Ixchal’s Tear
Paul Freeman
Pol Olafson stood at the prow of his ship, one hand resting on the dragon prow-head that gave the longboat its name, ‘Sea Serpent.’ To his crew and those who feared him, he was Bone-Crusher. The snarling head guided the way up river, chasing away any local spirits and signifying to whatever gods held sway over this place that hard, desperate men had come to their land. Oars dipped in and out of the river in unison, sending waves of water crashing against the rocky shore.
Silently, Olafson scanned the trees towering above either bank for any signs of life. Fingering the hammer-shaped amulet at his neck, he prayed to the god of thunder to protect his crew and ship. After weeks at sea, living on a diet of salted fish and rainwater, his men were anxious to be off the long, narrow boat and looking for action and spoils. He stroked his wiry, yellow beard before barking a command to put ashore.
Grim-faced men guided the longboat from the centre of the wide river towards a rocky beach. They were battle-hardened veterans of the sea, happy to have finally found land. They came in search of riches, chasing a myth, chasing the dreams of one man: Pol Olafson, their Jarl, their lord.
He sent out men to scout the land and hunt for game. All were aware they had landed in a strange, unknown place that few from their home had set foot on before. The crew was tense and wary. Who knew what monsters and misshaped men lurked beyond the towering trees? Theirs was a land of fire and ice, of vast frozen plains and dark mountains belching molten rock and thick plumes of black smoke into the air. Unused to being surrounded by lush, dark green vegetation and air so warm and thick it was an ordeal just to breathe it in, every man sent prayers to their own gods, hoping they would be heard in such a distant place.
When the hunters came back with a small wild pig and several rabbits, the mood lightened considerably. Fires were lit and pots bubbled, as a mouth-watering, savoury aroma filled the air. Men chattered, polished rust from weapons and armour, and combed out the salt and sea from their beards and hair. Some among them, well known for their story-telling, spun tales of how the mighty crew of the Sea Serpent defied sea monsters and boiling oceans. Men cheered as their own names were mentioned in some heroic deed.
By morning they had a captive, a quivering, swarthy native, dressed in a loincloth of animal hide. The hapless man was thrust at the feet of the imposing Bone-Crusher. “They are not unlike the Reindeer People in looks, I am thinking,” Olafson said, speaking about the dark-skinned nomads who followed the reindeer through the frozen wastes of the north.
“Do the reindeer people wear these?” the scout asked, holding in his hand a necklace of gold discs. Olafson’s eyes widened, and there was a collective gasp as he took the trinket, a king’s ransom. He looked down at the trembling native with newfound admiration. “And there’s a settlement,” the grinning crewman added.
Before the sun had reached its highest point in the sky, Olafson watched in grim satisfaction as a tree was felled and a sturdy battering ram fashioned from the trunk. He knew from experience that the wooden palisade and gate would not hold back the war-hungry crew of the Sea Serpent. From above, rocks and stone-headed spears and arrows rained down on them, bouncing off iron helmets and stout wooden shields.
With a mighty crack the gate splintered. Brandishing sword, axe and spear, the crew roared into the settlement of wooden huts and hide tents. The village defence consisted of painted native men armed with clubs and stone axes, no match for mail-clad warriors with a thirst for blood. The defenders were quickly put down and then the real slaughter began.
Olafson strode through the village, he saw one crew member – he searched for his name, Bjarni – wrestle a woman to the ground. She kicked and spat at him, raking her nails across his face drawing blood. He punched her then, again and again, until her face was a bloody mess. As the two tumbled to the ground, Olafson turned away.
He saw a painted warrior screaming as he was manhandled by two more crew members, his head smashed against the wooden palisade until he fell silent. A bloody stain appeared on the wall, as if someone had thrown a huge fruit at it. Juice and pulp dribbled down the wood.
Olafson reached the centre of the village and the largest hut just as two men dragged a woman out into the open. She looked up and met his hard gaze without flinching. His interest piqued, he moved closer to better examine their prize. She was a striking woman, as tall as the two men, with jet black hair and dark brown eyes that held no fear. He looked into those dark pools and saw a burning hut behind him reflected in them. For a moment he could have sworn he saw a flaming ship there. He would possess this native queen. Again he saw the burning ship in her eyes, only this time clearer. It was the Sea Serpent and he was standing on the deck, his hands in the air, amidst the flames, roaring at the gods, spitting venom into a boiling sea. He turned her around and pushed her away from the hut. He would not be drawn into those eyes, he would not fall under her spell. He would be master of this witch queen, drive the demons from her with his own power.
“Bring her,” he bellowed. “And burn this place. A string of semi-naked female and child captives were shackled together and led away, along with sack loads of booty. Behind them a plume of smoke rose into the air.
Later, when a sort of calm had settled over the village, as the sun sank below the horizon leaving a fiery red glow in the sky, he squatted before a campfire. He looked over to where the captives huddled together in a miserable group. As he caught sight of her, their eyes locked. He had an urge to pick her up and fling her into the river, but he could not do it. Her eyes unsettled and aroused him all at once. He fingered the hammer-shaped charm at his neck, feeling the icy fingers of his doom reaching for him.
“So, you were right then, there is land at the end of the world,” a harsh, guttural voice barked. Olafson looked up sharply, his dark thoughts dispelled by the gruff words.
“Did you doubt me?” he responded without humour, to his second in command, Gunnar Sigurdson. There was an edge to his voice, a challenge in his words.
“No, Bone-Crusher, I never doubted you,” the other man said sheepishly. Olafson gestured for him to hunker down. To all the crew, Olafson was known as Bone-Crusher, a testament to his prodigious strength and his ability to squeeze the life from most men with nothing but his bare hands.
“We will split the crew. We cannot take the captives and treasure with us. Draw lots to see who stays behind with the boat to guard them; the rest of us will push on.” He hawked and spat into the fire.
“They will not be happy, those chosen to stay behind.”
“They’ll do as I tell ’em,” Olafson growled.
The flames flickered before him. He could feel the heat on his face; his eyes glowed as his gaze was lost in the hypnotic dance. His mind wandered to a far away place, to another fire. Inside a hut of wattle-and-daub a group of men huddled around a roaring fire. A thatched roof above their heads sheltered them from the lashing wind and freezing snow outside. Olafson was one of those men; he, like the rest, listened in raptured silence as an old man related a tale of bravery and daring, an unbelievable saga of a strange land filled with dangerous beasts, mythical creatures and hordes of treasure. The greybeard regarded each of them as he told the tale of Leif the Red, how he had sailed west beyond the last known island of the Great Sea, towards the end of the world, in search of adventure and fame. Brave men sailed with Leif, for no one knew what lay ahead, what demons and monsters lay in wait, or if they would find anything at all, or perhaps they would just sail over the edge. All they asked, was to die with a sword in their hands and that their name would be remembered, their deeds immortalised in song. Olafson remembered listening with growing incredulity as the old man spoke more and more animatedly of the unknown land discovered by Leif and his crew, of heroes and the treasures they found. Of adventures they had, the horrors they shared. Huge man-eating beasts, dark-skinned natives who ate the flesh of humans. Birds as big as longboats, with hard leathery skin and razor sharp teeth. Demons
who would haunt a man’s dreams and steal his soul, leaving a dead empty husk the following morning. The fire cracked loudly as a blackened log split, bringing the big warrior back to the present.
“We’ll leave in the morning. Just leave six men here to guard the prisoners and treasure.”
“Just six?” Sigurdson raised a bushy eyebrow. Like all of the Sea Serpent’s crew his face was covered in a thick wiry beard.
“Not enough to sail the Serpent; I’ll not have those goat-humpers steal my ship and set sail for the slave markets at the far end of The Great Sea. I want to see them here when we get back.”
Sigurdson grunted a reply and nodded his shaggy head. Olafson drew his dagger, and glanced in the direction of the woman, who was still staring at him. Even bound and sitting in the middle of all the other captive natives, her dark eyes were hard with defiance. He drew the knife across an oilstone and spat into the fire as the blade rasped.
Leif and his crew had returned as heroes and with the wealth of kings stowed aboard their long-ship. At least, that was how the old storyteller told it. Olafson had waited until he could pull the old one aside.
“How do you know all this? How can you be sure it’s true?” he asked the grey-beard.
“Because I was there, lad, I was part of Leif’s crew,” the man answered, pride lacing his words. Olafson could not decide if he believed him. Could he really have been part of such a heroic crew? If so this old man could have the key to all Olafson’s dreams. He scratched at his beard and made up his mind.
“How can I be sure what you say is truth, old one?” he asked.
“You can’t,” the other man cackled, spittle spraying from his mouth. Olafson had decided the old man was mad and turned to walk away, but he felt a vice-like grip on his arm. “If you go there, follow the river for three days and three nights, and you will find a city carved into the side of a mountain,” he said, tightening his hold on Olafson, and then added in hushed tones, “a city of gold. But beware, it is a land like no other. It will make you rich and famous or burn your soul.”
He shrugged off the old man’s hand. “If you found so much treasure, how is it that you are living here and not in a hall of your own, a jarl, with a crew and a fine ship?”
“Pah! We took what we could carry and left a mountain of gold and silver behind.”
“And you could not go back for the rest? Such a great hoard just waiting to be taken.”
“You travel there once,” the old adventurer hissed. “No amount of treasure will make you go back a second time.” His glare unsettled the younger man. Olafson felt an icy fist grip his bowels, and he shoved the old man away and hurried off.
He was handed a wooden plate of food by one of his crew. It had gotten dark suddenly and the atmosphere of the destroyed town changed. A hush fell over his own men as they huddled around campfires, relating to each other their heroics of the day. The captives all clung to each other, whimpering and sobbing quietly now, any fight long since beaten out of them. Except for her.
Ixchal swallowed the bitter root she had hidden from the demon. It would help her reach the dream world where she could commune and become one with her spirit animal. Her name meant Blue Mountain Lion, given to her on her birth, by the wise women. The lion was the strongest of all the spirit animals and blue was the colour of power; she had been singled out and marked from that day.
She could feel the powerful narcotic begin to work straight away. She felt sleepy and lightheaded, as the sounds around her became a dull background noise, even the harsh speech of her captors. The words that sounded like animals barking and growling became a din. She could feel her extremities tingle, her fingers and toes, the tip of her nose. It was a familiar feeling and she embraced it. In her dream she strode deftly between the trees, as she padded softly on four legs across the forest floor, not making a sound. She could feel the powerful muscles of her back and legs ripple as she moved. Far above the tree line, a bright silver disc adorned an inky black sky, bathing her in silvery-blue light.
She could sense a change in the atmosphere; the normal tranquillity of the forest was broken. The smell of blood hung heavy in the air, the desperate wails of the dead and dying cried out all around her, lost souls cruelly torn from their bodies, life quenched prematurely. The stench of the raiders tormented her, made her angry, filled her with rage and bloodlust. She did not like the feeling but knew it was necessary to use force to defeat force. She shut out the voices of the dead; never had there been so many in the forest at the same time, seeking the path to their ancestors. She wanted to be their guide; it tore her apart to abandon them to search alone, but she had other work this night.
She made her way towards the village, now nothing more than a collection of burnt buildings surrounded by a broken, wooden palisade. She wanted to find the one who had defiled her, she wanted to take her vengeance on him. But he was too deep inside the camp and she would not compromise her safety for selfish pride. The first one she found was relieving himself against a tree, his spear and shield set down while he undid himself and sent a steaming stream splashing into the earth. They all smelled the same, of blood and greed and lust.
Silently she approached him. She felt the power in her hind legs as they pushed her upwards into a leap. She could feel her heart thumping in her hard, muscled chest, covered in thick golden fur. It was exhilarating as she flew through the air.
He sensed the danger too late, half turning as a huge beast, all snarling teeth and dagger like claws, leapt at him. His scream was stifled as his neck was broken by powerful jaws, his flesh torn to pieces. She stalked the camp, out of sight, hunting. Three more she found alone. All had wandered from the camp; all had died.
Olafson was shaken awake. The early morning sun cast an orange glow on the horizon. He rubbed at tired eyes; he had not had a good night’s sleep. He dreamt he was being stalked by the white wolf of the Underworld, chased to his doom. Only this Hel hound had the eyes of a dark-skinned native girl.
“Four of the men are missing,” Sigurdson announced. Olafson was instantly awake.
“Missing?”
“No sign. Their gear is still here, and there doesn’t appear to have been a struggle.”
Olafson glanced towards the captives, and his eyes sought out one in particular. She lay in the centre of them, asleep. He reached for his amulet, touching the hammer for luck and to ward off evil spirits.
“Make ready to leave. If those fools have wandered off and got lost, they can find their own way back.”
“We go on?” Sigurdson asked.
“Of course, it’s what we came for,” Olafson barked, as he strapped on his sword.
“You should know, some of the men are already talking about demons and ghosts spiriting them away,” Sigurdson said hesitantly, always aware of the Bone-Crusher’s quick temper.
“Well, send them to me and I’ll give them a reminder of why we are here,” he growled, smashing his fist into the opposite hand.
Sigurdson simply nodded and stepped away, turning from the cold, hard look in Olafson’s eyes. Olafson fingered his amulet once again, silently calling for the protection of his god.
Six men were chosen to stay behind and guard the ship, the captives and any booty taken from the village. The six were not happy, fearing they would miss out, but were pacified by the promise of all treasure found being divided equally.
A line of twenty four mail-clad and heavily armed warriors assembled by the river, waiting for Olafson to lead them out. They spoke in hushed tones about what lay ahead and what had happened to the four missing crewmen. They were careful not to let Olafson overhear their conversations. If the Bone-Crusher was nervous about leading his men into the unknown or anxious about the fate of his four crewmen he did not show it.
“Bring her,” he bellowed, pointing at the captive girl. The men all looked at each other, all wondering the same thing: had their leader taken leave of his senses?
“Bone-Crusher…” Sigurdson began
. “Is this wise?” He was cut short with a withering look from Olafson.
They made slow progress, not sure where they were headed, other than following the wide, slow moving river, or what they might find. At least they encountered no trouble on the first day, no man-eating beasts or flying demons, no angry, hostile natives. When they made camp the first night, Olafson assigned four men to sentry duty. They would rotate with four others and he warned each of them, he would cut out the heart of any man he found asleep while on guard duty.
Ixchal closed her eyes as she swallowed the root. She had been surprised when the great, hairy demon had pulled her from amongst her people and shoved her into the centre of the column of armed men. She spent the whole day trying not to think about what would happen when they stopped to make camp.
As the sun slowly set and darkness covered the land, she waited anxiously, wondering when he would come for her. But he did not come, and she thought she could sense a new emotion from him, an emotion with the strongest scent: fear. Her glazed eyes stared at the reflection of the moon rippling on the river, before they slowly closed.
It felt good to roam the forest wild and free. In her spirit form all her senses were heightened. She had not been wrong, they were all afraid; she could smell the fear coming from every one of them. Two more disappeared that night. The others searched, lost half the morning looking for the missing men. They never found them.
On the second night, Olafson woke to a commotion in the camp: raised voices, the sound of violence in the air. When his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the night he saw two men facing each other with swords drawn. One of them was Sigurdson.
“She’s only a slave, what else was she brought along for,” the other man snarled. It was Bjarni. Olafson remembered seeing the man bludgeon a woman senseless during the skirmish at the village. Not the man’s finest hour, he thought.
“Enough! What’s going on here?” he growled.
“Bjarni here thought he’d like to take a turn on your woman,” Sigurdson said.
Bjarni screamed and charged at Sigurdson. With a rasp Olafson’s sword came up in an arc, almost decapitating Bjarni. Sigurdson stood open mouthed at the swiftness of his leader’s action.
“She is not my woman,” he growled, glancing at the native girl. She was staring wide-eyed at him, her knees pulled protectively up to her chest. He held her stare for mere seconds before he turned away.
On the third day they disturbed a massive black she-bear, which killed three of them before they took her down, leaving her cubs orphaned and at the mercy of a cruel world. Ixchal looked on sadly at the huge body left lying in the grass.
That night, the men argued amongst themselves. Too many of them were dying; it was almost as if they were being picked off by some unseen force. All of them were feeling uneasy in the presence of the girl.
“Why did he bring her?” one of them argued. “It is not as if he will let any of us have her. He has not even taken her himself.”
“She has bewitched him,” another said.
“We should kill her.”
“We should kill them both.”
Ixchal heard them arguing but understood none of it. To her they sounded like a pack of wild dogs barking and howling. She had never seen their like before: pale skin, long shaggy hair and beards of red and gold. They were like a nightmare, a story made up to frighten children at night; screaming, howling, blood thirsty demons.
She wanted to cry, to howl and plead and beg, but she would not, she would not show them weakness. If they came for her now, she would be powerless to stop them. They would take from her what they liked, but she would not cry.
Olafson was not sleeping well. The white wolf still haunted his dreams. Tonight the great wolf pursued him through the endless, desolate caverns of Hel, where the souls of the sick, those who died from illness and old age, tried to grab him and trap him in the Underworld for all eternity.
When he woke, it was to see three men crouching over him, moonlight glinting off their daggers. He quickly took in the drawn blades and the grim determination on each of their faces. Catching them by surprise, he rolled out from under their legs, thwarting their attack before it could begin.
Olafson was one of only a handful of the crew who possessed a sword. Few could afford such an expensive weapon; most were armed with axes and spears, and all of them carried a long hunting knife on their belts. He never tired of the sound of his blade rasping from its leather sheath. He stood, now, before his would-be attackers, sword drawn, ready and more than willing to defend himself.
“Well, come on then, lads, thought you had a set of balls between the lot of you then?” he taunted the three men. They looked at each other nervously, each waiting for another to make a move. They would have to act quickly, as the rest of the camp started to stir.
“Ah, Bone-Crusher,” one of the men began nervously, holding his dagger up defensively between them. “It is that girl. Some of the boys are of the opinion she is a witch.”
“That right?” Olafson said. The three nodded vigorously. Gunnar Sigurdson appeared at his side, his own sword drawn. “Seems we have a mutiny on our hands,” he said to his second in command. At this point the rest of the crew had roused from their sleep, disturbed by the noise.
Sigurdson moved from his side and stood beside the three men. “They have a point, Bone-Crusher, how can men keep disappearing? No body, not even a sign of a struggle. It is not natural, there is magic at play here. You are blind to it, she has bewitched you.”
Olafson licked his lips as the rest of the crew stood around, confused, waiting to be swayed one way or another. He knew this was a dangerous moment, a critical moment. His authority had been challenged and he would meet that challenge the only way he knew how. He took two steps towards Sigurdson and swung his sword.
The sudden attack was unexpected, but Sigurdson managed to get his own blade up to block Olafson’s wild swing. He felt the power of the blow jar his wrist. He knew he was no match for his leader, but with the help of the other three he was confident they could take down the fearsome Bone-Crusher. The pain shot up his arm, and he wondered whether his wrist was broken. He staggered back, expecting the other three to pounce.
Ixchal’s eyes darted about as the camp erupted into uproar. She spotted a discarded knife and snaked out an arm to grab it. All about her, men jumped up, grabbing weapons. She could not help but be impressed at the speed they could ready themselves for battle.
Frantically she sawed at her bonds with the knife, all the while petrified she would be discovered. She expected the knife to be snatched from her hands at any moment. Expected punishment to be meted viciously for her attempted escape. None came, as the demons were too intent on the struggle amongst themselves. With a final cut, her bonds fell loose. She did not wait, did not hesitate. She was up and gone, disappearing into the forest.
Olafson’s eyes blazed as his battle brain kicked in, instinct overriding any conscious thought. The three men froze where they stood, unable to react to such an onslaught. He followed through with his initial attack. He smashed his sword through Sigurdson’s shoulder, blood spraying the three men as the second-in-command dropped to his knees and then fell forward, flat on his face at the feet of his captain.
Olafson’s lip curled, and a growl escaped from his throat. The three men dropped their weapons and took a step back.
“Hold them,” Bone-Crusher snarled. All three were grabbed and viciously wrestled to the ground.
“What will we do with them, Bone-Crusher?” a burly crewman asked. Olafson looked at each of them in turn, his face a mask of fury.
“Blood eagle,” he snarled.
“Blood eagle?” the big warrior gasped.
“I will not have traitors on my crew.” The three men pleaded and begged, but their pleas fell on deaf ears. Former friends and oar mates pinned them to the ground, stripping them naked to the waist.
Olafson glanced over to where the girl had been bound, and saw the e
mpty space and cut ropes. In a way he felt relief she was gone, as he was beginning to think she had been sent to him by a dark spirit. He had a feeling the Trickster was not finished toying with him yet. Maybe the screaming men were right, maybe she was a witch. He turned back to the grisly scene of three men being sliced open down the centre of their torso, their breast bone cut open and the ribs pulled back. It was not an easy death. Quicker than they deserved, Olafson thought. He hawked and spat when the deed was done. All four bodies were left to rot where they lay.
Ixchal ran wildly through the forest. She wanted, needed to put as much distance between herself and her captors as possible. She was frightened and confused, torn as to what her best course of action should be. She needed help from her animal spirit but dared not go into the drug-induced sleep she required to commune with the spirits. Not just because she feared capture again, but also because she was in the lands of the Red Frog tribe, and if they caught her, they would be no more gentle than the demonic raiders.
She decided to make for the lands of the Brown Bear, as they were friendly to her own people, the Silver Salmon tribe. Maybe they would help by sending warriors to free her people. They were guarded by only a handful of the demons; surely with surprise and greater numbers, the men of the Brown Bear could overcome them. If she could get to sanctuary, the lioness could hunt again.
“Our numbers are dwindling, Bone-Crusher. I hope we reach this city of gold today, or there will be none of us left to carry the riches back to the boat.”
Olafson looked up sharply, from his position at the camp fire and regarded the man coldly. “Are you challenging me now?” he growled.
“N-no,” the man stammered, taking a wary step backwards.
Later that morning a scout came in to report what he had found. “A mile up ahead, Bone-Crusher, there is a wooden bridge across the river.”
The first sign of human life since they had left the sacked village, he thought, as he scratched through the wiry growth on his chin. “Has it been used recently?” he asked, gruffly.
“Judging by the footprints in the mud along the riverbank, I’d say it has been used a lot lately.”
“This is it!” Olafson smiled. The expression made his face look even more fearsome than before.
They filed one by one over the narrow bridge, all of them marvelling at the simple construction, the first man-made thing they had seen in days. They were able to follow a well-worn path through the trees until it opened out into a wide grassy plain. Ahead, in the distance, a range of jagged, black mountains stood stark against the blue sky. They trooped out onto the plain, eyes popping at the sight of a herd of shaggy-haired bison. Eighteen mail-clad, shield-bearing, heavily armed warriors feeling out of place in a strange land, each of them wondering what fate the gods were weaving for them.
“We can make those mountains by nightfall,” Olafson barked. He forced the pace, not allowing them to stop for rest or sustenance until they reached their goal. There they found a seemingly insurmountable, natural barrier. They waited while scouts were sent in either direction in search of a way through or over.
“There’s a pass!” one exclaimed, rushing up to Bone-Crusher, on his return. Olafson looked up at the imposing wall of rock.
“Move your scraggy arses! Up! Douse those fires,” he bellowed. “The end is in sight, a hoard of unimaginable riches awaits us,” he growled at his men as they checked their weapons, tightened mail shirts, checked straps, and hefted the heavy, round wooden shields they carried. Their treasure awaited and the gods would curse any who stood in their way.
They stopped at the opening of the pass, looking up at the sheer cliff walls. No one needed to say a word. They were all experienced raiders, battle-hardened veterans of countless shield-walls. If they wished to reach their goal, they would have to enter that narrow passage.
“Well? Have we come all this way to run like frightened children now? We are the crew of the Sea Serpent. We fear nothing, we fear no man. Are we now afraid of a narrow path through a mountain?”
“It would not take much to spring a trap and bury the crew of the Sea Serpent beneath half that mountain,” a warrior voiced unnecessarily.
“Even so, we go on.” Olafson strode confidently into the pass. The rest followed hesitantly, all eyes scanning the imposing cliffs, imagining the weight of rock in those walls. Sometimes the Trickster is not subtle, sometimes the obvious can hurt just as bad.
The first they knew of the trouble they were in was the noise, a monotone humming, like a giant insect in the air. Then small stones began raining down, bouncing off iron helmets and wooden shields. That wasn’t so bad; a few bruises the odd broken bone, but the rocks got bigger and were followed by showers of flint-tipped arrows.
The old man had been right. Olafson could see, from where he was crouched beneath his shield, two massive pillars carved from the rock. Surely this could not be the work of these primitive people, he thought to himself as an arrow landed in the ground at his foot. Three of the crew already lay dead, their bodies crushed by rocks.
“We could make a run for it, try and reach the city,” a man crouched beside him suggested.
“It is a long way to run while being showered with arrows and rocks. But we cannot stay here,” Olafson answered, just as a thrown rock glanced off his armour. The other man was not so lucky, as a stray arrow found a gap in his mail. He slumped over onto Olafson. “Get ready to run for the opening between the pillars, we go as one. On my shout!” he barked, shoving the body off his shoulder. “Now!”
They ran, holding their shields above their heads, bunched together. It was a long way to keep up the pace, heavily encumbered by armour and weapons. As they neared the dark opening the missiles stopped. At first Olafson had not even noticed. Too late, he realised something had changed. As they ran towards the black gap in the cliff wall, they heard a fearsome roar.
They rushed onwards as hundreds of brown-skinned warriors, dressed in animal hides, many with headgear of antlers and horn, giving the impression of man-beasts, spilled from the opening. They carried spears and stone-head axes. Others had sling shots and bows made from bone. They screamed a bloodcurdling war cry as they charged. Native warriors swarmed all over the crew of the Sea Serpent, dragging them down with weight of numbers and tearing them apart with weapons, hands, even teeth. They were overwhelmed by the relentless onslaught. Olafson tried to stay on his feet. He could hear the screams of his men as they died all around him. If he’d had more warning it might have been possible to organise a shield-wall and watch a human wave crash against a wall of wood and mail. It was too late for that now.
He dragged his sword across the throat of a native warrior, punched another in the face, felt a satisfying crunch as the man fell. Another one, lying on the ground, grabbed his leg. He jammed his boot into the side of his head. He quickly took in the scene: most of his men were either on the ground or surrounded by swarms of warriors, each of them involved in their own desperate struggle, a bloody fight for life. The natives had paid a heavy price of their own as bodies heaped around the crew.
Olafson fought his own battle, surrounded by snarling native warriors, each one of them bent on his destruction, each one wanting to be the one to take down the big, hairy demon.
To the captain of the Sea Serpent everything slowed down. He was the fearsome Bone-Crusher, warrior, raider, killer. To Olafson, insurmountable odds held no fear; he was calm, in control. He lashed out with his boot, while at the same time stabbing with his sword. He revelled in battle, his heart sang at the blood and pain. His mind emptied of everything but his next kill. The numbers throwing themselves onto his blade lessened as the natives became wary of him. The line before him thinned. He spotted two of the crew, making a break from the huge melee. Two bloodied warriors ran, their hair flying behind them, towards the opening in the cliff. Olafson shrugged off what was left of his attackers and ran. The gods must have been looking out for one of their own. Somehow Bone-Crusher made it to t
he entrance. Once inside, the sound of battle ceased.
He looked around, marvelling at the huge hall, the massive stone pillars, the enormous statues of unknown men dressed in feathered headdress, eerily flickering in the torch light. Whoever built this place is long gone, he thought to himself.
He heard the sound of booted-feet disappearing into the darkness. He grabbed a flaming torch from a sconce in the wall and followed through a labyrinth of passageways. Not so much a city as an elaborate tomb, he thought grimly.
Deeper and deeper into the gloom he ran, following the echoing sound of footsteps. Finally, at the end of yet another dusty corridor he saw the yellow glow of light. Only then did he notice the sound of the footsteps had stopped. He approached the light cautiously. The corridor ended and opened into a large chamber. He stood at the opening, sword in hand, only now marvelling at the enormity of the task to construct such a place out of the mountain.
“Bone-Crusher!” One of the men greeted him from the centre of the chamber, his hands cupped, his arms outstretched. Olafson spotted the gold coins spilling to the floor.
“We’re rich!” the second man roared, gleefully, and the two crew members laughed together.
Indeed they were. Olafson slowly stepped into the room, taking in the open chests against the walls, brimming with silver and gold coins. He quickly gathered his thoughts.
“We will take what we can and get out of here,” he said, while scooping gold coins into his helmet.
Suddenly a blood-curdling scream echoed around the chamber. Olafson dropped the treasure-filled helmet and wrenched his sword free. His eyes found the source of the agony-filled cries. One of the men was sitting, motionless, in a stone throne at the far end of the cavernous room. Blood pooled in his lap, his body pinned, by a triggered booby-trap, to his final resting place. Bone-Crusher grimaced, while the remaining man stood frozen looking at the body of his ship-mate.
He heard a noise behind him, a growl rattling in the throat of an unseen beast. The men turned slowly towards the dark corridor. They were faced with a pair of yellow eyes, somehow familiar to Olafson. His brow knotted in confusion, and he felt a cold stab of fear in his gut. A massive lioness padded into the chamber. And roared.
In her dream, Ixchal leapt over the bodies of the dead invaders, as the people of the Red Frog stepped back to let her pass, wary and respectful of the spirit animal in their presence. She crept slowly into the gloom of the passageway, following the scent of the hated demons.
Her people were free again, and the warriors of the Brown Bear had taken a savage vengeance on their captors; their deaths were slow and hard, and their ship blazed furiously until a blackened husk sank to the bottom of the river.
One of the demons ran past her. She let him go. He would run straight into the arms of the Red Frog people. They had special ways of dealing with those who stole from their gods. She watched her captor lick his lips. She could smell his fear. She watched him back away, as she stalked him around the room, waiting for his own terror to defeat him.
The last crew member of the Sea Serpent ran into the light. He was immediately grabbed by strong arms and forced to his knees. His struggles were useless as he was pinned, spread-eagle to the ground. Even above his own cries and pleas for mercy he heard a roar come from the black opening, followed by a scream of pain-filled terror. He knew Olafson, the feared Bone-Crusher, was no more. He cursed the day they had ever set foot on the cursed land, he cursed Bone-Crusher for leading them there. Soon he would curse his own mother for giving birth to him. The last thing he saw, before his last breath rattled in his throat, was a priest dressed in a robe of feathers and wearing animal antlers on his head, holding aloft a bloodied fist clutching his still-beating heart.
A Turn of the Wheel Page 4