Chapter 6: Fools Rush In
Rally
We are running through the forest. The rays of the sun had nearly expired, leaving a darkness in these housings of nature with only a stream of blinding light to poke fun at our blinding expense. Each foot fall could leave us sailing to our earthly graves if we do not keep our strides long and hard in the direction we direly require to be going.
Shouts ring out through the woods. I dare not look back, yet I know taking one peek would give me the energy I require to burn my lungs anew and numb my body of the ache to retire. They will be on us, the whole numbers of tens, fifties, or hundreds; I care not how many more than it be greater what we could possibly hold back, let alone fight off.
How did we come to this? Almost every battle we fought was in ease or we had the common sense to rout when outnumbered. Foolish and Fool the decision and obedience I had to follow. If, when, or what I had done been any better than the man next to me, we all would have spoken out in merit. This was a sentence to death and fortune only smiled a meter away and cliffs high from our grave. Vanguards, sent to see, hear, and gain the know of what we faced. Our enemy, the ever rising cry of people breaking from the fallen Empire, sworn to neighboring Kingdoms or to the ever expanding reflection of our Imperial Host's region, Bulgarians.
Had it not been for the cliff we spy out and over, the lot of our circle had been laying flat and cold before the sun could set level with our final bow. Our armor, axenshields, the weight of our stomps, the rattle and clacking of rocks skipping down the stone cliff, each huff and groan climbing up to the edge, and our gasps at the never ending city of canvas set our hearts down to digest tenderly into the bowl of our bowels. We ran. We, the Varangian Guard, do not wish to appear cowards. More over, we do not seek a foolish death.
I cannot hear myself breathing and yet I feel the rattle and searing course the air has to travel through me. Drenched, praying for a chance to doff my armor and give myself swifter strides. Internally I beg for an opportunity to slow my pace for a slim substance of rest. Raising my ice-blue eyes, I can see the startling shines of light dancing through the canopy of leaves dip lower and lower. A telling sign that we all will be shared company in the night's fight. All we must do is keep our vigil and determine ourselves to live at a distance longer.
Night comes and I hit my knees sharply down into the ground. So close to passing out. The buzzing in my head is nothing compared to the tremors running through me. Quickly, I reach for the handle and bring out my hand-ax. Turning on one knee, my shield propped before and planted into the soil at my base, I give a keen swat on the shield's face with the head of my deadly tool.
Many, and many, so very many cry out their chorus with me. The darkness enveloped the forest, yet we still are one. Crouching, I scoot to the closest of the ringing notes. Hearing it again, closer I come as do others. I cannot tell, but I know there is a brother next to me, beside him, a line further, and rows coming together. My beacon smashes its edge into the next one, linking our shieldarms together, swatting over the tops with our ax-heads, and awaiting for these foes to come into our surprising end. Hands feel along my back, over my shoulder, and give me the silent tell who they are. We've collided with our host army.
There is a sudden force that runs straight into and over top of me before he, for I know it is my foe, lands behind myself on either my or his leafy deathbed. A relief of pressure on my back gives me my own sigh of relief. We cannot see, but it wouldn't take much for a frantic man to hack at anything in this environment. One lucky swing and that would end it. This is why I never will judge the lesser irregulars that follow our ring of shields. They are as much one with us as we are with them. If only our foe could not have been as foolish as we had started out today or at least coming to us in waves, they would not be rushing headlong over shields and shoulders to their deaths. Yelling and screaming, they are but raining down over my head and I can picture the same is for our entire linked-line of defense.
No one has bothered with a torch until full night has shrouded the forest top.
I feel the pinch on either side of my shield raise, my brothers' rising, and as I shall too to join them in the counter assault. Something prevents me. My hearing is still listening to the yelling and screaming, my limbs shaking from fatigue, breathing hoarse with a burn, and I cannot lift up from my spot. The line will be broken if I do not join or I will be discarded with the irregulars as injured. These both cannot be and I try to raise up with my circle once more...
Stripes of outstanding bright red between the void of black and dark hue of beige wood come into my vision. Shadows play along the ceiling. Stomping, yelling, and screaming.
Sweat coats the inside of my palm from wiping and dragging tenderly down from my forehead to the drops dangling from my smooth chin. I had not taken note before, but I believe Calibri may have been caring for me with more than just feed and drink. When I can, I shall have to thank him for ever giving me a clean shave.
Blinking the lines of sunlight poking fun at my painful view, I turn away from the jumping shadows across the planks' slivers. There is something going on above deck with that amount of hollering. Taking in any reserve strength that I have, I try to sit up, but only manage to lift my damp head and shoulders from the cot. In another attempt, I give a different approach in getting out of bed by rolling over and off. With a thud, I land on my bare side. Without really thinking, I look down to see the blanket coiled under and around a thinner me. Have I only slept for a night or another set of weeks? Gulping, I pull the linen off to see what has become of the sickly me again.
My throat constricts as I take in the image. Most of my muscle mass has receded and I can see my hips more clearly flared than before. I've seen the starved and I fear that is my palor, but looking again discards and washes me with the tiniest relief to see subtle flesh still billowing out from me rather than the outline of bone. Shaking my head and swiping the sticking tendrils of fair hair out of my face, I try again to both push up from the floor and, grabbing the cot, pulling myself up.
It must have been weeks. I can feel the lacking in my muscles crying out how little I've used them. A searing burst of pain pops across my calves as my naked sole finds purchase on the floor. Gritting my teeth, I keep going further by taking a step. Each hand reaches to brace myself onto the beam or outcropping cot to the stairway up. Unfortunately, I notice the way out is again closed and apparently a shade-like outline displays it is barred shut rather than a simple bolt. The crew or Calibri must have decided to reinforce mine or their security.
The commotion on deck becomes louder. Not capable, I push the events occurring above out of my mind for now to find where ever my pants are. Looking about, I actually see not a shred of my clothing anywhere. There is my linen blanket, I am sure the crew have theirs above with them, but I cannot understand why my own outfit would be gone. On top of that, where is my luggage? There is a precious amount of cargo that I've taken with me from Constantinople and I seriously am worried over it being gone. When given the chance, I'll question Calibri about it. Right now, maybe it is better that I warm myself up to better wander later.
As I stretch, I can feel that my limbs are indeed more slender than they have been since before I had been in Kiev last. Another thing I have become aware of is how long my hair reaches. My fingers, as I reach to undo kinks and rejuvenate tendons and ligaments into a motion, find and entangle in the lush blonde chaos. It really has become annoyingly long and each time irritating me when my scalp feels the tug. I pull at the strands of light gold downward to feel and see where it reaches. About past the bottom of my tapering waist. While those sharp blue eyes follow the gold strings from my head, there is an acidic lump below my throat as I see just how ailed I've been at the shriveled length between my legs being outdone by my radiant bush.
"God, I beg of you not to regrow a limb, but simply give me my praised manhood a vigorous image what once had the majestic woman eagerly kneeling in worship at my feet for a glimpse and I will give whatever you ask in ecstasy by means of thanks," I gradually whisper in the faintest of breathing and voice. With that, I look away, not wanting to even see if God could conference a miracle for a man such as I and, snatching, the linen blanket from my cot is wrapped around my lower body to keep that sight from me. To my regret, I still lay a hand down across my lap to feel how shrunk my father's heirloom has become and had swung my hand away as if a glowing hot brand there had touched my palm. My icy-gaze wanders without purpose for a good while, searching for nothing and anything to drive my thoughts into a lighter or darker topic to dwell on. It is my hearing that rewards me with such. The shouting fest above has stopped.
Lifting my gaze up to the illuminated slits in the planks, I watch silently.
Thrown off my feet and slam-landing on the floor, a massive quake riddles beneath and beside me, jarring my reaching grasp on the bed frame in trembling ripples of shock for a lined series of instances. Once, twice, and a third time has me rolling across the floor to be stopped by the bottom step of the ship's stairs.
Shouting like I have heard before, I know a battle is being fought above my head, and I can only guess at how we fare by the prancing shadows beyond the poorly crafted woodwork. My shield would be outside, but I should have had armor and ax here with me. They could be the very fine line to survive whomever has converged onto our vessel. I search frantically about for anything that could suffice as a bludgeon, be it a wooden stake broken from a cot's leg or that of one loose plank that I can purchase and rip from the floor.
Something dropped onto my shoulder, then arm, and cheek. My hand wipes at the debris, finding it is wet, dark, and stands out almost as brightly like the gaudy emblazoned red planks. They continue to yell at one another, a shouting match, which maybe good. I will know when it becomes close to the end as the screaming dies down. I have maybe a minute to find what I need. Quickly, I scramble from the stairs to wrangle a leg of the nearest cot. A foot is kicked into the corner, a sore pinch could be felt from my softened sole and the splintering corner of the frame, and use as much leg power to push away my body from the bed-place. As my thinned and lean muscles explode into agony, I wrench away victoriously with my prize.
Huffing with awe at the wooden club, turning it in my leaner hands, I sure my grip, and I stand. Taking a step, one after the other, listening carefully of who is stomping and crashing where, my figure crouches in wait by the locked door.
In a moment, the silence reigns outside.
Another moment, footsteps approach the door.
That last moment, I hear them speaking and feel the pit of my stomach drop. Our crew lost, which is scary enough to be alone, but I recognize the speech of the victors. If they find a Dane on board, a noble one at that, my hide will be cooked. Svijod is not exactly friends with Skane, but not all Swedish have to come from there. These could be Varmagutlander or Smalander raiders... Actually, Smaland would be worse than Svijod as my father has taken land from them. Maybe Vestergutlanders or Ostergutlanders? For now, I focus on listening to what they have to say. Maybe I can discern precisely where they hail from by their accent.
"-as far I know." "Then open it." "It is bolted and barred." There are three people on the other side.
"It is probably locked to keep us out."
"... Really? From the outside? This is to keep something in."
"Someone," I hear a brushing sound, like someone is leaning against the door, "I can hear someone. They are breathing heavily." SHIT! I swallow and hold the fiery air in my lungs, despite how ill I maybe, breathing is going to cease immediately if I get hacked into pieces. I can feel the red glow in my face almost immediately. "HEY! Don't bother, we know you are in there. Just enjoy the fresh air while you can, okay?" With that, the bar on the door is lifted.
"Get ready," I hear from another while there is shuffling of feet. Sounds like they are positioning themselves more efficiently.
"Hey, hold on... If they were keeping them in there as a prisoner-"
"Hoo- Wait..." There is a rough tapping on the door, likely from a steel-wood contact as a blade of some kind. "Speak now or we are coming in. I know you understand."
What can I do? I either wait for the three out there, and I know there has to be a lot behind them too for the whole crew to be taken out... I just realized Calibri would be dead. He had been the only one I actually had a friendship on this journey. He had been a bit creepy at times, but he still meant well and connected with me on a level that we could be comfortable talking with one another on anything. Even shared drinks with him. He risked his new Captain position and himself. His life, being both drawn into the insane event he told me, could have had both me and him thrown into the Black Sea. Vulnerable in illness, he did what he could nourishing, but apparently even cleaning, shaving, and even ensuring I had a blanket at all time. Good God, he went out of his way to find that Witch and give her a salty drink and wash for my sake.
All of these reflections run through my head in one go and the air from my lungs burst out in the weirdest noise I've ever heard myself in. In an attempt to reel back the sound, I choke, then sob out another breath. With the brush of my arm, as I am still holding the make-shift club, I smear a wetness across my eyes and cheeks. I don't know what has become of me. Being sick, scared, at a loss and experiencing one from a caring friend; I can guess being an emotional wreck is reasonable.
"... Hey is that?"
"Ssh, back off." There is the sound of a scuffle for a brief second. "Hey! We are opening the door. Back away from it and stand still. If you do that-" A pause, I can barely hear them conversing with each other, but it sounded like they were trying to agree to something. In the temporary quiet, I do back away, but because I come to see a bit late, not too late, that I was relying on them opening the door all the way. If they don't, I wouldn't have enough room to swing the club effectively. As if on cue, the door is unlocked and cracks open.
In the expanding crack of sunlight, by reflex, I turn away from it in an agonizing blindness. Shapes of men come as a comforting shade.
"Drop it!"
"Do as he says!"
"Holy Mother of Mary, I've never seen one that tall before." That caught me off guard. Christian Sweds? Livs. Livonia! Trade in Riga would have Christian Sweds. Not to say that Livonia is a Christian kingdom, far from it, but trade is profiting, whether fair or raid... We must have jumped rivers at some point. I'm not sure how, as that would have meant we trekked across the land, but even that had not woken me. Maybe it had and I was as unaware as Calibri mentioned me being while he played the role as my Caretaker. In any case, we had to have left the Dnieper and gone onto the Western Dvina to reach this mixed-Latvian land.
Carefully, seeing as I had been the one surprised by my slow adapt to light, my hands lower the club down. I crouch to lay it on a step, remaining as I am, leaving my hand to lay along its length in the chance that they rush me. I can still take out one of them with a swift blow and thrown down these steps. It doesn't take much to use a fall to break someone's neck or skull. The only thing that bugs the hell out of me, and I really am conscious about it, is how my long hair spreads over my naked back and shoulders to hug in wetly to my arms and sides. All it would take is for me to swing one way or another to tug my hair like a rope around my head and I'll be the one stumbling back down the steps.
There is a crowd forming to block the remaining light shinning down the steps on me.
"Hey! Back the FUCK off," loudly shouted and rougher shoving is being dealt out by one of the initial three to those behind them. I am guessing these three are probably the leaders. Three. That number leading makes sense. It relates to the violent collisions our ship endured. Three ships rammed us. No wonder our crew was entirely wiped out and that many men still stood.
"I'm not telling you again. Drop it," this time, the one on the left raises an object I can't quite clearly make out. It is certainly a weapon, but the way he holds it propped against his shoulder causes me to question how effective it is. I see him reach over to the extending length of his weapon and yank back on a string, while at the same time, fitting a straight piece in the space he made for it. Ballistic, from the looks of it, which means it is meant to fire like a Ballistae. I remove my hand from the club. "Come up."
"Easy, we don't know who that is," hearing that does make me a little worried. I first thought that my life was going to end. Instead, from how they are handling this, they want to take me alive. I don't know why, but accepting my death seemed more comforting than knowing they would have me at their mercy. Wait... If that man is concerned about me being someone of importance, I could use that.
Not to startle the bowman, I raise myself slow and steady, setting my jaw firm and with my chin higher, I display myself at my highest. I'm most certainly think that my image is not as intimidating as it once was, but even being as sick to be driven into a deathbed will not take my height away. Straight and with pride of at last regaining my composure, my bare feet take to the steps, my lips parting to pronounce who I am, and ready to grab anyone in my steel-like grip if they attempt to haul me away before I can herald myself. All I have to do is remain calm, keep my voice in check, and speak clearly enough in their tongue to understand I am directly related and under the wing of a powerful figurehead.
"Hold and let me speak of myself. My name is Kris Akra, child and heir of Gyrid Hremson Akra of the Jarldom to Skane." I don't know why I gave them my Christian name over my birth-name.
Lapse of judgement? It looks like it might have been the right call, though. The bowman lowers his weapon and some of the others lose the tension in their shoulders.
"Jarl Gyrid?" I hear one of them say, a man with a screwy eye.
"I know of him and his ilk. He had a whole load of kids, mostly daughters and one boy," this comes from a squat and stout man.
"Last I heard, he was a huge man," from Screw-Ball.
"A jotunn, uh, giant," correction by Shorty.
"Heh, yes, but didn't he go off with those Kievan-Rus to trade in war?" This by the Crazy-Eye.
"Quiet you two," the one who has been giving the orders before managed to actually silence the others. I am going to single him out and say he holds the higher rank and authority in this raiding fleet. He turns, just as I am on the same landing as the others.
I finally get a show of the carnage on deck. Being blessed with my height, I look over the men's heads at the whole butchery. None of it matters to me as I scan for the bulky body of my friend. Near the dragon's prow, I find him.
Without thinking or considering the consequences, I wedge and bully my arms and shoulders against and through the three while the crowd remained back as had been commanded. A sharp pain and my head is yanked back before I fall down on extending-back hands first and land on my rump. Gritting my teeth and glaring up at the raider Commander, I grab the lock of hair being held in his hand, with another hand held at my scalp, and I brutally rip the hair in half to scramble away. This must have really surprised him, for before I turned away to run to Calibri's body, his face was both filled with shock and rage as he held up the torn lock of fair hair. I cruise on wobbly legs quick, but mindful of the crew, and come crashing down onto my knees at my friend's prone figure.
A single slender finger traces along his thick throat, trying to feel for the warm pulse or quick shallow breathes, something to tell me he yet still lived. Nothing. There is no life in him. Only the image of his last instant living remains on his face. He didn't resign peacefully, I can tell with his own hand-ax in a death grip, eyes wide open, mouth hanging to have been gasping his last, and the broad man's posture in a way that he had been attempting to right himself up to sitting at the ship's head. I can sense the raiders approaching from behind, but I feel secure that they know who I am now and will not cause an extent of harm beyond what I've already experienced before. Taking my time, I lay a hand down to close Calibri's eyes and bow my head to silently speak a prayer for his soul. I know they are watching me, apparently having enough respect to give me the honor of at saying farewell to my friend.
"Will someone PLEASE grab the Lady Akra a shirt?"
My head pops up, "What?" I turn to look at them as one of the raider's drops an open-longsleave across my shoulders.
"Valdis and Dzim, when we finish divvying up everything, give the ship and crew to the sea and flame. I'll handle negotiating a ransom for Kris Gyriddottir." My ice-blue eyes dart from the man called Valdis, a short man with massive trunks as legs, and then to Dzim, a man I'm having a hard time not staring at his straying eye, and finally settling on staring into the copper-brown look of the Commander still angrily holding my hair. There is an ugly menace on his face. Still, he would be considered handsome if not for that grimacing. There is a short crop of brown hair on his head, swaying out at the sides and rugged over his keen ears, adding a falcon like appearance to frame his wide set copper-brown eyes and sharp expression of controlled rage. He wraps up the blonde lock around his clenched fist. "Anything you want me to write down to your father, Lady Kristine? Maybe explaining that I had nothing to do with the harm to your pretty head?"
"Wha- What?" I can't help but feel the strain in my brow. I must look bewildered to them and they seem to catch on that I am confused.
"What-what-what-what," I hear within me, "Say you want Daddy to give you a journal," and a fit of giggling echoes in my head. The Shade, I can't sense it other than hear the whisper of its voice in my thoughts. "Hold on for one secoooond, need to finish up our masterpiece before we confuse them."
My head lowers, breathing in more quickly as I take a look at myself for the first time in the light. I'm not skinny as a sickly infirm as I first thought, but slim with my lean muscle still existing in an extent to be subtly feminine. The flat belly lacks the rippling definition that stood out before and instead lays sensually slopped into the recess of the linen wrapped around my slender waist.
Lifting my trailing gaze up the hyper-quick rising abdomen, I have, without a better word for it, small breasts budding from my chest the size of apples. No more, I will look no more. I tighten the shirt given to me more snug and concealed about my nakedness.
"Shame though, I kinda had plans to give you a bigger chest and be a lot shorter, but since we have an audience now- Oh well, Life's a Bitch... Annnnnnd disconnecting," after hearing that odd statement, my hard-cold blues unfocused and widen. I feel, more than hear, the buzzing in my head dive down to spread over my body.
Instinctively, I throw out my hands to the deck to brace myself before pitching forward. The side-ways world, where everyone is see-sawing as they run take to my knelt-bowed form, goes into a myriad of brighter and brighter colors until I cannot see anymore. I note that there is no longer any sound or even the bite of the chilled wind playing across my torso anymore.
The last thought to pass through my mind, before passing out, is about how many weeks will it take before I wake this time...
