In the morning Yensen woke with the sound of the bats returning. It was still early dawn outside and all that remained of the fire were some hot embers of the fire. He draped a now dry tunic over the snoring form of Norgren and piled the remaining clothes within his reach. Yensen helped himself to two of the remaining bats and placed the last three on a strip of bark near to Norgren. He took up his axe and check he had his rabbit snares in his pouch. He took a last look around the camp and made sure the hearth was safe. Then he strode quietly for the cave entrance.
Shortly later, Yensen returned carrying a fresh stock of fire wood. He stacked them near to the fire, close enough to dried by the heat still in its heart, but far enough, so as not to catch. Yensen figured they could risk a fire a night, but in the day any smoke would be too easily spotted. This stock would make lighting easier. He made several such trips and then finally was gone for a long while.
When Norgren awoke, his body ached all over. His ribs hurt when he breathed and his arm was throbbing. He felt though, a whole let more human and was surprised at how much mobility his left arm had. He was no longer freezing and, finding the pile, pulled the trousers on to keep what he could of his new found comfort, but he picked up the shirt and carried it with him.
Yensen was no where to be seen. He walked closer to the entrance, nearer to the light and he was pleased to see the rain had abated and some rays of sun were breaking through the clouds. He sat down stiffly and placed the kit belt at his side. He had lost his swords, but his pouches and knife were present. He tenderly felt along his ribs and over his chest. Two of them of them felt like daggers were stabbing into him with the slightest touch and he concluded they, at least, were broken. All that could be done for these was to lightly bind them and allow nature to heal them over weeks. But he couldn’t figure how, nor bridge the pain, to bind his chest himself with only one arm. That would have to wait until Yensen’s return.
He found the needle and thread, however, was still hanging from his chest. It wept slightly from near to the last stitch, but otherwise the wound was closed, albeit with the ugliest bit of stitching he had ever seen. He reminded himself to never let his mentor see this piece of barbaric handiwork. Norgren made a final tying stitch and, using the knife, cut off the thread.
His arm scared Norgren the most. The vambrace was still in place and buckled, although it badly needed an armourer as much as he was in want of a skilled surgeon. He looked at it a while, wondering if it was wise to remove the guard or best to leave it in place. Which ever choice he made, it was going to hurt eventually. He wrapped a piece of leather around a sick and placed it between his teeth and bit down. Then he commenced unfastening the clasps.
Initially, as the armour came loose and the blood was allowed to flow, the pain eased, but then it became excruciating and Norgren clamped his jaw upon the stick. He groaned pitifully and beads of sweat formed on his brow. But, as he plucked the courage to inspect the injury, his heart dared to gave new hope.
In his dreams, the bones of his forearm were shattered and protruding through the flesh. He imagined his right arm would have to be severed as his only hope of survival. Not only did Norgren know he would not have the stamina to amputate his own arm, he also knew he would sooner die than live without his sword arm. This he felt might just be survivable, although swollen with deep bruising already coming through, the skin was not broken and the bones were not both broken. He had seen many such injuries and was pretty sure the outer bone of his forearm was fractured, but not in two.
Norgren decided the vambrace would make the best splint, but not fastened too. He added two sticks from the fire supply to extend it and immobilise his hand and then bound it altogether with bandages. Finally he fashioned a sling about his neck and snuggled the arm against his chest. It rested beneath the wound, and felt reasonably comfortable.
Norgren stripped and spent a while to inspect the rest of his body. He found nothing more sinister, though his thigh had some bruises from Yensen’s kicks. He was sure he was sporting a shiner on his left eye and many cuts and grazes, but they were all superficial. With a little difficulty, he pulled the tunic over his body and re-adjusted the sling. Tired again from his exertions, he returned to the dying fire, made a pillow from an undershirt, lay down and pull the remaining clothes over himself.
Soon Norgren was swallowed by a deep sleep and dreaming of sweeter places. He skipped between pondering why Norgrenson had not returned to find him; perhaps the boy already thought his father was dead. Norgren couldn’t help but feel saddened that he couldn’t reassure his son or his loved one, he didn’t want them to feel his pain. As his thoughts and dreams twisted around and merged into oblivion, his body started to tremble. Beads of sweat began to grow on his skin. A red heat inflamed the wound on his chest and he slipped closer and closer into unconsciousness.
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
The Cave
Three miles had never seemed more like thirty! It took the pair nearly all day to reach the small scree at the foot of the cliffs. Each plodding step had strained his aching legs and many times Norgren had tumbled and groaned in agony as the pain in his ribs racked through his chest. Each time he had fallen, Yensen had patiently helped him up and then re-positioned the Vikings one good arm over his shoulder and guided him on.
Norgren’s right arm no longer bothered him; he could no longer feel it. The arm was numb from the shoulder and hung limply by his side. It no longer even caused him to cry out when it caught against a bush or a tree, as it had done on several occasions in their first few hours of the journey. At least the rain had stopped, but he was so cold now, even the exertion of the trek had not warmed him. Yensen, however, had a bead of sweat forming on his brow and the tunic on his back was starting to steam as his body heat drove off the damp.
“There’s the tree,” Yensen pointed. “The entrance is just underneath.”
Norgren didn’t raise his head, only letting out a weak grunt, but he managed to shift his direction as the boy directed.
Finally the boy rolled Norgren off his shoulder and sat him onto the dry ground in the cave. Then he went back to the tree by the entrance and gathered fallen dry twigs and logs from the sheltered side of it against the cave entrance. He returned and built a fire near to the Viking who had slumped back against the side of the cave. He removed Norgren’s sword belt and rummaged in the pouches for a flint and striker. Skilfully using the dry straw grass he had also gather, Yensen soon had a blaze in the hearth.
Stirring, Norgren asked, “Do you have any food?”
“I’ve got this,” and Yensen presented a strip of dried meat hanging by what looked like a roped of twisted scalp hair, “I took it from one of the Demon bodies at the battle site. It was fastened about his belt.”
It was all Norgren could do to hold from retching, he looked at the rancid strip of flesh and then threw it into the fire, “Good bye who ever you were, I hope your passage from this life was swift.”
Sure the boy had understood his meaning, Norgren turned to Yensen, “get me some of that water from the pool over there.”
Yensen went to the far side of the cave and cupped a handful of water from a pool that was fed by the trickle flowing through the cave. He returned and held out his hands.
Norgren dipped a finger and brought it to his lips. He immediately spat it out; the taste of ammonia burned his tongue confirming his earlier suspicions about the smell which hung in the cave.
“Don’t drink that,” Norgren commanded and he again spat and wiped his mouth. “It tastes awful and will probably make you sick.”
“I could’ve told you that,” said Yensen, “I drank from it this morning and I puked over there. There’s a fresh stream just outside.”
Norgren scowled at the boy, but he had already turned to fetch some clean water.
Dusk was fast approaching outside and when he had drank, Norgren pointed to the clothes that were drying by the fire. Whilst he had slept, he presumed Yensen had cut down some forked branches about his own height, stripped Norgren’s sodden layers and hung them over the branches. They were now propped by the fire and already a soft wisp of steam was rising from them.
“You think you can take you axe and cut down another one of those. See if you can find one about twice my height.”
Yensen looked quizzical, “Wot for?”
“You’re going to make a Batty Bat,” Norgren stated.
“A what?”
“You’ll see.”
Yensen stood there not moving, “you don’t say please and thank you very much, do you!” He said sternly.
“Go on with you, we haven’t got much time,” Norgren scowled, but when the lad didn’t move, he added with a softer tone, “please.” And he dipped his brow slightly in acknowledgement of the young mans right.
Yensen returned shortly, carrying a strong forked stem from a Silver Birch, but still with a puzzled expression. The implement was at least twelve feet long and the fork spanned out from the top third nearly four feet wide.
“There, take my undershirt,” said Norgren. pointing, “and pass it over the forks. Then tie the sleeves off… please.”
Yensen obliged and soon held aloft what appeared to be a giant fly swot. He looked back at Norgren who smiled in recognition of his craft work, “now stand over there, it shouldn’t be long.”
The boy did as he was bid and moved to the middle of the cave and waited.
“There,” called Norgren pointing into the air.
“Wot?”
“There, again, bat,” Norgren pointed and the lad swung with the gigantic racket.
The bat flitted and dodged swiftly around the murderous stick and continued its way with barely a flinch.
Another came, then several more and he swung widely to no avail. The next, he heaved with all his might and the Batty bat span through the air, its arch carrying Yensen off his feet and he landed on his back in a heap.
Norgren, despite his discomfort couldn’t help himself, “Hahaa,” he cajoled.
Yensen picked himself up and scowled back at him. He extracted the implement from behind the boulder where it had fallen and raised it high. This time, he twisted the blade sideways for the initial part of his sweep to reduce the drag and, at the last instant, opened the face full into the flight of his prey. The bat fell to the floor.
With his next strike, Yensen felled three in one swipe. Then suddenly the whole cave seemed to fill with a swarm of thousands upon thousands of bats all making there way out for their night time feast. Yensen span and twisted and struck at them, leeping with glee and laughing hysterically as he plucked them from the air. As quickly as it began, the swarm was gone and, with the pair of them still laughing, Yensen gathered at least three dozen and carried them back to the fire.
Between them they skewered them on sticks and held them over the fire to toast. The wings and fir burned off and they sizzled appetizingly. Turning them frequently, Yensen did most of the work and, when the first was finally ready, he handed it to Norgren.
They sat in silence for a while feasting on the bat kebabs. Each time Norgren finished one; Yensen would pass another and then mount a fresh bat on the returned stick. Eventually they had eaten all they could. A few still remained and Yensen pulled them off the fire to store until the morning.
“Thank you,” Norgren said. “Thank you, for saving my life.”
Norgren’s right arm no longer bothered him; he could no longer feel it. The arm was numb from the shoulder and hung limply by his side. It no longer even caused him to cry out when it caught against a bush or a tree, as it had done on several occasions in their first few hours of the journey. At least the rain had stopped, but he was so cold now, even the exertion of the trek had not warmed him. Yensen, however, had a bead of sweat forming on his brow and the tunic on his back was starting to steam as his body heat drove off the damp.
“There’s the tree,” Yensen pointed. “The entrance is just underneath.”
Norgren didn’t raise his head, only letting out a weak grunt, but he managed to shift his direction as the boy directed.
Finally the boy rolled Norgren off his shoulder and sat him onto the dry ground in the cave. Then he went back to the tree by the entrance and gathered fallen dry twigs and logs from the sheltered side of it against the cave entrance. He returned and built a fire near to the Viking who had slumped back against the side of the cave. He removed Norgren’s sword belt and rummaged in the pouches for a flint and striker. Skilfully using the dry straw grass he had also gather, Yensen soon had a blaze in the hearth.
Stirring, Norgren asked, “Do you have any food?”
“I’ve got this,” and Yensen presented a strip of dried meat hanging by what looked like a roped of twisted scalp hair, “I took it from one of the Demon bodies at the battle site. It was fastened about his belt.”
It was all Norgren could do to hold from retching, he looked at the rancid strip of flesh and then threw it into the fire, “Good bye who ever you were, I hope your passage from this life was swift.”
Sure the boy had understood his meaning, Norgren turned to Yensen, “get me some of that water from the pool over there.”
Yensen went to the far side of the cave and cupped a handful of water from a pool that was fed by the trickle flowing through the cave. He returned and held out his hands.
Norgren dipped a finger and brought it to his lips. He immediately spat it out; the taste of ammonia burned his tongue confirming his earlier suspicions about the smell which hung in the cave.
“Don’t drink that,” Norgren commanded and he again spat and wiped his mouth. “It tastes awful and will probably make you sick.”
“I could’ve told you that,” said Yensen, “I drank from it this morning and I puked over there. There’s a fresh stream just outside.”
Norgren scowled at the boy, but he had already turned to fetch some clean water.
Dusk was fast approaching outside and when he had drank, Norgren pointed to the clothes that were drying by the fire. Whilst he had slept, he presumed Yensen had cut down some forked branches about his own height, stripped Norgren’s sodden layers and hung them over the branches. They were now propped by the fire and already a soft wisp of steam was rising from them.
“You think you can take you axe and cut down another one of those. See if you can find one about twice my height.”
Yensen looked quizzical, “Wot for?”
“You’re going to make a Batty Bat,” Norgren stated.
“A what?”
“You’ll see.”
Yensen stood there not moving, “you don’t say please and thank you very much, do you!” He said sternly.
“Go on with you, we haven’t got much time,” Norgren scowled, but when the lad didn’t move, he added with a softer tone, “please.” And he dipped his brow slightly in acknowledgement of the young mans right.
Yensen returned shortly, carrying a strong forked stem from a Silver Birch, but still with a puzzled expression. The implement was at least twelve feet long and the fork spanned out from the top third nearly four feet wide.
“There, take my undershirt,” said Norgren. pointing, “and pass it over the forks. Then tie the sleeves off… please.”
Yensen obliged and soon held aloft what appeared to be a giant fly swot. He looked back at Norgren who smiled in recognition of his craft work, “now stand over there, it shouldn’t be long.”
The boy did as he was bid and moved to the middle of the cave and waited.
“There,” called Norgren pointing into the air.
“Wot?”
“There, again, bat,” Norgren pointed and the lad swung with the gigantic racket.
The bat flitted and dodged swiftly around the murderous stick and continued its way with barely a flinch.
Another came, then several more and he swung widely to no avail. The next, he heaved with all his might and the Batty bat span through the air, its arch carrying Yensen off his feet and he landed on his back in a heap.
Norgren, despite his discomfort couldn’t help himself, “Hahaa,” he cajoled.
Yensen picked himself up and scowled back at him. He extracted the implement from behind the boulder where it had fallen and raised it high. This time, he twisted the blade sideways for the initial part of his sweep to reduce the drag and, at the last instant, opened the face full into the flight of his prey. The bat fell to the floor.
With his next strike, Yensen felled three in one swipe. Then suddenly the whole cave seemed to fill with a swarm of thousands upon thousands of bats all making there way out for their night time feast. Yensen span and twisted and struck at them, leeping with glee and laughing hysterically as he plucked them from the air. As quickly as it began, the swarm was gone and, with the pair of them still laughing, Yensen gathered at least three dozen and carried them back to the fire.
Between them they skewered them on sticks and held them over the fire to toast. The wings and fir burned off and they sizzled appetizingly. Turning them frequently, Yensen did most of the work and, when the first was finally ready, he handed it to Norgren.
They sat in silence for a while feasting on the bat kebabs. Each time Norgren finished one; Yensen would pass another and then mount a fresh bat on the returned stick. Eventually they had eaten all they could. A few still remained and Yensen pulled them off the fire to store until the morning.
“Thank you,” Norgren said. “Thank you, for saving my life.”
Yensen
“Bloody Vikings,” Norgren chuckled in memory. He was snuggled against the breast of the woman he loved and listening to the soft sigh of her breath. He felt so at peace here, there arms entwined and all other cares seemed so far away.
“Bloody Vikings,” again he relived her gentle teasing over his and his fellow seafarers’ ways, “always gallivanting here and there and getting up to Thor knows what.” She would chastise him before each sailing to go a Vikin, but, on his return, she was always gleeful to see what riches they had brought back. After the rejoicing and feasting, she would lead him to bed and make love with a passion to make up for every night away. Afterwards they would lie together like this, floating as if with the Gods.
“Bloody Viking,” Norgren winced. This time the memory came with a sharp stabbing pain. He frowned; it wasn’t supposed to be like this… it shouldn’t be like this… he didn’t want to be here… he wanted to be in Her arms, to feel the soft warmth of her bosom against his face.
The kick seared into his side, “Don’t you die on me, you bloody Viking.”
“No, no, nooo”, again he challenged the now nagging voices in his head.
Norgren felt his head shaken, then gasped in pain as his arm was tugged. “What the f**k,” he cried out, his eyes opening in startled recollection of reality.
The boy looked down at him, his expression of desperate fear, “Don’t die you bloody Viking.”
“I may be bloodied, but there’s only one can call me a bloody Viking and get away with it,” Norgren found his voice and tried to sit up. The pain shook his body as if it was acid that coursed through his veins. He lay where he was, “Who are you?” He croaked.
“Yensen,” replied the rude awakener and Norgren began to recognise the features of the cabin boy who had been found earlier being chased by the monsters of Maelbrook. He had foolishly jumped ship when they had landed and hidden whilst they unloaded. The crazy lad actually wanted to join the fight to rescue the Knights they had come to help. He wasn’t even armed when the scouting party found him running for his life from the demons. They had fed him, armed him and indeed, he had fought. With an axe in his hand he showed a wild spirit that no one had imagined he possessed when he had been meekly sweeping the decks. But then he had disappeared from camp, almost as suddenly as he had appeared. He’d taken to exploring the perimeter too eagerly and they assumed that one of the fighting rats had got the better of him.
Yensen cupped some water from the stream and poured it over Norgren’s mouth. He choked and spluttered, but appreciated the few quenching drops that made it to his throat.
“More,” Norgren said, “but don’t bloody drown me this time!”
Norgren drank all that was offered like a camel refuelling at an oasis. Satisfied, he turned to the boy, “what happened to you?”
“I was in the forest exploring when I saw some scaven stalking me. I ran back to the camp, but I must have made a bad turning and I got lost. I couldn’t count them all, but there were too many to fight, so I just ran like the wind. I came across a cave and decided to hide in it a while. I fell asleep and when I woke this morning I tried to find my way back. Then I saw the smoke coming from over there,” Yensen pointed to where the defensive perimeter was and the final battle had been, “so I decided to investigate. That’s when I found you.”
Jensen paused and looked down at the mud, his voice faltered, “I thought you were dead, you’ve been out cold. I’ve been prodding you for ages.”
Norgren figured as much, he felt a whole new set of bruises down his side, “this cave of yours is it dry?”
“Yeah, mostly,” Yensen answered, “it has a trickle of water running along one side, but there’s a big slab of dry rock that I slept on.”
“Do you think you can find your way back there?”
“No problem,” the boy chirped gleefully, “It’s a couple of miles back along the bottom of those cliffs,” and he pointed in the direction, “it’s not easy to spot though, unless you know it’s there, there’s a big bush covering the entrance.”
The rain water run off was now depleted to a mere trickle and Norgren lay only in the mud. Earlier, the torrents running from the bluffs of the cliffs had cut the escarpment in which the two stragglers found each other.
“Can you get me up,” Norgren eased his good arm back to push and the lad helped pull him.
After some puffing and panting he was in a sitting position. Finally upright, Norgren took in the scene around him. The embankment that he had rolled down was barely four feet in height, but with the pain he’d felt during the decent, it had felt at least thrice that. Even so, cold, hungry and in only marginally less pain, he didn’t think he could climb back up the muddy wall. About fifty yards upstream and on the opposite bank, the edge was barely a gentle slope.
“Come,” Norgren said, “let’s get out of here.”
Putting his arm around Yensen’s shoulder, he allowed himself to be led across the stream.
“Bloody Vikings,” again he relived her gentle teasing over his and his fellow seafarers’ ways, “always gallivanting here and there and getting up to Thor knows what.” She would chastise him before each sailing to go a Vikin, but, on his return, she was always gleeful to see what riches they had brought back. After the rejoicing and feasting, she would lead him to bed and make love with a passion to make up for every night away. Afterwards they would lie together like this, floating as if with the Gods.
“Bloody Viking,” Norgren winced. This time the memory came with a sharp stabbing pain. He frowned; it wasn’t supposed to be like this… it shouldn’t be like this… he didn’t want to be here… he wanted to be in Her arms, to feel the soft warmth of her bosom against his face.
The kick seared into his side, “Don’t you die on me, you bloody Viking.”
“No, no, nooo”, again he challenged the now nagging voices in his head.
Norgren felt his head shaken, then gasped in pain as his arm was tugged. “What the f**k,” he cried out, his eyes opening in startled recollection of reality.
The boy looked down at him, his expression of desperate fear, “Don’t die you bloody Viking.”
“I may be bloodied, but there’s only one can call me a bloody Viking and get away with it,” Norgren found his voice and tried to sit up. The pain shook his body as if it was acid that coursed through his veins. He lay where he was, “Who are you?” He croaked.
“Yensen,” replied the rude awakener and Norgren began to recognise the features of the cabin boy who had been found earlier being chased by the monsters of Maelbrook. He had foolishly jumped ship when they had landed and hidden whilst they unloaded. The crazy lad actually wanted to join the fight to rescue the Knights they had come to help. He wasn’t even armed when the scouting party found him running for his life from the demons. They had fed him, armed him and indeed, he had fought. With an axe in his hand he showed a wild spirit that no one had imagined he possessed when he had been meekly sweeping the decks. But then he had disappeared from camp, almost as suddenly as he had appeared. He’d taken to exploring the perimeter too eagerly and they assumed that one of the fighting rats had got the better of him.
Yensen cupped some water from the stream and poured it over Norgren’s mouth. He choked and spluttered, but appreciated the few quenching drops that made it to his throat.
“More,” Norgren said, “but don’t bloody drown me this time!”
Norgren drank all that was offered like a camel refuelling at an oasis. Satisfied, he turned to the boy, “what happened to you?”
“I was in the forest exploring when I saw some scaven stalking me. I ran back to the camp, but I must have made a bad turning and I got lost. I couldn’t count them all, but there were too many to fight, so I just ran like the wind. I came across a cave and decided to hide in it a while. I fell asleep and when I woke this morning I tried to find my way back. Then I saw the smoke coming from over there,” Yensen pointed to where the defensive perimeter was and the final battle had been, “so I decided to investigate. That’s when I found you.”
Jensen paused and looked down at the mud, his voice faltered, “I thought you were dead, you’ve been out cold. I’ve been prodding you for ages.”
Norgren figured as much, he felt a whole new set of bruises down his side, “this cave of yours is it dry?”
“Yeah, mostly,” Yensen answered, “it has a trickle of water running along one side, but there’s a big slab of dry rock that I slept on.”
“Do you think you can find your way back there?”
“No problem,” the boy chirped gleefully, “It’s a couple of miles back along the bottom of those cliffs,” and he pointed in the direction, “it’s not easy to spot though, unless you know it’s there, there’s a big bush covering the entrance.”
The rain water run off was now depleted to a mere trickle and Norgren lay only in the mud. Earlier, the torrents running from the bluffs of the cliffs had cut the escarpment in which the two stragglers found each other.
“Can you get me up,” Norgren eased his good arm back to push and the lad helped pull him.
After some puffing and panting he was in a sitting position. Finally upright, Norgren took in the scene around him. The embankment that he had rolled down was barely four feet in height, but with the pain he’d felt during the decent, it had felt at least thrice that. Even so, cold, hungry and in only marginally less pain, he didn’t think he could climb back up the muddy wall. About fifty yards upstream and on the opposite bank, the edge was barely a gentle slope.
“Come,” Norgren said, “let’s get out of here.”
Putting his arm around Yensen’s shoulder, he allowed himself to be led across the stream.
Abandoned in Maelbrook….
Was this what Valhalla was like? He was surely dead, for there could be no other explanation. Norgren’s vision was blurred and the world about him seemed foggy and un-focused. Gradually though, he began to see through the fog as his sight returned. He blinked water out of his eyes and realised it wasn’t fog, but the rain that had returned and was now numbing his chest. The defensive wall of the caern that had been his goal came back into focus and he turned his head to see what was taking his killer so long.
He wasn’t there… in fact there was no one there that he could discern. Abandoned and left for dead on the battlefield, he knew the demons would soon return to scavenge the carcases. He had to help himself or await certain doom where he was.
With the pain in his chest throbbing, Norgren could barely move his upper body. He raised his knees to draw up his feet and then pushed gently against the ground to test the effect. His back slipped gently across the sodden grass and he found he could move himself a little with greater ease than he had dared to imagine. He tried again, less fragilely than his first attempt, but still with ginger trepidation. He moved a foot, his bad arm dragging limply beside him. Again Norgren drew up his feet and this time he pushed with vigour… at least eighteen inches. Over and over he had pushed, inch by inch and foot by foot he slithered. Initially exhilarated by his new found control over destiny, he soon fought with despair as his exhaustion grew and he realised his progress was tediously slow.
He didn’t know how long he had pushed his pitiful journey, or how far he had travelled, but finally, on the brink of succumbing, he had reached the edge of a trench. He held his injured arm to his chest and, with almost his last sap of energy, pushed against the sodden earth so that he slithered the final half yard over the edge of the drainage ditch. He rolled down the embankment and came to rest with an undignified splosh in the muddy waters. Pain seared through his chest and arm as if a red hot poker had been thrust into him. He knew he could not scream out for fear of being detected, but the guttural cry erupted from his throat despite himself. Only the rushing of the rain water against the strewn boulders in the bottom of the gully masked his noise.
His arm was plainly broken and blood still oozed from the slash across his chest. It felt like he had broken some ribs also. He couldn’t do anything about that now, but he new he had to quell the bleeding before he slipped into a deep sleep from which he would never return. With his one arm he fumbled for the medical pouch on his sword belt. Fighting the intense pain, Norgren eased out the sewing needle and thread. He paused to gather his stamina and then slowly began to seal the gash together. It didn’t have to be skilful or tidy and it certainly wasn’t going to be pretty, but he had to complete it. The pain of each incision was nothing like the pain he had felt when the blow was inflicted, but non-the-less each and every one bore deeper into his reserves.
Finally, laying half in the icy waters, the needle between his fingers and the sewing thread still protruding from his chest, he could pull it through no more. It would have to be enough, or fate could take its course. Drained, cold and with no more fight left in him, Norgren allowed his eyes to close… maybe for the last time!
He wasn’t there… in fact there was no one there that he could discern. Abandoned and left for dead on the battlefield, he knew the demons would soon return to scavenge the carcases. He had to help himself or await certain doom where he was.
With the pain in his chest throbbing, Norgren could barely move his upper body. He raised his knees to draw up his feet and then pushed gently against the ground to test the effect. His back slipped gently across the sodden grass and he found he could move himself a little with greater ease than he had dared to imagine. He tried again, less fragilely than his first attempt, but still with ginger trepidation. He moved a foot, his bad arm dragging limply beside him. Again Norgren drew up his feet and this time he pushed with vigour… at least eighteen inches. Over and over he had pushed, inch by inch and foot by foot he slithered. Initially exhilarated by his new found control over destiny, he soon fought with despair as his exhaustion grew and he realised his progress was tediously slow.
He didn’t know how long he had pushed his pitiful journey, or how far he had travelled, but finally, on the brink of succumbing, he had reached the edge of a trench. He held his injured arm to his chest and, with almost his last sap of energy, pushed against the sodden earth so that he slithered the final half yard over the edge of the drainage ditch. He rolled down the embankment and came to rest with an undignified splosh in the muddy waters. Pain seared through his chest and arm as if a red hot poker had been thrust into him. He knew he could not scream out for fear of being detected, but the guttural cry erupted from his throat despite himself. Only the rushing of the rain water against the strewn boulders in the bottom of the gully masked his noise.
His arm was plainly broken and blood still oozed from the slash across his chest. It felt like he had broken some ribs also. He couldn’t do anything about that now, but he new he had to quell the bleeding before he slipped into a deep sleep from which he would never return. With his one arm he fumbled for the medical pouch on his sword belt. Fighting the intense pain, Norgren eased out the sewing needle and thread. He paused to gather his stamina and then slowly began to seal the gash together. It didn’t have to be skilful or tidy and it certainly wasn’t going to be pretty, but he had to complete it. The pain of each incision was nothing like the pain he had felt when the blow was inflicted, but non-the-less each and every one bore deeper into his reserves.
Finally, laying half in the icy waters, the needle between his fingers and the sewing thread still protruding from his chest, he could pull it through no more. It would have to be enough, or fate could take its course. Drained, cold and with no more fight left in him, Norgren allowed his eyes to close… maybe for the last time!
Norgrens Nemesis
The last several days had been a turmoil of un-planned events, but of all his adventures, Norgren had never imagined it would have been such a close brush with Death. What started out as a voyage in search of an old comrade at arms, had turned out to include a surreal charge through a demon infested forest, riding upon the back of a great black and silver wolf. If he ever found him and was to recount this tale, Norgren was not so sure Frederick Gore-Axe would believe a word, especially the leap through the moon bridge!
Frederick had been his companion and mentor on many a Viking mission. They had first met under the leader-ship of the Jarl, Sven Godfredson, at the battle for the isle of Angles. Frederick wielded a mighty battle-axe and his favoured killing blow was a double handed overhead strike to his hapless victims’ skull. This generally spilt in two and splattered gore and bone upon the weapon. A tale that he would exaggerate and re-tell over many a horn of ale in the rejoicing of victory. Norgren had been a young Bondsman, sworn to Sven. It was in that battles’ banquet, that Frederick had earned the title Freeman and, in a rejoiceful toast, Norgren had called out the honour of Frederick Gore-Axe’s exploits. The name had stuck ever since and the new Freeman had taken a shine to the younger Viking.
An accomplished swordsman as well as deadly with an axe, Frederick had spent many an hour training with Norgren, passing on his battle hardened wisdom. It was on the isle of Celts that Frederick had demonstrated with the demise of his latest victim, the art of the shoulder throw. After the battle, he also showed those awed spectators how to prevent from becoming a victim oneself. It was for this reason that Norgren felt particularly embarrassed, since his recent near demise should have been so easily prevented. Frederick Gore-Axe would never let him hear the end of it, should he ever find out.
Now an accomplished swordsman and Freeman himself, Norgren hadn’t seen hide-nor-hair of Frederick Gore-Axe for many a moon. When a fellow sea farer told that a man bearing such a name had been seen boasting of his tales in the isles of Aeavelmoor and Valencia, they had decided to seek him out for old times sake. As the long ship had come to port in Fairgale, they couldn’t resist the temptation of a small digression from their quest, especially since fighting was mentioned along with mercenary rates of pay.
True to expectations, the adventure in Maelbrook had indeed seen much action. Wielding a sword and shorter scramasax, Norgren had once again felt the rush of adrenaline, the nectar of all true Vikings. He had also found some new techniques, taught by his new comrades. Many of them fought not just with sword and axe, but also with incantations. The power of these was such to behold and he felt sure, even Frederick Gore-Axe’s infamous exploits would be hushed by many of them. Combined with a bone crushing blow or well timed parry, his new found skills of knock-back or dis-arm were indeed, Saga making stuff. It may also have been the same confidence inducing tricks that had contributed to his lapse of concentration. Another of Fredericks lessons, never under-estimate your adversary or lower your guard.
The retreat to the defensive caern and exit from Maelbrook had been fought viciously every step of the way. Their attackers had provided an endless onslaught; as one had fallen, another had seem to rise in its place. The band of adventurers all fought with equal vigour and, backed by the magical healers, proved a talented match for the Demons.
Norgren was enjoying himself; parrying with his left scramasax then stepping in, he had split several in two with a lethal upper cutting sword slash across the torso. In close quarters, he favoured a circular block to an incoming blow, throwing the aggressor off balance. He then side-stepped and, moving in, slit their throat from behind. It didn’t always work so slickly, but could quickly be adapted by grasping the foe around the shoulders and drawing the now dis-engaged main weapon, agonisingly across their gizzards.
It was in such a move that Norgren so nearly lost his life. The counter, he new too well, was to invoke Frederick Gore-Axe’s shoulder throw. He should have been braced in anticipation for such an alert adversary, but he had been complacent and under-estimated this particular Demons skill in lieu of its previous fallen brethren. They had both made several offensive strikes, each to be blocked by their defender. The Demon struck again for the shoulder and, reading the moment, Norgren diverted it with a circular block, taking the offending weapon all the way through and carrying it high to the right. In that moment the Demon was unbalance and Norgren seized the opportunity to move. The Demon was quick, grasping the knife hand just in the moment of the slit. Un-perplexed, Norgren diverted to the trusty secondary blow, but then was shocked to find his feet lifting from the ground. Not only was the Demon quick, he was sly also and had read every move. In one flowing motion he expertly bent forward still grasping Norgrens’ hand and threw him to the ground.
Flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him, Norgren instinctively raised a defensive arm as the murderous blade slashed across him. In flight, the broad-sword had been lost from his grasp and, although still holding the scramasax, the Demon stood on his left hand. Protected only by a vambrace, his forearm took the full force of the blow. Shattering bone the blade was barely hindered and continued to rip open Norgrens chest.
That should have been the end of him, but by shear coincidence and luck of timing, the victor was distracted from his final killing blow by the startling flash of the portal opening. His head lolled sideways, Norgren watched in surreal, disbelief as the travellers stepped one by one through the moonbridge and into oblivion. Laying there, he helplessly waited for the inevitable follow through of his Nemesis, wondering why it was taking so long.
Frederick had been his companion and mentor on many a Viking mission. They had first met under the leader-ship of the Jarl, Sven Godfredson, at the battle for the isle of Angles. Frederick wielded a mighty battle-axe and his favoured killing blow was a double handed overhead strike to his hapless victims’ skull. This generally spilt in two and splattered gore and bone upon the weapon. A tale that he would exaggerate and re-tell over many a horn of ale in the rejoicing of victory. Norgren had been a young Bondsman, sworn to Sven. It was in that battles’ banquet, that Frederick had earned the title Freeman and, in a rejoiceful toast, Norgren had called out the honour of Frederick Gore-Axe’s exploits. The name had stuck ever since and the new Freeman had taken a shine to the younger Viking.
An accomplished swordsman as well as deadly with an axe, Frederick had spent many an hour training with Norgren, passing on his battle hardened wisdom. It was on the isle of Celts that Frederick had demonstrated with the demise of his latest victim, the art of the shoulder throw. After the battle, he also showed those awed spectators how to prevent from becoming a victim oneself. It was for this reason that Norgren felt particularly embarrassed, since his recent near demise should have been so easily prevented. Frederick Gore-Axe would never let him hear the end of it, should he ever find out.
Now an accomplished swordsman and Freeman himself, Norgren hadn’t seen hide-nor-hair of Frederick Gore-Axe for many a moon. When a fellow sea farer told that a man bearing such a name had been seen boasting of his tales in the isles of Aeavelmoor and Valencia, they had decided to seek him out for old times sake. As the long ship had come to port in Fairgale, they couldn’t resist the temptation of a small digression from their quest, especially since fighting was mentioned along with mercenary rates of pay.
True to expectations, the adventure in Maelbrook had indeed seen much action. Wielding a sword and shorter scramasax, Norgren had once again felt the rush of adrenaline, the nectar of all true Vikings. He had also found some new techniques, taught by his new comrades. Many of them fought not just with sword and axe, but also with incantations. The power of these was such to behold and he felt sure, even Frederick Gore-Axe’s infamous exploits would be hushed by many of them. Combined with a bone crushing blow or well timed parry, his new found skills of knock-back or dis-arm were indeed, Saga making stuff. It may also have been the same confidence inducing tricks that had contributed to his lapse of concentration. Another of Fredericks lessons, never under-estimate your adversary or lower your guard.
The retreat to the defensive caern and exit from Maelbrook had been fought viciously every step of the way. Their attackers had provided an endless onslaught; as one had fallen, another had seem to rise in its place. The band of adventurers all fought with equal vigour and, backed by the magical healers, proved a talented match for the Demons.
Norgren was enjoying himself; parrying with his left scramasax then stepping in, he had split several in two with a lethal upper cutting sword slash across the torso. In close quarters, he favoured a circular block to an incoming blow, throwing the aggressor off balance. He then side-stepped and, moving in, slit their throat from behind. It didn’t always work so slickly, but could quickly be adapted by grasping the foe around the shoulders and drawing the now dis-engaged main weapon, agonisingly across their gizzards.
It was in such a move that Norgren so nearly lost his life. The counter, he new too well, was to invoke Frederick Gore-Axe’s shoulder throw. He should have been braced in anticipation for such an alert adversary, but he had been complacent and under-estimated this particular Demons skill in lieu of its previous fallen brethren. They had both made several offensive strikes, each to be blocked by their defender. The Demon struck again for the shoulder and, reading the moment, Norgren diverted it with a circular block, taking the offending weapon all the way through and carrying it high to the right. In that moment the Demon was unbalance and Norgren seized the opportunity to move. The Demon was quick, grasping the knife hand just in the moment of the slit. Un-perplexed, Norgren diverted to the trusty secondary blow, but then was shocked to find his feet lifting from the ground. Not only was the Demon quick, he was sly also and had read every move. In one flowing motion he expertly bent forward still grasping Norgrens’ hand and threw him to the ground.
Flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him, Norgren instinctively raised a defensive arm as the murderous blade slashed across him. In flight, the broad-sword had been lost from his grasp and, although still holding the scramasax, the Demon stood on his left hand. Protected only by a vambrace, his forearm took the full force of the blow. Shattering bone the blade was barely hindered and continued to rip open Norgrens chest.
That should have been the end of him, but by shear coincidence and luck of timing, the victor was distracted from his final killing blow by the startling flash of the portal opening. His head lolled sideways, Norgren watched in surreal, disbelief as the travellers stepped one by one through the moonbridge and into oblivion. Laying there, he helplessly waited for the inevitable follow through of his Nemesis, wondering why it was taking so long.
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