The Forgotten Land (34 page)

“For
fuck’s sake, this is getting a bit old now,” said Scott, his useless Minimi
slung across his back. Without ammunition he would be of no use if the tribesmen
paralleling them offered a challenge. He was tempted to strip the weapon down
and bury the pieces, but he knew that if the patrol ever made it back to Iraq
and the Land Rover, and copious amounts of ammunition, the Minimi would regain
its use.

“Yeah
I hear ya,” said Steve, unslinging his rifle and watching the distant
tribesmen. “You blokes get ready,” he said over his shoulder to Matt and Will.

“Ahead
of ya, man,” replied Matt, his sniper rifle ready.

Will
 flicked  the  safety  catch  off  and  noticed
 Heleena  had unsheathed a throwing knife. She caught his eye and
smiled.

Thormdall
galloped past them again to the head of the column. The Berserker was ready to
fight, almost willing it to happen. His sword was drawn and he was glaring
towards the tribesmen.

A
moment later there was shouting from the front and the column broke into a fast
trot in an attempt to outrun the tribesmen.

“This
is fuckin’ shit!” said Scott bouncing around in his saddle, his reins dropped
and long forgotten. Luckily the horse automatically followed the animal in
front. He was holding onto the saddle in an attempt to avoid slipping off and
being trampled by the horses behind.

“Try
and rise, mate,” called Matt. “When the horse’s back rises, try and rise with
it, it’ll be more comfortable for you and the horse.”

“I’m
sorta getting’ the hang of it,” said Steve, pushing his feet into the stirrups
and trying to move with the horse.

“I’m
fuckin’ not!” shouted Scott, half sliding from the saddle before righting
himself at the last moment. “Maybe we could fuckin’ walk for a bit!” Scott
yelled.

Steve
noticed Will seemed completely comfortable in the saddle.

“Where
the hell did you learn to ride? I thought you said you only rode a horse once?”
Steve called.

“My
sister,” replied Will, “she represented New South Wales in dressage.”

“Whatever
the hell dressage is,” said Steve.

After
about half an hour, the column slowed back to a walk. The tribesmen had long
gone.

“Thank
Christ for that,” said Scott. “I’m definitely no horseman.”

“Makes
you respect the Light Horsemen in World War One,” said Will. “Those bastards
charged Beersheba at full gallop with nothin’ but bayonets. And they took the
town.”

“I’d
be flat out charging at a walk at the moment,” said Scott standing in his
stirrups, trying to take pressure off his buttocks. “This is a goddamn work
out.”

“You’re
not wrong,” said Steve.

The
path had widened so they could ride three abreast now. As darkness began to
descend they found a small clearing. Dinner was cold but they ate with relish.
The Varangian Guardsmen posted out four sentries, one at each side of the
encampment. The Polsk tribesmen might come upon them during the night, and the
guardsmen were not taking any risks. Keeping their weapons close, the
Australians fell into a fitful sleep.

Steve
woke during the night. Unable to fall asleep, he stood and walked a short way
into the forest to relieve himself. As Steve began walking back to his sleeping
comrades there was a loud shout in the distance followed by the clash of steel,
a piercing scream and then silence. Moments later more yelling erupted, another
sword fight broke out. The Varangian Guardsmen, rolling from their sleep, began
shouting.

“What
the fuck’s goinin’ on?” asked Scott, rubbing his eyes.

“Dunno
mate, but I’ve got a feeling those tribesmen have caught up with us,” replied
Steve, checking his weapon.

“Don’t
those pricks sleep?” asked Matt.

“I’m
goin’ for a slash,” said Will, moving off amongst the surrounding trees.

“Be
careful,” warned Heleena. “I’ll be fine,” he winked at her.

More
shouting echoed throughout the forest and this time it did not die into
silence. As far as Steve could make out, the battle was taking place about one
hundred metres to their north, but he could not be sure.

“That’s
better,” said Will when he returned.

“We
are under attack!” Thormdall had appeared from the forest.

“You’re
a goddamn genius,” said Scott. “That’s enough,” said Steve.

“We
need to outflank them if we can,” continued Thormdall, unaware of the joke at
his expense.

“Righto,
well, you lead the way, mate, and we’ll follow you,” Steve said.

“Stay
right behind me,” said Will, stroking Heleena’s face. “I shall,” she replied,
squeezing his hand.

Without
further discussion, Thormdall moved away. Steve followed, squinting to keep the
Berserker in view. He had learned long ago that to see well in dim light,
direct vision needed to be focused slightly above and to the side of the
target, so one’s peripheral vision was engaged, bringing the object into
relatively clear view. To look directly at a target in the dark tended to help
it blend into the surrounding darkness. At night, peripheral vision was man’s
most powerful tool.

As
they moved, the noise of battle drew ever closer. There was a loud thud from
behind and Steve looked around.

“For
fuck’s sake!” said Scott, “that hurt like a bitch!” Scott had tripped on a
fallen trunk. “You okay?” asked Steve. “Yeah,” Scott replied.

They
ran for a short way before Thormdall turned sharply, bringing the group onto
the flank of the fight. The shouting, screaming and clashing of steel was much
louder and clearer now. As they fought their way through thick shrubs, they
stumbled upon the battle. The Varangian Guardsmen were outnumbered, perhaps
three to one, although they were better armoured and fought more ferociously
than the tribesmen.

“You
do not need to kill them, simply scare them,” said Thormdall, gesturing to
Steve’s rifle.

“Will,
Matt, pump three rounds each into ‘em,” said Steve, bringing his rifle up into
his shoulder.

The
deafening rifle cracks echoed through the forest, tearing several of the
tribesmen from their feet and bringing the fight to an end. Terrified by the
sudden unknown noise the tribesmen ran into the forest leaving their dead and
wounded behind. Giving them the time they needed to regroup and think, the
Varangians decided to ride until morning to try and put distance between
themselves and an enemy that could overrun them. After a lot of swearing and
some substantial help, the soldiers saddled their horses and climbed clumsily
into the saddle.

Moving
as quietly as possible, the column filed out into the blackness. The horses
seemed uneasy, their rest having been disturbed. Some of the younger horses
tried to buck their riders but were brought under control with a firm voice and
a soft hand. The hours passed and as the first hint of sunrise spoke in the
eastern sky, the soldiers felt dead in the saddle. Their legs, backs and
backsides ached.

The
guardsmen were confident that they had left the tribesmen behind for good,
because they had moved out of their hunting grounds, but they were not sure how
the next tribe would receive them. Many of the Polsk tribes were friendly,
willing to trade goods or share produce, but some, as they had learned, wanted
no part of foreign people passing across their lands. The Varangians had been
taken by surprise and Steve knew that it was not likely to happen again. These
were fierce fighters, employed to defend the royal blood of Byzantium; they
would not tread so carelessly again.

“I
feel like rat shit,” said Scott, yawning.

“Know
how you feel,” replied Will.

“You’re
feeling that good?” muttered Matt, dark rings under his eyes.

“You
are all weak,” chuckled Heleena. “We shall have plenty of time to sleep.”

“I
don’t think it’ll be long before we stop for a rest and a feed,” said Steve,
stifling a yawn.

“Hope
not,” commented Will.

Steve
was wrong. They travelled most of the day, eating in the saddle and struggling
to remain awake. Scott almost slid from the saddle several times, exhaustion
swamping him. Finally they made camp amongst the trees about one hundred metres
from the track. Once more a guard was placed throughout the night, watching and
waiting. If the enemy did reappear, the Varangians knew they would bring more
warriors and their attack would be relentless. Although this voyage was much
faster than the journey they might have undertaken by sea, it was much more
dangerous. Speed was of the utmost importance, and therefore with it was great
risk.

The
Varangians and Norse people of Ulfor had a steely resolve, for no matter how
grim a situation, they would persevere. The knowledge of death made them
fearsome warriors who fought with a demon like ferocity, for if they died in
battle it was the will of Odin. These were a fearless, strong people, not
caught up on the complexities of life like the society to which Steve and his
soldiers were accustomed. They lived their lives to the fullest, loved greatly,
worked tirelessly for themselves, their family and their community. After
living amongst them, this was something Steve wanted to emulate. He was an
extremely good SAS soldier, but Steve wanted to be a better husband and father.

Scott
began to snore. Matt kicked him.

“What?”
asked Scott.

“You
were snorin’ like an old bastard, man,” Matt muttered. “Bullshit,” he said,
rolling over. “Goddamn rock in my side,” he sighed, and rolled onto the other
side.

“For
Christ’s sake, man!” said Matt, “what are you trying to do, bloody spoon me?”
he asked.

“Sorry,”
said Scott, “you didn’t mind last night.”

“Piss
off,” said Matt.

After
ten minutes of banter, they finally drifted to sleep, exhaustion claiming them.

“What?”
Scott’s voice woke Steve. A Varangian Guardsmen was crouched over Scott,
shaking his shoulder. The other two were awake and Heleena was on her feet.

“You
must awaken, we move soon!” the man said.

Scott
muttered incoherently. “How soon?” he managed to say eventually.

“Now!”
growled the guardsmen.

Steve
grabbed Scott by his shirt and dragged him to his feet. “Time to go, mate. Here
ya go,” he said, pushing his saddle into his chest.

Within
twenty minutes the column was moving through the forest once again.

“How
long d’ya reckon we’ll be riding?” asked Scott, who had been standing in his
stirrups for the better part of five minutes.

“Dunno,”
replied Steve, “I think we’re still in Poland, so probably for another week,
maybe two at least.”

“Christ
almighty, no wonder those horse fanatics walk around bow legged, this is gonna bloody
kill me!”

“Ah,
ya girl, it’s not that bad,” said Matt, “just think, with each day we’re closer
to home.”

“True,”
agreed Scott, settling back into his saddle with a wince.

They
stopped for lunch. A group of Varangians were sent out on a hunting party and
they returned with a headless deer, which was quickly prepared and then roasted
over a fire. The aroma of roasting meat wafted through the forest.

“No
dried fish today!” grinned Will, “bit of venison for lunch’ll go down all
right.”

“Too
right,” agreed Matt.

When
the beast had been cooked it was cut into portions and handed out. With warm
grease dripping from their beards they devoured their food. After they had
finished, the fire was extinguished, the remains of the deer was thrown into
the undergrowth for wild dogs and within minutes they were on their way.

As
the sun began to die, the group made camp near a small cave located a short
distance from the path. Heleena and the Australians were to sleep in the cave
that night because if they came under attack, they were easily locatable and
defended.

It
was amusing, thought Steve that a special forces soldier needed to be defended
and protected, like some lost school child.

They
found the darkness of the cave oddly comforting, almost as if they were shielded
away from the world. Keeping their weapons close, they faded quickly into
sleep, exhaustion claiming them once more.

Steve
woke with his heart thumping in his chest. In the far corner he could hear
Scott snoring softly, and outside the cave was silence. Relaxing, he closed his
eyes and tried to drift back into sleep.

As
his breathing deepened, he heard a distinct noise outside that brought him
fully awake. It was the soft movement of cloth on stone, and loose pebbles
tumbling to the ground below. Someone or something was outside the cave.
Whatever it might be, it probably was no threat. But the sound of cloth on
stone was no animal. Probably just a guardsman going for a slash. But the noise
came again, this time louder. Steve’s eyes snapped open and there in the cave
mouth was the silhouette of a tall man. He was not dressed like a Varangian
Guard. The silhouette looked up and made a silent gesture with his hand. Steve
watched more warriors appear behind him, from the undergrowth above the cave.
There must have been almost thirty now and their numbers swelled. When they had
fully gathered, the majority moved away from the cave towards the sleeping
guardsmen beyond, but two remained at the cave mouth. After a short whispered
exchange they drew short, curved skinning knives and quietly made their way
forward.