From my Turlogh Dubh O'Brien novel long section
Jun 28, 2016 17:32:46 GMT -5
Post by themirrorthief on Jun 28, 2016 17:32:46 GMT -5
Very late that afternoon Turlogh Dubh O'Brien spotted land. Exactly as predicted, the island was dominated by a goodly sized mountain which towered over the landscape. As instructed by Theasmina, the Gael steered the boat to the east and closely followed the coastline. The land referred to as The Mountain of Wonders was larger than Torn, it took the rest of the day to locate the area that the girl had declared to be preferred for making land. The light of day had dissipated into a hazy, dim shade by the time they worked the little ship ashore. The harbor was a good one, and the Gael was pleased with Theasmina for finding it. The area was very well chosen for it was easy to hide the boat. Immediately inland was a thick jungle, not a likely place that prying eyes could penetrate and easily fix their gaze upon the newcomers. Perhaps a half mile to the west was the beginning of a very long sandy beach. Turlogh had no idea what lay farther to the east. Theasmina spoke of a good spring being very nearby. In the morning they could drink their fill of fresh cold water the girl had said. The Gael did not find the misty shrouded land to his liking however. Turlogh was not a man to be easily unsettled but something in the air chilled him despite their good fortune to thus far.
It had been a long day with much activity. Turlogh decided against a fire, therefore their supper had consisted of some dried fish and more gellum. The warrior did not partake of additional non. It was best to be alert, thus a clear head was required. Shortly after arriving, Turlogh had detected a subtle change in Theasmina. The return to a land of bad memories had affected her noticeably. She would glance about, apprehension expressed clearly in her lovely eyes. The girl spoke in short direct phrases, no more of the childish ramblings that had charmed the Gael during their voyage. The temperature on the island grew much colder after sundown. It promised to be a hard night without the benefit of fire. They made their camp in a small clearing where there was a good bit of light supplied by the nearly full moon.
Theasmina asked for non and Turlogh oblidged her, but he took none for himself. The herb eased some of the girl's anxieties and presently she became somewhat more talkative. The warrior had thought that perhaps more lovemaking might occur during the long night but he didn't press the issue. Turlogh was not a man who thought of little else other than his urges. "What can you tell me about these giants that populate the island?" The Dalcassian asked his pretty companion as she combed her lovely dark hair.
"They are hateful monsters," Theasmina replied. "They are as tall as a house and feed on human flesh among other depraved leanings. Still, we are safe here for they never venture very close to the sea. The ocean is the only thing more vast than they and for that reason they hate it with great passion. It is even said they fear the sea because it is the witches that gave birth to them often tell their children tales of vile sea serpents that will swallow them hole should they play to close to the shore." Theasmina smiled before continuing, "despite their massive size, the giants are truly cowards. My father said they dread the thought of encountering anything or anyone that isn't frightened to death of them. "
"I see," said Turlogh. "If ever I meet a giant face to face we shall see if it's possible to carve them down to size with the unafraid steel of my good axe."
This pleased Theasmina and she giggled slightly. "I feel safe with you Great Turlogh."
"Good," replied the dark warrior. "Perhaps we should try to sleep now. If we are to scale yon mountain it be best that we are fully rested....to the highest degree that we can manage here anyhows."
That night the girl slept curled in the warrior's arms, her blanket stretched tightly over their slumbering bodies. All things considered, they rested reasonably well.
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The morning that followed was a cold one. The warm weather that blessed Torn was apparently not often in evidence on the The Mountain of Wonders. Turlogh was very well acquainted with the cold and damp of Errin but even he felt an uncomfortable shiver. Against his better judgment he started a fire. Perhaps he had gotten soft on Torn but his stomach desired hot food, and his bones demanded a degree of warmth. The girl left with her blanket draped about her shoulders. "The spring is near here," she said. "I will fetch us some fresh water." Turlogh nodded and sat down to arrange his thoughts, ever keeping a close eye on the large bag of precious green gems tied to his belt. With such a treasure he could scarce afford to trust anyone. Yea, even his lovely guide might be tempted by wealth such as this. Still, the warrior was certain the girl didn't know of the precious contents in the bag the Gael guarded so closely. However, she might be curious, and if she asked him what he carried....how should he respond? Turlogh angered himself for dwelling on such foolishness, he was reminded of what a sweet and gentle lass Theasmina was and nothing more. That darkness that plagued the heart of the somber warrior had been well earned by a life of intrigue and war.
The Gael was musing in this fashion when a jarring shout assailed his ears. It was Theasmina calling for him in a very excited tone of voice. He jumped to his feet just as the girl reappeared suddenly. "Turlogh, come quickly, there is a man sleeping near the spring....and he is a fearsome warrior indeed!"
"Lower you voice girl, lest you arouse him, if you haven't already," Turlogh urged. "Now lead me to him, and quietly my darling lass."
Theasmina fell silent before taking the warrior's arm in her trembling hand. She led him to a barely visible path that had most likely been worn down by animals seeking the spring. They walked for perhaps two-tenths of a mile before the woman stopped and pointed. She whispered to the Gael, "look, he's just over there, you can see his great feet just now."
"Stay here for the time being," Turlogh said before continuing down the path, silent as a stalking panther. First he glimpsed the feet and very soon the entire man was visible, and indeed he appeared to be sleeping. The Gael could plainly see the man was huge, obviously one of the giants. The dark warrior raised his axe, and thus poised to attack he crept closer.
At this point it seemed to the Gael that the man, or giant, was breathing in a most labored way. If he was sleeping, then surely he was gripped by a fearsome dream. With muscles tensed to strike, the anxious Turlogh moved even closer until he stood almost directly over the prone warrior. The sparkling spring happily bubbled its pleasing waters within a few feet of the hulking figure. A great broadsword lay across the torso of the man, the Gael studied it for several moments. Could it be there was some hint of recognition in the eyes of the dark Dalcassian? What was it about that sword?
Lastly, Turlogh's eyes moved to the face of the slumbering giant. It was then that he received a shock of epic proportions. The face was ashen and fixed with an expression of great pain. The eyes were tightly shut but there was no mistaking who this face belonged to....incredible though the thought that such a thing could be...and how?! The warrior lying there was the one called Athelstane the Saxon. And none other!
"Athelstane my brother, how can it be that I should find your great bulk slumbering here on this unknown land?" Turlogh raised the question, still in a state of semi-disbelief.
The giant only groaned slightly and his eyelids fluttered just a bit. "Athelstane!" Turlogh exclaimed more loudly. "What has befallen you brother, a warrior does not sleep so soundly with the threat always of enemies a'roaming about."
The large man's gray eyes opened slowly. They stared at Turlogh with confusion at first. "By all the Gods! Is that you Turlogh Dubh O'Brien....and there's your thirsty axe. Answer me, are you man, ghost, or the last vision of a fevered brain?"
Sensing something was very wrong, Turlogh leaned closer to the Saxon. "What ails ye man, aye, it is I and no other. It's a wondrous surprise to find you here Athelstane, it appears you have a tale for your old weapons companion."
The Saxon placed his hand upon Turlogh's wrist. He squeezed somewhat feebly as if he still wasn't quite convinced the Gael was in the flesh.
"Yes, I have a tale, and it's the tale of how I came here to die....for death sits heavily on my shoulder. I'm not afraid, my life has been long and lusty. Many are the foes I have sent to the next world, an ocean of good ale I have drank, and many a fine lass have warmed my bed. Do you recall, Black Turlogh, a viking ship that chased you far out to sea until a great storm came to engulf us all?"
"Yes, I recall, were you on that ship?" Turlogh asked.
"Aye, I was.....I had an urge to go a'reaving and as you well know I'm not above sailing with a horde of bloodthirsty Vikings, if no better opportunity is at hand. The ship belonged to that blackheart, Halpin Bear's Bane." Athelstane's voice trailed off.
"Quck, Theasmina, fetch the gellum," Turlogh urged and the girl sped away. The hasty lass returned within minutes and Turlogh lifted the head of the Saxon. "Drink this, its an odd but tasty wine."
Athelstane took a manly swig of the blue fluid and smacked his lips in appreciation. Then he took another good drink before pushing the animal hide flask away. Still, his eyes flashed a little brighter and he struggled to smile a bit. "Aye, it is tasty, and warms my belly....but save the rest for the living my friend."
Despite his attempt at restraint, Turlogh gently admonished his friend. "Why in the name of the Gods did you once again go a'reaving with those cursed vikings? Would that you had sought me out instead."
"I did search for you but my patience is not great. If I was a farmer, I would farm, if I was a beggar, then I would beg....but I am a reaver. I apologize for nothing, but my heart sank when those dogs spotted your little craft and gave pursuit. You are not a hard man to recognize my friend....and what Viking doesn't hate you? There was nothing I could do but watch, it was fifty strong men against one. Still, I was prepared to die fighting at your side when the time came. Of course, it was then that the storm came to wreck the plans of that fool Halpin. Nine of the Vikings were washed overboard including Halpin Bear's Bane and the navigator. At last, we found ourselves hopelessly lost."
Turlogh nodded, "yes, the same thing happened to me. That storm was one sent from the maelstrom of blackest hell. But please continue."
"At last we made land many day's journey to the south of here. We found a tribe of dark skinned savages there. At first they tolerated us reasonably well...probably out of base curiosity. But then those fool Norsemen began abusing the women thereabouts." Athelstane shook his great head as he recalled what happened afterwards. "Those fierce devils attacked us and killed half our number. The rest barely escaped in the ship but there was very little water or food aboard. We had hard sailing for five or six days until we found this accursed, cold land."
"Those same dark skinned warriors likely attacked the island of Torn where I made land," Turlogh said. "Now I understand why, they were searching for those accursed Vikings. The ones that struck us found death instead I'm happy to relate to you."
"Good, good!" Athelstane chuckled. "I am glad that I could send something to quench the thirst of that terrible axe or yours." Then the Saxon groaned and his face grew more ashen. Despite the obvious pain he continued his tale with effort.
"We made land here and went inland searching for water, meat, and whatever else we could plunder...naturally. After a few hours tramp we were set upon by strange warriors led by several fearsome giants. Ten Vikings were killed before we managed to flee back to the ship. Strangely the horde did not follow us there."
"It is said the giants fear the sea. Perhaps that is why they stopped their pursuit. Are they really as large as it be said...are they bigger men than you my friend." The Gael asked because Athelstane was a giant in his own right being six and a half feet tall.
"Aye, Turlogh, they were a full head taller than I, perhaps more. We fled from them and their monstrous clubs that sent men's bodies sailing off through the trees! After we regrouped near the shore I quarreled with Gothrun the Tall who now leads the Norse dogs. I swore an oath to slay him before I'd take another order from that fool. I killed three of the Norse dogs before that treacherous Oskytel One-eye shot me with an arrow...an arrow set with poisonous snake venom. There are no shortage of vile serpents on this accursed island...both them that crawl and them that walk upright! At once I felt the poison weakening me, I raced away in the darkness. Somehow I stumbled across this little spring. I decided this was as good a place as any to die, for at least there was fresh water to sip. And that is my tale, but I am honored to have one such as you to tell it to. At first, when I saw you, I hoped that I had died already and you had come to lead me through the land of the dead..having died in the storm I reckoned. Nonetheless, it is good that you are alive and well....very good indeed, for many reasons."
Turlogh glanced down at the Saxon's right foot. It was swollen and black, the bull hide sandal had been kicked away. The Gael saw the broken shaft of an arrow protruding just above the ankle. His heart went out to Athelstane.
"Don't fear, a mere day's sail south of here is the island of Torn. There is a great healer there named Zzthethpezemos. He cured young Brenne Mac Art who was severely addled by a blow to the head and he can save you as well. We will leave at once, Zzthethpezemos sent me here to seek out a magic bird and the witch that owns it but that can wait."
"Nay, nay, give pause good Turlogh. My time is measured not in days nor even a day. I am content to die here, for certain I cannot tolerate being moved. I am not afraid....just grateful to see you again...and your fair lass. Just let me rest here my friend."
Turlogh felt great frustration at his helplessness. "Is there anything at all I can do for you...any last request, or something to make you more comfortable?"
"Truthfully, I was hoping you would ask. Yea, I have two requests," Athelstane said.
"Ask, I am your slave," replied Turlogh anxiously, his distress etched plainly upon the strong Gaelic features.
"I want a warrior's funeral my friend, but most of all.....I want vengeance!"
A terrible dark smile crossed the features of the brooding Gael. "Have no concerns on that account, I swear by this axe that no Viking will leave this island with his head on his shoulders. This strange shore shall quench its thirst on their blood and they will accompany you to the land of the dead, as lowly galley slaves!"
"Aye," the Saxon spoke with eyes that burned momentarily with the fire of old. "Now I can die with great joy! Still, you have reminded me of something. Something that might be of aid to you. Chained day and night aboard the cursed ship of the Norse dogs are two galley slaves. They have the look of warriors about them. Free them and I wager they would be more than happy to strike at their masters. There are eleven vikings yet alive and although they be worthless scum...when it comes to weapons play, they are men. They are led by Gothrun, that bastard Oskytel, and his brother Anwiund the Bloody. Beware of that one my dark friend!" Athelstane coughed up bile and closed his eyes tightly.
"A wise man refuses no good ally during time of war. Tell me where the Viking ship is located? Asked Turlogh.
Athelstane had regathered himself enough to continue. "I would guess its lies about an hour's journey by foot along the shore to the east. Wait until darkness, that dog Gothrun plans to sneak inland at night to search for game. Perhaps you can surprise them upon their return. That will give you ample time to plan your attack. They have weapons aboard ship that the slaves can arm themselves with."
"That is a wise plan, I shall wait here until darkness...we can talk old friend. But fret not your weary head with thoughts vengeance.....It shall be yours! Besides, I have sworn to kill Vikings wherever I can find them."
"Aye," said Athelstane. "And perhaps another sip of that strange wine might serve after all."
Thus the two old friends sat and drank..and talked. They talked of a great many things, deeds, friendships, and old foes. Theasmina looked on silently, and followed the talk as best she could, not knowing the language but watching the men's eyes. Occasionally, Turlogh would explain a little of the conversation to her. Then, when the sun began to cast long shadows amongst the trees....the Saxon left this world. Truly let it be said, no man ever lived that lived better. And let it be said that he died well, of a wound received in battle. And what better can be said of a man?
Black Turlogh sat there for a long time in silence. Then his features grew darker even more so than before, and hard as the great broadsword that lay across the huge Saxon's chest. With great care and the utmost respect Turlogh took the sword from the hand of the dead man.
"It is only right that this sword drink the blood of him that killed its master." Then the Gael turned and walked away with sword and axe in hand....giving little hint of the berserker madness that boiled just underneath his trembling skin. Athelstane's last words had been...."slay Oskytel first!" It would be done. Thus the oath was made by Turlogh Dubh of the Clan na O'Brien.
Turlogh Dubh O'Brien requested Theasmina to remain behind. A battle was no place for a sweet lass. She could make certain that no animal came to mutilate the Saxon's body. Her eyes told Turlogh to not go but wisely her voice was silent. The warrior brought forth his black mail, stout buckler, and visorless helmet from the boat. Swiftly the armor was donned and he set forth down the beach in an easternly direction. The Gael moved with great strides, full of purpose. Turlogh's mind was clear and uncluttered by thought. There was killing to be done, and that was he whole of it.
Athelstane's directions were sound. After slightly less than an hour of steady walking the Gael spotted another concealed harbor. It was much like the one where his own boat was anchored, well hidden by lush plant growth. On his left arm Turlogh wore his buckler with its deadly spike in the center. For the time being, the fearsome axe was also carried in his left hand. In his right hand was the great broadsword of the fallen Saxon. Despite its heavy weight and long length the Gael carried it with ease.
With panther like stealth and silence, the somber warrior slipped cautiously through the undergrowth until his sandaled feet felt clean sand once again. There was the ship at last, and a cursed sight it was for the Gael. However, an odd thought flitted through the dark Dalcassian's mind at that instant. Were it not for that same ship, framed so terribly in the pale moonlight, Turlogh would have never came to know the children of Zzthethpezemos....or Terrilara, his beloved. The warrior shook his head slightly to put all thoughts away....save those of red murder. The mysteries of fate were beyond all save the Druids and their dark art.
There was a figure there beneath the ghostly light of the moon. A sentry, and only one. The man was more asleep than awake as he teetered back and forth while leaning heavily on a javelin. No doubt the fool would have sat down were he not afraid Gothrun would return suddenly and find him sound asleep. At least while he yet stood there was some pretense of watchfulness. The gentle crashing of the ocean surf was more than adequate to conceal any slight noise made by the doom that approached the slumpering man from the west. Perhaps at some other time the Gael would have challenged the Viking and given him a proper chance to defend himself. This was not to be one of those times. A somewhat rude tap on the shoulder aroused the drowsy sentry. He turned just in time to see a vision straight from his worst nightmare. The heavily armed Gael stood unspeaking like a phantom from hell. The hapless sentry opened his mouth as if to shout a warning but the giant sword was already on the downswing. The blade entered at the neck and ripped down to the sternum. The Norseman dropped, managing only a gurgling gasp. He was dead and awash in his own blood before he struck the beach. There he lay, covered by dark redness, a stark contrast to the white sand in the ominous bleeding pale light of night. Turlogh stared for a few moments at the dead man. He felt....nothing. Quickly he crouched and his bright eyes surveyed the surroundings for any sign of other foes. The dark Gael stood thusly for several minutes. Finally satisfied, he waded into the waters of the bay. Few men could have hoisted themselves up into the ship while weighed down with full mail and weapons...but Turlogh did so with only passing strain. With a heavy thud he fell into the feared ship of reaving.....savoring for a moment the feel of a grand sailing vessel under his feet. For more than a short while the Gael had himself been a captain. His ship was not unlike this one and it had been called Crom's Hate. Turlogh smiled slightly at the memory. Unfortunately, he also recalled losing that same ship in a battle to the death with other Vikings. Both ships had sank and as far as he knew, none but himself had survived.
"Who's there?" Came the sound of a anxious voice. The question was asked in a tongue very strange and foreign to Turlogh, but amazingly it was a tongue he had heard before and could speak himself. Turlogh answered with a low but distinct tone. He used the same strange tongue. "Are you the galley slaves, answer me and be quick about it!"
Even Turlogh had trouble making out the figures near the back of the ship, they moved slightly and the one spoke again. "Aye we are cursed to be chained here like dogs and serve as slaves. But who are you? I see no great horns on that helmet of yours...though it does seem somehow familiar." At that point a lower, more mature voice spoke....the tone was deep and rumbling as if coming from a mighty chest. "Yes, I can see enough in this light to tell you are no Viking....I suppose those fools are dead by now and you've come to add us to your depraved cannibal's feast. Still, I must be going mad for you appear to speak in our own tongue! And not a one of the Vikings could do that, what is this strange land? Is that not so much to ask from helpless, well bound men you have doubtless come to murder?"
Turlogh realized from his own travels that various languages, as people traveled from place to place, could at times become common in a land far from their origin, but this odd situation was quite unaccounted for. With great stealth he worked his way back the length of the ship, occasionally glancing quickly and cautiously in the direction of the shoreline. "Be still as I approach. I have not come here to do you harm. At least not yet. Still, there is a mystery here I am thinking."
The two men did as they were told, being chained and helpless, there was little else they could do. Within seconds the Gael stood over them, at first he only saw two typical galley slaves. They were dressed in rags, their hair was unkempt, long ragged beards lay against their chests, the muscles in their arms were large and knotted from the rowing even as their bodies were otherwise near to skin and bone. Both had very light hair, though truly one was from age. Their eyes were gray in color and bright, they stared in abject amazement at the fierce figure that loomed so large there in the moonlight.
"I am a dead man. This is no strange island, it is an illusion. I am dead and meeting the ghosts from my past here in the land of the dead. Somakeld! Are you still with me man? Speak if you live yet! I am dead or dreaming for that warrior there has the appearance of that same blood-brother of old....Black Turlogh Dubh O'Brien!" The younger man said nothing but his eyes were wide in astonishment. His head trembled slightly beneath a head of unruly flaxen hair. Truly let it be said the man was dumbstruck.
Soon the galley slave was not alone in his amazement. A shock of realization gripped Turlogh. It was impossible, but unless he was mad he saw what he saw. "Somakeld......by the Gods!!!! Somakeld and Hroghar Skeld? Am I mad, is it truly you my Turgaslav brothers from the northern steppes?"
The older, white headed man nodded...."Aye it is we....but...first tell me, am I dead,...or dreaming perchance?"
Turlogh shook his head....he was almost overwhelmed by astonishment. This island was called the Mountain of Wonders for good reason. Nothing that happened here was not a wonder....truly the Gael must have entered a realm of the great mystical. "It is I, Turlogh Dubh of the clan na O'Brien, I was chased into these strange lands by this same ship many weeks ago. But how is it that you two have come here to be abused thusly so far away from your ancestral homeland?"
The one called Somakeld finally found his voice..albeit cracking a bit. "If truly you are my brother Turlogh Dubh O'Brien and not some ghost...and we are not already dead. Perhaps you might free us brother from these cursed chains so that we might feel somewhat more like living men. Look Hroghar, there is the axe that we have seen at its bloody work...truly it is our brother!"
"Well, I'm not a ghost," Turlogh said. "And I doubt that you are because there was a sentry back there who bled like a man when I struck him a good blow with this same great sword."
"I recognize that sword, it belonged to the one called Athelstane. Did you kill that great giant also my spirit brother?" Hroghar asked, still unbelieving.
"No, that man was my friend and brother despite being in the company of the cursed Vikings. I came here to kill those that treacherously slew him. It was he that told me of you...although I would have never guessed who you were..or appear to be...I'm not altogether certain there isn't some sorcery afoot here....still....what games the Gods play on we fools that are called men!"
"Truly we are who we are, free us brother!" Some of the fire and authority had returned to the old chieftains voice. If this was madness, Turlogh decided to dance to the insane tune. A few stout blows with the heavy sword easily sliced the chains away. "It's best we get off this ship at once, lest the Vikings return and catch us unawares. I mean to kill them all, if you like, you can share in the taking of vengeance?"
"Aye, aye!" Somakeld almost shouted before catching himself. "Let us arm ourselves brother, there are a few weapons about, left behind by the dead.....of which there have been many on this horrible voyage."
In short order the two Turgaslavs found swords mixed amongst several great Viking axes that lay in a makeshift armory. They naturally preferred the swords to the very heavy axe that was normally the Viking weapon of choice. After finding suitable shields, the two former slaves donned fearsome horned helmets that had lately belonged to the deceased among their captors. Then all three men quietly abandoned ship. The heavily armed companions trotted back down the beach to the west for about a half mile. Turlogh picked out a secluded hiding place where they sat down to talk of many things. The Gael was eager to hear their stories and they likewise had many questions for the somber axeman. Turlogh reached under his mail shirt and pulled out a still sizable pouch of non and a flask of gellum. "Let us refresh ourselves brothers, I think we have a few hours before they return, Viking fools are not especially good hunters I have been told."
Each of the Turgaslavs took very deep drinks from the flask. "The Gods be praised!" Declared old Hroghar. "We were near starved and haven't tasted good wine in two long years. It is excellent, although I recalled it having a different flavor somehow."
Turlogh nodded as he fired up his pipe, being careful to conceal the flame with his large hand. "Aye, everything is different here in these strange lands.....but be assured, you haven't as yet been made awares to all." The Gael smiled and sucked down a lungful of the sweet smelling herb.
"Hmmm, I think I recognize that odor," Somakeld said as he took a turn at the pipe. "I myself once found a pouch of the substance on the body of a dead Turk...unless I'm mistaken."
"The Gods be praised if it is that same good smoke!" Old Hroghar exclaimed before reaching eagerly for the pipe. Somakeld smiled before exhaling with a ragged cough...."be assured, it is the same.....what a wondrous night this has turned out to be. First we meet our long lost brother, then become free men with good swords in our hands, and tomorrow we shall have something even better.....our vengeance!"
"Aye!" Said Black Turlogh, barely concealing the slight tremble in his voice.
"Aye," Hroghar joined in. The old warrior's eyes took on a demonic gleaming. "Tomorrow will be good, good and red with bloody hate abated." Then he took another long draw from the pipe.
The heaviness that sat on Turlogh's heart at the passing of Athelstane had lifted somewhat by this second unexpected encounter. It was good to be among old friends. Very good indeed. "Now tell me how my brothers came you to fall into the hands of one-eyed Odin's cursed sons?"
Hroghar's eyes glowed even more brightly as he exhaled the powerful smoke. "I had hoped to die there in the vastness of the northern steppes where I'd lived for near to fifty mostly contented winters. Sadly, that was not to be. Our old foes the Tartars had grown more powerful than ever. We were forced to break into small bands and scatter wherever we could find refuge and grazing for the stock. To our folly, we ventured overly far to the south until one sad night a group of two hundred or more Arab slavers fell upon us. We were caught unawares but would have fought to the death but for those bastards taking the children and threatening to cut their throats if we resisted further. We had no choice but to drop our swords. Then the entire camp was herded south to the slave markets. Save for a few old ones that were left to die....including my own ancient mother!"
"That was the way of it," added Somakeld. Then Hroghar continued. "Eventually, a few of the men...including myself and Somakeld were carried to Damascus, then on to a great city called Tyre. There we were sold to these Vikings as galley slaves. In truth we were traded for a group of fair haired girls that the Norse dogs had captured somewhere...perhaps from that same great land you called Errin. There were eight of us, the others died from the hard work and harder use. For three long years we rowed aboard that accursed ship the Viking dogs called Odin's Dead Eye. Now we are free thanks to you my brother....free to fight! Even now my old arm itches to strike a blow with the strength gained from ceaseless toil at the oar."
"Aye," I too wish to strike those black hearted devils," said Somakeld while shaking his big fist and trembling with remembered hate.
"And strike you shall...as will we all," Turlogh confirmed before taking another long draw of non. He exhaled slowly, very slowly. "Those dogs killed the best weapons companion I ever had." Thus the conversation went until near dawn; and a bloody morning it promised to be.
The first creeping tendrils of new light searched out the band of Vikings. Their hunt had been successful as Oskytel One-eye had managed to bring down a wild pig with his lethal bow. The group of killers mostly huddled around a fresh made fire and awaited eagerly the long denied taste of fresh meat. It troubled them that the slaves and their guard were all gone. Perhaps the two Turgaslavs had somehow slipped their chains and Taranken had given chase. More likely someone had found the ship in the night and killed them all...and perhaps dragged the bodies away to be eaten. Who could say in these unknown waters. They had no way of knowing that Taranken was at the bottom of the bay weighed down by his own armor. Neither did they know how carefully their hidden foes had covered up the blood stains. Gothrun the Tall had decided to sail away as soon as they'd feasted on the pig. They had found enough water but there was no choice but to suffer the pain in their stomachs until safer land was found. For this reason Gothrun did not begrudge them a few minutes to gorge on the pig, for who could say when they'd eat again? Still, to linger here much longer likely meant certain death at the hands of giants or some savage cannibal tribe. All were agreed that they should eat rapidly, then cast off. Perhaps, Taranken might return by then..if not, to bad for him. As they watched the pig slowly roast, their eyes oftentimes darted into the thick undergrowth that surrounded them. They were hardly a relaxed lot. Still...the roasting flesh of the animal soon sent wisps of a maddeningly sweet aroma into the nostrils of the near starved reavers.
Oskytel One-eye sat a little apart from the others. He sat and did some minor repairs to his bow and looked to his quiver of deadly arrows. The bowman's concentration was such that he paid little heed to his surroundings. Besides, he wasn't the kind of man who feared much of anything at all. Even a giant could be killed by a poisoned arrow he reckoned, and that Saxon fool Athelstane was surely dead by now. Oskytel smiled at the thought for he knew his shaft had struck home. There was a hint of a twinkle in the Viking's one good eye. Then he heard the voice that spoke barely above a whisper. "Oskytel," was all it said.
Startled, the Viking said nothing but turned quickly. There he saw a vision that made his blood run cold with dread. Turlogh Dubh O'Brein stood silent as death in his black mail. The great broadsword that had once belonged to Athelstane was raised high in the air. "Time to die you fool," Turlogh said, even as the blade descended to strike off Oskytel's head, giving it cause to fly several feet and bounce in the sand. The single good eye blinked once and was still.
"By Odin's drunken hate...its Turlogh Dubh!" Shouted one of the Norsemen and they all rose up as one with axes in hand. Oskytel's severed head had rolled very near. That was the least of their concerns as Black Turlogh loosened one of the dead man's arrows. He was not a great archer but the missile flew straight and buried in the chest of a stunned, red faced warrior. He fell in his death throes even as the Gael threw the bow aside were it lay beside the discarded sword of Athelstane. Now his strong right hand was filled with the axe....a sight well familiar to the enraged Vikings as they rushed to meet their much hated foe of old.
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It had been a long day with much activity. Turlogh decided against a fire, therefore their supper had consisted of some dried fish and more gellum. The warrior did not partake of additional non. It was best to be alert, thus a clear head was required. Shortly after arriving, Turlogh had detected a subtle change in Theasmina. The return to a land of bad memories had affected her noticeably. She would glance about, apprehension expressed clearly in her lovely eyes. The girl spoke in short direct phrases, no more of the childish ramblings that had charmed the Gael during their voyage. The temperature on the island grew much colder after sundown. It promised to be a hard night without the benefit of fire. They made their camp in a small clearing where there was a good bit of light supplied by the nearly full moon.
Theasmina asked for non and Turlogh oblidged her, but he took none for himself. The herb eased some of the girl's anxieties and presently she became somewhat more talkative. The warrior had thought that perhaps more lovemaking might occur during the long night but he didn't press the issue. Turlogh was not a man who thought of little else other than his urges. "What can you tell me about these giants that populate the island?" The Dalcassian asked his pretty companion as she combed her lovely dark hair.
"They are hateful monsters," Theasmina replied. "They are as tall as a house and feed on human flesh among other depraved leanings. Still, we are safe here for they never venture very close to the sea. The ocean is the only thing more vast than they and for that reason they hate it with great passion. It is even said they fear the sea because it is the witches that gave birth to them often tell their children tales of vile sea serpents that will swallow them hole should they play to close to the shore." Theasmina smiled before continuing, "despite their massive size, the giants are truly cowards. My father said they dread the thought of encountering anything or anyone that isn't frightened to death of them. "
"I see," said Turlogh. "If ever I meet a giant face to face we shall see if it's possible to carve them down to size with the unafraid steel of my good axe."
This pleased Theasmina and she giggled slightly. "I feel safe with you Great Turlogh."
"Good," replied the dark warrior. "Perhaps we should try to sleep now. If we are to scale yon mountain it be best that we are fully rested....to the highest degree that we can manage here anyhows."
That night the girl slept curled in the warrior's arms, her blanket stretched tightly over their slumbering bodies. All things considered, they rested reasonably well.
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The morning that followed was a cold one. The warm weather that blessed Torn was apparently not often in evidence on the The Mountain of Wonders. Turlogh was very well acquainted with the cold and damp of Errin but even he felt an uncomfortable shiver. Against his better judgment he started a fire. Perhaps he had gotten soft on Torn but his stomach desired hot food, and his bones demanded a degree of warmth. The girl left with her blanket draped about her shoulders. "The spring is near here," she said. "I will fetch us some fresh water." Turlogh nodded and sat down to arrange his thoughts, ever keeping a close eye on the large bag of precious green gems tied to his belt. With such a treasure he could scarce afford to trust anyone. Yea, even his lovely guide might be tempted by wealth such as this. Still, the warrior was certain the girl didn't know of the precious contents in the bag the Gael guarded so closely. However, she might be curious, and if she asked him what he carried....how should he respond? Turlogh angered himself for dwelling on such foolishness, he was reminded of what a sweet and gentle lass Theasmina was and nothing more. That darkness that plagued the heart of the somber warrior had been well earned by a life of intrigue and war.
The Gael was musing in this fashion when a jarring shout assailed his ears. It was Theasmina calling for him in a very excited tone of voice. He jumped to his feet just as the girl reappeared suddenly. "Turlogh, come quickly, there is a man sleeping near the spring....and he is a fearsome warrior indeed!"
"Lower you voice girl, lest you arouse him, if you haven't already," Turlogh urged. "Now lead me to him, and quietly my darling lass."
Theasmina fell silent before taking the warrior's arm in her trembling hand. She led him to a barely visible path that had most likely been worn down by animals seeking the spring. They walked for perhaps two-tenths of a mile before the woman stopped and pointed. She whispered to the Gael, "look, he's just over there, you can see his great feet just now."
"Stay here for the time being," Turlogh said before continuing down the path, silent as a stalking panther. First he glimpsed the feet and very soon the entire man was visible, and indeed he appeared to be sleeping. The Gael could plainly see the man was huge, obviously one of the giants. The dark warrior raised his axe, and thus poised to attack he crept closer.
At this point it seemed to the Gael that the man, or giant, was breathing in a most labored way. If he was sleeping, then surely he was gripped by a fearsome dream. With muscles tensed to strike, the anxious Turlogh moved even closer until he stood almost directly over the prone warrior. The sparkling spring happily bubbled its pleasing waters within a few feet of the hulking figure. A great broadsword lay across the torso of the man, the Gael studied it for several moments. Could it be there was some hint of recognition in the eyes of the dark Dalcassian? What was it about that sword?
Lastly, Turlogh's eyes moved to the face of the slumbering giant. It was then that he received a shock of epic proportions. The face was ashen and fixed with an expression of great pain. The eyes were tightly shut but there was no mistaking who this face belonged to....incredible though the thought that such a thing could be...and how?! The warrior lying there was the one called Athelstane the Saxon. And none other!
"Athelstane my brother, how can it be that I should find your great bulk slumbering here on this unknown land?" Turlogh raised the question, still in a state of semi-disbelief.
The giant only groaned slightly and his eyelids fluttered just a bit. "Athelstane!" Turlogh exclaimed more loudly. "What has befallen you brother, a warrior does not sleep so soundly with the threat always of enemies a'roaming about."
The large man's gray eyes opened slowly. They stared at Turlogh with confusion at first. "By all the Gods! Is that you Turlogh Dubh O'Brien....and there's your thirsty axe. Answer me, are you man, ghost, or the last vision of a fevered brain?"
Sensing something was very wrong, Turlogh leaned closer to the Saxon. "What ails ye man, aye, it is I and no other. It's a wondrous surprise to find you here Athelstane, it appears you have a tale for your old weapons companion."
The Saxon placed his hand upon Turlogh's wrist. He squeezed somewhat feebly as if he still wasn't quite convinced the Gael was in the flesh.
"Yes, I have a tale, and it's the tale of how I came here to die....for death sits heavily on my shoulder. I'm not afraid, my life has been long and lusty. Many are the foes I have sent to the next world, an ocean of good ale I have drank, and many a fine lass have warmed my bed. Do you recall, Black Turlogh, a viking ship that chased you far out to sea until a great storm came to engulf us all?"
"Yes, I recall, were you on that ship?" Turlogh asked.
"Aye, I was.....I had an urge to go a'reaving and as you well know I'm not above sailing with a horde of bloodthirsty Vikings, if no better opportunity is at hand. The ship belonged to that blackheart, Halpin Bear's Bane." Athelstane's voice trailed off.
"Quck, Theasmina, fetch the gellum," Turlogh urged and the girl sped away. The hasty lass returned within minutes and Turlogh lifted the head of the Saxon. "Drink this, its an odd but tasty wine."
Athelstane took a manly swig of the blue fluid and smacked his lips in appreciation. Then he took another good drink before pushing the animal hide flask away. Still, his eyes flashed a little brighter and he struggled to smile a bit. "Aye, it is tasty, and warms my belly....but save the rest for the living my friend."
Despite his attempt at restraint, Turlogh gently admonished his friend. "Why in the name of the Gods did you once again go a'reaving with those cursed vikings? Would that you had sought me out instead."
"I did search for you but my patience is not great. If I was a farmer, I would farm, if I was a beggar, then I would beg....but I am a reaver. I apologize for nothing, but my heart sank when those dogs spotted your little craft and gave pursuit. You are not a hard man to recognize my friend....and what Viking doesn't hate you? There was nothing I could do but watch, it was fifty strong men against one. Still, I was prepared to die fighting at your side when the time came. Of course, it was then that the storm came to wreck the plans of that fool Halpin. Nine of the Vikings were washed overboard including Halpin Bear's Bane and the navigator. At last, we found ourselves hopelessly lost."
Turlogh nodded, "yes, the same thing happened to me. That storm was one sent from the maelstrom of blackest hell. But please continue."
"At last we made land many day's journey to the south of here. We found a tribe of dark skinned savages there. At first they tolerated us reasonably well...probably out of base curiosity. But then those fool Norsemen began abusing the women thereabouts." Athelstane shook his great head as he recalled what happened afterwards. "Those fierce devils attacked us and killed half our number. The rest barely escaped in the ship but there was very little water or food aboard. We had hard sailing for five or six days until we found this accursed, cold land."
"Those same dark skinned warriors likely attacked the island of Torn where I made land," Turlogh said. "Now I understand why, they were searching for those accursed Vikings. The ones that struck us found death instead I'm happy to relate to you."
"Good, good!" Athelstane chuckled. "I am glad that I could send something to quench the thirst of that terrible axe or yours." Then the Saxon groaned and his face grew more ashen. Despite the obvious pain he continued his tale with effort.
"We made land here and went inland searching for water, meat, and whatever else we could plunder...naturally. After a few hours tramp we were set upon by strange warriors led by several fearsome giants. Ten Vikings were killed before we managed to flee back to the ship. Strangely the horde did not follow us there."
"It is said the giants fear the sea. Perhaps that is why they stopped their pursuit. Are they really as large as it be said...are they bigger men than you my friend." The Gael asked because Athelstane was a giant in his own right being six and a half feet tall.
"Aye, Turlogh, they were a full head taller than I, perhaps more. We fled from them and their monstrous clubs that sent men's bodies sailing off through the trees! After we regrouped near the shore I quarreled with Gothrun the Tall who now leads the Norse dogs. I swore an oath to slay him before I'd take another order from that fool. I killed three of the Norse dogs before that treacherous Oskytel One-eye shot me with an arrow...an arrow set with poisonous snake venom. There are no shortage of vile serpents on this accursed island...both them that crawl and them that walk upright! At once I felt the poison weakening me, I raced away in the darkness. Somehow I stumbled across this little spring. I decided this was as good a place as any to die, for at least there was fresh water to sip. And that is my tale, but I am honored to have one such as you to tell it to. At first, when I saw you, I hoped that I had died already and you had come to lead me through the land of the dead..having died in the storm I reckoned. Nonetheless, it is good that you are alive and well....very good indeed, for many reasons."
Turlogh glanced down at the Saxon's right foot. It was swollen and black, the bull hide sandal had been kicked away. The Gael saw the broken shaft of an arrow protruding just above the ankle. His heart went out to Athelstane.
"Don't fear, a mere day's sail south of here is the island of Torn. There is a great healer there named Zzthethpezemos. He cured young Brenne Mac Art who was severely addled by a blow to the head and he can save you as well. We will leave at once, Zzthethpezemos sent me here to seek out a magic bird and the witch that owns it but that can wait."
"Nay, nay, give pause good Turlogh. My time is measured not in days nor even a day. I am content to die here, for certain I cannot tolerate being moved. I am not afraid....just grateful to see you again...and your fair lass. Just let me rest here my friend."
Turlogh felt great frustration at his helplessness. "Is there anything at all I can do for you...any last request, or something to make you more comfortable?"
"Truthfully, I was hoping you would ask. Yea, I have two requests," Athelstane said.
"Ask, I am your slave," replied Turlogh anxiously, his distress etched plainly upon the strong Gaelic features.
"I want a warrior's funeral my friend, but most of all.....I want vengeance!"
A terrible dark smile crossed the features of the brooding Gael. "Have no concerns on that account, I swear by this axe that no Viking will leave this island with his head on his shoulders. This strange shore shall quench its thirst on their blood and they will accompany you to the land of the dead, as lowly galley slaves!"
"Aye," the Saxon spoke with eyes that burned momentarily with the fire of old. "Now I can die with great joy! Still, you have reminded me of something. Something that might be of aid to you. Chained day and night aboard the cursed ship of the Norse dogs are two galley slaves. They have the look of warriors about them. Free them and I wager they would be more than happy to strike at their masters. There are eleven vikings yet alive and although they be worthless scum...when it comes to weapons play, they are men. They are led by Gothrun, that bastard Oskytel, and his brother Anwiund the Bloody. Beware of that one my dark friend!" Athelstane coughed up bile and closed his eyes tightly.
"A wise man refuses no good ally during time of war. Tell me where the Viking ship is located? Asked Turlogh.
Athelstane had regathered himself enough to continue. "I would guess its lies about an hour's journey by foot along the shore to the east. Wait until darkness, that dog Gothrun plans to sneak inland at night to search for game. Perhaps you can surprise them upon their return. That will give you ample time to plan your attack. They have weapons aboard ship that the slaves can arm themselves with."
"That is a wise plan, I shall wait here until darkness...we can talk old friend. But fret not your weary head with thoughts vengeance.....It shall be yours! Besides, I have sworn to kill Vikings wherever I can find them."
"Aye," said Athelstane. "And perhaps another sip of that strange wine might serve after all."
Thus the two old friends sat and drank..and talked. They talked of a great many things, deeds, friendships, and old foes. Theasmina looked on silently, and followed the talk as best she could, not knowing the language but watching the men's eyes. Occasionally, Turlogh would explain a little of the conversation to her. Then, when the sun began to cast long shadows amongst the trees....the Saxon left this world. Truly let it be said, no man ever lived that lived better. And let it be said that he died well, of a wound received in battle. And what better can be said of a man?
Black Turlogh sat there for a long time in silence. Then his features grew darker even more so than before, and hard as the great broadsword that lay across the huge Saxon's chest. With great care and the utmost respect Turlogh took the sword from the hand of the dead man.
"It is only right that this sword drink the blood of him that killed its master." Then the Gael turned and walked away with sword and axe in hand....giving little hint of the berserker madness that boiled just underneath his trembling skin. Athelstane's last words had been...."slay Oskytel first!" It would be done. Thus the oath was made by Turlogh Dubh of the Clan na O'Brien.
Turlogh Dubh O'Brien requested Theasmina to remain behind. A battle was no place for a sweet lass. She could make certain that no animal came to mutilate the Saxon's body. Her eyes told Turlogh to not go but wisely her voice was silent. The warrior brought forth his black mail, stout buckler, and visorless helmet from the boat. Swiftly the armor was donned and he set forth down the beach in an easternly direction. The Gael moved with great strides, full of purpose. Turlogh's mind was clear and uncluttered by thought. There was killing to be done, and that was he whole of it.
Athelstane's directions were sound. After slightly less than an hour of steady walking the Gael spotted another concealed harbor. It was much like the one where his own boat was anchored, well hidden by lush plant growth. On his left arm Turlogh wore his buckler with its deadly spike in the center. For the time being, the fearsome axe was also carried in his left hand. In his right hand was the great broadsword of the fallen Saxon. Despite its heavy weight and long length the Gael carried it with ease.
With panther like stealth and silence, the somber warrior slipped cautiously through the undergrowth until his sandaled feet felt clean sand once again. There was the ship at last, and a cursed sight it was for the Gael. However, an odd thought flitted through the dark Dalcassian's mind at that instant. Were it not for that same ship, framed so terribly in the pale moonlight, Turlogh would have never came to know the children of Zzthethpezemos....or Terrilara, his beloved. The warrior shook his head slightly to put all thoughts away....save those of red murder. The mysteries of fate were beyond all save the Druids and their dark art.
There was a figure there beneath the ghostly light of the moon. A sentry, and only one. The man was more asleep than awake as he teetered back and forth while leaning heavily on a javelin. No doubt the fool would have sat down were he not afraid Gothrun would return suddenly and find him sound asleep. At least while he yet stood there was some pretense of watchfulness. The gentle crashing of the ocean surf was more than adequate to conceal any slight noise made by the doom that approached the slumpering man from the west. Perhaps at some other time the Gael would have challenged the Viking and given him a proper chance to defend himself. This was not to be one of those times. A somewhat rude tap on the shoulder aroused the drowsy sentry. He turned just in time to see a vision straight from his worst nightmare. The heavily armed Gael stood unspeaking like a phantom from hell. The hapless sentry opened his mouth as if to shout a warning but the giant sword was already on the downswing. The blade entered at the neck and ripped down to the sternum. The Norseman dropped, managing only a gurgling gasp. He was dead and awash in his own blood before he struck the beach. There he lay, covered by dark redness, a stark contrast to the white sand in the ominous bleeding pale light of night. Turlogh stared for a few moments at the dead man. He felt....nothing. Quickly he crouched and his bright eyes surveyed the surroundings for any sign of other foes. The dark Gael stood thusly for several minutes. Finally satisfied, he waded into the waters of the bay. Few men could have hoisted themselves up into the ship while weighed down with full mail and weapons...but Turlogh did so with only passing strain. With a heavy thud he fell into the feared ship of reaving.....savoring for a moment the feel of a grand sailing vessel under his feet. For more than a short while the Gael had himself been a captain. His ship was not unlike this one and it had been called Crom's Hate. Turlogh smiled slightly at the memory. Unfortunately, he also recalled losing that same ship in a battle to the death with other Vikings. Both ships had sank and as far as he knew, none but himself had survived.
"Who's there?" Came the sound of a anxious voice. The question was asked in a tongue very strange and foreign to Turlogh, but amazingly it was a tongue he had heard before and could speak himself. Turlogh answered with a low but distinct tone. He used the same strange tongue. "Are you the galley slaves, answer me and be quick about it!"
Even Turlogh had trouble making out the figures near the back of the ship, they moved slightly and the one spoke again. "Aye we are cursed to be chained here like dogs and serve as slaves. But who are you? I see no great horns on that helmet of yours...though it does seem somehow familiar." At that point a lower, more mature voice spoke....the tone was deep and rumbling as if coming from a mighty chest. "Yes, I can see enough in this light to tell you are no Viking....I suppose those fools are dead by now and you've come to add us to your depraved cannibal's feast. Still, I must be going mad for you appear to speak in our own tongue! And not a one of the Vikings could do that, what is this strange land? Is that not so much to ask from helpless, well bound men you have doubtless come to murder?"
Turlogh realized from his own travels that various languages, as people traveled from place to place, could at times become common in a land far from their origin, but this odd situation was quite unaccounted for. With great stealth he worked his way back the length of the ship, occasionally glancing quickly and cautiously in the direction of the shoreline. "Be still as I approach. I have not come here to do you harm. At least not yet. Still, there is a mystery here I am thinking."
The two men did as they were told, being chained and helpless, there was little else they could do. Within seconds the Gael stood over them, at first he only saw two typical galley slaves. They were dressed in rags, their hair was unkempt, long ragged beards lay against their chests, the muscles in their arms were large and knotted from the rowing even as their bodies were otherwise near to skin and bone. Both had very light hair, though truly one was from age. Their eyes were gray in color and bright, they stared in abject amazement at the fierce figure that loomed so large there in the moonlight.
"I am a dead man. This is no strange island, it is an illusion. I am dead and meeting the ghosts from my past here in the land of the dead. Somakeld! Are you still with me man? Speak if you live yet! I am dead or dreaming for that warrior there has the appearance of that same blood-brother of old....Black Turlogh Dubh O'Brien!" The younger man said nothing but his eyes were wide in astonishment. His head trembled slightly beneath a head of unruly flaxen hair. Truly let it be said the man was dumbstruck.
Soon the galley slave was not alone in his amazement. A shock of realization gripped Turlogh. It was impossible, but unless he was mad he saw what he saw. "Somakeld......by the Gods!!!! Somakeld and Hroghar Skeld? Am I mad, is it truly you my Turgaslav brothers from the northern steppes?"
The older, white headed man nodded...."Aye it is we....but...first tell me, am I dead,...or dreaming perchance?"
Turlogh shook his head....he was almost overwhelmed by astonishment. This island was called the Mountain of Wonders for good reason. Nothing that happened here was not a wonder....truly the Gael must have entered a realm of the great mystical. "It is I, Turlogh Dubh of the clan na O'Brien, I was chased into these strange lands by this same ship many weeks ago. But how is it that you two have come here to be abused thusly so far away from your ancestral homeland?"
The one called Somakeld finally found his voice..albeit cracking a bit. "If truly you are my brother Turlogh Dubh O'Brien and not some ghost...and we are not already dead. Perhaps you might free us brother from these cursed chains so that we might feel somewhat more like living men. Look Hroghar, there is the axe that we have seen at its bloody work...truly it is our brother!"
"Well, I'm not a ghost," Turlogh said. "And I doubt that you are because there was a sentry back there who bled like a man when I struck him a good blow with this same great sword."
"I recognize that sword, it belonged to the one called Athelstane. Did you kill that great giant also my spirit brother?" Hroghar asked, still unbelieving.
"No, that man was my friend and brother despite being in the company of the cursed Vikings. I came here to kill those that treacherously slew him. It was he that told me of you...although I would have never guessed who you were..or appear to be...I'm not altogether certain there isn't some sorcery afoot here....still....what games the Gods play on we fools that are called men!"
"Truly we are who we are, free us brother!" Some of the fire and authority had returned to the old chieftains voice. If this was madness, Turlogh decided to dance to the insane tune. A few stout blows with the heavy sword easily sliced the chains away. "It's best we get off this ship at once, lest the Vikings return and catch us unawares. I mean to kill them all, if you like, you can share in the taking of vengeance?"
"Aye, aye!" Somakeld almost shouted before catching himself. "Let us arm ourselves brother, there are a few weapons about, left behind by the dead.....of which there have been many on this horrible voyage."
In short order the two Turgaslavs found swords mixed amongst several great Viking axes that lay in a makeshift armory. They naturally preferred the swords to the very heavy axe that was normally the Viking weapon of choice. After finding suitable shields, the two former slaves donned fearsome horned helmets that had lately belonged to the deceased among their captors. Then all three men quietly abandoned ship. The heavily armed companions trotted back down the beach to the west for about a half mile. Turlogh picked out a secluded hiding place where they sat down to talk of many things. The Gael was eager to hear their stories and they likewise had many questions for the somber axeman. Turlogh reached under his mail shirt and pulled out a still sizable pouch of non and a flask of gellum. "Let us refresh ourselves brothers, I think we have a few hours before they return, Viking fools are not especially good hunters I have been told."
Each of the Turgaslavs took very deep drinks from the flask. "The Gods be praised!" Declared old Hroghar. "We were near starved and haven't tasted good wine in two long years. It is excellent, although I recalled it having a different flavor somehow."
Turlogh nodded as he fired up his pipe, being careful to conceal the flame with his large hand. "Aye, everything is different here in these strange lands.....but be assured, you haven't as yet been made awares to all." The Gael smiled and sucked down a lungful of the sweet smelling herb.
"Hmmm, I think I recognize that odor," Somakeld said as he took a turn at the pipe. "I myself once found a pouch of the substance on the body of a dead Turk...unless I'm mistaken."
"The Gods be praised if it is that same good smoke!" Old Hroghar exclaimed before reaching eagerly for the pipe. Somakeld smiled before exhaling with a ragged cough...."be assured, it is the same.....what a wondrous night this has turned out to be. First we meet our long lost brother, then become free men with good swords in our hands, and tomorrow we shall have something even better.....our vengeance!"
"Aye!" Said Black Turlogh, barely concealing the slight tremble in his voice.
"Aye," Hroghar joined in. The old warrior's eyes took on a demonic gleaming. "Tomorrow will be good, good and red with bloody hate abated." Then he took another long draw from the pipe.
The heaviness that sat on Turlogh's heart at the passing of Athelstane had lifted somewhat by this second unexpected encounter. It was good to be among old friends. Very good indeed. "Now tell me how my brothers came you to fall into the hands of one-eyed Odin's cursed sons?"
Hroghar's eyes glowed even more brightly as he exhaled the powerful smoke. "I had hoped to die there in the vastness of the northern steppes where I'd lived for near to fifty mostly contented winters. Sadly, that was not to be. Our old foes the Tartars had grown more powerful than ever. We were forced to break into small bands and scatter wherever we could find refuge and grazing for the stock. To our folly, we ventured overly far to the south until one sad night a group of two hundred or more Arab slavers fell upon us. We were caught unawares but would have fought to the death but for those bastards taking the children and threatening to cut their throats if we resisted further. We had no choice but to drop our swords. Then the entire camp was herded south to the slave markets. Save for a few old ones that were left to die....including my own ancient mother!"
"That was the way of it," added Somakeld. Then Hroghar continued. "Eventually, a few of the men...including myself and Somakeld were carried to Damascus, then on to a great city called Tyre. There we were sold to these Vikings as galley slaves. In truth we were traded for a group of fair haired girls that the Norse dogs had captured somewhere...perhaps from that same great land you called Errin. There were eight of us, the others died from the hard work and harder use. For three long years we rowed aboard that accursed ship the Viking dogs called Odin's Dead Eye. Now we are free thanks to you my brother....free to fight! Even now my old arm itches to strike a blow with the strength gained from ceaseless toil at the oar."
"Aye," I too wish to strike those black hearted devils," said Somakeld while shaking his big fist and trembling with remembered hate.
"And strike you shall...as will we all," Turlogh confirmed before taking another long draw of non. He exhaled slowly, very slowly. "Those dogs killed the best weapons companion I ever had." Thus the conversation went until near dawn; and a bloody morning it promised to be.
The first creeping tendrils of new light searched out the band of Vikings. Their hunt had been successful as Oskytel One-eye had managed to bring down a wild pig with his lethal bow. The group of killers mostly huddled around a fresh made fire and awaited eagerly the long denied taste of fresh meat. It troubled them that the slaves and their guard were all gone. Perhaps the two Turgaslavs had somehow slipped their chains and Taranken had given chase. More likely someone had found the ship in the night and killed them all...and perhaps dragged the bodies away to be eaten. Who could say in these unknown waters. They had no way of knowing that Taranken was at the bottom of the bay weighed down by his own armor. Neither did they know how carefully their hidden foes had covered up the blood stains. Gothrun the Tall had decided to sail away as soon as they'd feasted on the pig. They had found enough water but there was no choice but to suffer the pain in their stomachs until safer land was found. For this reason Gothrun did not begrudge them a few minutes to gorge on the pig, for who could say when they'd eat again? Still, to linger here much longer likely meant certain death at the hands of giants or some savage cannibal tribe. All were agreed that they should eat rapidly, then cast off. Perhaps, Taranken might return by then..if not, to bad for him. As they watched the pig slowly roast, their eyes oftentimes darted into the thick undergrowth that surrounded them. They were hardly a relaxed lot. Still...the roasting flesh of the animal soon sent wisps of a maddeningly sweet aroma into the nostrils of the near starved reavers.
Oskytel One-eye sat a little apart from the others. He sat and did some minor repairs to his bow and looked to his quiver of deadly arrows. The bowman's concentration was such that he paid little heed to his surroundings. Besides, he wasn't the kind of man who feared much of anything at all. Even a giant could be killed by a poisoned arrow he reckoned, and that Saxon fool Athelstane was surely dead by now. Oskytel smiled at the thought for he knew his shaft had struck home. There was a hint of a twinkle in the Viking's one good eye. Then he heard the voice that spoke barely above a whisper. "Oskytel," was all it said.
Startled, the Viking said nothing but turned quickly. There he saw a vision that made his blood run cold with dread. Turlogh Dubh O'Brein stood silent as death in his black mail. The great broadsword that had once belonged to Athelstane was raised high in the air. "Time to die you fool," Turlogh said, even as the blade descended to strike off Oskytel's head, giving it cause to fly several feet and bounce in the sand. The single good eye blinked once and was still.
"By Odin's drunken hate...its Turlogh Dubh!" Shouted one of the Norsemen and they all rose up as one with axes in hand. Oskytel's severed head had rolled very near. That was the least of their concerns as Black Turlogh loosened one of the dead man's arrows. He was not a great archer but the missile flew straight and buried in the chest of a stunned, red faced warrior. He fell in his death throes even as the Gael threw the bow aside were it lay beside the discarded sword of Athelstane. Now his strong right hand was filled with the axe....a sight well familiar to the enraged Vikings as they rushed to meet their much hated foe of old.
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