The Wanderers of the Water-Realm (31 page)

She placed a finger upon the boatmaster’s lips, in order to maintain his silence.

“My name does not matter Northman.” She whispered softly. “But during this darkening, you may call me ‘Surri,’the fair one!”

She giggled. “It has always been my wish to lie with a man of your skin-colour. You may possess me until the last hour before dawn, if it is your wish?”

Darryl hesitated. “We must leave here soon, also my friends are…”

“Do not worry over the wellbeing of your men.” Surri interrupted. “My hand-maidens are four in number and will take good care of your comrades. Whilst you and I travel to paradise beneath my love-shroud!”

So saying, the woman swiftly unfolded a voluminous sheet of some light Purple material, which she drew over the boatmaster and herself, thus shielding them both from the prying eyes of the throng. Darryl began protesting and he attempted to rise, but the dark-haired woman thrust him down with surprising strength.

“Easy, my lover of the night,” She whispered. “Would you offend the Great Goddess by refusing a gift of love? Will you not lie with me and thank nature for all the lavish gifts that she bestows upon mankind?”

Surri kissed the boatmaster on the cheek, and nibbled at his right ear-lobe, whilst simultaneously moving her left hand down to the crotch of his protective trousers, where her nimble fingers began to deftly release the leather fastenings.

Darryl groaned with frustration, for he had not made love to a woman since entering the Water-Realm and the cloying perfume worn by his present companion played upon his senses like a drug. His determination evaporated like a drop of water upon a glowing hob.

“No danger can possibly exist here.” He decided, as his hand reached out for the women’s moist sex. “We can have our fill of these wenches until dawn and still reach the “Bonny Barbara” before she’s repaired and ready to depart. Aye, and that will be time enough and no mistake!”

A strange bird-like sound, carried upon the breeze, brought Darryl back to full consciousness and he cast off the woman’s love-shroud that was still covering him. He rose to his feet and found that he was able to view his surroundings without undue difficulty, for the first glimmer of light from the five suns was beginning to illuminate the stadium.

He ran his eyes over the moss-covered terraces and beheld the sleeping forms of last night’s revellers. Some rested in each other’s arms, totally drained by their frantic bouts of lovemaking, whilst others lay prone amidst pools of stinking vomit, after over-indulgence in Thoa-nut beer had rendered them incapable of movement.

Surri and her four hand-maidens were nowhere to be seen, but George and the three other crewmembers lay upon the ground, fast asleep, with the women’s discarded love-shrouds roughly draped over their bodies.

Once again, a distant high pitched cry drifted over the stadium and Darryl was instantly alarmed, for he knew it to be a scream of terror issuing from the throat of some terrified human. He immediately kicked his comrades into full conciseness.

“Hurry up, you idle buggers.” He growled, closing up the fastenings of his protective garb and buckling the sword ‘Kingslayer’ to his waist. “Rise and arm yourselves for some danger is approaching and we must be prepared to meet it!”

The travellers did not have to wait long for the danger to openly reveal itself, for the cry of terror was quickly followed by many others, until the very air echoed with the sound of screaming. Another sound also began manifesting itself, the growl and roaring of rapidly advancing fighting men. Indeed, the four companions had barely time to cloth and arm themselves before a flood of terrified figures poured over the rim of the stadium.

The wave of panic-stricken fugitives was composed of human beings of both sexes and of all ages. Some were clad in flimsy night attire, or in garments hurriedly seized up at the commencement of their wild flight, but the vast majority were stark naked.

The fugitives trampled upon the existing occupants of the stadium, who awoke in terror and joined the fear-stricken rush to escape. Indeed, they had great need of instant flight, for hard upon the heels of the fugitives, there appeared a solid wall of heavily armed warriors, who drove forward with levelled spears and mercilessly slaughtered all who came within stabbing range of their weapons. Behind them came numerous groups of tow haired fighting men, in winged and crested helmets, who completed the act of butchery and robbed the corpses of their victims of anything of value.

None were spared! Even children, carried in their mother’s arms, were sliced in two halves by the pitiless cut of the sword, their bodies joining the red carpet of quivering human flesh that was remorselessly covering the terraces of that doomed place of worship.

“Saxmen warriors,” Dromon gasped. “They must have taken advantage of the festival to launch a surprise attack, now we shall pay for our night of screwing with our lives.”

“To hell with dying here,” Darryl roared. “Listen, all of you. Adopt the arrowhead formation that we have practiced so often, and then we shall smash our way out of this confounded trap.”

The tiny group quickly formed themselves into their well rehearsed combat formation. George, the giant axe-wielding boat hand, took the point position, whilst Dromon and the boatmaster stood immediately behind him in order to protect his vulnerable left and right flanks. Finally, the two youths, Tess and Tom-Tess, levelled their boarding spears and guarded the exposed rear of little battle formation.

Terrified fugitives poured past them, as they began advancing towards the rim of the stadium, and upon more than one occasion, they were compelled to use the flat of their weapons to beat the panic-stricken rabble aside, enabling them to continue their advance. Suddenly, the press of fugitives slackened, and they found themselves in open ground and closing rapidly upon the first rank of advancing enemy spearmen.

A clash between the tiny arrowhead of desperate fighting men and the spear-tipped line of Saxmen infantry should have proved fatal to the former. But the Saxmen formation became ragged as it descended into the stadium, for gaps had begun appearing in the ranks of the spearmen, due to a number of undisciplined warriors pausing to strip the bodies of the dead. Darryl spied one of these gaps and ordered George to make for it as quickly as possible.The huge boat hand immediately did as he was bidden, but a knot of fierce spearmen still confronted the mariners as their arrowhead formation reached the Saxmen battle-line.

A spearman thrust his weapon at George, who twisted violently sideways to escape the razor-sharp point. A split second later, the giant boat hand’s long handled axe flashed downwards, rending open the body of his adversary from shoulder to thigh. Simultaneously, another spearman attempted to stab George in his right side, but Darryl caught the spear-point on his target. ‘Kingslayer’ darted out once and the Saxman warrior fell with blood pouring from a gaping wound in his throat.

Three more spearmen died. Two fell before the whirling axe of the giant boat hand, whilst a third was beheaded by a slash from Dromon’s gill. Then the press slackened as the arrowhead formation burst through the front line of Saxmen spear-carriers.

The rim of the stadium was only two hundred paces away, but upwards movement was slow, for the intervening ground was thick with corpses and the purple moss of the terraces was copiously lubricated with the blood of slaughtered Islanders.

Even so, it seemed likely that the little group would reach open ground without further fighting, unfortunately, a Saxmen war-band, some forty strong, suddenly leapt into the stadium and charged headlong at the escaping mariners.

“Hold formation!” Darryl yelled above the screaming war cries of the oncoming enemy. “Remember to keep moving forward. It’s our only chance!”

Moments later, the leading member of the Saxmen war-band died beneath the young boat hand’s axe. A second later, every man in the little arrowhead formation was engaged in combat and fighting for his life. Some of the Saxmen warriors began working their way around the mariner’s formation to attack its vulnerable rear, but help came from an unexpected quarter. About a score of the worshippers had witnessed the river-farer’s penetration of the Saxmen spear-line, and taken station at the rear of the arrowhead formation, in a desperate effort to escape from the death trap. The mariner’s new allies had armed themselves with staves, shards of broken pottery, anything that could be used as a weapon and they fought with a savagery born of desperation; but their naked bodies were open to the steel of the Saxmen, and, one by one, they fell writhing in their own gore. Yet they protected the rear of the tiny formation, as it neared the lip of the stadium.

The fighting crewmembers were close to their immediate goal, when a man of Herculean proportions suddenly appeared and pushed his way through the ranks of the attacking Saxmen warriors; the forward step of the mariner’s faltered slightly as they set eyes upon the monstrous new arrival.

The man was of colossal stature, standing a good seven feet in height and his legs, chest and shoulders were in perfect proportion to the remainder of his body. He wore a breast-plate made from iron and burnished copper, the winged helmet surmounting his heavily be-whiskered features, was made from some polished copper alloy that shone brightly in the morning light.

Upon his shoulder there rested a huge long-handled axe.

Dromon groaned. “May the Gods have mercy upon us? I have heard of this man.

He is Tor Skull-splitter the greatest of all the Saxmen chieftains. A warrior, who has never known defeat, he…”

The boat hand’s baleful warning came to an abrupt end, for the Herculean chieftain suddenly swung his axe above his head and, leaping forward, he brought the weapon down in a glittering stroke that was intended to split George’s body wide apart. The young man reacted by twisting sideways and warding off the blow with the flat of his own weapon. Unfortunately, the shaft of his own axe was unable to withstand the impact of the stroke and shattered, leaving him holding only a small portion of the splintered handle.

Tor Skull-splitter swung his mighty weapon with the intention of delivering the coup-de-grace. The blow never fell. Darryl, having killed his immediate opponent, realized the young boat hand’s peril and dropping upon one knee he executed a sideways cut severing the tendons behind the chieftain’s right ankle.

Tor Skull-splitter lurched sideways and the head of his axe buried itself harmlessly in the ground, sticking fast. George instantly seized his opportunity. He tore the butcher’s cleaver from his belt, dashing the weapon three times into the crippled chieftain’s face. As the man fell, he drove the Sheffield steel blade down through Tor Skull-splitter’s winged helmet and into his brain.

The survivors of the Saxmen war-band fell back aghast, after witnessing the death of their greatest leader and the tiny formation crossed the rim of the stadium without further molestation.

A terrible scene met their eyes, as they looked out across the surrounding countryside. Houses, villages and homesteads, were in flames and dense clouds of black smoke drifted across the once bounteous landscape. Even the fertile soil was being destroyed, for the Saxmen vandals had breached the irrigation canals, and the terraced fields were being swept away by the raging waters. Groups of the murderous warriors could also be seen quartering the ravaged countryside and hewing down the last of the peasantry, hopelessly trapped between the waters of The Great Life River and the swords of the barbarians.

Darryl viewed his small command and was relieved to note that all had won clear of the stadium, although blood from superficial wounds could be seen seeping from numerous rents in their protective clothing. Of the worshippers who had attempted to escape along with his party, only a solitary individual lived. The survivor was a short stocky young woman, with a shock of sleek silver blonde hair that fell to her shoulders and contrasting sharply with her rounded and rather plain features. Yet, she clutched a sword, taken from the hand of some dead barbarian and the blood dripping from its blade proved that she had welded it to grim effect. The woman was virtually naked, like most of her dead companions, but the boatmaster had no time to examine the strange blue and black tattoos, decorating much of her body, for he realized that he must quickly tighten up the little arrowhead formation and order a resumption of the march towards the Live River.