The tale of Trokondas had given me firsthand insight into this “nest of vipers”, to use the words of my tutor.
Sadly, the delicious meal of roasted pork that followed, was eaten in silence. I was trying to digest all that he had said while my mentor, on the other hand, who had been forced to remind himself of the things that he had tried to forget, was trying to forget. But I was yet to see sixteen summers and did not realise that by asking questions, I was probing old wounds, so naturally, I pushed on.
“Why Scandza?” I asked. “Why not the faraway Islands of Brittania or Caledonia?”
He sighed, but humoured me. “It is something that a holy man, a shaman, once told me.” Immediately I was reminded of the last time I saw Atakam and the strange way in which he behaved. I decided not to probe any further and changed the subject.
“Will you ever return?” I queried after a long silence.
“To the City of Constantine?” he clarified.
I nodded.
“If the gods will it, yes. But I cannot do this until the snake called Aspar has crossed the river.” He spat out a piece of gristle. “When he is dead, I will return to my rightful place at the side of Tarasis.”
When Trokondas finished his meal I stood to pour more mead, but he waved it away. “Sit down, Ragnar, I will be back.”
Within moments he returned, and in his hand he carried an axe the likes of which I had never seen before. He reverently placed the weapon on the furs close to the fire and carefully removed the leather sheath from the head. The weapon was a thing of beauty. The bearded iron head was decorated with intricate etchings and the word “Excubitor” was engraved close to the edge of the blade.
“It is no ordinary weapon”, he said. “The emperor had one made for each of the ten commanders of the Excubitors. The head is made from Seric Iron from the land of the Tamilar people. It was forged by Sasanian smiths on special order. The blade is without equal and holds its edge.”
I was itching to pick up the axe, which Trokondas sensed. “Go ahead, Ragnar, feel the weight.”
I stood, stepped back and swung the axe to test the balance. “It is lighter than I expected.”
I bent over at the waist to replace it on the furs, but he stopped me with his open palm. “Take it, Ragnar. It is yours. My gift to you for your companionship”, he said, and added, “but this is not a showpiece that you hide away. This is the weapon that you should use every day. It will serve you for a lifetime.”
Apart from the dagger that the Scririi prince, Ottoghar, rewarded me with, I had never received a gift of this magnitude.
With a sudden stab of guilt I realised that this was not the first nor the greatest gift this stranger had bestowed upon me. He had changed me from a cripple into a normal boy and taught me the way of the warrior.
“I have never thanked you for saving my life, for healing me and training me. You have given me so much, I cannot accept this”, I said, and laid the axe back on the furs.
The Hellenised people are always more inclined to show emotion and he stood and embraced me. “Take it, Ragnar. In my culture, it is an affront to the gods to refuse a gift”, he lied, and handed me the weapon.
* * *
On the morrow I was early to rise and bade Trokondas a quick farewell.
I was eager to show Unni my axe, yet I took the time to pick wildflowers as a peace offering on my way home. When I arrived at the longhouse, Unni and Runa had just finished preparing the morning meal. I sat down at the crude oak table and Unni poured me a large mug of soured milk.
Runa handed us plates filled with oat porridge, made with fresh milk and sweetened with honey. Before I took the first scoop I asked: “Where do we go?”
“I heard that the cloudberries are plentiful in the bog near the shore on the far side of the hill”, she said. She noticed my expression and added: “The same bog where we cut elk sedge for the roof.”
I nodded while greedily scooping the delicious porridge into my mouth. “I know it is far, but it will be worth it”, she said, and produced two woven baskets.
Runa gave Unni a hug. “Stay safe, child”, she said, then uncharacteristically pulled me close and hugged me as well. “Be sure to return soon, Ragnar”, she said. “I will, Grandmother”, I replied, taking no notice of her words, and with that she shooed us out the door.
I had made peace with the fact that I would in all likelihood never return home to the Heruli. The gods had sent me to this place for a reason and I was content.
We walked in silence for a while, the girl sensing my contemplative mood. “Unni”, I said, breaking the silence. “Yes, Ragnar”, she replied.
I took a deep breath and said again: “Unni.”
“Yes, Ragnar”, she replied.
“Unni”, I said for the third time, but continued before she could reply. “Would you consider to one day when you are ready…, would you consider to be my wife?”
Unni stopped in her tracks and I turned to face her. She looked up, into my eyes, as if trying to divine my thoughts, but then her eyes settled on something behind me. She pointed and pulled me down into a crouch next to her. I turned, and there, but a hundred paces away, pulled up on the sandy beach, was an enormous ship, thirty paces from prow to stern. Further down the beach, barely visible through the trees, stood a group of men, not fewer than twenty in number.
I was just about to whisper to Unni when two men appeared, walking up the path we were descending. They were eighty paces from us. One pointed at us with his sword and ran in our direction, closely followed by his comrade.
While I removed the sheath from my axe I said to Unni: “I will delay them. Close the gate and summon the men to the walls.”
“The answer is yes”, she said and sprinted back along the path.
Within moments the first warrior was upon me, his comrade still some way behind. What he saw before him was a peasant boy, albeit a bulky one, that had to be swept aside so he could keep the girl from warning whoever she was running to.
His longsword was held in his right hand and he pulled it back so that it touched his left shoulder, preparing to swat me aside with a backhand sweep to the head as he passed.
The axe that Trokondas had gifted me was designed to repel sword attacks. The beard of the blade was long and allowed one to hold the haft close to the attachment with the beard acting as a handguard. But that was not its only function.
I held the axe in a low guard with both hands close to the butt. The warrior’s first mistake was to underestimate his enemy and the second to openly show his intention.
As he passed me on the right, he swept his blade backhanded towards my head. I lifted my axe and caught his sword with the haft, allowing his blade to slide along the metal-reinforced surface as I lowered the axe towards the ground. The blade was trapped in the gap between the beard and the haft and from this extended position I accelerated the head in an upward sweep which tore the sword from his hand and sliced deeply into the inside of his upper leg, close to his groin. I had severed the large blood vessel, just like Trokondas had taught me. Screaming, the man fell into the undergrowth.
The second warrior was five heartbeats behind the first, allowing me time to study him. These were no rag-tag Sea-Danes. He wore a short-sleeved mail tunic that hung to his knees. His shins were protected by iron greaves and his forearms by boiled leather vambraces. He wore a full face helmet with cheek guards and I noticed that the spear he carried was a quality weapon, the whetted blade free from rust.
He saw how I had dealt with the other warrior and was clearly cautious. When he was within striking distance, his spear, held underhand, snaked towards my head. I batted the thrust aside, one hand gripping the butt, the other protected by the beard of the axe-head. I stepped in to close with my adversary, as the spear requires distance to be effective. But he was no novice and he stepped back, again thrusting, this time for my groin, a difficult blow to parry. I lunged to the left with my right foot, lowering my body with my legs wide
apart. I pushed the spear to the left, my hips rotating with the move and removed my left hand from the head while jerking upward with my right, which was on the butt. For a moment his haft slipped into the space behind the beard, and he staggered forward trying to extract it. His spear slipped free from my axe and I had no time to recover, but still I tried to strike. I lunged and thrust the axe-head at his helmet, inflicting only a glancing blow, which somehow dislodged his helmet.
Again I moved forward, and again he stepped back. Then I noticed the tattoos on his cheeks and for a moment I was stunned, focusing on the swirling blue lines. I never felt the blow, a mighty overhead sweep that connected with the side of my head. My vision exploded in a bright light and all went black.
Chapter 26 – Mourdagos
Strangely, my first thought when I woke was not of where I was. Neither did I wonder whether I was alive or dead. Unni’s last words before we separated kept milling through my mind.
Did she mean, yes, she would warn the village or did she mean, yes, she would be my wife?
A bright light flooded my vision, even though my eyes were still closed. I tried to rub my face with my hands, but realised they were bound. The light disappeared as quickly as it appeared and I forced my eyelids open, looking straight into the eyes of a man whose head was shielding me from the sun.
“Should I kill him?” he asked, addressing someone not in my field of vision.
“No, fool. He will have to row, then we will slit his throat”, came the answer, followed by cackling laughter.
As my senses returned, I became aware of a pounding headache and then I was overwhelmed by a terrible thirst.
“Bring him to me”, a gruff voice commanded.
From the speed at which the order was executed, I discerned that the voice belonged to a commander of sorts.
I was grabbed by the front of my tunic and roughly hauled to my feet. Needless to say, I realised that I was aboard a large ship. The man dragged me along the centre of the deck, moving in between the rowers, who were seated on chests. I stumbled over a rib. “Look where you’re going, fool”, he said and cuffed me across the back of the head.
Again I stumbled and again he cuffed me, obviously enjoying it.
We came to a halt next to an oldster who was holding the steering oar, his eyes fixed on the stern, not paying us any attention. Next to him, with his back turned to me, stood a bear of a man. Broad in the shoulders and at least a hand taller than me.
“Water”, the bear growled without turning around, and again the swiftness at which the footsteps disappeared and returned was a telling sign of the level of his authority.
A hand from behind held a wooden cup to my lips and I drank greedily with most of the water spilling onto my tunic.
My wit began to return and I realised that I could understand their tongue.
The bear slowly turned around and for a moment I thought that I was looking into the eyes of Abdarakos, my grandsire. But the man holding me kicked me in the back of the knee. “Kneel before your lord, peasant”, he hissed.
My knee buckled and hit the deck. I pushed up with my leg and jerked my head back to where I thought my handler’s face would be. I was rewarded with a crunching sound as the back of my head crushed his nose. For a heartbeat the pressure from behind lessened and I heard the sound of a dagger plucked from its sheath.
“Stay your hand, Saxon”, the bear hissed. He glared over my shoulder, his eyes threatening violence. “Who lives or dies is my decision”, he growled. “Defy me again and you are a dead man, Dreogan”, he added, and I could see that he meant every word.
The Saxon shared my opinion. “I apologize, Lord Mourdagos”, came the nasal reply and the fear in his voice was palpable.
His hostility towards Dreogan was by no means an indication of familiarity towards me. In his eyes I was just a bothersome peasant.
“You”, he said, “killed one of my men, boy, and for that there will be a reckoning.”
He bent at the waist and picked up my axe. “The likes of this, I have never seen before. Where and from whom did you steal this, boy?” he growled.
I could feel the anger rising within me at his insults. I knew that he would kill me no matter what I said. “I am not your boy, raider”, I answered him in the tongue of my people. “I am Ragnaris, grandson of Abdarakos, erilar of the Heruli, and I am no thief.”
When the name of my grandsire left my lips, the boat swayed for a moment, causing Mourdagos to reach for the side of the ship to steady himself. Whether it was a reaction of the helmsman or an oarsman, I did not know, but they were all surely listening.
The big man scowled. “The grandson of Abdarakos died years ago, so much I have heard.” But his voice lacked the confidence of moments before.
We stared at each other for some time and he studied me with intent. Then he unsheathed his dagger and cut away the braccae from my left leg, revealing the ugly scar on my ankle.
He put his hand on my shoulder, yet it was all but a threatening gesture. “Give me the name of the shaman of Abdarakos”, he whispered.
“Atakam”, I replied.
“And the Hun?” he said.
“Sigizan was my mentor”, I said, “and the Greek’s name was Leodis.”
The axe clattered to the deck and the big man turned pale. “Your father...., he was the…”
“I have no father”, I replied, which seemed to pluck him from the spell he was under.
He cut the bonds from my hands and embraced me. “It is good to meet you, nephew. I am Mourdagos, brother to the wife of Abdarakos. I am erilar of the Heruli that dwell near the lands of the Saxons”, he waved his hand indicating to all surrounding us, “and this is my ship.”
* * *
From nowhere the sea conjured up a gust of wind that showered my face with a salty spray. Mourdagos turned around and pointed to the far horizon behind the stern. “I was looking at it when they woke you, Ragnaris. A storm is coming”, he said, “and we will run before it.”
“You will still have to pull an oar, Ragnaris. The man you have killed in not able to do it”, he said and pointed to a body wrapped in canvas lying in the prow. It looked as if he had second thoughts then said: “Show me your palms.”
I opened my hands, revealing palms covered with thick callouses, compliments of the years working with the axe. He nodded in approval. “Good, there will be no blood.”
I wished to enquire about the fate of the village, but it was not yet the time. First, we would have to survive the storm.
Mourdagos pointed toward the two rows of rowers facing us, pulling on the oars rhythmically. There are twenty oars on each side, so it takes forty oarlock-men to row this ship.
I must have stared at him in confusion.
“We row more than we fight, that is why we call them oarlock-men”, he grinned, “Abdarakos”, he added, “would refer to his warriors as riders, is it not?”
I nodded.
“We do not have enough men to change oars every sea-shift”, he said. “We will row with only fifteen pairs of oars.” He gestured towards a man pulling at an oar. “Boarex the giant rows two shifts at a time. He is not the only one.”
Mourdagos handed me my axe. “Watch them and take an oar when Boarex is done.” He walked to the stern of the ship to converse with his men.
I did not have to wait long for Mourdagos to announce the change of the shift. To my surprise, nothing happened. After about a quarter part of an hour a rower called out: “change”. Immediately one of the resting rowers walked along the aisle and stopped alongside the tired rower. He paused for a moment, then skilfully slipped in between the rower and the board, taking a seat on the thwart next to the man. For a few strokes the two men shared the oar, allowing the new man to warm his sinews and feel the rhythm. Once the new man was satisfied, he nodded to the tired rower, who slipped out into the aisle.
The oar-changing continued for the greater part of an hour, until all but the giant had changed oars.
I stood next to him, waiting for the perfect moment to slip in on the board-side of the giant. I studied him up close. His hair was black and braided in the Hun way. Underneath the glaucous Heruli tattoos I noticed the scars of the Hun warrior. His arms were corded with veins, criss-crossed with scars, and nearly as thick as my legs. His upper back was slabbed with muscle, giving the impression that his head sprouted from his torso without the presence of a neck.
He rowed with me for a while, then released one hand from the oar and raised it to his head. I misread the gesture and thought that he was about to cuff me for a reason unbeknown to me, but rather he touched his bear-like paw to his forehead and said: “It is an honour, lord.”
I was bracing myself for a cuff and I would have rowed through it, but the giant’s display of reverence shocked me to such an extent that I bungled at the oar and the boat lurched for a heartbeat, followed by jeers from the rest of the oarsmen. Fortunately Boarex regained his hold on the oar and easily fell into the stroke.
The giant grinned a sheepish grin. “Apologies, lord”, he said and hurried to make water over the side of the ship. I heard a warrior teasing him: “Boarex, if only your bladder was as big as your muscles you could have rowed three shifts.”
He dismissed the comment with a grunt and went about his business, leaving me confused with regards to his reaction.
I easily fell into the monotonous rhythm of rowing and found it easier than I had anticipated. That feeling changed after a half part of an hour. My lower back was burning and every stroke felt as if it were tearing apart the sinews of my upper arm. My hands lost all feeling and I barely managed to hold onto the oar. But I would rather have died than to show weakness in the presence of the men.
Maybe Mourdagos gave the instruction or mayhap Boarex knew that I would not last. Whatever the reason, soon the giant warrior appeared next to me on the thwart. We rowed jointly for a few heartbeats, then he turned to me and grunted as a sign that I was relieved.
Stranger from Another Land Page 12