The Forgotten Land (35 page)

Steve
silently lifted his rifle. He sat up and waited, making certain that they were
not Varangians. When he was sure, he fired two shots, the first taking one of
the warriors in the chest. He was dead before he hit the ground. The second
bullet ripped through the throat of the second. The man dropped to the ground,
gurgling and thrashing his legs. He was trying to yell or cry out.

“Stand
to! Stand to!” yelled Steve, on his feet now. “Wake up!” Steve roared. “Get up!
We’re under attack!”

There
was a cry of pain in the distance, then silence. Movement followed as warriors
began running through the undergrowth yelling and screaming in a language that
Steve had never heard. There was the clash of steel on steel and more shouting.

“Was
havin’ a good dream too,” whispered Will, coming alongside, peering out of the
cave and bringing his rifle to bear. Heleena knelt beside him, wickedly sharp
knives held in each hand. Steve’s warning was taken up.

“To
arms!” the deep Varangian voice roared. “To arms! They are upon us! They are
upon us!”

Matt
stopped behind Will, brought his weapon into his shoulder and without a word
fired three shots in quick succession.

“Thirty
metres, slight right, base of that tall dead tree, three enemy,” Matt gave the
target indication quickly and quietly. “I knocked two of ‘em off, the third
is,” his voice trailed away as he fired a shot, “well the third is dead too.”
He grinned.

“Let
me at ’em,” said Scott, his sword in his hand, “I’ll carve ’em up.”

Steve
chuckled. “You gotta be kiddin’, mate, you’re not going down there with a
sword, you wouldn’t last two seconds.”

Scott
muttered but no one took any notice.

“Let’s
get down there,” said Steve as the fighting intensified. “Be careful, stay low
and pick your targets, we’ve got bugger all ammo left.” “Righto,” said Matt,
pushing passed them and taking cover behind a tree nearby. Lifting the sniper
rifle he took aim, paused for a moment then lowered the weapon. It had probably
been a Varangian.

“Let’s
go,” Steve hissed.

“Stay
here,” whispered Will to Heleena.

“I
shall follow,” she insisted. “I fight better than all of you soldiers combined.
It is only that,” she pointed at his rifle, “which makes you a good warrior.”

Will
shrugged. “Fair enough.”

The
group left Scott behind and made their way quickly and quietly through the
forest. They pushed through some thick foliage and walked into a small group of
enemy warriors. Matt brought his weapon to bear and fired without hesitation,
killing all but one who had dropped to the ground, clutching his stomach.

Nearby,
two Varangian Guardsmen lay dead. Their throats had been cut as they slept.

“Bloody
bastards,” said Will, firing a bullet into the wounded enemy.

They
ran on and when they came upon the main battle, they took cover behind a thick
stand of trees. The Varangian Guardsmen were surrounded and had formed a large
circular shield wall. They were fighting with their normal ferocity, which
served to keep their enemy at bay for the time being. One of the Varangians
roared a challenge and broke free of the shield wall, sprinting into the throng
of enemy, his axe cleaving through flesh and bone. One particularly large enemy
warrior stepped forward and took on the Varangian by himself, but died
instantly with an axe buried in his skull.

“They’re
fighting well, but they’re outnumbered, man,” said Matt softly. “Won’t be long
before they’re overrun.”

“This’ll
probably be the rest of our ammo,” replied Steve.

“Yeah
I know, but you want to get home or not?” Matt said, and began firing.

Steve
and Will joined him, firing into the enemy mass, systematically killing the
enemy warriors one after the other. Thormdall was fighting at the left side of
the circle. He had battled his way clear of the Varangian shield wall and was
slowly walking in amongst the group of enemy warriors. They tried many times to
kill Thormdall, but each attempt was blocked with blistering speed. The silent
murderous rage with which the Berserker fought was something they had never
seen before and they backed away. Even out by himself and completely
surrounded, Thormdall could not be killed.

Matt
fired his second last bullet, which took an enemy warrior through the temple,
dropping him like a rag doll. The enemy warriors broke and ran. Hoping to
surprise the Varangians and slaughter them in their sleep, the enemy had been
gravely mistaken and had instead been surprised at the speed of the counter
attack.

With
a great roar, the Varangians charged after the warriors, leaping over dead logs
and snapping branches as they ran. Battle resumed as the Varangians caught
their adversaries. The enemy warriors tried to break and run again but were
surrounded and butchered. Their last man stood in the centre, his face speaking
of the terror that coursed through him.

Stepping
forward Olaf grabbed him by the arm and threw him to the ground. The tall
Varangian looked down at the man, his bloody axe held by his side, a large
clump of gore dripping from the axe head. He pointed the weapon at his downed
opponent.

“We
seek safe passage through your land, and apart from our little disagreement
tonight, we mean you no harm.” Olaf did not know if the tribesman could
understand him, but he was past caring.

“We
travel home,” continued Olaf, “and we do not seek your pitiful crops or the
lumps of dirt you call a currency, we are not interested in your disease ridden
women and want nothing of your emaciated livestock. We are simply passing
through.” Olaf stopped. He was struggling with his anger. Several of his
warriors had been killed in their sleep, and that was no way for a warrior to
die. Taking a deep breath he continued, “Do not come upon us again, not ever!
For if you do, I shall gather my forces and return to your land. And I shall
not return with the puny number you see here. There will be thousands of us.
Thousands! We will wipe you all, every last one of you, man, woman and child
from the face of this land! We shall burn your buildings, desecrate your holy places
and poison your crops. We shall butcher your live stock and sow salt into the
ground, so that nothing, not even weeds, shall know life. Go from here and do
not return. Do I make myself clear?” asked Olaf, crouching over the warrior who
was staring up at the Varangian.

“Do
I?” roared Olaf, grabbing the man by the throat. The warrior made a feeble
attempt to nod.

“It
will be as you say,” said the man, struggling with the words.

“It
will!” said Olaf, his voice still angry and hostile. “Go! You convince your
elders of what I have told you here, or else your tribe’s entire existence is
forfeit.”

The
warrior stood slowly nodding, he made to speak.

“Go!”
shouted Olaf, bringing his axe up for the killing stroke.

Needing
no further persuasion, the warrior loped off into the forest. He did not look
back.

CHAPTER
17

They
passed through the rest of Poland safely, and entered Romania. The forest paths
had widened substantially in this country, so they could walk their horses four
abreast. The bitter chill of winter’s bite remained.

The
Australians had now spent all their ammunition. Now they had to rely on
Thormdall’s brief instruction on sword fighting and the sharp blades that hung
from their hips. Their rifles were fully stripped and the parts distributed
throughout their chest webbing. The barrels and larger parts were pushed into
their belts. It would be hard to defend themselves with a sword and a rifle or
machinegun slung on their back hampering their movement.

They
travelled across Romania for three weeks without incident. Leaving Romania
behind them, they crossed into another land where thick forests gave way to
scattered clumps of trees. The undulating, healthy land became flat and they
were exposed.

“We
are in the land of the Bulgars,” replied Olaf when Steve asked him.

“Bulgaria.
A country steeped in bloodshed and violence,” added Matt.

“Great!”
said Scott.

“The
Bulgars we do not trust,” said Olaf. “They are at war with Byzantium. If we
cross Bulgars there will be no talking, we kill them. We kill them all.”

“Fantastic,”
said Scott again.

“And
I thought the twentieth century was violent,” muttered Will.

“How
long will it take to get across Bulgaria?” asked Steve.

“If
we travel well, perhaps ten days. If the snow turns bad, it may take three
times as long,” replied Olaf. “Fear not my friend, we are nearing the end of
our journey and we shall slaughter any Bulgars who attempt to stop us. You
shall see.” Olaf tapped his axe.

As
the day grew dim a fire place was cleared against a particularly large rock and
a group of warriors were sent out to find firewood. Another group, of which the
four soldiers were invited to be a part, were sent out to hunt the evening
meal.

“I
shall await your return,” smiled Heleena.

“Won’t
be long,” Will said.

They
group moved quietly amongst the scattered trees.

“We
stay to the path,” the warrior whispered. Steve nodded. “If you stray from the
path you could be up to your armpits in snow and you will make the journey to
the next life very quickly.”

“Yup,
gotcha,” replied Scott.

The
Varangian moved forward swiftly, like a wraith in the darkness. He carried a
longbow the length of a tall man and the arrows were almost a metre in length.
The weapon could easily knock over a wild boar. Ten minutes later the Varangian
crouched near a thick shrub and gestured the soldiers to him.

“There
is a chance that circumstances might turn foul. I know that you do not have
much experience with the sword, so if this happens, the most effective defence
for those without sword skills is a retreating offence.”

“A
what?” blurted Will.

“Block
every attack your enemy makes, make no attack of your own. And for every
attacking stroke, take a step back, but be mindful of where your foot lands.
When you feel your opponent has become confident of the win, attack as hard as
your heart will allow. Hack, slash, stab, fight as fast and with as much fury
as you can. You will not only surprise them, but at least one of your first few
attacking strokes will wound or even kill your opponent. This tactic works well
in dim light, but not well during the day.”

“We’re
just out hunting dinner aren’t we?” asked Matt.

“We
are. But if there are Bulgars about they will attack and want to kill us for no
other reason than entertainment. A harsh, vicious people are the Bulgars. So
stay on your guard and remember what I have said.” About twenty metres away
they saw a full grown pig, it was digging through the earth with its snout,
blissfully unaware of its foe. The Varangian crouched by a tree and signalled
for the soldiers to stay still and silent. The animal froze and it sniffed the
air. When it was sure, it pushed its snout back into the earth and continued to
dig for roots. The Varangian gently strung an arrow, brought the bow up, pulled
back on the cord so the string was close to his ear and released the
projectile. The arrow hissed softly through the air and thudded into the beast
behind its front left leg, skewering the heart. The animal dropped without a
sound.

“Jesus,
what a shot,” said Scott.

The
 group crouched  around the  downed  animal  whilst
the Varangian guardsman cut up the carcass.

“We
take the legs, some of the flank and the cheeks, the rest we leave for the forest.
It is full of disease and decay,” the Varangian handed a hind leg to Will. He
could see flees and lice crawling through the hair.

“The
cooking fire will kill them,” spoke the Varangian, noticing Will picking at the
hair.

“The
Moslems have no idea what they’re missing out on,” said Steve, taking another
heavy hind leg from the Varangian.

“Too
right, man,” grinned Matt.

Steve
made a dismissing gesture at the quizzical look the Varangian gave him.

“You
know,” said the Varangian. “I speak Anglish well, and I understand most of the
words you say, but there are some things you speak of that I do not understand.
I believe it is easier not to ask,” he handed the foreleg to Matt.

Within
half an hour the best cuts had been taken.

They
ate well that night, the comforting smell of cooked pork lingering amongst the
forest long after the meal had been eaten. The silence of the forest was
absolute, and apart from several snorers, nothing could be heard but the buzz
of nocturnal insects and the soft wind moving amongst the canopy. Steve noticed
that the Varangians slept in a large circle, their heads closest to the glowing
embers, whilst their legs faced the dark forest, axes drawn and ready to fight
if required. Four sentries had been posted around the encampment and these were
rotated through every three hours.

Steve
closed his eyes and felt the weariness in his body, the quiet buzz and hum of
the forest wildlife disappearing into a black nothingness as he fell into
sleep’s arms.

*
* * * *

The
sun gave off a blistering heat that stung the skin and made Steve’s thirst
almost unbearable.

“Hold
your position!” a man snarled to his right. He found himself sword in hand, in
a shield wall. He had seen the Norse use this tactic, but this time he was no
spectator.

There
were two rows of warriors behind the shield wall ready to step forward and
replace fallen comrades. Steve was in the front rank and was walking forward
with the rest of the shield wall. A murderous charge of dark skinned warriors,
dressed in black robes and carrying crescent shaped swords, were sprinting
towards them, screaming their foreign battle cries.

They
were still maybe two hundred metres away, but they were closing fast. As Steve
glanced about he saw that the Norse warriors around him were seasoned veterans,
without fear or doubt in their eyes. All of them, to a man, held the shield
wall straight, without falter. Their swords were hungry to bite into yielding
flesh. These were a tough, violent people born to war, but as Steve watched the
approaching enemy, he knew that the Norse had met their match.

“They
will die like any other man,” grinned the man to Steve’s right.

His
face was scarred, so that when he smiled it looked like a snarl. Steve had
fought as an elite soldier on many battle fields, for many years. He had
killed, been wounded and watched some of his comrades die on the modern
battlefield. He had no fear. On the modern battlefield he could either fight
his way out of most situations leaving a trail of destruction or slip past his
enemies without them ever knowing he had been there.

But
this was not the modern battlefield and fear ebbed through him. They were less
than a hundred metres away now, still screaming their hatred and wielding their
weapons. The shield wall continued to advance slowly and confidently. When the
enemy was less than fifty metres from them, Steve saw a blur of arrows hiss
from the back of the shield wall, thudding into the charging mass and sending
many of them in the front rank tumbling to the ground.

“Odin!”
shouted a voice at the centre of the shield wall.

“Odin!”
the Norse warriors roared and surged forward into a counter charge with the
shield wall intact. They slammed into the black clad enemy. The screaming,
black clad enemy shuddered to a halt as they were met by the shield wall. Inch
by bloody inch the shield wall crept forward, pressing the enemy back, killing
men where they stood and taking no prisoners. Some of the Norse warriors fell,
but they were replaced instantly by those behind.

Steve’s
arm shuddered as the tulwar slammed against his shield. He rammed the shield
into his opponent’s face and then stabbed his sword into the man’s mouth
puncturing the back of his throat and touching his spine. Steve ripped the
sword free and brought it down in a murderous arc that shattered the man’s
skull. The Arab was dead before he hit the ground and Steve stepped over him as
the shield wall continued to advance.

The
Arabs were a fierce, warlike people, but they had met their match in the Norse.
For the Norse were just as savage and skilled. They were more determined and
confident than any invader who had come ashore. The Norse pursued the Arabs,
killing those whom they caught and promising those that they did not that Odin
would send them to the underworld.

Steve
crouched, catching his breath. He looked up as a warrior approached.

“We
will not be beaten, as long as the shield wall is held strong and moves
forward, we can break any enemy,” the man said. Steve could not see the Norse
warrior, the sun was blinding him. “You did well, you are not yet a Norse
warrior, but you fought well.”

*
* * * *

Steve
woke with a start and sat up. He reached for his rifle but found the hilt of
his sword instead. Unconsciously, he drew the cold weapon to him. The Varangian
nearest him farted loudly then rolled over. Steve rose, sheathed his sword and
stumbled through the forest, still groggy with sleep. Leaning against a tree he
urinated into the undergrowth and yawned. Within seconds he was back in the
sleeping defensive circle and asleep once more.

A
single, loud shout echoed through the silent forest and invaded his relaxed,
dozing mind. He could hear movement around him, the clink of chain mail, but it
seemed distant and unreal.

A
hand hit his chest and he woke to find a helmeted Varangian, axe in hand,
leaning over him.

“Up!”
the voice said. “We fight.”

Steve
regained his senses. He heard blood curdling screams around them. The huge
Varangian who had woken him was calmly stretching his arms and back, as if he
were about to begin a weight session.

“Bring
in the circle!” a voice shouted. “Those who are in reserve, be ready to plug a
gap!”

“Back!”
the Varangian said to Steve. They took seven or eight paces back so that the
circle became smaller. Those who could no longer stand shoulder to shoulder in
the circle moved into the centre, so they could reinforce at short notice.

It
was then that they came. Steve could not see the enemy but he heard them
running through the undergrowth and their voices were warlike.

“Swing
your sword fast and hard,” said the Varangian.

The
shouting was deafening now but still the Varangians remained silent. Their
confidence eased Steve’s nerves. He shifted his sword into his left hand so he
could wipe the sweat from his sword hand. His heart skipped a beat as the enemy
burst through the undergrowth illuminated by the dull light of the moon. They
were dressed in the black robes of his dream and had the same curved swords
held above their heads.

“Come
and die,” roared the Varangian, sweeping his axe in a massive circle above his
head. Steve noticed he was grinning.

“Shit!”
was all Steve could utter as a war cry. As the enemy warrior sprinting for him
was almost upon him, his daughter, Kathy’s face flashed into his mind. His need
to see her again overwhelmed him and he ran forward to meet his adversary. He
brought the sword down in a mighty strike that smashed the Arab’s weapon out of
the way and clove into his skull, killing him before his body hit the ground.
Levering the sword free, Steve stepped back into the circle of defence,
adrenalin coursing through his body. The Varangian beside him, stabbed an Arab
warrior using his axe like a sword, then brought the huge weapon crashing down,
half decapitating the assailant.

Another
warrior ran screaming for Steve, and he blocked the attack desperately. The
tulwar slid down the steel of his sword, just missing his arm. Slamming the
sword hilt into the man’s face, Steve brought the sword back and rammed it into
the man’s midriff. He felt the metal grate against bone before he ripped the
weapon free. The enemy fell to the ground, only to be replaced by another.