THE LOST VIKING SAGA

The day and night of terror was broken near dawn of the next day. The mist began to thin, revealing patches of a bluing sky overhead. Cries of relief rang out as the men embraced or clapped one another soundly on the back or lifted their voices to the heavens in thanksgiving. The celebration increased in volume when Harald the Black’s voice jubilantly proclaimed the sighting of land through the parting mist. Olaf began shouting orders, directing the crew to prepare for a shore landing. Warriors hurried into their chain mail, sword belts, and helmets while others manned the oars. Strong arms and legs pulled the oars fluidly through the waves, gaining steadily on the shore.

As the mist thinned more and more, a coastline was revealed. A narrow, pebbled shore could be seen that transitioned quickly into a steeply rising hillside dotted with scrubby grass. Within twenty boat lengths of the beach, Harald drew Olaf’s attention to a strange wheeled cart perched at the top of the hill further down the coast. Just before the Sea Prowler slid onto the pebbles with the incoming waves, the mysterious cart moved out of site by no visible means of propulsion. Secretly, Harald viewed this as an ill-omen and a certain sign of sorcery.

Even as the ship glided onto the shingle, Norsemen were vaulting over the side, plowing their way through the water to stand at last on dry land. Once ashore, they gathered around Olaf awaiting his command. Before Olaf could speak a low rumble came from just on the other side of the hill they faced. In moments, a line of the strange horseless carts appeared over the top of the rise and made their way swiftly down a sandy, rutted track of road that led directly to the beach. They came to a halt one hundred paces away, belching smoke, and disgorging at least one hundred men dressed in sandy colored, armorless clothing. Each man carried a long stick crafted from wood and dark gray iron, tipped by what looked like a small dagger.

The Vikings assembled together, forming a tight circle around their leader.

“Their staffs are tipped by women’s kitchen knives. Are we to be intimidated by such pathetic looking weapons?” remarked Ebbn drawing his sword.

“There is sorcery at work here. You must see it now,” interjected Harald the Black. “Manannan has released us from his mist only to face stranger demons on land.”

“Enough!” shouted Olaf, pushing his way through the protective cluster to stand between his men and the strange defenders. “There is no sorcery here. These are not demons. Can you not see that they are mere men with more fear in their eyes than bravery? Stop acting like old women and make ready to face them like Norsemen.”

Olaf, hands on the hilts of his still sheathed swords, advanced toward the men who had quickly formed a line and stood almost shoulder to shoulder facing them. One of them shouted something in a language that was familiar and yet unlike any Olaf had heard in all his travels. The Norseman suspected the order had been directed at him as a request to cease his advance, for the line of strange men leveled their sticks as one, pointing them directly at Olaf, and taking one step forward toward him. Olaf halted his advance, staring boldly at the formation. A blood curdling scream resounded from behind. Before Olaf could react, Harald the Black, the Berserker rage strongly fueled by his paranoia and superstition, streaked past Olaf, sword swinging wildly.

“I will send you screaming into Helheim, demon’s span,” he proclaimed as he dashed toward the defenders.

One of the men in Harald’s direct path called out with authority in the strange language, still Harald hurtled forward. The man repeated his command desperately once more, raising his stick and holding it steady to his shoulder. Harald the Black was not to be stopped, mere steps from the man, his sword raised above his head to strike. Harald’s Berserker scream was cut short by a flash of fire from the iron end of the defender’s stick. This was followed immediately by a thunderous blast that echoed all around them. The Norsemen looked to the sky murmuring, a few expecting to see Thor descend in his fury. Olaf’s eyes, on the other hand, were fixed on Harald’s back. A spray of blood erupted from his body as though an invisible spear had been thrust through him. The impact tossed the muscular man backward. He landed with a thud, looking with great dismay at the sky.

Olaf fell to his knees at the side of his friend. Blood pumped furiously from a small hole in the center of Harald’s chest. He looked painfully at Olaf through swiftly dimming eyes.

“Take great care, Olaf. We have come ashore in a land of nightmares, peopled by demons. No man can kill another with thunder and lightning.”

With a gasp, Harald grew rigid. The hole in his chest bubbled briefly and then he was gone. Olaf turned toward the man whose stick had ended Harald’s life without touching him.

“What manner of coward would use such a weapon on a man who bravely faces him in battle?”

The young man stumbled back a step. His pale face revealed that he had never taken another’s life before this day. He stood trembling, his mouth moving, yet forming no words. An older man, dressed in the same earthy brown clothing, but more authoritative in how he carried himself, stepped between Olaf and the young defender. He addressed Olaf with a slow, firm tone. The words still held no meaning for the Norseman.

“You can speak all you wish. I do not understand what you say to me,” replied Olaf.

The man turned to the line of what Olaf now assumed were the warriors under his command and addressed them loudly. One of them stepped forward, turned sharply, and ran down the line to stand before his chieftain. He stood rigidly, holding his weapon down to his side with one hand, while making some sort of gesture with the other that the chieftain returned. The warrior then turned toward Olaf and said briefly, if a bit brokenly, “Hail to you. Who are you?”

Olaf returned the greeting and continued, “I am Olaf. My men and I wish to know what land we have come ashore upon.”

The warrior shook his head and held up his hand indicating he had exhausted his command of Olaf’s native tongue and said simply, “Peace to you, Olaf. Wait.”

The man returned to his chieftain. The two of them exchanged words rapidly, after which, the chieftain strode purposefully toward one of the horseless carts followed closely by his warrior. The remaining defenders stayed in a guarded posture eyeing Olaf and his band nervously. Olaf felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Ebbn gazing down upon Harald’s still form with deep sorrow in his eyes.

“Harald the Black’s brash stubbornness was his greatest fault. Despite that he was a brave and bold warrior. My brother’s life will be often sung of around the hearth.”

“It is shameful how he was struck down, Ebbn. What manner of men are these? I have seen nothing like the weapon’s they possess. Where has this mist driven us, my friend?”

“I know not, Olaf. I only know that it is not the Isle of Man that lives in my memory. These are strange men indeed. However, it would appear that they are uncertain about what to do with us. Come. While they fret and fume, let us tend to my brother.”

Together they prepared Harald’s body in a manner honoring the fallen dead. Thinking this only a temporary resting place, they simply attended him as they would if he had fallen in the midst of battle. Laying his shield under his head, they then arranged the body into a position of peaceful repose. Harald’s sword was laid carefully at his side next to his sword arm. Olaf and Ebbn then rose and collected larger rocks scattered amongst the pebbles in the immediate area. They placed them around Harald in the shape of a ship. When they had finished, the two seasoned warriors knelt beside their fallen brother and friend while Ebbn sang a funeral dirge in his resonant, deep voice. Afterwards, Olaf recited one of the holy psalms taught to him by the fallen Christian priest just weeks before his death. He spoke the words in the Latin language the priest had instructed him in. The effect on the strange defenders was notable enough to show they at least had some sense of honor regardless of their cowardly weapons. They listened in such a manner as to suggest at least some of them understood the words which Olaf spoke. To a man, the entire line of defenders bowed their heads in respect until long after Ebbn and Olaf had finished.

Quietly, the two friends rose, walking with determination back to their brothers in arms. Olaf’s men all looked upon him questioningly, seeking direction or explanation. Their fear was evident. The next words their leader spoke would be extremely important to keep them from lapsing into irrational superstition. He had to keep them distracted on the confusing unknowns that they faced and focus their minds on what was available for them to grasp onto.

“We are in a place unknown to us, my brothers. The manner and weapons of these men is strange indeed. I believe though that they fear us more than they mean us harm. I have seen them up close and they are men just as we are. They speak a language unknown to me but at least one had a rudimentary knowledge of our language. I believe he left with his leader to seek out someone who may be able to help us speak together. Let us make camp here on the beach until some means is discovered to communicate with them. Our swords are no match for their weapons. And I would spill no more blood unnecessarily.”

“It is cowardly for us not to avenge Harald, Olaf. I for one am hesitant to just stand and wait,” said a short, stocky warrior by the name of Ivar Fargoer.

Ebbn was in front of Ivar instantly, knocking him to the ground as his massive fist connected with Ivar’s jaw. Ivar landed on his backside, shaking his head to clear it. Ebbn bent, grasped Ivar’s arm, and pulled him to his feet saying, “This is the first and the last time I need to instruct you, Ivar Fargoer. Olaf is our chieftain and you are not. You will not address him in such a manner ever again.”

Ivar, his jawline already turning an ugly purple, turned to Olaf, looking him in the eye.

“Forgive me, Olaf. I spoke rashly. I allowed my emotion to overshadow my commitment to you.”

“I understand your rage, Ivar. I grieve for Harald as do all of you. He was Ebbn’s brother and if any should claim the right of vengeance it is he. However, Ebbn had chosen to take the road of prudence. At this time, I believe caution is needed before vengeance. You must trust my judgment in this.”

“As you say, Olaf,” Ivar returned respectfully before he sat upon the beach rubbing his swelling jaw.

The Norsemen gathered around their leader as he sat upon the pebbles across from Ivar. Kalf sat next to his father and using a series of hand signals told Olaf that he knew he was following the path of wisdom. Olaf nodded his thanks, patting his son affectionately on the shoulder. Together, father and son stared across the beach at the defenders who seemed to be settling in themselves. This would not shake him. Olaf could wait. Waiting was no great difficulty for him. It would provide him with plenty of time to observe these strange, armorless warriors with their impossible weapons. Waiting would provide him the time to think. Patience was indeed the virtue, Father Mathias had taught him it was.