The Children of Zzthethpezemos

In the waning moments of the night before, Turlogh and Hroghar had slept for a few minutes while Somakeld stood the watch. The lean Turgaslav warrior's thoughts drifted back to a time a few month's prior when the Viking ship known as Odin's Dead Eye had found itself upon a cold northern sea, possibly not far from that same gleaming land Turlogh called Errin. The weather was freezing and miserable, a light rain fell to further add to the harshness of the climate. At that time there were several galley slaves still aboard the ship, including a young Turgaslav man named Mundrun. Indeed he was a cousin of Somakeld and had been happy lad until that fateful nights when he, along with the rest, had fallen victims to greedy moslem slavers.

A fierce wind blew and the oars were not in use that black day. Better for the slaves that they had been for at least the hard work would have warmed their blood and lessened their agony. The huge brute called Anwiund the Bloody paced impatiently back and forth the entire length of the longship. This was his usual habit of late, for the Vikings had been at sea for far to long without the opportunity to murder or plunder. Even worse, the last of the ale had been gone for better than a day and the massive warrior's thirst was enormous. The rest of the Norsemen feared Antiwund and his one-eyed brother Oskytel. Wisely they chose to ignore the surly man's grumbling and silently implored Odin to hastily direct them to some hapless ship or coastal village where Antiwund could find something to drink and someone's blood to slake the thirst of his great axe. Halpin Bear's Bane feared nothing and merely chuckled at Anwiund's antics. Naturally this did little to soften the frustrated and thirsty giant's foul mood.

For days the boy Mundrun had been sick. He sneezed and coughed at regular intervals but Somakeld was not overly worried. "Thank the Gods I have no fever," the boy had informed his flaxen haired cousin. "I'll be fine as soon as this foul rain decides to take its leave." "Aye," Somakeld replied. "With any luck it won't last much longer........if it does I fear Anwiund will kill us all before any sickness has a chance to seal our fate." With that the two Turgaslavs fell silent once again for the one called the Bloody paced closer. At that moment a fit of coughing seized Mundrun so violently that tears formed in the boy's eyes. As he hacked and heaved, a bit of corruption flew from his mouth and landed on the leg of Anwiund. Somakeld prayed the Viking had not noticed but a fleeting glance at the giant's enraged glare spoke otherwise.

"You base dog, how dare you soil my legging. I'll not let you scum pass your filth and disease on to your betters!" With that oath the Viking put his enraged face very near that of Mundrun to better impose fear upon the pathetic, sick boy. Anwiund cuffed the sick man mightily with a great hairy fist. Only the chains that held the lad fast saved him from being hurled from the bench whereof he was bound. Blood burst from Mundrun's nose indicating it had most likely been broken. This hardly satisfied the huge Viking's rage and he gathered yet another mighty swing for his intended victim. The young slave dodged as best he could and the bulk of the second blow glanced off his the side of his head. Simultaneously, the lad instinctively threw his hands out to ward off any further attacks. His fingernails were long and untented as were those of all the slaves. One nail accidentally raked Anwiund's cheekbone, drawing a tiny stream of blood.

The big Viking paused his assault and ran his finger along his cheek. At the sight of his own blood, Anwiund's madness increased tenfold. Slave and Viking alike watched wide-eyed as the giant drew a heavy iron hatchet from his thick leather belt. With one mighty blow he shattered the chain that had held fast Mundrun's slender leg. Then, with dreadsome ease, the boy was hoisted high into the air by the grim warrior. When his intentions became clear Hroghar and Somalkeld rose as one and strained to grasp either the boy or his tormentor. Their efforts were met with many clubbed blows from others of the Norse host that had gathered to better observe the awful play. Blows to the head rendered Hroghar unconscious and Somalkeld fell backwards with a heavy flow of blood stinging his eyes. Still, through the red mist he saw all that happened next. Halpin Bear's Bane stood silently by as Anwiund shouted loudly some pagan oath. Then he knotted his huge sinews and heaved the struggling Mundrun overboard towards the freezing, unforgiving sea.

The boy was not ready to die, despite the hopelessness of the situation he fought for his young life. Somehow he gained a handhold on the rail of Odin's Dead Eye and clung desperately. He did not beg for help for he knew it was useless to expect mercy. Still, with both hands quickly turning white, he maintained his hold there.......unwilling to succumb as yet to a certain watery grave. "So, the scum tries to cheat death....well I'll show you what your fool efforts have gained you!" Anwiund thundered, obviously pleased at a chance to bestow more suffering on one completely helpless. The Viking looked around for his hatchet. He retrieved it before positioning his hulking form so as to give the struggling boy a glimpse of his hateful smile. The small axe came down with a sickening thud, slicing away the fingers of Mundrun's right hand. The slave screamed in agony but somehow managed to maintain a tortured grip on the rail with his left hand. Somakeld's head swam in a sea of red fog as his eyes went in and out of focus. He tried to protest but scarcely more than a weak croak managed to pass over his lips. In horror the Turgaslav prince watched as the hatchet fell again and his cousin slipped at last into the icy waters. With his last fleeting seconds of life the boy pleaded and begged as he thrashed about pitifully. His head bobbed up and down beneath the hungry waves until finally it disappeared altogether. Anwiund's laugh was the last thing Somakeld heard before blessed darkness fell upon his battered body and all was nothingness.

Upon the vastness of the steppes of Europe and Asia the name of Somakeld the Turgaslav had been one to be feared and dreaded by his enemies. For a long time the once great warrior had suffered degradation and all manner of shameful abuse. As he sat there in the darkness the warrior blood of old started to burn with a fire unlike any that had come before. He drew the long sword that he'd found upon the Viking ship. It was made of very fine steel and had not been forged in the land of the Norsemen. It was plunder, a trophy stolen away from some unknown land long ago. The blade had a pronounced curve indicating some eastern origin. Somakeld held the weapon up until it glittered with the pale glow of moonlight. Then the Turgaslav prince ran his hand down the length of the sword, savoring the stinging touch of the keen edge. Finally he smiled, it was not the smile of one amused or happy. Nay, it was an twisted grimace born of a hate spawned in the blackest depths of hell.

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"Look brothers! At last bloodthirsty Thor has granted us a boon. There stands that devil Black Turlogh O'Brien!" Thus shouted Gothrun the Tall. "I swear that the man who kills that Gaelic demon shall call Odin's Dead Eye his own ship when we return to our northern homeland."

With the roar of many battle cries the Vikings brandished their heavy axes and hurled themselves towards their sworn foe of old. Memories of defeat at Clontarf and many other transgressions created a fever in their brains. At that fateful moment another truly frightening shout shattered the stillness to the rear of the Norse host. Hroghar and Somakeld charged into the surprised Vikings before they had a chance to comprehend an additional threat to their flank. Somakeld drew first blood as the point of his blade sliced through the cheek of a startled warrior. It was not a fatal blow but the man fell backwards, tripping one his brothers as he fell.

Turlogh Dubh of the Clan na O'Brien met the charge of his attackers with a glare in his steel gray eyes that chilled even Gothrun's hot blood. Gothrun hesitated for a fraction of a second before a mighty swing sent the Gael's axe glancing heavily off the Viking captain's horned helmet. It was not a fatal blow as the helmet absorbed much of the awesome force but nontheless Gothrun fell to his knees addled. Turlogh had time to lash out with his leg and kick the stunned warrior full in the chest and send him spinning.

Barely in time the Gael threw up his buckler to ward off a Viking axe. The blow was heavy and the sound of splintering wood assailed Turlogh's ears but the shield held fast. Turlogh countered with a stroke of his own so powerful it broke the arm of the Norseman as it fell upon his buckler. Someone jabbed at the Gael's leg with a dagger. It was the fallen Gothrun. Turlogh kicked him again, this time full in the face. Gothrun the Tall's teeth and facial bones shattered like rotten twigs from the force of the punishing assault. The dark Gael rained an exchange of blows with two horned adversaries whilst Hroghar struggled against Anwiund. Somakeld sent a foe to Valhalla with a sword thrust that penetrated the Norseman's mail and exited through his back. The fighting was at very close quarters and the Viking's advantage in numbers was negated somewhat by the massed bodies as all the combatants merged into one knot of flailing, shouting, and cursing fury. Friend and foe alike struggled to gain good footing on the soft sand that was rapidly becoming slick with bright blood.

Hroghar caught an axe full on the front of his thigh. He grimaced in pain and went down, but not before hacking deeply into the kneecap of the warrior that had felled him. Their battle continued on the ground as both bloodied men attempted to gain advantage with their razor sharp daggers.

At last Turlogh struck fully on the face of an opponent with his axe. The man grunted and died even as the Gael severely wounded another viking with the backswing. The razor sharp point at the rear of the berserker's axeblade impaled itself deep into the throat of a horned fiend. This Norseman staggered backwards, choking on the blood that gushed from his wound. Several times axes fell true against Turlogh but his good black mail and buckler turned them all with minimal harm. The Gael, with cold eyes flashing beneath his visorless helmet, darted here and there like a striking panther, pausing only long enough to lash out at his enemies with deadly effect.

And thus the battle raged. And what a bloodletting it was! The age old hate the Norsemen held for Black Turlogh Dubh O'Brien paled in comparison to the red rage that the Gael and his Turgaslav brothers felt for the merciless northern reavers. One Viking lost his nerve ,threw down his weapons and raced away into the bush. The rest were to busy to take note as they fought no longer for vengeance but rather their lives. Hroghar had lost the ability to stand due to his wounds but Turlogh and Somakeld fought on with the berserker madness fully upon them. One by one the Norsemen fell as their arms and legs grew heavy from exertion. For far to long they had been without good meat and ale, and they weakened rapidly. However, the full fury of battle continued unabated. Turlogh at last found himself pitted against Anwiund. The warrior called the Bloody was as tall as the Gael and much broader. Still, to the Viking's surprise the two were evenly matched where sheer brute strength was concerned. Both men fought with rare rage. Turlogh's hate was born out of the death of his friend and what he considered the abomination that was all things Norse. Anwiund fought with the natural spite for any man that dared stand in his way. The fact that the Gael was not easily killed only fueled the reaver's burning lust for blood.

Anwiund was not only large, he was unusually skilled. Turlogh found himself hard pressed to counter the heavy blows from the Viking axe. Still, the hulking Norseman grunted and cursed beneath a torrent of sweat whilst hammering the Gael who would not fall. At last the brute faltered for a fleeting moment to catch his breath thus dropping his shield slightly. Turlogh was quick to take advantage and thrust his axe like a sword. The long point atop Gael's axe drove deeply into the exposed shoulder barely above the lowered shield. Anwiund growled in rage and pain but managed to yank his buckler up enough to loosen the Gael's grip on his axe. As the dark Dalcassian struggled to regain his weapon the Viking delivered a strike that landed almost full on Turlogh's steel helmet. The Gael was saved by the good steel but his legs turned to water and he fell to his knees terribly dazed. Sounds seem to come to the Gael from a far distance and everything appeared moving with a blurred slowness. He shook his head vigorously but it helped little. Looking up Turlogh saw the giant called Anwiund the bloody poised with his great axe held high. The sun suddenly moved from behind its gray mask of clouds and reflected with dazzling display off the fearsome horned helmet of the mighty Viking. "So this is what my death looks like," the Gael muttered to himself as he sat in the sand. His arms would barely move, his legs felt heavy and useless. Turlogh glared unafraid into the eyes of the fierce giant who flashed an awful smile that many others had glimpsed immediately prior their deaths.

But then a near miracle occurred. There was a loud thud and the Viking's great body jerked slightly. He turned away to face the trembling girl Theasmina who had just struck the brute in the back with all her might. Despite her best efforts, the heavy axe the girl had picked up only barely penetrated Anwiund's thick mail. The weapon hung there in the Viking's broad back where it had penetrated only an inch or so. The Norseman reached behind and drew the axe out before throwing it onto the sand. He snarled at the girl but paused before striking, perhaps she would be a better prize alive than dead the fearsome warrior pondered momentarily. He had been to long between women.

Reeling like a drunkard, Turlogh summoned the last vestige of his great stamina. He drew his dagger from its sheath and lunged at Anwiund's thick legs. He managed to bury his blade deep in the calf of the huge,looming figure even as the world spun madly and the Gael collapsed to lay panting, barely conscious, with the blood pounding in his head.

Anwiund screamed in pain and instantly forgot the girl who stood frozen and shaking with fear. He wheeled about whilst swinging the great axe simultaneously. The weapon found nothing but air as Turlogh was prostrated below and blinking up at the Viking with heavy eyelids.

The hulking Viking raised his good leg high, begotten with the notion of literally stomping out the brains of the fallen Gael. Suddenly the figure of Somakeld the Turgaslav warrior flashed before Anwiund. The flaxen haired man was bloody with a dozen wounds but he grinned fiendishly as the long curved blade in his hand descended in a rush. Anwiund barely caught a flash of something in the sunlight as the blde sliced through his thick neck as if it were a loaf of fresh baked bread. The huge body teetered there for some moments as the head lay on the sand looking up at the its former self. Then the great bloody bulk dropped twitching to the earth.

Turlogh leaned on one elbow as his senses returned to him in with a vivid rush. "Thank you my brother," he croaked with parched lips.

Somakeld answered. "Nay brother, thank you for the freedom you granted me. The freedom to destroy those I hated most in this world..." Then he raised his face upwards towards the bright blue sky that had become beautifully illuminated by the sun and all its glory.

"What a magnificent day to be alive," Somakeld said as his hand loosened on the hilt of the curved sword and let it fall to lie amongst blood and sand. "I am so happy that I lived to see it my brother." Then the fair haired Turgaslav prince fell stone dead.

Theasmina rushed to Turlogh's side and held his head against her heaving breasts. They felts soft and cool against his burning cheeks. The girl cradled him and sobbed convulsively, "its over my love....its all over."

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Shortly some of Turlogh Dubh O'Brien's legendary strength returned to him. After slashing the throats of a wounded Viking he helped Theasmina drag the badly wounded Hroghar into the shade. There the girl tended to the men as best she could. Unashamed tears ran down the old Turgaslav chief's face as he lamented the loss of his good kinsman Somakeld. He alternated between crying and hurling curses at the bodies of the dead Vikings. At last Theasmina gave him enough gellum to make him pass into the world of dreaming. Sometimes he groaned and jerked in his slumber, giving Turlogh reason to think the battle might still be raging there somewhere in the land of the ghostly sub-conscious.

All day the Gael rested and that night he fell into a long deep sleep. The consumption of a considerable quantity of non no doubt helped greatly with the depth of his repose.

The next morning Turlogh wakened feeling much recovered. For an ordinary man such a quick improvement would have been impossible but the Dalcassian warrior was no ordinary man. He was far from typical in all respects as many had learned much to their chagrin.
Turlogh's mind was as vivid as ever and the headache only annoyed him. A small amount of non and gellum make the throbbing even less of a nuisance. No matter, there was much to be done.

The Gael hacked down several small trees and brush. This he carried and arranged carefully upon the deck of Odin's Dead Eye. Then he gathered as much driftwood as he could find on or near the beach. Any would serve as long as it was well dried. Theasmina helped him as much as she could. Like any erstwhile citizen of Torn, she was no stranger to work. She strained and perspired right alongside the Gael, occasionally giving him a charming smile or humming a soft tune. Turlogh could easily do the work of two or three men and do it far longer without tiring. He only paused for a few minutes to take some water or eat a quick meal prepared by the girl. Hroghar could not stand, and therefore capable of little else except offering bits of advice or complaining about his incapacitated physical state. Once he turned to Turlogh, "Somakeld fought like a God yesterday. It was an honor to know such a man." The somber Gael only shook his head, "no, the Gods have all manner of powers, wizardry, or demons to aid them with their wars. Somakeld fought like a man and nothing less than a man." "True, very true," Hroghar replied with a thoughtful nod. "There be times when I think my brother wields words as well as axes."

When Odin's Dead Eye was finally prepared the Gael struck out walking to fetch the body of Athelstane. He carried the late Saxon to Turlogh's own little ship. Luckily the wind was fair and the short voyage to the scene of the fight was quick and relatively effortless. The Gael proceeded to place the body of Somakeld into the smaller ship as well. With the two ships positioned alongside each other Turlogh pulled the bodies into the long ship o'reaving with a rope. Displaying his great strength and surprising gentleness, the remains of Athelstane the Saxon and Somakeld the Turgaslav were perfectly positioned on individual pyres. The great broadsword was place reverently across the Saxon's chest and likewise the curved blade that slew Anwiund the Bloody was placed against the chest of the Turgaslav. The severed heads of Oskytel and Gothrun were placed at the feet of Athelstane. Anwiund's ugly head was nested at the feet of Somakeld.

Turlogh poured some gellum here and there before invoking the name of Crom and lighting the fire. He had allowed Odin's Dead Eye to drift out to sea for a good distance. Once the fire blazed the Gael dove into the water and swam to his own craft where Theasmina waited. Quickly he rowed back to shore. There the two men and woman sat and watched the great ship burn. Much of the wood was somewhat green and burned slow. They watched until long after night fell. Nothing was said as they passed the pipe back and forth. At last the increasingly distant light expired.

Later the stars came out bright and sparkling. Turlogh stared at them for a very long time before pulling the girl close holding her tightly with all the tenderness he could summon. Still, his last thoughts before falling asleep were of Terrilara and their child.