*******
Moon was in a rare good mood as he set out at dawn after drinking his daily dose of brainwort and breakfasting on honey-sweetened oats. His head was mercifully pain-free. Not normally given to introspection, his musings of the previous night seemed to have lifted a load off his shoulders.
He could draw a line under that part of his life. He felt no bitterness toward Racvir or his mother. Life in the mountains was harsh, particularly for women. Regarded mainly as brood-mares for lusty men seeking sons to carry on their bloodline, women aged before their time. With nothing but a life of servitude and drudgery ahead of them, young women had to seek their pleasures where they could.
His mother must have been a real beauty in her youth. He could imagine how her long dark tresses, fair skin and proud walk had smitten his father. He had not known the man, but she had told him he was a mighty dark-bearded warrior unlike none she had met before. He must have swept her off her feet.
As for Racvir, the man he had called father for so long, he had done his best for him and his mother. It was best to leave it at that.
Dark clouds scudded in the sky above as the snowfall intensified. The stallion plodded on, the snow was deep underfoot, the going difficult, as its legs sank deep with each step.
On they plodded. Moon flipped back his hood to enjoy the feel of the snowflakes splattering on his head. He slipped off his mitten, ran his hand over his shaven head, down over his face and into his beard. He tilted his head back, ice-cold flakes spattered on his upturned face. He opened his mouth wide to let the cold flakes slide down his throat.
Moon shook his head, water spraying from his beard like tiny icicles. He laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest to burst forth into the mountain air, echoing through the cold grandeur of the desolate peaks.
Moon felt invigorated. He was a free man, unburdened and venturing into the unknown. Hjotra had said the journey would be perilous, and Moon had sensed fear in her when she spoke about the lowlands. The Nordir believed man’s fate was predestined by the gods. Moon believed no such nonsense. The gods gave man strength and desire, and the power to decide his own fate, and by Sutr, he was a man. Whatever dangers were ahead he would face with his axe in hand, and he had yet to meet any foe, man or beast who could stand before him.
A deep rumbling in the distance told him he was approaching the waterfalls.
Sometime later, a sound like thunder assailed his ears as he reached the drop over which the rushing waters cascaded into the river far below. He had to traverse a narrow rocky path, but luckily the snowfall had abated, making it somewhat less perilous. Sheer cliff walls reared on one side, the other ending in an abrupt fall off the edge. Moon climbed off the stallion. It would be folly to try to ride across.
Gripping the reins firmly, he took a tentative step. Beneath the layer of snow, the ice was treacherous and slippery. Scree from the cliff-face added to the uncertain footing. The path ran in an irregular pattern for about three-hundred paces, slopping downward and curving around the rock-face in places.
Moon took another step forward, but the stallion baulked, its eyes wide with fear. Displaying better sense than the man, it had no intention of setting foot on the narrow ledge. The Axeman stopped, stroked its head and whispered in its ear. “Come on brave one. Just one step at a time, nice and carefully, there is nothing to it.”
Man and horse stepped onto the ice-covered path. His left hand gripping the reins, and right hand pressed lightly against the cliff-face, Moon carefully walked his horse across. Their progress was painfully slow. One inadvertent step, one bit of carelessness, and man and beast would plunge to their deaths.
Midway across, the snow began to fall again. The accompanying wind blew snowflakes and shards of ice into the faces of the travellers, as they wound their precarious way with the chasm below beckoning. Moon muttered a curse, tucked his chin into his chest, tightened his grip on the reins, and walked on.
For a moment, he debated the wisdom of holding tightly to the reins. They were also wrapped around his forearm. If the horse slipped, it would be the end for both. As the tendrils of that comforting thought writhed through his mind, the stallion’s hooves lost purchase.
Moon’s heart beat a loud staccato in his chest as the horse slid, dragging him with it. There was nothing he could do. It seemed they would both plunge into the abyss to end up crushed and bleeding on the rocks below.
Scrambling desperately, the horse found firm footing, and the Axeman breathed a little easier. Only a few more paces to go. They stepped off the path, and he let out a breath of relief. He wouldn’t want to do that again.
The snowfall abated, and the ground underfoot was firmer. A watery sun shone from a clear blue sky. Shaking his head in bemusement at the vagaries of the weather, Moon swung into the saddle. As he rounded a large snow drift, he hauled on the stallion’s bit, bringing it to a stop.
Four men stood in a line a few paces in front of him blocking his path. Big men with long braided hair and heavy beards. Moon recognized Borga and his brothers. They had discarded their heavy furs and stood ready in knee-length chain mail and drawn swords.
Moon muttered a curse. They had been trailing him, but he had no idea how they had got in front of him. They must have found a way that avoided that treacherous path by the falls.
Slipping off his bearskin robe, he stepped off his mount, and slipped Widowmaker from its scabbard.
“I see you Moon!” Borga called “You killed our brother, and blood demands blood!”
Moon grasped his axe and moved to within a few paces of the men. He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to kill Finnbogi. I caught the mule-head trying to steal some of the logs I had stacked up for winter fuel. The fool drew his sword and came at me screaming like one of Sutr’s demons. I slapped the sword away and cuffed him about the head. I wasn’t about to kill a man over some pigging logs. I was surprised when he didn’t get up. How was I to know he had a weak skull?”
“Aye, he had a weak skull and weak brains to boot,” Borga grunted. As he spoke, the other three fanned out, eyes fixed on the Axeman. “I sent him to gather dry branches and such for our fire, but he must have taken a fancy to your logs. He was never the clever one.”
Moon breathed deeply, eyes narrowing as he noted the brothers’ movement. This was only going to end one way.
But Borga wasn’t done talking. “He may have been simple-minded, but he was our brother. We are going to send you on the dark path, you ugly one-eyed goat shagger.”
Moon hefted Widowmaker and charged, ripping into the shocked brothers like a great enraged bear. Wielding the axe with one hand, he swung it in a tight arc.
Widowmaker smashed Hrogar’s upraised sword into jagged splinters, before splintering his ribs in a shower of blood. The axe swept on, shearing through Finn’s sword arm just above the elbow. Screaming in shock and pain, he stared disbelievingly at the stump, while the severed limb still grasping the sword, soared briefly through the air. Blood gushing, he fell to his knees.
Spinning swiftly, Moon batted aside a sword thrust from Borga, stepped in and hammered an elbow into his jaw. Borga fell, senseless. Hogni, now alone, stood with his sword held loosely as he looked down in horror at what was left of his brothers. Hrogar was lying face down in the now-crimson snow, his entrails spreading beneath him. Finn kneeling, cradling what was left of his right arm, slowly toppled onto his side as his lifeblood spurted from the severed limb. Borga appeared alive, but unmoving.
Wide eyes fixed on Moon, Hogni raised a hand, palm facing outward, and slowly backed away. Never a brave man, he had been against this entire enterprise. He had told Borga so, but felt compelled to go along with his brothers. But Sutr be damned, if he was going to face this one-eyed madman alone. Reaching the bush where their horses were tethered, he got onto his mount, and with a backward glance at the Axeman and the prone bodies of his brothers, rode away.
Groggy, Borga shook his head and sat up, loo
king around. He didn’t like what he saw. His eyes flicked upward to Moon. The Axeman was standing a few paces in front of him leaning on his axe, both hands on top of the haft, and those awful blades pressed into the snow. The Axeman was regarding him levelly, no anger or hostility in the gaze.
Borga marvelled at their folly in thinking they could kill the one-eyed giant. Standing there, his condensed breath writhing like smoke around his head, and splatters of blood glistening in his ice-encrusted beard, Moon looked like some awful god of war. The speed and raw elemental power of the man had shocked Borga. In a lifetime of wielding a blade, he had never come across the like.
He looked again at what was left of his brothers. His creed demanded blood for blood, but Borga was a pragmatist. If he rose to his feet to confront that dreadful axe again, he knew he would end up in the snow like his brothers.
He couldn’t see Hogni’s body. Hogni had spoken against this folly. He had always been the wisest. Looked like Moon had spared him. Frigga’s tits, he had never liked his brothers much, except Hogni. The two of them would do well together, and there would be more loot to go around.
Borga scrambled to his feet and trudged toward his horse.
The Jade Castle
Pagan was in no hurry to get back to the city. Alternating between a walk and a canter, he marvelled at how swiftly the horse reacted to his promptings. There were no horses in his homeland, though the stripped animals that roamed the grasslands bore some resemblance. He smiled as he imagined how those proud stately beasts would react to bearing man on their backs. Not too kindly he guessed.
Thoughts of his homeland revived painful memories. Once again, he was back in the moonlit glade kneeling by Amla’s lifeless body. After the indescribable anguish of that horrible moment, his thoughts had turned to his people. The silence didn’t bode well for it suggested the raiders had finished their bloody work and departed.
Carrying Amla’s body in his arms, he had returned to the village. He would never forget the horror of what he saw. There were bodies bearing horrific wounds strewn everywhere – men and women, old and young, children and babies. The raiders in their frenzied blood-lust hadn’t spared anyone. Splashes of blood and bits of human tissue on the hard-baked mud walls paid horrific testament to how the beasts in human guise had killed the little ones. Grabbing them by the ankles and dashing their brains out against the walls.
He felt a terrible anger well up inside him, his limbs shaking as if from the ague. These monsters had destroyed his only chance at happiness, and now this unholy murder. He would kill them. Slaughter them all.
Walking on through the carnage, he came across the bodies of his father and two brothers surrounded by a pile of enemy corpses. They had taken a terrible toll on the raiders before being cut down. He fell to his knees with tears coursing down his face.
A sound broke through his sorrow. Lying a few paces away, was the body of the tribe shaman, Sagayetha. The spear standing from the belly of the wizened old man had impaled him to the ground, but he appeared to be still alive.
As he knelt by his side, the old man’s eyes fluttered open. “Ahh… I knew you still lived boy,” he whispered, blood bubbling from his mouth.
Sagayetha gripped his forearm with surprising strength and pulled him closer. “Come nearer Nnwanowa, I have a gift for you…help you…you have much to do…quickly now before my spirit departs this broken shell.” He closed his eyes and whispered some words in a guttural language unknown to Pagan. He felt an odd sensation like a throbbing in his head, then Sagayetha’s hand dropped away.
Looking down at the shaman’s body, he remembered how the children had found great merriment at the sight of the old man strutting around the village in his proud cloak of ostrich feathers with his bandy legs poking from underneath.
Tears running down his face, he went around the village and carried all the bodies of his people to the front of his father’s hut. It was a back-breaking, harrowing task. Then he piled up dry branches and pieces of broken furniture, lit a funeral pyre, and as the flames shot into the night sky, bowed his head in silent prayer, calling on his ancestors to guide his people in the next life.
Grabbing a spear and tucking a hand axe and dagger into his belt, he walked into the forest.
After walking through the night, he reached the Crocodile people’s village some time before dawn. Surveying the rows of silent huts, he had only one thought. To kill as many of them as he could before they cut him down.
Pagan shuddered as he remembered what he had done that awful night. The night that changed his life. Going from hut to hut, he had cut the throats of everyone he found inside, old and young, male and female. He spared no one.
Creeping into one of the last huts, he saw a lusty warrior atop his woman, buttocks pumping furiously. She had her eyes open, seemingly unmoved by his exertions. Seeing his blood-splattered figure in the dim light, she let out an ear-splitting scream.
The warrior swung around, and Pagan recognized the scout who had knocked him unconscious back at the glade. Screaming in rage, he plunged his dagger into his neck, and as the woman extricated herself from the trashing limbs, proceeded to saw his head off.
The woman tore out of the hut like all the demons of the underworld were at her heels. As her screams reverberated through the village, he heard querying voices and shouts as the place came alive.
Stepping from the hut, holding the severed head by its topknot, he hadn’t tried to run. He held the head up high and bellowed his father’s war cry, as half-naked warriors scrambled from their huts and ran at him.
Hurling the head at the warriors, he brandished his axe and spear and bellowed another incoherent war cry. He was ready to die, but would take as many of the Crocodile men with him as he could.
At that moment, a voice sounded in his ear. “Run you fool! Run towards the light, you are not meant to die here.”
Startled, he glanced around, and saw a light hovering about head-height in the bushes to his left. As he neared, he saw the spectral figure of Sagayetha, indistinct and hazy in the moonlight.
“B…but you are dead,” he stammered.
“Yes, I am gone from the flesh. What you see is my spirit-body,” the shade replied.
A dozen Crocodile warriors rushed toward them brandishing spears, intent on revenge on the murderer who had spilt the blood of so many of their kin. He readied himself for death, but was surprised when they ran straight past him and the shaman.
“They couldn’t see us,” Sagayetha said. “A simple trick, bending light to render us invisible to them.”
Pagan stared at the shaman. It seemed he was growing more indistinct.
“They will expect you to go north. Follow the river south. No time for explanations now. My time here grows short and my powers are fading. We will not see each other again on this earthly plane, but we will meet again. Now go!” Sagayetha urged.
He had done as bid, briefly stopping to wash off the drying blood on his body, while keeping a close eye out for the crocodiles that lived in the river. Enormous reptiles that sometimes grew to the length of four tall men.
The reality of his bloody deeds and the impact of the night’s events suddenly hit him. He felt nauseous and sick to his stomach and his limbs began to tremble uncontrollably. His legs buckled and he sat heavily on the river bank. His stomach heaved, and he retched violently, emptying its scant contents between his legs.
As he sat under the early dawn sky with a puddle of his own vomit between his legs, his head between his hands, eyes squeezed shut, and tears running down his cheeks, he felt hideously alone. Everything and everyone he had loved and cherished were dead.
He didn’t remember getting to his feet and walking on. Wary of crocodiles, he left the river bank, and moved into the trees. His mind a blank, he continued walking. Sagayetha had told him to go south, so he held on to that.
The countryside was unli
ke anything he had seen before. Strange looking trees with roots above the ground so it appeared they were balancing on stilts. The canopy overhead so thick, the sun could barely penetrate. The ground was mushy and sodden with rotting vegetation.
Thousands of insects buzzed above pools of stagnant brackish water, and mud-holes bubbled and frothed, sending noxious vapours into the air. Attracted by his body heat, clouds of the insects descended upon him, and the stinging pain as they sank tiny mandibles into his flesh deepened his despair and desolation.
On he stumbled, hacking a path through the dense undergrowth with his hand axe. Large painful blisters formed on his hands, and he occasionally sank ankle-deep in the soggy ground.
The sun rose higher in the sky, and the humidity became almost unbearable. He had no water to drink, and the water in the brackish pools, uninviting.
As the day wore on, the heat and humidity enveloped him like a suffocating shroud, and weariness weighed upon him like death.
He began to question the wisdom of his direction. Go south, Sagayetha had said. In life, the shaman had always offered wise counsel. But it was what the old man had called his spirit-body that had advised to go south. And weren’t spirits meant to be mischievous deceivers?
Hunger cramped his stomach. Seeing a tree he recognised, he used a broken branch to knock down one of the low-hanging fruit.
Slumping down against the tree, he tore open the skin, scooped out and flung away the tiny black seeds, and sank his teeth into the juicy yellow pulp, sighing with pleasure as the sweet juice flowed down his throat.
A sudden noise startled him. Peering around the tree he froze in mid-bite – juice running unheeded down his chin and onto his chest – at the tableau before him.
A shaft of bright sunlight shone through a break in the dense canopy upon seven figures. Spears stabbing and axes chopping, six Crocodile-men surrounded the strangest looking man Pagan had ever seen. A slight figure with impossibly light skin, in loose-fitting clothes that shimmered in the sunlight.
It seemed only a matter of time before the fierce towering warriors brought down the stranger.
Pagan blinked in surprise as the light-skinned man moved with bewildering speed. Twisting, turning, ducking, he seemed to flow through and around his attackers, his only weapons his hands, elbows, knees and feet. In a few heartbeats, the Crocodile-men were down on the sward, some unmoving, others groaning in pain.
A sudden movement caught Pagan's attention. A Crocodile-man hiding behind a thick-boled tree was poised to hurl a spear at the stranger’s back. Instinctively, he grabbed his axe and flung it at the would-be backstabber.
The axe tumbled through the air to crunch into the Crocodile-man’s skull. He fell to the ground with a grunt.
The stranger spun around at the sound, then turned to face him. He was no bigger than Pagan with long straight dark hair pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. Wide-spaced, slightly slanted dark eyes in a flat-planed high cheek-boned face, regarded him serenely. He spoke, the words at first a jumble of noise in his ears, then they became clearer.
“…ah, a pagan… heathen who is not intent on killing me.” He bowed – a slight inclination of the head, and glanced at the Crocodile-man with the axe embedded in his skull. “I am most grateful for your help. What are you called my boy?”
Nonplussed, Pagan copied the stranger’s bow.
The man's eyebrows arched in surprise. “And a pagan with manners!”
“My name is…I cannot find words for my name in your tongue,” Pagan replied. Confusion shot through him. How could he possibly understand and speak the stranger’s words? His mind was in a whirl.
The stranger’s eyebrows arched up higher. “And one who also speaks the great tongue! This is strange indeed. My name is Xiang Tse. My ship was blown off course in a storm. Seeing this land, I decided to come ashore. I have always been fascinated by foreign lands.” He pointed at the trees. “And this...vegetation is fascinating.” Gesturing at his supine assailants, he wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Tell me, who are they?”
“They are warriors of the Crocodile tribe,” Pagan said. “They are my people’s enemies, and they kill everyone who doesn’t look like them. They’ve killed all my people. I am the only one left.”
The stranger nodded. “A terrible tale that I am sorry to hear. Is that why you are here, seeking to avenge the death of your people?”
Pagan bowed his head. “I have… killed them all,” he said, voice cracking. He looked at his hands. “I had their blood all over me. I felt ashamed, dirty… no better than them. And it hasn’t brought… Amla or my people back. It is an evil thing to kill people.”
The stranger stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Killing shouldn’t sit easily with a man. The shame you feel for your actions does you great credit, boy. Now tell me, how is it you understand my words?”
Pagan shook his head. “I don’t know.” Then he remembered the shaman. “Old Sagayetha, our tribe shaman gave me a gift before he died. A strange gift, for I couldn’t touch or see it. He said I had much to do and it would help me. Perhaps the gift helps me understand strange words?”
Xiang Tse was quiet for a while, his brow furrowed in thought. “This is strange indeed,” he muttered. “Now my boy, tell me your name again.”
“I can’t,” Pagan replied. “I can’t find the words for my name in your tongue. But you called me something when you first saw me. You called me a pagan? I like the sound of that. So, you can call me Pagan. My name is Pagan.”
Xiang Tse smiled. “Pagan, hmmm? By the Creator of all things, that does sound rather fitting, doesn’t it? But you are no uncouth pagan or barbarian my young friend. There is much untapped strength and nobility in you.” He looked closely at the young man before him. “So, what do you intend doing now Pagan? Wander the jungle or seek to kill more of these?” He gestured at the supine Crocodile-men.
Pagan had no idea what he was going to do next. Everything he knew was gone. He shrugged, and the pangs of loneliness and hopelessness pierced him like a twin-pronged spear.
“A series of seemingly random events have brought you and I to this point,” Xiang Tse said. “Some might say it’s simply chance, but I don’t believe in coincidence. The Laws of the Creator of all things don’t allow for coincidences. There is significance and meaning in every encounter. The threads of our fates have crossed, and a wise man should pay heed. I have a proposition for you Pagan. Why don’t you come with me? My land is very far from here. I will be your teacher and will show you a world you never dreamed of. You will learn many things such as philosophy, history, reading, writing, and fighting arts.”
A kaleidoscope of images and thoughts flowed through Pagan’s mind: Lying with Amla in the moonlit grove, the Crocodile warrior striking him down, Amla’s lifeless body when he came to, the death and destruction in his village, the butchered bodies of his father and brothers...He locked gazes with Xiang Tse. Noted the kind eyes overlying the strong unwavering gaze of the warrior. His father had had the same, though much fiercer gaze.
Xiang Tse looked ageless, though he guessed he was somewhat older than his father. He could sense no malice in him, and felt at ease in his presence. He had no idea what philosophy, or reading and writing were, and had no intention of fighting with anyone. But he liked how the slightly built man had easily bested the fearsome Crocodile-men without spilling blood.
He made the only choice he could. “Yes, I will come with you.”
Xiang Tse led him back to the river bank, and both men followed the river south for some distance until they met a small group of Xiang Tse’s countrymen. Xiang Tse barked instructions, and judging by the bows, obsequious mannerisms, and the speed at which they responded, Pagan guessed him to be a powerful and respected leader.
Further downstream, they came across another group of men loading barrels into two small boats. He noticed many of them cast quizzical glances at him. After all, their master had wandered off into the
jungle by himself.
He and Xiang Tse climbed into one of the boats with two other sailors who skilfully manoeuvred it down the river estuary into the open sea. His eyes widened when he saw the sea. He had heard of it, but never seen such a huge expanse of water before. Moored in the distance was a large ship with two triangular-shaped sails.
Once aboard, Xiang Tse led him to a large cabin. “I think you and I should have a bath my friend,” he said, smiling. Noting his guest’s quizzical look, he pointed to two large wooden tubs filled with hot steaming water. Stripping his clothes off, he climbed into one of the tubs and immersed himself in the hot water with a sigh.
Pagan followed suit. Initially the water felt too hot, but his body soon adjusted to it.
Xiang Tse clapped his hands, and two young women with long dark hair piled atop their heads, and flawless skin even paler than Xiang Tse’s, entered the cabin. They were carrying long handled scrubbing brushes and bottles of different-coloured liquids.
Pagan squirmed deeper into the tub with embarrassment as one of them approached him. Opening the stoppers, she poured measures of the liquids into the tub. The water foamed and a pleasant soothing aroma rose with the steam that suffused the air.
He glanced across at Xiang Tse. He was leaning forward as his attendant gently scrubbed his back. Copying his new-found benefactor, Pagan also leant forward.
The idea of being washed by an attractive woman or anyone else for that matter was decidedly strange to him. But as he relaxed, he found the experience wasn’t altogether unpleasant. The stirrings of an erection made him squirm again. Upon seeing his discomfort, the woman raised a delicately shaped eyebrow and giggled.
After the bath, the women dried them with large thick soft cloths, then helped them into light, soft shiny robes. Then Xiang Tse led him to another cabin and sat him before a table laden with aromatic smelling dishes. His benefactor ladled his plate with a generous portion of fresh fish and vegetables. The red and green vegetables were unfamiliar, but the hot spicy condiment that flavoured the fish was not dissimilar to that used by his people.
Ravenously hungry, he wolfed down the food, nodding with a full mouth when Xiang Tse enquired if it was to his taste. Xiang Tse smiled, and they ate in silence. Pagan was simply content to take in his new surroundings, and Xiang Tse knew he had to give his new charge time and space to adapt.