The Children of Zzthethpezemos

Turlogh Dubh O'Brien requested Theasmina to remain behind. A battle was no place for a sweet lass. She could make certain that no animal came to mutilate the Saxon's body. Her eyes told Turlogh to not go but wisely her voice was silent. The warrior brought forth his black mail, stout buckler, and visorless helmet from the boat. Swiftly the armor was donned and he set forth down the beach in an easternly direction. The Gael moved with great strides, full of purpose. Turlogh's mind was clear and uncluttered by thought. There was killing to be done, and that was he whole of it.

Athelstane's directions were sound. After slightly less than an hour of steady walking the Gael spotted another concealed harbor. It was much like the one where his own boat was anchored, well hidden by lush plant growth. On his left arm Turlogh wore his buckler with its deadly spike in the center. For the time being, the fearsome axe was also carried in his left hand. In his right hand was the great broadsword of the fallen Saxon. Despite its heavy weight and long length the Gael carried it with ease.

With panther like stealth and silence, the somber warrior slipped cautiously through the undergrowth until his sandaled feet felt clean sand once again. There was the ship at last, and a cursed sight it was for the Gael. However, an odd thought flitted through the dark Dalcassian's mind at that instant. Were it not for that same ship, framed so terribly in the pale moonlight, Turlogh would have never came to know the children of Zzthethpezemos....or Terrilara, his beloved. The warrior shook his head slightly to put all thoughts away....save those of red murder. The mysteries of fate were beyond all save the Druids and their dark art.

There was a figure there beneath the ghostly light of the moon. A sentry, and only one. The man was more asleep than awake as he teetered back and forth while leaning heavily on a javelin. No doubt the fool would have sat down were he not afraid Gothrun would return suddenly and find him sound asleep. At least while he yet stood there was some pretense of watchfulness. The gentle crashing of the ocean surf was more than adequate to conceal any slight noise made by the doom that approached the slumpering man from the west. Perhaps at some other time the Gael would have challenged the Viking and given him a proper chance to defend himself. This was not to be one of those times. A somewhat rude tap on the shoulder aroused the drowsy sentry. He turned just in time to see a vision straight from his worst nightmare. The heavily armed Gael stood unspeaking like a phantom from hell. The hapless sentry opened his mouth as if to shout a warning but the giant sword was already on the downswing. The blade entered at the neck and ripped down to the sternum. The Norseman dropped, managing only a gurgling gasp. He was dead and awash in his own blood before he struck the beach. There he lay, covered by dark redness, a stark contrast to the white sand in the ominous bleeding pale light of night. Turlogh stared for a few moments at the dead man. He felt....nothing. Quickly he crouched and his bright eyes surveyed the surroundings for any sign of other foes. The dark Gael stood thusly for several minutes. Finally satisfied, he waded into the waters of the bay. Few men could have hoisted themselves up into the ship while weighed down with full mail and weapons...but Turlogh did so with only passing strain. With a heavy thud he fell into the feared ship of reaving.....savoring for a moment the feel of a grand sailing vessel under his feet. For more than a short while the Gael had himself been a captain. His ship was not unlike this one and it had been called Crom's Hate. Turlogh smiled slightly at the memory. Unfortunately, he also recalled losing that same ship in a battle to the death with other Vikings. Both ships had sank and as far as he knew, none but himself had survived.

"Who's there?" Came the sound of a anxious voice. The question was asked in a tongue very strange and foreign to Turlogh, but amazingly it was a tongue he had heard before and could speak himself. Turlogh answered with a low but distinct tone. He used the same strange tongue. "Are you the galley slaves, answer me and be quick about it!"

Even Turlogh had trouble making out the figures near the back of the ship, they moved slightly and the one spoke again. "Aye we are cursed to be chained here like dogs and serve as slaves. But who are you? I see no great horns on that helmet of yours...though it does seem somehow familiar." At that point a lower, more mature voice spoke....the tone was deep and rumbling as if coming from a mighty chest. "Yes, I can see enough in this light to tell you are no Viking....I suppose those fools are dead by now and you've come to add us to your depraved cannibal's feast. Still, I must be going mad for you appear to speak in our own tongue! And not a one of the Vikings could do that, what is this strange land? Is that not so much to ask from helpless, well bound men you have doubtless come to murder?"

Turlogh realized from his own travels that various languages, as people traveled from place to place, could at times become common in a land far from their origin, but this odd situation was quite unaccounted for. With great stealth he worked his way back the length of the ship, occasionally glancing quickly and cautiously in the direction of the shoreline. "Be still as I approach. I have not come here to do you harm. At least not yet. Still, there is a mystery here I am thinking."

The two men did as they were told, being chained and helpless, there was little else they could do. Within seconds the Gael stood over them, at first he only saw two typical galley slaves. They were dressed in rags, their hair was unkempt, long ragged beards lay against their chests, the muscles in their arms were large and knotted from the rowing even as their bodies were otherwise near to skin and bone. Both had very light hair, though truly one was from age. Their eyes were gray in color and bright, they stared in abject amazement at the fierce figure that loomed so large there in the moonlight.

"I am a dead man. This is no strange island, it is an illusion. I am dead and meeting the ghosts from my past here in the land of the dead. Somakeld! Are you still with me man? Speak if you live yet! I am dead or dreaming for that warrior there has the appearance of that same blood-brother of old....Black Turlogh Dubh O'Brien!" The younger man said nothing but his eyes were wide in astonishment. His head trembled slightly beneath a head of unruly flaxen hair. Truly let it be said the man was dumbstruck.

Soon the galley slave was not alone in his amazement. A shock of realization gripped Turlogh. It was impossible, but unless he was mad he saw what he saw. "Somakeld......by the Gods!!!! Somakeld and Hroghar Skeld???? Am I mad, is it truly you my Turgaslav brothers from the northern steppes?"

The older, white headed man nodded...."Aye it is we....but...first tell me, am I dead,...or dreaming perchance?"

Turlogh shook his head....he was almost overwhelmed by astonishment. This island was called the Mountain of Wonders for good reason. Nothing that happened here was not a wonder....truly the Gael must have entered a realm of the great mystical. "It is I, Turlogh Dubh of the clan na O'Brien, I was chased into these strange lands by this same ship many weeks ago. But how is it that you two have come here to be abused thusly so far away from your ancestral homeland?"

The one called Somakeld finally found his voice..albeit cracking a bit. "If truly you are my brother Turlogh Dubh O'Brien and not some ghost...and we are not already dead. Perhaps you might free us brother from these cursed chains so that we might feel somewhat more like living men. Look Hroghar, there is the axe that we have seen at its bloody work...truly it is our brother!"

"Well, I'm not a ghost," Turlogh said. "And I doubt that you are because there was a sentry back there who bled like a man when I struck him a good blow with this same great sword."

"I recognize that sword, it belonged to the one called Athelstane. Did you kill that great giant also my spirit brother?" Hroghar asked, still unbelieving.

"No, that man was my friend and brother despite being in the company of the cursed Vikings. I came here to kill those that treacherously slew him. It was he that told me of you...although I would have never guessed who you were..or appear to be...I'm not altogether certain there isn't some sorcery afoot here....still....what games the Gods play on we fools that are called men!"

"Truly we are who we are, free us brother!" Some of the fire and authority had returned to the old chieftains voice. If this was madness, Turlogh decided to dance to the insane tune. A few stout blows with the heavy sword easily sliced the chains away. "It's best we get off this ship at once, lest the Vikings return and catch us unawares. I mean to kill them all, if you like, you can share in the taking of vengeance?"

"Aye, aye!" Somakeld almost shouted before catching himself. "Let us arm ourselves brother, there are a few weapons about, left behind by the dead.....of which there have been many on this horrible voyage."

In short order the two Turgaslavs found swords mixed amongst several great Viking axes that lay in a makeshift armory. They naturally preferred the swords to the very heavy axe that was normally the Viking weapon of choice. After finding suitable shields, the two former slaves donned fearsome horned helmets that had lately belonged to the deceased among their captors. Then all three men quietly abandoned ship. The heavily armed companions trotted back down the beach to the west for about a half mile. Turlogh picked out a secluded hiding place where they sat down to talk of many things. The Gael was eager to hear their stories and they likewise had many questions for the somber axeman. Turlogh reached under his mail shirt and pulled out a still sizable pouch of non and a flask of gellum. "Let us refresh ourselves brothers, I think we have a few hours before they return, Viking fools are not especially good hunters I have been told."

Each of the Turgaslavs took very deep drinks from the flask. "The Gods be praised!" Declared old Hroghar. "We were near starved and haven't tasted good wine in two long years. It is excellent, although I recalled it having a different flavor somehow."

Turlogh nodded as he fired up his pipe, being careful to conceal the flame with his large hand. "Aye, everything is different here in these strange lands.....but be assured, you haven't as yet been made awares to all." The Gael smiled and sucked down a lungful of the sweet smelling herb.

"Hmmm, I think I recognize that odor," Somakeld said as he took a turn at the pipe. "I myself once found a pouch of the substance on the body of a dead Turk...unless I'm mistaken."

"The Gods be praised if it is that same good smoke!" Old Hroghar exclaimed before reaching eagerly for the pipe. Somakeld smiled before exhaling with a ragged cough...."be assured, it is the same.....what a wondrous night this has turned out to be. First we meet our long lost brother, then become free men with good swords in our hands, and tomorrow we shall have something even better.....our vengeance!"

"Aye!" Said Black Turlogh, barely concealing the slight tremble in his voice.

"Aye," Hroghar joined in. The old warrior's eyes took on a demonic gleaming. "Tomorrow will be good, good and red with bloody hate abated." Then he took another long draw from the pipe.

The heaviness that sat on Turlogh's heart at the passing of Athelstane had lifted somewhat by this second unexpected encounter. It was good to be among old friends. Very good indeed. "Now tell me how my brothers came you to fall into the hands of one-eyed Odin's cursed sons?"

Hroghar's eyes glowed even more brightly as he exhaled the powerful smoke. "I had hoped to die there in the vastness of the northern steppes where I'd lived for near to fifty mostly contented winters. Sadly, that was not to be. Our old foes the Tartars had grown more powerful than ever. We were forced to break into small bands and scatter wherever we could find refuge and grazing for the stock. To our folly, we ventured overly far to the south until one sad night a group of two hundred or more Arab slavers fell upon us. We were caught unawares but would have fought to the death but for those bastards taking the children and threatening to cut their throats if we resisted further. We had no choice but to drop our swords. Then the entire camp was herded south to the slave markets. Save for a few old ones that were left to die....including my own ancient mother!"

"That was the way of it," added Somakeld. Then Hroghar continued. "Eventually, a few of the men...including myself and Somakeld were carried to Damascus, then on to a great city called Tyre. There we were sold to these Vikings as galley slaves. In truth we were traded for a group of fair haired girls that the Norse dogs had captured somewhere...perhaps from that same great land you called Errin. There were eight of us, the others died from the hard work and harder use. For three long years we rowed aboard that accursed ship the Viking dogs called Odin's Dead Eye. Now we are free thanks to you my brother....free to fight! Even now my old arm itches to strike a blow with the strength gained from ceaseless toil at the oar."

"Aye," I too wish to strike those black hearted devils," said Somakeld while shaking his big fist and trembling with remembered hate.

"And strike you shall...as will we all," Turlogh confirmed before taking another long draw of non. He exhaled slowly, very slowly. "Those dogs killed the best weapons companion I ever had." Thus the conversation went until near dawn; and a bloody morning it promised to be.


The first creeping tendrils of new light searched out the band of Vikings. Their hunt had been successful as Oskytel One-eye had managed to bring down a wild pig with his lethal bow. The group of killers mostly huddled around a fresh made fire and awaited eagerly the long denied taste of fresh meat. It troubled them that the slaves and their guard were all gone. Perhaps the two Turgaslavs had somehow slipped their chains and Taranken had given chase. More likely someone had found the ship in the night and killed them all...and perhaps dragged the bodies away to be eaten. Who could say in these unknown waters. They had no way of knowing that Taranken was at the bottom of the bay weighed down by his own armor. Neither did they know how carefully their hidden foes had covered up the blood stains. Gothrun the Tall had decided to sail away as soon as they'd feasted on the pig. They had found enough water but there was no choice but to suffer the pain in their stomachs until safer land was found. For this reason Gothrun did not begrudge them a few minutes to gorge on the pig, for who could say when they'd eat again? Still, to linger here much longer likely meant certain death at the hands of giants or some savage cannibal tribe. All were agreed that they should eat rapidly, then cast off. Perhaps, Taranken might return by then..if not, to bad for him. As they watched the pig slowly roast, their eyes oftentimes darted into the thick undergrowth that surrounded them. They were hardly a relaxed lot. Still...the roasting flesh of the animal soon sent wisps of a maddeningly sweet aroma into the nostrils of the near starved reavers.

Oskytel One-eye sat a little apart from the others. He sat and did some minor repairs to his bow and looked to his quiver of deadly arrows. The bowman's concentration was such that he paid little heed to his surroundings. Besides, he wasn't the kind of man who feared much of anything at all. Even a giant could be killed by a poisoned arrow he reckoned, and that Saxon fool Athelstane was surely dead by now. Oskytel smiled at the thought for he knew his shaft had struck home. There was a hint of a twinkle in the Viking's one good eye. Then he heard the voice that spoke barely above a whisper. "Oskytel," was all it said.

Startled, the Viking said nothing but turned quickly. There he saw a vision that made his blood run cold with dread. Turlogh Dubh O'Brein stood silent as death in his black mail. The great broadsword that had once belonged to Athelstane was raised high in the air. "Time to die you fool," Turlogh said, even as the blade descended to strike off Oskytel's head, giving it cause to fly several feet and bounce in the sand. The single good eye blinked once and was still.

"By Odin's drunken hate...its Turlogh Dubh!" Shouted one of the Norsemen and they all rose up as one with axes in hand. Oskytel's severed head had rolled very near. That was the least of their concerns as Black Turlogh loosened one of the dead man's arrows. He was not a great archer but the missile flew straight and buried in the chest of a stunned, red faced warrior. He fell in his death throes even as the Gael threw the bow aside were it lay beside the discarded sword of Athelstane. Now his strong right hand was filled with the axe....a sight well familiar to the enraged Vikings as they rushed to meet their much hated foe of old.