The Forever Man: Axeman

by Craig Zerf

  The marine checked himself out. Suit of armor made from recycled car parts. Battle-axe. Fur cloak.

  ‘Right,’ he said quietly. ‘Another one of those dreams.’

  The druid shook his head. ‘No dream, my lord. This is real.’

  ‘But last time wasn’t,’ argued Nathaniel.

  The druid pointed at the scar on the back of the marine’s hand. ‘Real enough to bleed.’

  Nathaniel had no answer to that.

  ‘Fair enough. Why am I here?’

  The druid raised an eyebrow. ‘Because you are. Because you always have been. This is the battle of Cunwarden. You are about to lead the tribe against the Romans from fort Cunwarden on Hadrian’s Wall.’

  Nathaniel cast his eyes over the terrain. On his far right, some two hundred yards away, stood around 200 cavalrymen, dressed in kilts and armed as were the men next to him. At the foot of the hill stood 100 archers, arrayed in two ranks of fifty. In front of them, 300 tribesmen armed with axes or broadswords. Some had shields. Many, however, had no armor whatsoever and many were actually completely naked. Stripped for battle, their bodies covered with intricate blue tattoos.

  And opposite them, some 500 yards away, stood the might of the Romans. The marine did a quick calculation and figured that there were in excess of 3000 of them. Odds of 5 to 1 against. Not good.

  The Romans had divided their troops into three groups of 1000. The 100 were further divided into 10 groups of 100, or a century. Each century had formed up into a testudo, or tortoise, their shields held high and overlapping, front ranks shields facing forward. Basically, a lightly armored troop carrier.

  Nathaniel turned to the man on his right.

  ‘Hey, dude. What’s your name?’

  ‘I am chief Cornavi, lord Degeo,’ he then gestured at the other three men ‘Chief Damnon, chief Maelon and chief Vericone. We live but to serve you, my lord Degeo.’

  Nathaniel turned back to the druid. ‘Lord Degeo?’

  ‘Degeo. It means, forever or eternal. You are the eternal lord. The Forever Man.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Nathaniel. ‘We can talk about that later. Cornavi, where are the Roman cavalry?’

  ‘They have none, my lord. They keep horses for fast communication but that is all.’

  ‘Reserves?’

  ‘No, lord. What you see is what you get. The Romans are confident of crushing us utterly. They see no need to keep any troops in reserve.’

  The marine stared at the array of Roman troops and thought hard.

  ‘What about archers?’

  ‘There are some manning the actual wall, lord. Perhaps fifty.’

  ‘So, said the marine. ‘Their plan is to simply walk towards us and crush us with their superior numbers. Not the most sophisticated of tactics.’

  ‘They are doing that on purpose, lord. They seek to intimidate and insult us. They want to show that we, mere tribesmen, are unworthy of tactics.’

  The marine smiled. ‘Good. Now, here is what we shall do.’

  He raised his voice so that the other chiefs could all hear him.

  When he was finished the chiefs drew their swords and clashed them together.

  ‘Oorah!’

  And then they galloped off to the places that the marine had appointed them, ready to institute lord Degeo’s battle plan. Three of the chiefs rode to the gathering of the tribesmen and the third, Cornavi, rode to the massed cavalry, but first he stopped by the archers and relayed their instructions. Then they waited for the call of the horn.

  Nathaniel waited for the Romans to move first and, after about an hours wait, they did. Their testudo formations walked slowly forward, being careful to maintain their structure as they marched over the broken ground.

  As per the marine’s instructions the tribesmen broke into three groups of 100. One for each Roman cohort marching towards them. The two groups closest to Nathaniel began to retreat at the same pace that the Romans advanced. The third group, however, stood firm.

  The marine gave the horn blower a nod and he let out a long blast. “Ooo-reee!”

  Immediately the archers bent their bows and fired at the third Roman cohort. They worked as swiftly as they could and, within seconds, the hail of steel tipped death rained down on the Roman testudo. Two, three, four and then five hundred arrows. Most stuck directly into the raised shields but many either penetrated or plunged between the gaps. Men fell, wounded, to the floor but the well-disciplined Roman machine simply trampled over them and continued the advance.

  But, at the same time that the archers had begun to unleash their arrow storm, the cavalry had initiated a charge. They thundered down on the third cohort and the sound of 800 hooves shook the very ground. At the last moment, the cavalry wheeled away. But not before every man had unleashed a heavy spear into the formation. Unlike the lightweight arrows, the spears were massive heavy weapons. A foot of sharpened steel blade affixed to the top of a five-foot oaken shaft. The whole thing weighed in at over twenty pounds so, even un-bladed, it would have wreaked havoc. As it happened, 200 sharpened, heavyweight projectiles struck the testudo at once, causing it to instantly lose its shape. As it did so, more arrows found their way through, adding to the deaths and confusion. Then the cavalry unleashed their next spears.

  The testudo ground to a halt.

  The horn blew again. Twice. Ooo-reee! Ooo-reee!

  And the first group of tribesmen, led by chief Damnon, charged the Roman cohort.

  The Roman soldier is, by far and away, the best warrior when it comes to disciplined formation battle. They march forward behind the protection of their shield wall and, every now and then, on command, they part the wall, stab through using their short stabbing swords and then continue. Riding roughshod over all of their enemies.

  Nathaniel knew that he had to break the formation. And the marine also knew that, once the fight turned into a mêlée then there was no possible way that a Roman soldier with a tiny 12-inch blade could compete against a berserker wielding a massive 40 or even 50-inch blade.

  The group of tribesmen struck the Romans like a tsunami, smashing into them and hacking them to pieces.

  Meanwhile, the cavalry and the archers were doing the same thing to the next cohort, with just as much success.

  The final cohort, however, had reacted with typical Roman discipline and training and had reformed the testudo into a square with the commander and the standard bearer in the center. The cavalry threw their spears and the archers unleashed their shafts, but a square is more fluid than a testudo and it did not have to move. The soldiers used their shields to fend off the missiles and they waited for the tribesmen to charge, their shields locked together.

  The running tribesmen hit the shield wall hard and met with death as the Romans parted the wall, thrust and closed. A score of tribesmen lay dead or wounded. But it was not in their nature to stop and, again and again they threw themselves at the impenetrable wall of steel. They could not get past it. Instead they merely flowed around it, like water around a rock. More of them dying on each pass.

  Eventually the marine could stand no more. He dragged his axe from his belt, hammered his heels into his horse’s sides and galloped down the hill at top speed, heading straight towards the square.

  Knowing that he would be unable to force the horse to actually charge into the square he simply turned it at the last possible moment and leapt as hard as he could. Launching himself from the back of the galloping animal, through the air and into the middle of the square.

  He rolled to his feet and immediately swung his axe, decapitating the commander. He leapt over the dead body and struck the standard bearer in the chest, splintering his bronze armor and slashing through his heart. He then grabbed the standard before it fell and held it above his head.

  ‘Oorah!’ He screamed. ‘Oorah! For the corps and the good old USA.’

  Then he pegged the standard into the turf and readied himself.

  Without their commander, and with an enemy inside the for
mation holding their standard, the square lost its integrity as Romans broke rank in order to attack the marine.

  They surged over him and he fought back like a maniacal dervish. Screaming the marine battle cry as he cut and parried. Blood flowed in rivulets, both the enemies and his own. A sword laid open the flesh from his right eye to his cheek and it flapped like a wet rag as he moved, but his armor prevented any mortal wounds and, after a mere five minuets, that felt like five days, his tribesmen had fought through to him.

  Cornavi was the first and he threw himself in front of Nathaniel, swinging his broadsword in massive, cleaving arcs.

  ‘My lord,’ he shouted. ‘I am here for you. Stand back.’

  Two more tribesmen stood at Nathaniel’s back and then another, and another.

  Exhausted, the marine stopped fighting and merely leant on the shaft of his axe, panting and watching as the rough clad tribesmen slaughtered the Romans to the very last man.

  After the slaughter and the looting of the bodies, the tribesmen attacked the wall itself. Using long poles cut from the forest, they levered blocks of stones out and then dragged them free until there was a twenty-yard breach in the wall.

  Chief Cornavi explained to Nathaniel that they did this more for symbolic than for practical reasons. They had no wish to go south of the wall; they merely wanted to show the Romans that, if they had wanted to, then they could have.

  ***

  That evening the clans gathered at chief Carnovi’s village. Rude wood and daub huts surrounding a central cattle enclosure. Built on a hill, next to a stream. A wooden palisade enclosed tee entire village. Fields of crops lay outside; potatoes, turnips, beets and carrots.

  Huge mastiff-type dogs roamed freely. However, the moment that Nathaniel arrived six of the vast animals crowded around him and followed him wherever he went, growling if anyone else got too close without Nathaniel’s permission. The marine didn’t discourage them as he was in a strange place and they gave him time to think.

  The womenfolk, confident of the men’s victory, had already prepared a feast. Long fires with many lambs rotating on spits above them. Long strips of leather joined the ten or so spits together onto one master cog that was attached to one of the massive dogs. The dog then walked in a prescribed circle, turning the meat so that it cooked evenly.

  Tubs of sweet smelling mead were placed on the center of sturdy wooden tables and large wooden mugs were distributed to all. The mead was served by simply dunking your mug into the tub and helping yourself.

  Before the festivities began, Nathaniel was taken to one side by one of the women. Her name was Gwencalon. She was tall for a woman, and muscular. Her hair a straw-yellow blond and her eyes a deep loch-blue, almost black. Her lips seemed to be set in a permanent slight smile, as if mocking the world. Laughing at it, not with it.

  She sat Nathaniel down on a three legged stool and, using a cloth and water, cleaned out his facial wound. Then she sewed the flap closed, pulling it tight with four loops of coarse black gut. Afterwards she slapped on a poultice that smelled like urine.

  Nathaniel choked.

  ‘What the hell,’ he said. ‘Smells like piss.’

  She laughed. Her laughter was as deep and husky as her speaking voice.

  ‘Of course it does, my lord,’ she said. ‘For it is sheep’s urine boiled down to form a paste. Without it, you would still heal but the scar would be a terrible blight on your sweet face.’

  Then she wrapped a bandage around him, covering his nose and cheek but leaving his eyes free.

  ‘Come, my lord,’ she said. ‘It is time for the brave men to feast.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Asked the marine.

  Gwencalon lowered her eyes. ‘Oh no, lord Degeo; it would not be seemly for a mere woman to sit with the warriors. We may forget our place.’

  Again, Nathaniel noticed the mocking half-smile.

  ‘What if I wanted you to sit with me?’ He asked

  Gwencalon’s eyes flew open in genuine shock. ‘No, my lord. Such a break with tradition would not do. Please, lord, do not even mention it.’

  Nathaniel could see that she was truly worried.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I won’t. But if I want to see you again?’

  The maid looked at him with what appeared to be genuine puzzlement. ‘You are lord Degeo. You are The Forever Man. If thee finds want of me then thy wish is my command. Order and I shall be there.’

  The marine raised an eyebrow. ‘But would you want to be there?’

  ‘If thy commands it, lord.’

  Nathaniel shook his head. ‘Whatever. Show me the way.’

  The girl led Nathaniel through the small maze of huts and to the central open area next to the paddock. He was seated at the head table; on his right hand side sat chief Cornavi. His long beard, braided for the battle, had been combed free, as had his hair. The beard flowed to his chest and his raven hair lay down his back like a fur coat. On Nathaniel’s left sat the druid. Clean-shaven, still dressed in his grubby white robe.

  A mug of mead was put down in front of the marine and the chief stood up.

  ‘We thank the gods for the return of our lord. Degeo Fear. The Forever Man.’

  As one the tribe stood up and cheered.

  Then the chief sat down and all waited in an expectant hush.

  Eventually the druid leaned over and whispered. ‘My lord, they are waiting for a speech.’

  The marine, who had absolutely no idea what he was going to say, stood up and wracked his brain for something appropriate. Eventually he decided to simply throw together a few sound bites from famous speeches that he remembered.

  ‘May the lightning of your glory be seen and the thunders of your onset heard from east to west. And let the Romans know, we shall fight them on the seas and oceans, we shall defend our land, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the wall, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.

  Because we say, is life so dear or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? No – I forbid it, Almighty Gods! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death! Oorah!’

  The tribesmen erupted.

  ‘Oorah! Oorah! Oorah!’

  Nathaniel sat down.

  ‘Well spoken, my lord,’ said the druid. ‘You are a great orator. You always have been.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Nathaniel. ‘You, Winston Churchill and I.’

  ‘I’m sorry, lord?’

  ‘Nothing. Hold on. What did you mean, I have always been. This is the first time that I have been here.’

  ‘Quite the contrary, my lord,’ denied the druid. ‘You are oft here. That is why you are so well known. You are the clan lord. All seeing. All knowing. Forever being.’

  Nathaniel shook his head. ‘I have never been here before. I would know.’

  The druid nodded. ‘True. At this point in your life you have never been here. But at a later point you will have been here before. We know because you told us that you would lead us to a great victory against overwhelming odds at the battle of Cunwarden. And the only reason that you knew what would be, is that you had already done what had yet to be done.’

  ‘Doesn’t make sense,’ argued Nathaniel.

  ‘You are immortal,’ said the druid.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Immortality works both ways, lord. The Forever Man is forever. Always was and always will be. Just, not yet.’

  ‘What do I call you, druid?’

  The druid smiled. ‘I believe that you simply call me priest, or druid. Sometimes, dude. I am not sure what the last form of address means.’

  ‘Fine, priest. How long do I normally stay?’

  ‘Sometimes hours,’ answered the druid. ‘Sometimes for days. Once, for over a year.’

  ‘Do you know how long I am staying this time?’

  The druid nodded. ‘Yes, lord. You told me the last t
ime that you were here. You said that you would want to know.’

  ‘Really?’ Said Nathaniel in amazement. ‘Well then, the next time I’m here, before I’m here now, well, I’d better remember to tell you to tell me.’

  Most definitely, my lord.’

  ‘Cool, dude. Now, how long.’

  ‘You leave during the night, my lord. You had to, as your physical body is still in another time and place and it is dying.’

  ‘I can’t die,’ said Nathaniel. ‘Remember, the whole immortal thing.’

  ‘Who says that immortality requires a body?’ Asked the druid.

  The marine stared at the priest for a while.

  ‘Dude,’ he said. ‘Could it be that you are being deliberately obtuse?’

  The druid smiled. ‘Sorry, my lord. I couldn’t help myself. Forgive me. Whenever you refer to me as, dude, it brings out my worst.’

  ‘Well don’t screw with The Forever Man,’ said Nathaniel. ‘Answer me. How can I die? I am immortal.’

  The druid blanched. ‘I am sorry, my lord Degeo. It was not my intention to play fornication upon you. In answer to your question, I am not completely sure. You are in two places at the same time. I think, in those circumstances, one of you can die. I have no idea what the ramifications of that death would be.’

  ‘How do I go back?’

  The druid shook his head. ‘Sorry, my lord. You simply disappear.’

  Nathaniel downed his mug of mead.

  ‘Fine. Look, priest, I’m exhausted. I need sleep. Get someone to show me to my digs and I’ll catch some nap time.’

  The druid clapped his hands and Gwencalon appeared.

  ‘You summoned, high borne one,’ she said to the druid.

  ‘Yes. Take lord Degeo to his hut and help him to rest.’

  The tall girl beckoned to the marine who stood and followed her. They walked to the largest hut in the village. She led the way, ducking through the small open front entrance. Inside was a single large room. The thatch roof was steeply pitched and in the center was a fire, the smoke drifting lazily through a hole in the middle of the thatch ceiling. To the one side of the fire was a mountain of sleek, soft furs, piled high and wide.