”
She shook her head. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
He took her hand, linking her fingers with his, and tugged her forward. “C’mon. My men and I need some intel from you about Steinolf so we can plan our attack.”
“Attack? You are going to attack? Have you taken leave of your senses? There are only five of you. I thought you were going to work on defensive methods of fighting.”
“It’s what we SEALs do best in covert operations. Hit the ground running and shooting. Swoop in. Strike. Then leave. Guerilla warfare to the max.”
“I have ne’er heard of such.”
“Better to fight than sit on your ass. Not your ass precisely, I meant asses in general.” He grinned.
What a lout! “If we are going to discuss battle tactics, Britta should join us.”
“I agree.” They were in the hall now, and Torolf yelled out to the men, who were sitting at a far table before one of the hearths, “Yo, Pretty Boy! Can you bring Britta to join us?”
Pretty Boy grinned as if Torolf had asked him to hunt a boar, or swive a maid.
Men! Hilda sat down at the table, and Torolf plopped himself next to her, way too close with his thigh and hip pressing against hers. With a glower, she moved a bit. He just moved after her. Always teasing!
“You know Geek, Cage, and JAM,” he said.
Each of the men inclined his head to her.
On the tabletop, something had been scrawled with a stick of charred wood. “This is a rough map, showing our present location, where Norstead and Amberstead are located, and some of the other estates in northwest Norway, including the Vestfold,” Torolf explained.
She studied it with a frown.
“I know that some of it may be wrong. I haven’t been here for a long time. We’re hoping you . . . and Britta . . . can make corrections and additions.”
She nodded.
Just then there was a loud commotion coming from the courtyard. A man laughing. A woman squealing.
It was Pretty Boy, carrying Britta across his shoulder like a sack of wheat, her legs kicking at his chest and her hands pounding at his back. “Behave, Britta,” he said with a laugh and placed a palm directly over her bottom. That brought sudden silence and stillness from Britta.
Hilda was shocked. Pretty Boy was tall and slim, though muscled well enough, but Britta was a big woman. She doubted Britta had been picked up by anyone since she was a babe.
“Good Lord, Pretty Boy, what’re you doing?” Torolf exclaimed.
The other men were chuckling, not at all surprised by Pretty Boy’s actions.
“You asked me to bring my sweetheart, and I did.” He set Britta down on the bench across from Hilda and Torolf, right up against Cage, then quickly set himself down on her other side so that she was bracketed by the two men.
“I didn’t tell you to carry her here to discuss battle plans,” Torolf said.
“She resisted.”
“You . . . you did not tell me why you wanted me to come here, you horse’s arse,” Britta sputtered. “And I am no more your sweetling than . . . than some horse’s arse. By the by, you are not pretty to me. Nay, you are homely as a warthog. Homely as a pudding face. Homely as—”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart. You are so cute when you’re pissed off at me,” Pretty Boy replied. “And by the way, my real name is Zach, if you get tired of calling me Pretty Boy.”
“Cute? A newborn cat is cute. A chick is cute. You must be blind. Not me. And stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I am cream and you are the cat.”
Hilda put her face in her hands. Yestereve she had bemoaned her spiraling loss of control here at The Sanctuary. Now it appeared she had not only lost control but was in the midst of a maelstrom of chaos.
“Don’t worry, Hildy,” Torolf whispered into her ear. “Everything will work out.”
She gave him a sideways glance of disbelief and just then realized that he was still holding her hand. With an exhalation of disgust, she pulled her hand away.
He just grinned.
“Are we agreed that I’ll be the OIC?” Torolf asked. At her and Britta’s obvious confusion, he elaborated, “Officer in charge. Leader.”
Torolf, a leader? How . . . surprising!
After that, Britta and Hilda worked to perfect the map on the table.
“Wouldn’t it be a lot easier to just use paper?” Cage asked.
She and Britta both raised their eyes from the table.
“He means parchment,” Geek explained. “And I suspect you have none here.” Geek and Torolf exchanged glances that seemed to have some significance.
“How many men do you figure that Steinolf has at each of those locations?” JAM asked.
“Perhaps two hundred at Norstead, a hundred at Amberstead, and fifty or so at each of these other smaller estates. He also has a fleet of at least ten longships raiding along the coastlines, and those have fifty men each,” Britta said. “He winters at Norstead.”
Geek appeared to be calculating the numbers in his head.
“You do not appear daunted by those numbers,” Hilda observed to Torolf.
“That isn’t a huge force, considering how many estates he’s invaded. Plus, it’s splintered. Isn’t he absorbing the vanquished soldiers into his ranks?”
“Nay. He either kills them on the spot, tortures and then kills them, or a fortunate few flee into the hills.”
“Hmmmm.” Cage tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder if there are friendlies . . . people who would join our cause?”
“Yep. Force multiplication,” Torolf agreed. Special forces did it all the time in Third World countries that the U.S. wanted to help maintain a democracy, like Afghanistan, Iraq, Bosnia. They taught the indigenous people to protect themselves.
“Possibly,” Britta said, “but we have been reluctant to seek them ourselves for fear of capture. In truth, how would we know the friend from foe?”
“We’ve got to set up a mission plan,” Torolf said.
“What kind of plan?” Britta was still skeptical.
“Mission analysis. Development of alternative courses of action. Intelligence. Specific course-of-action and tasking of personnel. Planning and more planning. Briefings. Rehearsals.”
“Methinks you all think too much,” Britta observed. “All wind and no sails.”
“I’ve got wind . . . and sails,” Pretty Boy told her.
“Blow the other way then,” Britta replied.
To the group, Pretty Boy said, “I think she likes me.”
These men, especially Torolf, were forever making jests.
“Timing is everything,” Torolf told Britta. “A good beginning is half the work.”
“But there are so many of them and so few of us,” Hilda pointed out.
“An army of sheep led by a lion could defeat an army of lions led by a sheep.”
“After handling dozens of smelly, dirty, dumb sheep yestermorn, I hope you are not likening us women
to sheep,” Hilda said with a surprising stab at humor.
“Never underestimate a Navy SEAL,” Torolf told her, as if that made any sense to her. “Cunning is always better than strength. But cunning with strength, ah, that’s the best.”
“Will you be helping me train the women here?” Britta addressed Torolf.
“We can start this afternoon and continue every afternoon. By the time we go active, we should have had at least a dozen training sessions. Not enough, but it’ll have to do.”
“This is gonna be only the most basic training,” Pretty Boy told Britta with more seriousness than he’d previously used around her before. “Navy SEALs come into training with very buff bodies and a fair amount of skills. It takes three years of training to make them what they are today, and even then we need to continue training on a regular basis.”
Britta’s mouth was agape at first, but then she clicked it shut and asked, “Am I supposed to be impressed by that?”
“Hopefully,” Pretty Boy replied with a laugh, and then pinched her backside for good measure, which caused Britta to pinch his backside back.
“Oh, baby, I love it when you touch my ass.”
Several serving maids carried food to their table then so they could break their fast. The other women were streaming into the hall, as well, to eat their first meal of the day. They all stared down at their group with interest but knew not to approach unless given permission by Hilda.
On their table was day-old manchet bread, porridge, cheese, and chunks of leftover lamb, with goat’s milk for washing it down. Even a bowl of creamed onions, which Torolf looked at, then turned and winked at Hilda, recalling her comment of the night before.
The men began to eat with gusto, helping themselves to liberal amounts of the various dishes.
“What is this?” JAM asked, sniffing at the cheese. “God! It smells worse than Limburger.”
“Gammelost,” Torolf said with a laugh. “Legend says that gammelost contributed to King Harald Fair-Hair’s victory at the battle of Hafrsfjord more than a hundred years ago. He supposedly fed his warriors gammelost for lunch prior to battle, thus turning them into berserkers.”
“It smells like it could walk by itself,” JAM said, his nose turned up with distaste. “And I prefer to go berserk on my own, thank you very much.”
