Atlantis: Bermuda Triangle Page 10

  After that raid, though, Ragnarok had had enough of working for someone else. The ransoms were rich indeed, but the amount that trickled down to the ship captains that made up those large fleets made it hardly worth the time or risk. The following year, Ragnarok began sailing on his own and waging trade not war. He found a lucrative business plying between Greenland, Iceland and Scandinavia with a few essential goods. Not that he wasn’t averse to taking down a ship or isolated village if the opportunity presented itself.

  Ragnarok was opportunistic and meeting Tam Nok had fueled his interest. However, Ragnarok knew little more than he had two days ago when he had first met the strange woman. She kept to herself, a difficult task on such a small ship with a crew of thirty men crowded on board. But the fact that the crew viewed her as a Disir, a holy woman, helped considerably. There was also Ragnarok’s glower if any of the men came too close to the woman.

  The men were happy that they had earned more than enough for the season from Tam Nok’ gold and jewels. Ragnarok knew there were some who would not even want to make the originally planned trading trip to Iceland after they parted ways with Tam Nok. They viewed running into the Disir as a mixed blessing. Duartr had been killed, his body not given a proper burial, left for the Valkyries to feast on. And Thorlak had been taken away into the darkness-- and he had been a popular shipmate. On the other side of the sword blade, they had already earned more money than they had expected for the season.

  The stakes were raised a little higher early in the morning when Tam Nok made the announcement that England was too general a destination. She needed to be escorted to a certain point-- in middle of the Salisbury Plain, over thirty miles inland from the south coast of the island, due north from the Isle of Wight.

  Being on the sea was one thing, but a Viking warrior on land, far from his boat, was like a fish kept out of water too long. Tam Nok had solved Ragnarok’s hesitation with another leather purse of gold.

  In addition to the pending land journey, that act made Ragnarok’s uneasy. About half of his crew were old hands, men he had known for years. But the others, 16 of the 30, were men who had signed on for the first time this spring. Recruited from villages along the coast, they were outcasts simply for the fact they were willing to leave their clans and villages behind.

  The first bag of gold hand been like the scent of meat to a hungry dog. The second was blood on the snow, a trail leading them to want to slake their hunger even more. Still, Vikings respected their Gods and their women and Ragnarok hoped those dual loyalties would keep the crew in check.

  His crew, like him, were mostly men without homes. For various reasons they all had no place to go other than the ship. For some it was a case of being outlawed and banished. For others, feuds in their home villages had made staying impossible. A few, like Hrolf, Bjarni and Askell, were from the same village as Ragnarok and when he left, they went with him out of loyalty.

  Ragnarok planned to return home one day and claim what was rightfully his, but he knew that he needed more power in order to do that. Revenge burned in his heart, a simmering heat that he lit only to aid his battle-lust and tried to avoid at all other times. Betrayal and treachery had cost him everything he held dear other than his ship and his close companions and he planned to repay that treachery threefold. It was a topic he rarely spoke about, not even with those who knew what had happened to his family, but it had molded him into the leader he was, one who believed loyalty was the paramount virtue of a warrior.

  The sun was low over the land off their starboard bow, but Ragnarok planned on sailing through the night. He had let Bjarni-the-Farsighted sleep during the day and the experienced helmsman would take them through the sand bars off the southeast corner of England and past the white cliffs. Although they had only sailed through the English Channel four times before, Ragnarok trusted Bjarni to be able to do it, even in the dark. The man had an incredible memory-- if he’d sailed someplace only once, he remembered it as if it were a daily route.

  There was more danger in the channel, as the Saxon pigs were better organized the further south one went. There was even a king in London who claimed much of the island as his own. The king’s ships might not be as fearful of a lone Viking wolf prowling through their waters. Another reason to continue on through the night.

  Tam Nok was tucked under the forward most-- and narrowest-- bench, the cloak pulled around her, the hood over her face. Ragnarok was in the rear, his back against the side of the longship, a knife in his hand as he carved a long, thick stake of oak. He wanted a new haft ready. He planned to find a metal worker in England to make him a new head for another war ax.

  He had a sword, the one his father had wielded, but Ragnarok preferred the power of the ax to the sharpness of the sword. He was also proficient with spear and bow, but used those mostly to hunt, not for battle. He had men on board who were designated bowmen. Their job was to give a long distance punch to the ship, but Ragnarok knew a leader’s place was always in the forefront and using an ax had allowed him to break through several shield-walls and lead his men to victory.

  When it became too dark to work, he stood next to Bjarni for a while. The shore to the west was so faint in the darkness there were many times Ragnarok could not see it, but Bjarni was steady on the rudder till.

  Hrolf joined them, the three most experienced members of the crew now together around the rudder block.

  “We will not be the first ship to arrive in Iceland this spring,” Hrolf noted.

  “We’ve made more than enough to make up for that,” Ragnarok said.

  “Enough to make up for Duartr being dead?” Hrolf asked.

  “He would be dead whether we were heading for Iceland or England,” Ragnarok said.

  “And abandoning Thorlak?” Hrolf was the only man on board who would dare say that.

  “What should I have done?” Ragnarok asked. “Flown after the Valkyrie bitch on my wings?”

  “I think you trust this woman too much,” Hrolf said. “Perhaps she lured Duartr onto the beach in the fjord. All this talk of Gods and Valkyries and weapons--” Hrolf spit over the side of the boat.

  “She was not near the beach when I went ashore,” Ragnarok said. “She was climbing down the rocks. One of those strange beasts got to Duartr in the dark. And it is not a question of whether I trust this woman. It is a risk, but if this weapon she speaks of exists, it must be very powerful.”

  There was only the sound of the sail taking the wind and the water against the hull for a several minutes.

  “You think we might be able to return home?” Bjarni finally asked.

  “If the weapon is powerful enough,” Ragnarok said, “it might be possible.”

  “This is our home,” Hrolf said, slapping a callused hand on the side of the boat. “This is your home,” the old warrior continued. “Even if you went back, you would return to the sea as quickly as you could. This is what you know and what you love. It isn’t about going home for you, my friend, it is about vengeance.”

  “So it is,” Ragnarok agreed, surprised at what amounted to a speech for Hrolf. “And what is wrong with that?”

  “Nothing,” Hrolf said, “except vengeance for you springs out of loyalty and I would recommend you consider how much your desire to revenge the dead will hurt those who are still living and loyal to you.” Hrolf pulled his cloak tight around his broad shoulders. “I am tired and the words come out without thought. I must sleep.” He climbed over the bench and made his way to his place.

  Ragnarok glanced at Bjarni in the twilight. The navigator had said nothing, his eyes focused ahead, turning to the right every so often to check the coastline that was sliding by.

  “Do you want to go home?” Ragnarok asked him.

  Bjarni’s hands were steady on the tiller, so solid it was difficult to tell where the wood ended on the flesh began. “As Hrolf said, this ship is my home. We are here with you because our families are dead and we were loyal to your father and we are loyal to you.”<
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  “But vengeance--” Ragnarok began, but Bjarni’s low voice interrupted.

  “My Captain, we can spend the rest of our lives seeking vengeance. And if we achieve it, will not those we achieve it on have someone in their family seek vengeance on us? When does it end?”

  “Ah--” Ragnarok spit over the side of the boat. “You old men have gotten soft.”

  “That may well be,” Bjarni agreed.

  “I am going to sleep.” Ragnarok lay down pulling his blankets tight around his body.

  He woke to the not so gentle nudge of Bjarni’s boot in his chest. Ragnarok rolled to his knees, looking in the direction the dark silhouette of Bjarni pointed. Someone was moving forward along the left side of the ship, a dark lump barely visible against the almost pitch black night sky. Ragnarok got to his feet, pulling his sword out of its scabbard.

  Ragnarok dropped all pretense at stealth as there was a flash of metal from the dark form-- an upraised knife. Ragnarok sprinted down the ship, leaping benches and bodies. The knife struck downward near the first bench. Sparks flew as it hit metal coming up.

  Ragnarok roared a battle cry, leaping the next to last bench, then came to a complete halt. Tam Nok was on her feet, parrying the next thrust of the would-be murderer with her long knife. She spun, almost faster than Ragnarok could follow and he heard the thud of her knife striking home in the man’s chest. The man staggered back, hands groping for the blade. Ragnarok grabbed him and pulled him backwards, hearing the man’s spine crack as he thrust his knee into the man’s back.

  By the faint light he could finally see the face. It was Eric Thorren, one of the men who had just signed on two weeks previously. The light faded from Thorren’s eyes and the body went slack in Ragnarok’s hands. He dumped it to the floor, then stepped over it.

  “Are you all right?”

  Tam Nok knelt down and pulled her blade out of Thorren’s chest, wiping the metal clean on his cloak before sliding it into the sheath. “I am fine,” she said.

  “He was a new man,” Ragnarok explained. “He wanted your money-- then he would jump overboard and swim for shore. We wouldn’t be able to follow with the ship in the dark as there are many sandbars. I will--”

  “I don’t need explanations,” Tam Nok settled back down in her place under the forward bench, pulling her hood over her face once more. “I just need you to get me where I want to go.”

  Ragnarok bit back his angry reply. He was mad at himself for having even tried to offer an explanation-- since when did a captain have to explain himself to a passenger and a woman at that? First Hrolf and Bjarni and now this. Things were not the way they should be.

  Ragnarok turned from her. He slid a hand inside the man’s tunic and pulled out the small leather pouch that hung there on a cord around the neck. Ragnarok opened the pouch and emptied it into his hand. A single ingot of gold fell out.

  It was Ragnarok’s gold-- a piece that he gave to every man on his crew. It was the offering to be made to Aegir’s wife. Aegir was the Norse God of the sea, and his wife controlled the entrance from the depths of the ocean to Valhalla. A good Viking captain always made sure every member of his crew had a piece of gold so that if a mishap occurred during the voyage and the man died, his body lost at sea, he would have the offering needed to cross over.

  Ragnarok put the gold piece in his own pouch, then slid Eric’s body overboard. He watched it disappear into the dark water, then stared at Tam Nok for a few seconds, before returning to his place in the rear of the boat.

  *****

  Thorlak the Hardy spit, the glob hitting the creature in front of him and slowly sliding down the white, hard face. There was no reaction to his act of defiance. The Valkyrie had been standing in front of him, not moving for hours, like a piece of stone.

  Thorlak had no idea where he was. He had vague memories of traveling through the dark fog, dangling in the creature’s claw. Then darkness. Then awakening in his present situation. Which was not good.

  His arms were pinned back on a flat vertical surface with metal clamps tight over his one hand and the stump of his other. His legs was similarly locked down. He was naked, his clothes lying a few feet away in a dirty pile. The air was strange, thick, clammy and cold on his skin. Despite that, a trickle of sweat ran down his forehead.

  The arm that had been severed had been cauterized and no blood seeped through any more. Thorlak felt weezy from the loss of blood and knew without his sword arm, Valhalla would most likely not open its doors for him. But he had to try. He could wield a sword left-handed and maybe the Gods would smile on him for fighting against such great odds.

  All he could see was the unmoving white-faced monster in front of him, the unblinking red eyes staring at him, and beyond a large cavern, the ceiling and near walls he could see, but the far wall not visible in the dim light.

  “Let me have my sword and a brave death,” Thorlak’s words echoed into silence, bringing no response. “You are pigs. Cowards.” His voice sounded weak in such a large space.

  There was movement and Thorlak squinted to see. Another Valkyrie floated into view, the bottom of the cloak just a few inches about the rock floor. It was carrying something shiny and large-- some sort of package. It placed the package on a stone table twenty feet away and swung up the lid.

  Thorlak eyes widened as the creature used it’s right hand to twist off its left arm all the way back to the elbow. It placed the removed appendage on the table and picked up something from the package. Another arm but one that did not end in the clawed hand but rather a single blade eight inches long. The red light reflected off the metal, making it appear as if already tinted with blood.

  The Valkyrie turned toward and floated over toward Thorlok, the other one finally moving, getting out of the way. Thorlak searched for more spit, but his mouth was dry. The Valkyrie stopped less than two feet away, the dead red eyes dispassionately regarding him.

  “Give me a warrior’s death!” Thorlak screamed.

  The left arm, blade on the end came forward. The tip touched him on the breastbone.

  “A sword in my hand!” Thorlak begged. “To go to Valhalla!”

  Thorlak’s breathing was very shallow-- if he took a deep breath the blade would pierce his skin. Sweat was pouring off his forehead, trickling down his naked flesh.

  The second Valkyrie reappeared carrying something, a metal band. It reached up and placed the band on top of Thorlak’s head, as if crowning him. He felt small jolts of pain all around the top of his skull. A wire led from the band to a square box the creature held in its hands.

  While Thorlak was still puzzling over what the band and box were, the blade at his chest moved forward a fraction of an inch, slicing flesh like a rudder through water, and down his chest to his stomach.

  Thorlak bit back his scream, not willing to let his enemies know his pain. He had once seen a captured Saxon lord go through the 'bloody eagle’ without ever uttering a whimper of pain. The Norse torturer had cut through the Saxon’s back, removed several rib bones, then pulled the man’s still breathing lungs out through the hole. They lay on the man’s back, inflating and deflating with each breath like a pair of bloody wings. The Saxon had bit through his lip to keep from screaming in agony and stared defiantly at his tormentors until he died.

  If a Saxon pig could do such, Thorlak knew he also ought to be capable of such bravery. The blade sliced left along the bottom of his stomach, then back across to the right. With the other hand, the Valkyrie peeled back the skin along the T shaped incision.

  Thorlak thought to his youth, to the hills above the fjord of his village, green with grass and the bright flowers that fought their way to sunlight for the brief summer. A young girl whom he had gone with through the fields to the--

  The blade cut along the side of Thorlak’s face, now horizontal to the surface, peeling away the skin in one fine swipe and jerking Thorlak’s mind back to the present.

  The blade did the same to other side of the face. Then the
scalp, taking care to pass over the metal band. Until Thorlak’s head was nothing but a bleeding skull covered with exposed muscle and ligaments. Still he did not cry out.

  Memories would not work. Thorlak forced his mind onto a task. Rowing. He had pulled so many strokes on board Ragnarok’s ship that it was as natural to him as breathing. His hands were on the oars, his muscles straining. Pull. Lift. Push. Down. Pull. Lift. Push. Down. Pull.

  The litany got Thorlak’s brain into a rhythm as the Valkyrie continued its ghastly work. It went on until all of Thorlak’s skin-- except for the tiny strip under the metal band, was gone. Blood pooled at his feet, mixing with the sweat that had been there and staining the pile of peeled skin.

  The Valkyrie paused in its work and simply hovered. Thorlak’s mind was rowing, steady, helping to pull Ragnarok’s ship through the ocean water. The pain was there, but not so close as it was before.

  There was a tingling in his head. A very strange feeling. For a few seconds the pain faded even more. The two Valkyries hung in the air, simply watching. Thorlak faltered with the oar in the air. The wood disappeared from his hand. He was back in the cavern.

  The pain came back. He gave up. His mouth opened to scream, but nothing came out.

  He felt weak, tired. He had been called the Hardy because he could stay awake and row after all others on the ship collapsed, but he knew he could not row much further now. The journey was nearly over. He reached for the oar, wrapping his hands tight around the wood, feeling the comfort of the known.

  The blade, now crimson in the red light, came forward once more. Thorlak let go of the oar and surrendered to the darkness.