Traveller Probo

Their view of the village was uninspiring; merely an untidy cluster of huts ringed by a scrappy hedge reinforced, in part, by a rough timber fence. It was much like any isolated village McAlister had seen in the Middle East or the Mediterranean. Lacking any palisade or defensive structure, the settlement was of poor farmers who eked out an existence from the surrounding fields and hills. Fig, pomegranate and olive trees abounded.

But the hope of summer abundance was not of interest as a dozen scraggy ponies were seen tied to one of the fences as their owners sat and ate.

Not for the first time, McAlister wished he had binoculars. The reek of sweat stung his nostrils as Eirik leaned to whisper with barely restrained excitement. “See, the Scythians, they’re not expecting us. I think they visit this village regularly, because they’re at ease with the farmers.” He nodded and smiled. “The villagers are traitorous dogs. They welcome the Emperor’s enemies like they’re kin. I think we’ll have to teach them a lesson.” He smiled and one of his men gave a quiet chuckle. “Oh yes, we’ll have to kill a few and rape a few more.”

“You mean the villagers or the Scythians?” asked McAlister.

Eirik’s only reply was a snort of amusement.

Not wishing to have the Varangian see how his comments rankled, McAlister watched the men gathered in the dusty centre of the rude cluster of huts. The villagers certainly did seem to be friendly. The eating men chuckled at a joke and one of them slapped the serving woman on the rear, which had the rest of the horsemen laugh together. They squatted in a circle and scooped the food from a communal platter with their fingers. Some wore the Phrygian cap that would later become famous in the French Revolution. Others were bare-headed and one wore a cap with a fur rim. Mostly, they looked like modern Turks, though a couple had a more Asiatic look.

The Varangians silently prepared for battle and McAlister and his men were compelled to get ready with them. He tried to think of an excuse to avoid bloodshed but they had little choice. Throughout their hard ride, Eirik regaled the four Travellers with Varangian exploits. It seemed none could out-fight, out-drink, out-eat or out-fuck members of the Varangian Guard who took great pride in their tales of wanton cruelty. Most seemed to centre on their antics when rescuing villages from incursions, just like this village in front of them. McAlister knew the Varangians were a greater risk to the villagers than these scouts. This was a very dangerous situation. Eirik and the Varangians seemed to want to assess the Travellers on their abilities, even to the point of antagonising them. Now, the three Turks on his squad would be expected to join in killing a patrol of the very people who were likely to be ancestors. McAlister cast a quick glance at Erol as he strapped on his helm. They wore heavy chain mail armour the Varangians had thrust upon them, while they had collected their own weapons and helms before they left the City.

Yes, this was turning into a very bad idea.

Some of the Varangians shared a skin of wine, though McAlister suspected by their reactions that something had been added, for some of the men rolled their eyes and shook their heads as if at a bitter taste. They gritted teeth and their eyes bulged as they growled and panted in barely repressed fury. Thankfully, the hospitality wasn’t offered to their guests.

As they crept forward, the afternoon sun was at their backs, so would be in the faces of the relaxing horsemen. The villagers were attentive to the needs of their guests. None spotted the Varangians as they crept closer until a young man wandered out to use a privy, which was little more than a hole in the ground surrounded by a woven screen. As he turned to cry out a warning, one of the Varangians ran from hiding and slid a dagger under his chin and into his skull. The kill was cool and professional but McAlister couldn’t understand why the lad was killed. Weren’t they to help the villagers?

Yes, thought McAlister grimly, this was getting out of control.

***

On their ride, Eirik had been his usual garrulous self. “Skirmishers have been making inroads into the Empire and we’ve been ordered to make an example of them,” he smiled. “Our cavalry are a bunch of women. By the time they get there, the Scythians will have run for it and the villagers would cry that they had no choice.” There was a rumble of laughter at the comment, as if the villagers and the cavalry were the real problem.

They passed a cavalry patrol on the Via Egnatia. The young cavalry officer, accompanied by his squad of a dozen horsemen, rode past, wheeled, and then returned to stop the Varangian patrol. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

Eirik smiled and the other Varangians chuckled, which made the young nobleman blush with anger. “We’ve been called to do a man’s work, so step aside, boy,” the Varangian growled.

“Your role is to man the walls, Varangian. Every time you venture out, we have to fix the shit you leave. I suggest we accompany you and make sure you don’t make a mess of things, again,” spat the young officer with contempt.

“The day I need for you to hold my cock is the day I die,” replied Eirik nastily. “If you did your duty to defend this land the way you should, instead of reclining with any young boy you can find, we wouldn’t need to be here.”

The officer and a couple of his troops hissed angrily at the insult and one the Varangians guffawed. McAlister feared the men might fly at each other’s throats as more than one hand strayed to weapons. “You dogs don’t know how to do anything but kill anyone on hand,” responded the officer angrily. “You’ll end up killing villagers, which means causing even more upset at your barbarian ways. A pity the Emperor didn’t send you to do the men’s work with the Bulgars, Varangian. I suspect you might not have returned or would still be running.”

At this, some of the Varangians growled but Eirik laughed in the face of the young aristocrat and spat. The fool deserved it. Eirik’s shot was impressive as his gobbet hit the officer on his chin and tunic. Revolted, the red-faced young man was furiously wiped his face with his forearm. The Varangians laughed uproariously, so he cursed them as barbarians and then, with his troop, wheeled his horse angrily and rode off with a loud clatter.

Eirik laughed as his soldiers taunted the cavalry, calling them ‘fags’ and ‘horse fuckers’. When the cavalry patrol was no longer to be seen, Eirik merely shrugged, as if such an occurrence took place every day. “The locals are weak and the farmers stupid,” he complained. “All of our neighbours know that the bulk of our forces are in the north fighting the Bulgars. So, what do we see? The Fatimids send the Scythians to do their dirty work and check our borders and our people, to probe us for weakness.”

“But isn’t there peace between the Fatimids and the Empire?” asked McAlister.

Eirik gave a guffaw, “There is now, my friend. But they probe and probe!” he stressed as he poked his finger at the Traveller. “I bet my balls that these riders will have a Fatimid connection. Don’t you believe me?” he asked, staring with his blue eyes as if daring McAlister to gainsay him.

McAlister avoided the confrontation as he asked, “But how did they get so far into the Kingdom without any forces stopping them.”

Eirik nodded as he watched McAlister carefully, “Ah, the right question, my friend Mac. How did they get so far into the Empire when there should be others to do this job? Because, like our bum-boy cavalry officer, they’re weak and lazy. We’ve heard of these little incursions. Now, we’re to fix it once and for all.”

***

As they crept closer to the village, Eirik gestured two of his men to creep to the ponies but not so close as to spook them. At the first sight of conflict, McAlister knew the Scythians would attempt to flee. One of the Varangians, a lad they called Lar, leered at McAlister. He looked unfriendly. In fact, without Eirik’s intercession, a few of the Varangians looked all too willing to attack McAlister and his team rather than include them on this jaunt. But the thrill of combat proved greater than their dislike for the men who had felled their comrades and, interpreting Lar’s grin to be friendly, McAlister smiled and nodded. Lar sneered and then turned to the task at hand.

Eirik drew his sword. “Well, they aren’t going to kill themselves are they?” he muttered quietly. He promptly stood, raised his sword, and gave a hoarse cry.

On the signal, the Varangians and McAlister’s team stood and yelled as they ran in attack. McAlister watched as one of the horsemen immediately looked up in panic and drew his sword while the others ran for their horses.

The Varangians looked terrifying. Clad in their chain-mail and helmets, each wielded a round shield and either a sword or their favoured long-bladed axe. One of them immediately fell as an arrow pieced his eye. McAlister looked up in surprise to see that a Turkic horseman had been on guard and, with incredible speed, fitted another arrow to his bow. Why hadn’t they seen the guard? He watched as a Varangian hewed at one of the village men, severing his arm. The man fell with a scream. Other Varangians surged forward and some looked insane, their eyes wide in fury, while others laughed in joy as they swung their weapons.

The noise was terrifying, a cacophony of cries and screams of pain and anger. McAlister had a sudden memory of Giolgrave and the smell of blood and mud. Two of the Scythians turned to McAlister as he ran next to Eirik. One parried the Varangian’s sword while McAlister blocked a blow directed at the Varangian leader. He used his shield to strike the man, who deftly spun aside and stabbed in a strike that was barely parried. The young man was fast but McAlister caught him by driving the point of his sword through his knee. The pain hadn’t even registered before Eirik spitted him with his sword. McAlister spun at the Scythian with the fur rimmed helmet. The edge of his shield bashed through the sword block and connected with his helmeted skull. The Scythian fell, unconscious.

McAlister checked that their foes were down as Eirik spun away with a roar. One Varangian had downed a Scythian with a dagger thrust to the throat. He looked to McAlister and laughed as he licked blood from the blade.

One of the horsemen reached the mounts and leapt into the padded saddle as he cut the reins with his dagger and jammed his heels into the small pony’s ribs. With a frightened scream the beast lashed out at one of the Varangians with its front hooves and knocked the man down, his face pouring blood. As the Scythian pulled his mount aside to flee, Erol leapt to stop him. His sword carved through the rider’s leg and into the horse, which gave a shrill scream as it fell with the rider under it.

An arrow sped past McAlister’s face and in reflex he raised his shield to feel another clatter against it. A Scythian began to crawl away, only to have a Varangian swing his axe squarely into his back. Ponies fled with a thunder of hooves and he suspected that one or more of the horsemen might have actually been lucky enough to escape.

It was over in moments. The last of the horsemen was dispatched by two Varangians who ran at him with their swords and shields as they barrelled him. He struggled on the ground as they grimly hacked at him, severing limbs as he screamed.

McAlister wiped his forehead and looked around for his men. Erol caught his eye and wiped splattered blood from his face with the back of his hand.

One of the other Turkish Travellers, Ahmet, grimaced as he sat on the ground with an arrow in his thigh.

It took some moments of searching before the fourth member of the Traveller squad, the smiling redhead, Hazan, was found. He lay on his back with the feathered shaft of an arrow protruding from one of his eyes. McAlister felt a jolt of sorrow as Erol ran to check for vitals but he was dead, he knew it. Around him the Varangians laughed, joked and made howling calls to the sky like wolves.

Eirik gave a hefty kick to the face of one of the dead Scythians and laughed uproariously as he bent, hands on his knees, while his men searched for anything useful. One of the Varangians, the leering Lar, held a Scythian bow high and gave a hoot, claiming the weapon as his bounty.

Of the villagers, none were to be seen, though a couple of men and one woman lay dead. They hadn’t been killed by Scythians.

Eirik joked with one of his men who had been hit by the horse. His nose was smashed and there was an impressive slash across his face. As the injured man spoke, the gash opened and closed, which had some of his mates point and laugh as if it was the funniest thing they had ever seen.

McAlister walked across to Erol and Ahmet, who grimaced. “You okay?” he asked as he noted with relief that the arrow looked to have missed anything vital.

Ahmet nodded but Erol looked at his friend in concern, “Mac, this wasn’t from one of the horsemen.”

“What?” whispered McAlister as he crouched by his teammate and made ready to examine the wound.

“It was one of the Varangians. I saw that simple-looking dog they call Lar take a shot at you too,” hissed Erol.

McAlister stopped and looked at Erol in surprise, suddenly aware of their precarious situation. He was about to stand when Eirik strode over, accompanied by his comrades. They had lost only two of their number, with three others wounded who hobbled about, making jokes, determined to show no pain. The remainder of the Varangians surrounded the Travellers in casual intimidation.

“A good fight! A grand fight! And best of all, you left us a treat!” crowed the Varangian leader in delight as two of his men dragged the semi-conscious Scythian who Macalister had knocked out with his shield.

“Look at this! See him, his dark skin. He’s no more a Scythian than I am one of your weak lot.”

McAlister noted that the man they held was indeed a few shades darker. Perhaps he had African blood.

“See, I told you but you didn’t believe me. He’s a dog-fucking Fatimid. So, what’s he doing here I wonder?” cried Eirik. “Here to cause trouble and strife in the good people of the Empire. Well, no matter. I’m in the mood for a little fun. What of it lads? I think we need to make this dog into an eagle.”

The other Varangians cheered lustily. McAlister frowned but his attention turned to Ahmet who struggled to stand. He and Erol supported him between them. How would they get out of this deadly situation? They carried him to a log which the villagers had used as a seat by the campfire where the Scythians had been eating. Fortunately, the Varangians seemed preoccupied with their own amusement. They stripped their captive to the waist and roughly tied his hands with the other end of the ropes tied to trees. He was on his knees, still dazed, his arms outstretched.

As if suspecting his fate, he began to babble.

Ahmed panted out an interpretation. “He speaks a type of Farsi. He says he was here only to see, to take part in reconnaissance. He says they killed no one and paid for everything they ate.”

“I don’t think these lads care,” replied Erol as he examined the arrow but it was stuck deep into the leg’s muscle and couldn’t be withdrawn.

“Break it,” nodded Ahmet. “We can cut it out later but we have to get moving. I don’t trust these animals,” he gasped as he nodded at the Varangians. “They killed Hazan. I’m certain it was them. We have to be careful or this will get a lot uglier,” he continued.

They watched as one of the Varangians stood behind their captive with an axe and looked thoughtful before he raised it to strike.

“Oh sweet Jesus, I know what he’s going to do,” McAlister exclaimed desperately as he looked to Erol. There was a sudden, horrifying scream.

The three Travellers looked across at the Varangians. Some laughed together while others watched with sadistic delight. One pointed and nodded, as if describing something that required an artist’s touch. The Varangian with the axe extracted the bloody blade from the captive’s back and then, with surgical precision, raised his arms and struck again.

The lurid screams were the most horrible McAlister had ever heard but he was determined that he would show no emotion.

As his men worked, Eirik wandered across with Lar. He appeared in a grand mood, though his companion looked as ugly and mean as usual. Eirik gestured to McAlister and Erol. “Come with me. Leave your man, he’ll be fine. I want to show you one of our oldest and dearest customs.”

McAlister looked to Ahmet who nodded. He was pale but refused to admit to the pain.

As they walked across the village square, now little more than blood-spattered dust littered with severed limbs and bodies, Eirik was garrulous. “This is an old tradition, offered only to those worthy opponents deserving of attention from the old Gods. See,” he gestured as two of his men worked at the Scythian’s back. They shoved their hands into the bloody gashes by the prisoner’s spine, took a grip, and heaved. There was the sound of cracking bones and the prisoner screamed hideously as he convulsed. They were guided to the back of the victim and McAlister steeled himself. He refused to flinch at the sight of the snapped ribs that protruded like the crest of some obscene dinosaur, the back now bloody holes as the red lungs were seen to inflate and deflate in their cavity. The hanging man gasped for each agonising breath. The Travellers had, of course, heard rumours of the ancient custom, the torture of the Blood Eagle.

Eirik looked at McAlister and Erol and smiled, “You don’t approve?”

McAlister shrugged, “Your ways are your ways. We won’t disrespect them.”

Eirik laughed “You won’t disrespect them. Well, for that, we are most grateful.” His tone was sarcastic.

McAlister knew the Varangian leader was up to something and looked to check on Ahmet just as Lar struck the wounded man in the face with the flat of the bow. Ahmet reeled and Lar dragged the semi-conscious soldier and draped him, face down, over the log.

“What’re you doing?” asked McAlister coolly as the Varangians surrounded them.

“Why are you surprised?” questioned Eirik, his blue eyes mockingly wide. “You’re a good fighter, like him,” he said as he gestured to the man hanging between the trees. “We respect good fighters but we won’t allow you to think you’re better than any member of the Varangian Guard. Now, your swords!”

They removed their swords and dropped them to the dusty ground as they watched Lar cut the chain-mail and then the breeches off Ahmet and then drop his own. He was erect. Ahmet struggled, so Lar leaned forward and cut his throat. He then mounted Ahmet’s body. Some of the Varangians laughed uproariously at Lar’s antics as a huge, familiar joke.

“Armour too,” smiled Eirik and they slowly untied their chain-mail and allowed it to drop heavily around their ankles. McAlister panted in icy rage as they carefully stepped clear. He breathed deeply to keep his mind sharp, to be calm. It was a familiar refrain:

In … two, three, four.

Hold … two, three, four.

Out … two, three, four.

Hold … two, three, four…

It was an old technique many in the Special Forces used.

Eirik nodded, satisfied.

“What the hell!” growled Erol angrily, at which Eirik laughed dismissively. “Oh come now, let my men have their fun. You were never going to ride home from here. You shouldn’t be surprised.” He then gestured to Erol, “Your turn.”

“Is this what you are? Really? Of all the tales I’ve heard of the brave Varangian Guard and you’re just a bunch of cowardly rapists and dogs,” responded McAlister quietly.

Eirik shrugged as he replied, “Maybe but you’ll not have any tale to tell. What can you do? There are ten of us. When your last friend here is treated like the woman he is, you’ll join him,” he smiled as he gestured to the Scythian who bled and gurgled as he feebly writhed, his arms outspread.

McAlister felt remote, as if outside of his body. He had no emotional attachment but was vaguely surprised the man was even alive.

“Well, I’m disappointed,” was all he could say.

“Disappointed!” crowed Eirik as he shook his head in disbelief.

Two of the Varangians grasped Erol tightly around his arms but he didn’t struggle. McAlister nodded. Erol gasped in wide-eyed in fury but then stiffly walked with his guards to where Lar waited.

Eirik stared at him with a sadistic smile, as if fishing for a reaction, “Yes, we’ll give you the gift we have given our Scythian dog over here.”

McAlister frowned and Eirik gave a mocking grimace, “What? Why look so down, this is a great honour!”

“Oh, that’ll make me feel much better,” shrugged McAlister. He knew his lack of response goaded.

Erol stood near Lar and the corpse of Ahmet that had been thrown carelessly into the dust. For good measure, one of his guards punched the Erol in the stomach and he bent over with the blow, winded.

“Ha! Well he knows what his fate will be. Maybe he wants to put off having his throat cut,” chuckled Eirik. “Maybe he thinks that we’ll fall in love with him if he pretends to be a woman.”

There was more laughter. The Varangians were fully armed and armoured while McAlister and Erol were only armed with their seax.

“No, he knows what he’s doing,” nodded McAlister. He felt nothing but a cold fury and he casually reached to the back of his breeches.

Eirik pulled a face. “Come now. Are you going to attack us with your little knife?”

McAlister ignored the comment as he brought out his pistol, chambered a round and then unlocked the weapon as Eirik frowned in almost comic misunderstanding.

In an irrelevant thought, McAlister recalled how, only the day before they had been Transported, the lads had taken some time at the range to blow out a few cobwebs. Fighting with swords was fun but each was a stone-cold killer with the pistol. It was like riding a bicycle. You never truly forgot. He already knew his targets. Eirik tilted his head and turned to give the order.

McAlister briskly aimed. There were two sharp cracks as he casually fired a round through each of Eirik’s kneecaps. The detonations sounded extraordinarily loud in the ancient village and the Varangian leader’s look of shock was precious. His legs collapsed and, the Londoner was satisfied to note, he gave a grunt of agony as his newly wounded knees struck the hard earth.

Soon the pain would be excruciating.

Next was the Varangian who held Erol, it was Gunne, from the alley in Constantinople. He was the one who hadn’t punched him. Crack! The brute went down, hit between the eyes as he had turned to look across to the noise in superstitious terror and surprise.

Crack! Lar went down, struck in a white, naked thigh, only inches from his proud erection. A red spot appeared where the bullet struck. The bullet would have hit the femur and shattered it. He simply crumpled next to Ahmet.

McAlister was an expert in his trade. He could hit a postage stamp at ten paces. The Varangians were only five metres away or less. There was no challenge. McAlister felt murderous.

Crack!

An astonished Varangian looked to lunge at him and went down with a bullet in the throat. Blood spurted.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

The torturer with the axe, another with a sword, and one with the loudest laughter, the one whose hands were still bloody from reaming open the back of the Scythian, fell.

One bullet neatly pierced a metal helm, another hit a Varangian in the temple as he turned to flee, to have him spin and fall.

The last round hit the Scythian between the eyes. The back of his head exploded in a pink mist. It was a mercy.

McAlister noted that Erol’s other guard, Holger, the one who had struck him, was on the ground as he choked, his throat destroyed from a savage karate chop. His legs kicked and scuffed in the dust as he feebly struggled while Erol stood and looked down at him dispassionately.

Lar looked up in time for Erol to give an almost nonchalant kick to his ribs. Erol slowly reached to his back for his seax. With a cold smile he slowly waved the long blade in front of Lar’s wide eyes before he grasped one of the Varangian’s hands. Lar was dragged and draped backwards over the log, where Erol drove the long blade of the knife through the palm of Lar’s outstretched hand. There was a scream. McAlister merely watched. Erol moved slowly and purposefully. He knew what he was doing and his friend would never stop him.

Erol slowly walked over to Ahmet, looked down at him sadly and gently covered his friend’s bare bottom. After stooping to remove his friend’s seax he sauntered back to Lar whose eyes widened in fear as he struggled vainly to remove the dagger. The Traveller grasped the flailing hand, pulled Lar’s arm so it was outstretched, raised his hand high and drove the knife through the other palm and deeply into the log. Lar gave another scream as he sat propped against the log, crucified.

McAlister turned, pistol held ready in both hands to see if there was anyone he had missed. But the village was as silent. Dead Varangians, Scythians and villagers littered the small, dusty area. Normally it would be a place of gathering and celebration. Now it was a place of death.

Satisfied, McAlister replaced his pistol to the back of his breeches. There was another scream and moan. He turned to see Erol nod and stand. Lar’s genitals had been neatly carved off. Nothing remained but a red hole. The Varangian’s face purpled as he choked on his own penis, the red scrotum like a deflated balloon on his chin. McAlister had once seen such a deed performed on a Taliban prisoner when caught by Afghani soldiers. It wasn’t pretty.

Before him, in the dust, Eirik grunted, “So, full of surprises aren’t you? What manner of magik is this?” he groaned as he struggled to sit. The bullets had done their job. Neat holes perforated the knee caps but the back of his legs were torn and bloody as the bullets had exploded outwards. Fragments of white tendons and peeped as the Varangian dragged himself across the dust to a nearby tree. Eirik’s knees would never again work, not even if he lived to be ninety years old, which he wouldn’t.

“Magik you don’t deserve to see,” replied McAlister with a sigh. He gestured to Erol who had taken an axe and paused before he raised his arms and swung downwards. He deftly removed the heads from the two Varangians.

“Seems like you’ve made my friend angry,” added McAlister as he watched Erol coolly kick the heads like footballs across the dust and then bend to collect three spears. The Turk raised his arms again and powerfully jammed a spear repeatedly into the hard ground to make three holes, upended the spear and then rammed the shaft deeply into the earth so it sat firmly, spearhead pointed at the sky. After three spears were planted, he casually collected one of the two dripping heads and carefully impaled it onto the spearhead. He paused to look at his work critically, nodded, and then worked on the second spear before he leisurely walked to Lar.

“So, you take away our fun? What kind of a boring dog are you,” gasped Eirik as he jerked his head at the Scythian.

“What about our fun?” replied McAlister, who was vaguely surprised that the Varangian never questioned or appeared shocked at the violence that had befallen his men. It was simply something enacted by the victor against the vanquished. Eirik sat propped against one of the trees between which the tortured man still hung.

McAlister looked back to Erol. Three severed heads now adorned spears, one of which was Lar with his mouth still stuffed. The Turk slowly walked to them with the Varangian battle axe, his face a bloodied mask of fury. McAlister nodded and Erol stopped, as if in a dream, then slowly looked to his friend and returned the nod. “My friend, see if we can find any of the villagers,” asked McAlister in Turkish. Erol paused a moment, looked thoughtfully at Eirik as he hefted the axe, then nodded as he carefully placed the weapon into the dust.

Turning back to the Varangian, McAlister shook his head. “We’re leaving now. We’ll have the villagers bury our men and leave you to their mercy,” he added as he watched Erol. He had somehow found two terrified village men who stared at his bloodied visage in horror. He pointed to the fallen Travellers and then to the Varangians and spoke to them carefully. His meaning was plain. Erol then reached a blood covered hand into one of the pouches on his belt and gave an old man, the obvious village leader, a small leather bag. The old man opened the bag and poured a few nuggets of silver onto his palm. He looked at the silver cautiously, then to Erol, and nervously nodded.

“You’ll never make me scream,” spat the Varangian leader but McAlister ignored him. More terrified villagers appeared and, directed by the elder, carefully carried the bodies of Ahmet and Hazan into the orchard. As their fellow Travellers watched, the farmers efficiently dug two deep graves. Erol nodded a thanks to the village elder, a bent old man with a seamed face. He looked at the dead villagers and tears poured down his cheeks to soak into his white beard. Both Travellers clasped arms with him as they murmured sorrow for their loss.

McAlister and Erol never spoke as the villagers worked but collected their weapons. The villagers produced two heavy carry packs that were loaded onto spare ponies. The villagers would collect the other Varangian ponies and whatever Scythian horses survived the carnage. Emboldened by the friendly overtures of the strangers, some of the women wept as they stripped the bodies of the fallen, Scythians and Varangians alike. Following orders from the head man, one of the village men angrily raised a Varangian axe. The savage blade fell repeatedly to harvest a crop of Varangian heads. Others hammered posts into the hard earth. McAlister knew they would do as Erol asked, that the Varangian heads would grace the posts, while the Scythians would be buried.

“Run you dogs! My men will find you,” cried Eirik with a rising hint of panic. “These swine will never make me scream!”

The Travellers mounted their ponies and Erol raised his hand in farewell. Before they turned away, some of the village women slowly approached the Varangian, their tiny, weaving knives ready. They were only simple, farmer’s wives. The Varangians had killed some of their men and had, if Eirik’s boasts were correct, raped and abused them on a number of occasions. Their faces were cold and hard, primed for bloody vengeance as they advanced on the hated city guard.

As they turned their mounts, Eirik wasn’t good to his word.