The Forgotten Land (26 page)

CHAPTER
13

The
soldiers set off early the next morning. The horizon to the east glowed deep
orange and bright pink as the sun made its presence known. After arguing
relentlessly with her father, Heleena had left that morning with Will. Foothark
knew she was in safe hands, but he hated that his little girl was growing up so
quickly. Marie kept reminding him that she was not growing up, she had grown
up. But to Foothark she would always be his little girl.

Tharkol
had gone ahead of the men who were in patrol order, chest webbing strapped on,
assault helmets fastened and weapons at the action condition. They had a bullet
in the chamber and the safety catch on. They also carried handmade rucksacks
given them by members of the village with their warm weather gear and food
inside. The soldiers had thoroughly cleaned and oiled their weapons the night
before, water bottles were filled and ammunition tallied. Nothing had been left
to chance. The old clothes the villagers had supplied them were also stored in
their rucksacks for later use.

“Fuckin’
cold,” commented Scott as they entered the forest, snow crunching under their
feet.

“Yeah
it is a bit,” replied Matt.

A
bird took to flight, soared above the forest and disappeared from sight. Steve
knew this would be a dangerous mission, but it was also an opportunity to win
the hearts and minds of those villagers who did not trust them. If they
returned with their chieftain unhurt then perhaps those few would finally come
to trust them. Thormdall had told them it was not distrust; it was that the
people still regarded them as gods. Steve was not convinced.

Distrust
was a dangerous thing. In a situation where a foreign military force was
occupying a town or city, the humble medic was its most potent weapon. The
Australian and British defence forces in particular knew how to utilise this
fact to their advantage and had done so with great success on countless
occasions.

When
infantry patrols were conducted in the surrounding areas, they would stop and
talk to the locals, offer the children chocolates, and give basic medical
attention to those who required it. If further, or more serious, medical
attention was needed, these people were often taken back to the field hospital
and treated. In this way the foreign force could show the locals they were
there to help, that they cared, and in doing so win their hearts and minds.
After that, information would soon follow. Locations of an enemy weapon cache,
or perhaps the location of the enemy headquarters.

To
simply drive around the city in armoured vehicles with mounted heavy machine
guns at the ready, and ignore the people, had the opposite effect. People lost
trust so the information from the locals dried up, and anger soon followed.
Once it got to that stage, it was time to try and reverse the situation quickly
before it became too far out of hand.

Steve
was not undertaking this mission to please the villagers, he was doing it to
try and win trust. In this dangerous world of long ago, it would be nothing for
one of those who mistrusted them to cut their throats while they slept. He was
sure this would not happen, however Steve wanted to rectify the situation
before it became a probability.

He
could see Tharkol in the distance with his back to them. Steve could see that
they were approaching the clearing where the battle had taken place yesterday.
As they approached the valley, the Norseman turned.

“The
gods have taken no mercy,” he said.

The
soldiers surveyed the scene. None of the wounded warriors laid out the day
before had survived. One had managed to crawl about twenty metres or so, but
had probably died from the extreme cold. The others had been buried almost to
their chests in snow. The large pile of corpses in the centre of the valley was
tinged white. Tharkol moved down into the valley and took up the weapons of
each of the men who had been left at the mercy of the gods. He destroyed them
all, bending the swords, breaking bows and snapping axe shafts. With the help
of the soldiers he dragged the corpses into the centre of the valley to join
their deceased comrades.

Once
this had been done, the group moved on. Scott had wrapped a shamag around his
face to keep the cold at bay. The other soldiers wore hats or beanies to keep
in the warmth. They all knew that heat escaped quickly from the head.

Tharkol
jogged ahead once again, disappearing into the white landscape in the distance.
So far he had proved to be a valuable guide, but once they reached the Viking
towns, his real worth would be tested.

They
could still see faint hoof marks in the snow, indicating the direction Berag
had been taken. The distant howl of a wolf echoed across the forest. It was
followed by the cry of another wolf to the east, which sounded closer, then
another to the south. The sound was powerful and simultaneously haunting.
Little to Tharkol’s knowledge, the wolf would be a species on the brink of
extinction in a thousand years. Steve assumed the animals had picked up the
scent of dead bodies and were moving in for a feast. They continued along the
forest track, following both the faint hoof prints as well as Tharkol’s.
Sometimes Tharkol’s footprints disappeared entirely, probably where he had
climbed a tree for a better view. They walked for almost two hours before
Tharkol ran back to them.

“We
must be quiet now,” he said. “I have spotted a small group of enemy nearby.
They seem to have a badly wounded man with them. They are trying to help him
although it looks to me like he will make his journey soon.”

They
could detect the distinct aroma of wood smoke and agreed it would be a wise
move to go around them and continue on.

It
took them an hour to bypass the camp site. With the smell of smoke gone and
their enemy behind them, their pace quickened again and Tharkol disappeared
ahead. As dusk approached, he returned with four rabbits slung over his
shoulder.

“We
rest for the night,” he said. “I have found a well hidden place not far from
here, with good wind protection. It seems the Gods are with us,” he added.
“This is a good thing. If Lokee minds his business, then we shall have a fine
journey there and back.”

The
soldiers were puzzled but decided not to ask. The Norse culture ran deep and
was not easy to fathom in a matter of weeks. But the site Tharkol had found was
good; it was a small alcove, with sheer rock walls on three sides and thick
forest covering the fourth. There was plenty of dead wood buried in the snow
and it took some effort to dig up. Eventually they had enough to start a fire.
Tharkol began building one against a rock wall that would reflect the heat.
Meanwhile the soldiers searched for more fuel to keep the fire burning
throughout the night. By the time the light was almost gone, they had enough
wood. While one sat on watch near the fire, the others slept, or tried to.

Will
lay with his hands behind his head looking up at the stars. He listened to
Heleena breathing quietly beside him under a shared blanket. He looked across
at her and took in her beauty. She was curled up beside him, the warmth of her
thigh draped across his legs. The dim light of the moon shone from her skin. A
tuft of hair partially hid her face, but her lips and slender shoulders were
exposed. Her full breasts pushed against him and arousal washed over him.
Staring back at the sky, his mind was filled with her presence. Her soft, warm
skin, her engaging smile and gentle voice. She was a goddess. But lethal too,
he thought. The Norse world was as violent as it was beautiful, more violent
and lawless than the modern world to which he was used.

Sleep
took him in the early hours of the morning. Shortly after, Will awoke to a soft
kiss and looked up into Heleena’s face. She was smiling. He pulled her to him
and kissed her again.

The
morning arrived silently and as the sun rose, Steve cleared the camp site,
extinguishing the fire and destroying any evidence they were there. They put on
their cloaks, gloves, beanies or shamags, threw their webbing on, strapped on
their assault helmets and headed out. Tharkol took the position of scout up
ahead and out of sight.

It
was a hard journey, but by the middle of the tenth day, they found themselves
on a small hill overlooking the city that Tharkol called Skrethorg. Heleena explained
it was a shipping town. In the harbour, long flat-bottomed barges could be seen
making their way up and down the river, some were empty and others cluttered
with wares. Larger ships were sailing out of the fjord towards the ocean and
distant lands. Clearly trade held Skrethorg together.

“Those
are war ships,” said Heleena, pointing at five long, narrow, beautifully
crafted ships. Their prows and sterns rose out of the water like rearing
snakes, as banks of oars drove them smoothly through the calm water of the
fjord.

“Vikings?”
asked Will.

‘Rich
ones, yes. A single chieftain, a Hersir, will be in charge of them. He is
wealthy enough to pay to keep them under his employ. All of the warships belong
to him. They will prey on inland and coastal villages.”

A
faint, grey cloud hung over the city created by the smoke spewing from each
house. The dwellings were clumsily built from hard wood and were nailed
together carelessly. Some were falling apart and others looked abandoned. The
city spoke of a gross lack of care and culture. The impression was that these
were a lost people, they had forgotten what it was that had once made them
Norse. Before the Chreest men had visited these shores, the city would have
been as welcoming as Ulfor. But in the space of one-hundred years that had all
changed. They had changed their culture and entire way of life.

“I
remember my great-great-father speaking of Skrethorg. He lived here as a boy.
It had been a kingdom, a jewel resting by the sea,” said Tharkol, with sadness
in his voice. “Gone are the long houses. Over to the east there,” he pointed to
an open field in the distance, “is where the summer gathering was held each
year. People from all over Skandinavia would come. They would compete in many
things. At the end of the week, which was the duration of the gathering, there
would be ship races. All the great warriors from all over Skandinavia would
race in their longships. Some vessels were so large that they could carry
nearly eighty warriors. There was a king in those days, and he would present
the winning ship with a pouch of gold.”

Tharkol
fell silent. Whether the people of Ulfor would admit it or not, their culture
was dying. In another hundred years, Ulfor would resemble Skrethorg. They were
an island and the ocean was rising. It was hardly surprising they fought
against the coastal dwelling Vikings so ferociously. To do otherwise would mean
the death of their way of life.

“There
is nothing left in Skrethorg now but darkness and treachery,” said Tharkol
quietly moving down the slope. “Stay alert, for danger can come from anywhere
in these places,” he added.

Before
they approached the town, the soldiers changed their clothes. They looked
strange with their chest webbing strapped over their woollen shirts. They took
off their assault helmets and fixed them to the chest webbing. Finally they
pulled large thick cloaks around their shoulders to hide the webbing from view,
attaching them with a wooden brooch at their throats.

Steve
could see people on the outskirts of the city felling trees. The wood was
obviously being sold as firewood. Large horse-driven carts were moving to and
fro, some empty, others packed with huge tree trunks that would probably be cut
into planks and used for building. There must have been nearly two hundred
people, mostly men and boys, cutting into the forest. It looked like a huge
industry and would probably bring in a lot of money.

The
city was a-buzz. It stank of human filth and the people were distinctly
unfriendly. They eyed the newcomers as they passed with curiosity, indifference
or open hostility. Most eyes were drawn to the four soldiers and their short
hair. Even though the SASR patrol had thick beards and unkempt hair that
touched their necks, it was still considered short in this ancient place.

“Sorry,
mate, but where exactly are we going?” Matt asked Tharkol.

“Have
patience, my friend,” the warrior replied. “I know a man and I will ask him if
he has seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. He may even know where Berag
is. I doubt it, but he is a good place to start.”

Matt
noticed two women on the other side of the alley, walking up and down, trying
to gain the attention of each man that passed by. Eventually a man stopped.
With a smile, one of the women took him by the arm and led him into a house.
They were obviously hookers.

He
nudged Scott. “Wouldn’t touch that with a barge pole,” he said, gesturing
towards the remaining woman. She looked at Matt and, motioned him towards her.

“Dunno,
looks pretty tempting,” said Scott sarcastically.

The
woman broke into a coughing fit, and spat onto the ground before wiping her
mouth with her hand.

“Oh
yeah, that just turns me on baby,” said Matt.

The
group took a left turn and the smell of the ocean reached them.

After
a short time, Tharkol led them into a pub on the docks. The bitter, almost
unpleasant, smell of Viking beer hit them. The pub was crowded and there were
no spare seats. Tharkol talked to a burly man behind the bar briefly.