Sandra Hill - [Vikings II 04] (5 page)

Ragnor had a few things to say to
him
, too, but then he noticed the direction of the Saxon’s pointing. It was a shoreline. How could that be? When he’d gone down, his ship had been on the high seas. Could it have drifted during the battle?

Frowning with confusion, he swam toward shore. Meanwhile, other men crawled into the yellow boat, which they rowed along beside him. Some of them stared at him in compassion. It was a considerable distance, but he swam well, and besides, being alive gave a man the stamina to go on even under the worst of situations. He suspected this was going to be a worst-type situation.

“A-ten-hut!” his attacker screamed as he and some of the men in the boat waded onto the sandy beach. At the shouted order, seven of the men stood stock-still with their hands at their sides, staring straight ahead. He figured he should do the same. When in enemy territory, it was best to blend in and not call attention to oneself … though kicking that man in his male parts certainly must have made Ragnor stand out.

“Why are you still here?” the leader asked, coming up to stand in front of him, practically nose to nose.

Well, I know I should be dead, but what kind of a question is that?
“Because the gods wanted me to stay,” he offered tentatively.

“Don’t give me any of your wise-ass answers. And you know the proper way to address me, Ensign.
Yes, Master Chief, sir.
”

Ah, as I suspected, he is the chieftain.
“It was not—”
He stopped when he saw the glower on the leader’s face. Apparently, he hadn’t really expected a response.

Now the chieftain was gaping at his arm rings. “I thought I told you on the first day of BUD/S to ditch those friggin’ bracelets. Have you got a death wish?”

“Nay, I can honestly say I do not have a death wish,” he said, then added, “Chieftain, sir. And as for these”—he tapped the etched gold arm rings on his upper arms—“I never take them off. Good luck, they are.”

The chieftain said a well-known Saxon word that sounded like luck but was not. “I swear, Magnusson, in a hostage situation you would be the first one released, because your constant talking would drive them nuts.”

“I take offense at—” The chieftain’s unbridled growl cut Ragnor short.

“Well, boys, since Magnusson here is such a glutton for punishment, and since he thinks it’s A-okay to defy doctor’s orders, to join an op uninvited, to wear jewelry, for chrissake, to strike an instructor, and to mock the Master Chief by calling him Chieftain, why don’t you
all
give me one hundred push-ups, followed by a five-mile run. One for all and all for one, right?”

That was a lot of data, even for an excessively bright man to comprehend. Once he’d processed as much as he could, Ragnor thought,
I understand now. This chieftain wants to establish his authority by having us refer to him as master, as well as chieftain. I can do that, if it will save my life. But, really, I call no man my master.

“Yes, Master Chief, sir!” the seven men surrounding him said as one, then shot Ragnor dirty looks before
dropping to the ground, legs straight, arms braced. They began lowering and raising their stiffened frames, never quite touching their chests to the ground. He dropped down, too. After a few clumsy attempts, he got the rhythm and kept up with his fellow prisoners … if that was what they were.

What a silly way to punish prisoners! I saw Ivan Split-Nose sever body parts of prisoners one time, piece by piece, just to amuse himself. And torture! Whoo-ee, the Saxons have nothing on the Arabs in that regard.

Soon they were done with the absurd “push-ups,” but did they stand still and relax? Nay. The chieftain and some of what must be his assistant leaders yelled, “Fall in,” and the lackwitted prisoners began to run in the sand. Apparently running was a punishment, too. Pfff! Wait till he told Svein Forkbeard about this. The Saxons would be an easier target in the future once he gave their enemy that information.
“Not to worry, Svein, if they capture you, they will punish you with running. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Get your ass in gear, Magnusson,” the leader shouted, “or do you want to do a few extra miles?”

How would I know? I do not even know what miles are.
But he was a quick learner and assumed it had something to do with distance. He said, “Yea, Master Chieftain, sir,” which did nothing to soften the chieftain’s glower. Soon Ragnor caught up with his fellow prisoners. They all, himself included, wore boots and garments similar to loincloths except bigger, with short legs. That was all. They were bare-chested and bare-legged. As he ran alongside the men, he noticed something else about his new comrades. They were all bald … or nigh bald, except for stubble.

He thought he heard the leader mutter to one of his aides something that sounded like, “What’s with that ‘yea’ business?” and the response he got was, “You know Magnusson and that spacey Viking talk of his.” But then they ran up ahead, leaving a distance between them and the prisoners.

“What caused all of you to go bald?” he asked one man running in tandem next to him on the right … a tall man with muscles aplenty. In truth, they all had muscles aplenty, just like him. “Do they feed you so poorly here? I have heard that scurvy will do that to men betimes.”

“Cut the Viking crap, Magnusson,” the man said, staring straight ahead. “You’ll get us all in trouble … more trouble than you already caused. Kicking our team leader in the balls … have you lost your bleepin’ mind?”

“Mayhap,” Ragnor said. “By the by, you talk funny.”

“
By the by
, asshole, you’re the one who talks funny,” he said with a snort of disgust. “
Mayhap!
Jeez!”

Ragnor decided not to take offense at the asshole remark … for now. “But back to your baldness … I hate to tell you, but you all look ridiculous with those shiny pates. Like bloody monks. Holy Thor, I will eat grass afore I let my appearance go like that.”

“He must have hit his head harder than anyone thought,” another prisoner commented, loud enough for Ragnor to hear but low enough that their captors up front could not.

“I’ve got news for you, Viking,” still another prisoner said. “Your head’s been shaved the same as the rest of us.”

That news drew Ragnor up short. Impossible! Still, he raised a hand to his head … his bristly head.
He roared with outrage. “I will kill the man who did this to me.”
How dare they cut my hair? I am not an overly vain man, but I had very nice hair. Somebody is going to pay for this.

Aaah, what difference does it make? I am alive, thank the gods! And hair grows back … I hope. There are worse things in life than a bald head … like no head.

Another question nagged at him.
When did they cut my hair?

And remove my armor and replace it with these small clothes and leather boots?

And where are all my seamen and soldiers? Dead? All of them? Am I the only prisoner taken in that battle?

He continued to run, pondering these sorry events. Every once in a while the chieftain or one of his cohorts ordered the men to run into the surf and get wet, then roll around in the sand, before resuming their running.
Strange people!

Looking sideways to the left, he noticed a tall, slim man with brown skin. “Are you a Moor?” he asked, trying to be friendly.

The brown man gave him a disbelieving look before staring ahead again. “Did you just call me a moron? You really are a dickhead. The only reason I’m not gonna beat the crap out of you is that you probably have a concussion.”

Ragnor frowned. “You say me wrong. I did not say more-on, I said Moor … ah, I see. More-on must be a derogatory word in your language. My apologies if I gave offense. I meant Nubian.”

“Nu … nu … nubian,” the brown man sputtered.

“And as to that other. Nay, I am not a dickhead, I am a Viking.”

There were snickers all around then, followed by a remark from the brown man, “Dumb shit!”

“So, are you a Moor, Sly?” another prisoner asked the brown man.

“More or less,” the brown man, whose name must be Sly, answered with a chuckle.

“I knew a man named Sly at one time. Sigurd the Sly.”

Sly just ignored him.

“You know, there are eight of us prisoners. We could easily overtake those four enemy up front,” Ragnor advised. In truth, he could take all four of them himself, but he did not want to appear boastful.

This time all his fellow prisoners turned to look at him and as one they repeated Sly’s assessment of him, “Dumb shit!”

“But—” Ragnor started.

“Just shut up,” the brown man said.

“Petty Officer Simms,” the enemy leader called back, turning and continuing to run backwards, “do I hear you engaging in conversation with Ensign ‘I’ve Lost My Mind’ Magnusson? Perhaps you would like to help us pick up the pace with a jody call?”

The brown man, presumably named Simms as well as Sly, surprised Ragnor by beginning to chant out a sort of song, which the other prisoners repeated back to him:

“I don’t know but I been told.”

“I don’t know but I been told.”

“Navy SEALs are good as gold.”

“Navy SEALs are good as gold.”

“But we ain’t SEALs yet, nosirree.”

“But we aint’t SEALs yet, nosirree.”

“Three more months and we are free.”

“Three more months and we are free.”

“Till that time we toe the line.”

“Till that time we toe the line.”

“We got pain, but we don’t whine.”

“We got pain, but we don’t whine.”

“Sound off, one two …”

“Sound off, one two …”

“… three, four.”

“… three, four.”

Silence reigned then except for the rhythmic pounding of boots on sand … until Ragnor asked Sly, “You all want to be turned into animals?” He did not really believe in all that fantasy nonsense, but many Vikings did. Dragons, trolls, magic, and such. Still, he was beginning to wonder if he really was dead and had landed in one of the other worlds many Norsemen believed in … not Asgard, like the Christian heaven, or Muspell, like the Christian hell, but someplace in between where humans might be turned into animals.

“Huh?” Sly said.

“Seals? Your song … and a very fine song it was, too … spoke of wanting to become seals. Which is a mistake. I have met more than a few of those slimy animals in my time, and they do not lead a pleasant life. Their breath is most stinksome. It behooves you to reconsider, believe you me.”

Sly gave him another of his disbelieving looks and said, “Suck my dick.”

Ragnor was smarter than the average Norseman, especially when it came to languages, and he did not need an interpreter to tell him what
dick
meant. Sly’s
slur was comparable to Dar the Dangerous’s favorite saying, “Lick my manroot.” But he decided not to take offense and answered with dry humor, “Thank you, but, nay, I do not think I will partake of that pleasure.”

Laughter surrounded him then, even from Sly. And one man behind him remarked, “You are in rare form today, Max.”

At first he thought the man was addressing someone else, then realized that Max must be a shortened name for Magnusson. He liked it. And, yea, he was in good form, as the man said … but not as good as he’d originally thought.
That
he realized when their running punishment went on and on and on. For at least an hour they ran, up and down the beach. All of them were aromatic, to say the least. He had sand in his boots, sand in his small clothes, sand in his mouth and ears. He’d thought his leg muscles strong, but apparently he was not as strong as these fellow prisoners. His thighs and calves screamed with pain, whilst the other men, including the enemy leaders, just loped along.

When they finally stopped, with the leader yelling, “Fall out,” then “At ease,” the other men were bending over at the waist, walking in slow circles, and breathing easily. He, on the other hand, sank to the ground with a thud. He panted as loudly and heavily as a warhorse after a siege.

The chieftain hovered over him within seconds. “Are you all right, Ensign? Should I call the medic?”

Well, that is interesting. Concern from a captor? And medic—what is that? Ah!
“Nay, I have no need of a healer. I was winded, that is all.”

“You’ve been injured. You had no business coming out here today, sailor.”

Of course I was injured. You would be, too, if you’d engaged in a sea battle, fought off a horde of bloody Saxons, then almost drowned.
He shrugged, and stood. He and the chieftain were about the same height and build. “You are wrong. I had no choice.”

“It’s your funeral, buddy.” The instructor walked off, shaking his head as if Ragnor were a hopeless case.

Ragnor began to walk with the other prisoners, heading toward the enemy’s great hall—oddly called a chow hall—where presumably they would be fed. They were crossing a wide exercise field now … not pounded dirt like his exercise fields at Norstead, but rather a hardened mixture, like pitch that had been baked with crushed stone. Many people bustled about on the roads and walkways, some of them dressed in white apparel—white
braies
, white
sherts
, even white head coverings. Others were dressed in matching light brown garb, and still others in a fabric mixing brown, black, and green, which would be almost invisible in a forest, he would think.

Just then the sight of a familiar figure stopped him in his tracks.

“Who is that?” he asked. His heart began beating wildly with excitement. It was the woman from his vision … the one who had beckoned him away from the white light.

“You know who that is,” Sly told him. “That’s the Master Chief’s sister, Lieutenant Alison MacLean. The doctor.”

She is a lewd-tenant? I like the sound of that. Lewdness
in a woman is always desirable. And a dock-whore? Is this my lucky day? She does not appear to be in trouble at the moment. Where is the fear … and danger … I sensed surrounding her?

The woman was dressed all in white, like many of the men, right down to wearing men’s
braies
. She was tall, much taller than the average woman, and slim. Her hair was short and red. Her legs were exceedingly long. Her skin was a flawless peach color with a slight tint of gold and dotted with freckles. Her eyes were green. All this he saw in one sweeping glance from her head to her toes.