Raven's Warrior (8 page)
Instantly the room cleared as all inside rushed to secure the safety of their wives and children, to collect, to assemble, and to fight. I was given the courtesy of the warning but was not asked for anything in return, for to them I was still a stranger, but to me they were my people. In the confines of this empty room, I continued to drink my ale and checked the sharpness of my hungry sword. By the time of four cups, I was stripped and naked, my sword and my mind my only armor. With the last of my woad flower dye, I painted my body for battle and emerged with the breaking dawn.
Men collected their families and brought them to the square. The wives, the children, and the elderly huddled in mass while men who were merely farmers gathered rusted weapons and farm implements. I walked among them naked with deep blue skin and sword in hand, the savage demon within me prepared now for its release. They questioned not why I chose to fight, for they had taken me in by full measure. I was ready for blood, and Death's dour purpose was written clearly and terribly upon my features for all to see.
I moved with the men, some of great bulk, for farming is not an easy living, and we flowed down to the river from where the enemy had emerged before. Their fleet had landed by sail, and moved swiftly up the Barrow River by arm and by oar. They took route by the left fork, a river called Nore which was named for their last incursion. My heart beat faster as my eyes saw the dragon headed prows moving high and swiftly toward our group. Six ships in number, it was a battle we would not survive.
At first blood it was clear that my people were brave but not skilled, and they fell quickly and painfully before the first onslaught. I killed two raiders in succession, but their fierceness in battle was greater than any sagas told. By sheer number we dispatched the first of their party, but the other long boats had now joined the fray.
The largest of our party held me in a tight grip and spoke with the intense clarity of one who has already seen his death, “They come for plunder and for slaves. Young prince, the treasure of our land now flees to the hills of Dunmore. There lies a cave that will hide and shelter, go back and get them to its safety. We will hold, we will delay, and we will die here among the banks.” Without thought I saw the wisdom of his words and turned and obeyed his orders without a question.
With distance the cries of this battle did soften and grow silent, and in three hours I had caught up to the wandering mass. The children, the women, and the old ones moved painfully slow. Some carried babies, some carried parents, and all carried fear. Our pursuers gained ground, but at last I saw the great mouth and led them through its darkness. This great womb opened, and inside we numbered almost one thousand. Amid the crying I spoke for silence, and as I listened I heard the Norse men closing on our hidden place. Inside I urged them deeper and ran back to the opening hoping to lead the enemy away, hoping that the treasure of my land would be held safe by its mother.
In the bright light of day as my eyes adjusted from the darkness, they were upon us. I charged the invaders and knew that nothing would be safe. I moved fast and dodged the arrows that came my way, with a loud cry I set upon them cleaving limb from body. A strong right arm stained the ground on which it fell, and I continued my killing until a blow from behind cut through my arm and shoulder. I staggered and turned, and saw that the one-armed Norseman had pried his sword from his severed right arm and struck me with his left. More blows fell, and with darkness descending deeper than the cave, I thought that I heard Death call me by name.
In agony they held me roughly up and vision came to me again. Their Norse tongue was rough, but I knew its meaning. Alive I at least was of some value, although I had come at a dear price; for six were dead and three were wounded. I was lashed to a rough wooden shield to make my carry easy, and all but two descended into the darkness. With swords drawn and thirsty, they entered, and the slaughter of the innocents began.
From Dearc Fearna, “The Cave of the Alders,” the screams and cries reached my ears but truly Dark Fear, as it sounds in the Saxon tongue, was now a more fitting name. For over one hour the painful cries rose from the mighty opening, as if mother earth herself screamed her pain. But no birth would come from this womb, finally still and silent, all inside were dead, left where they had fallen, a lesson perhaps for those that chose to resist or maybe a simple economic statement that nursing mothers, children, and the old, make poor slaves. Either way in the business of slaughter the Norse brood was methodical and efficient, for I lay now, its lone survivor.
Half mad and half dead they carried me on shield to the waiting ships. My journey through hell had begun. I was empty, a man without a tribe, a man without a country. I jumped back from the darkness of my recollections to the sound of the lass's voice, and I turned in her direction.
She stood now beside her father and without judgment or pity she replied to my desolate thoughts, “It is written that one day you will have both again, and these you shall have beyond your wildest measure.”
That night as I lay quietly in my bed I continued to rake through my pained memories.
I was cast into the dark hole of their long ship and did not need to be tied for, indeed, I could barely move. By oar to ocean the dragon boats raced, and once there the large mainsail was set, and we were driven only by wind and current. The movement of the ship made me sick beyond measure, and so I lay, in blood, in vomit, and in my own excrement. At first I knew not speed or direction, but by the gathering coldness and the shadows of the sun, I realized we moved northward and to the east. Rough bread was sometimes thrown my way, for even some of these men could still feel pity.
I watched and listened to them daily, to know if I was to be fed or beaten. I got to know their habits and routines, and at times they seemed almost like normal men. They worshiped their gods, ate their food, and drank as my people did. I remembered my mother and wondered if she had faced a similar fate so many years ago, and I hated them with all the power of my immortal soul.
Insects that thought to feed on me were quickly eaten by me, and occasionally a careless rat would find its way by my mouth to my stomach. I bound my wounds with rags found jammed between the planks of the hull, for I cared little if we sank or floated. I watched daily as my captors, men of great girth, little morals, and no fear, danced across the mighty ocean. I had been forsaken by God and prayed only for Death, but even his comfort would not be extended. Here in the cold blackness of my floating prison I knew that all had turned against me, and yet I still lived.
Time passed and ocean became river and direction changed to southward. They carried me to the deck where I saw banks of green and trees of great size and number. I knew we had traveled far, for here and southward the ones we called Viken and Norse were now called the Rus. The great river was named Volga, and it cut through the lands that these wild men called the land of the Slavs, and this vast region was where they hunted freely.
Sometimes we stopped traveling long enough for some of the Viken to run inland, only to return with women taken by force and held like me. At night I would hear the cries of the women as these fur-clad animals raped and violated them in unimagined ways. Some women chose death, but most were carefully bound because these, both fair and homely would fetch them silver coin, and I thought once more about the fate of my mother.
Scraps of food continued to come my way, and blood seeped darkly from my filthy wounds. All along the well-worn route my jailors traded. I saw furs for amber, and silver for the living. New supplies were taken on, and new women were captured. I wondered if they pillaged from whom they traded, selling them back what they had stolen. At places along the river the ship was pulled by rope and pushed by oar, until at last we reached a port called Astrakhan that opened to a huge sea. Here new supplies were taken on and stock replenished. For three days we remained, their mood was joyous for the river was now behind us, and sail would be set once more to cross the sea before us.
Green forest and stark mountain had yielded to sea and sand, and the icy cold had been replaced by scorching heat. On this Khazar Ocean we sailed without incident. The crossing was slow, for here blew only inland winds and not the gales of mighty oceans. I could taste the mist and knew that this inland sea was salted water, and not fresh like the lakes of my world. For two moon cycles we sailed southward until at last we reached another port, and leaving the ship we continued over sand by foot and beast. We traveled now with a desert brown people who on the surface seemed a cleaner race, much less barbaric than the Norse.
The long journey ended much to the south in a kingdom of great wonder. Ironically, it was this flourishing people who had a boundless appetite for slave girls of white skin and fair hair. These great people were the driving force behind this human trade. The trappings of civilization meant nothing, and may God swiftly judge them all.
Amid the sprawling city they called Baghdad, I was placed for sale. My poor condition coupled with the festering wound brought little interest from serious buyers, and I feared I would end as a one-armed eunuch amid a snow-white harem. Finally I was sold, only to be dragged eastward further through sand and heat to a place unknown.
I fetched only a few dinars, and was overcome with joy to know that for all their trouble I had profited the Norsemen little. Few felt I would survive the desert journey, and with so little paid there was little to be lost, and this was my victory. Pulled by chain across the dunes, I felt the constant presence of Death high above my shoulder, but I cared not for my life and so was bound by nothing. In fever I was free and swore that whatever would come I would peacefully embrace.
I pulled myself back from dark recollection and came back to my simple room. Since that time my agony has faded, and I am safe for now with Merlin and his daughter. I give profound thanks for my simple comforts and my fortune. Death had let me be. Instead of freedom from life, he had given me freedom in it.
With this thought I felt hope, and passed gently into sleep.
The beggar walked steadily bowl in hand for most of the day. The tattered black rags that he wore dangled precariously from his skinny shoulders. What remained of its hood covered most of his gaunt face, protecting him from burning sun or biting cold, depending on season and circumstance. In cities he sat cross-legged for brief periods of time at the center of life's busy world. Skinny fingers held the bowl in his lap, and his head nodded grateful acknowledgement for each small contribution it received.
His life was defined by the concept of enough. Enough to eat, enough to carry, enough to rest, and enough to move on; he was a migratory bird.
He heard the distant marching of soldiers in formation growing louder and getting closer. He watched the passing ranks of the infantry and smelled the sweat and dust of their rhythmic cadence. He pressed closer to the walls that lined the street, his delicate frame hugged a bricked-up archway so that the cavalry could now pass without trampling him. The common people looked down and away from the sound of the passing military procession to minimize the risk of confrontation.
This beggar, however, was far from common, and so looked up and directly into the spiritless dark eyes of its mounted commander.
The powerful steed whinnied and rose in fear, while its rider tugged the reins and fought to bring it under his control. The commander struggled to regain his balance and once again in charge, reached down to the blade at his waist. The steady coal eyes of the beggar did not shift or loosen their grip and seemed to look past the wrecked visage of face and eyes and into the depths of a soul in torment.
Rethinking the actions of reflex, the leader justified his inability to act decisively with the logic that the black-garbed vermin before him was indeed valueless and not worth the time or trouble of killing. He pulled the reins tightly and with a kick of the triangular stirrups, horse and rider moved quickly on.
The times were indeed strange, pockets of sanity in a world gone largely mad. Power was now stolen by sword edge, and human worth measured by the accumulation of material wealth. Both the world and the universe, however, exist in a constant state of shifting balance. The dry dust settled, and the sounds of daily life returned quickly and filled the silent hollow left by the military passage. Hawkers again cried out to pitch their wares, and the sounds of animals mixed once more with human speech. The timeless noise of children playing and laughing soon echoed freely along the city streets. Life moved all around him. The coins in the brass bowl drank up the sunlight and were enough. It was his time to move on.
To those that study simple things the act of walking is a straightforward one. It requires a decision, a direction, and little more. It is the steady and continuous process of releasing and regaining balance, a methodically controlled free fall.
Very few acknowledged his arrival, presence, or passage. His awkward gait caused people to look away uncomfortably, rather than look closely or empathetically. The blackness of his filthy garments set him apart, so different yet so perfectly invisible. With concentrated effort the beggar swung his frame into an uneasy forward direction.
None saw this man, none saw this bird, and none saw the many pockmarked scars that littered his ancient parchment skin.
An emperor does not retain power by being uninformed, and so in high imperial circles information has always been a commodity of extreme value. One high-ranking minister in particular had the emperor's ear. This man was a kind and gentle soul and was always in the company of his eldest son. This boy was being groomed for life within the imperial court; he would follow naturally in his father's footsteps. The generational passage of cyclic power would continue.
