Atlantis: Bermuda Triangle

Chapter 4

The cold wind howled down from the rocky crags overlooking the fjord and cut into the flesh like a hundred spear-points hurled by screaming warriors. It chilled to the bone, no matter how many blankets and furs Ragnarok Bloodhand tucked around his body. It was not as bad as the wind of a thousand spear-points’ that he had experienced on the northern seas when the winds took the sea spray and froze it as it smashed over the bow of the longship, cutting into exposed skin as if the sea-god Aegir himself was telling them to go back.

But it was not the cold or the wind that had woken Ragnarok. He had slept through much worse. Indeed, he was known as something of an oddity among his crew because he slept not under one of the dozen large wooden benches that stretched across the width of the longship, but rather on top of the forward most bench, exposed to the elements. The ship was drawn up on the pebbled beach along the narrow strip of land that gave them access to the fjord and the sea beyond.

They had pulled in here before dark, not so much because of the coming night, but rather due to a dense fog that had suddenly appeared, enveloping the ship. Ragnarok and his men had traveled through fog before, but this one was unlike any they had ever encountered. It was very thick, allowing them to see barely twenty feet past the carved dragon prow. And it felt sickly on their skin, leaving a wetness unlike that of the ocean or fresh water. Even the color wasn’t right, not quite gray, but rather a yellowish haze with streaks of black in it.

This followed sighting a burning mountain earlier in the day to the east, a most bizarre occurrence that had rattled the crew. The volcano was atop a dark cloud that clung to the shore and mountain in a most unnatural way. The earth was unquiet, that had been clear for the past year as earthquakes and volcanoes all over the area of the world Ragnarok and his men traveled rumbled and burned.

At Ragnorak’s order they had carefully worked their way along the shore making constant soundings even though the ship drew less than three feet and finally turning into this fjord. The fog had faded slightly inside the fjord, but another very strange aspect was that it was not affected much by the fierce wind, something that had the crew muttering among themselves as they settled in for the night. It was unnatural and Ragnarok had posted a guard and had the boat pulled onto the shore to wait out the strange weather.

Awake now, Ragnarok didn’t jump up, rather he opened his eyes to tiny slits and peered about the boat, as his ears strained to hear something beyond the wind. It was dark, but he could still see a certain distance and there was no one on board other than his crew. He knew every piece of wood on the ship and he knew no one could move without him hearing the wood react. The rumble of assorted snores reached him, carried by the wind.

Satisfied he wasn’t in immediate danger, Ragnarok stood up, furs and blankets dropping from his body. He was an imposing figure, six and a half feet tall with broad shoulders upon which long black hair fell in dirty, uncombed curls. His face was square, with a formidable jaw. A thick red scar ran down the left side, from the temple, just in front of the ear, to end at the jaw. His eyes were startlingly blue, an inheritance from his mother. Unlike most Vikings, he did not have a beard, the hair on his face cut every week or so with a sharp knife, leaving a coarse black stubble peppering his face.

He wore leather trousers, the color of which meandered somewhere between the original brown leather and the black grime encrusted by years of wear. A tunic covered his barrel chest, this garment in much better shape with a red piping in the symbol of an eagle sown into the back. His arms were bare and the muscles rippled as he picked up his ax- Skullcrusher- from where it had rested next to his head.

The Danish ax was a weapon not many men, even few Vikings, could wield effectively in combat. Skullcrusher had a haft over four feet long of three inch thick oak. The base of the ax ended in a metal point, much like a spear, so it could be wielded either way. The head- the normal business end of the ax- was huge, with a single edge that Ragnarok honed every day as conscientiously as many fair-haired Viking women combed out their long hair. Opposite the cutting edge the head ended in four inch thick blunt surface, the part of the weapon that gave it it’s name. Ragnarok had smashed many a head with a mighty swing, knocking shield and sword out the way to find its target.

Ax in hand he remained perfectly still. His eyes looked toward the beach. There was nothing moving. He looked past the beach. A high wall of rock angled up disappearing into the fog. Ragnarok had climbed many such ridges surrounding fjords and he knew that the likelihood of an enemy doing that was slim. Then he turned in the direction Vikings always looked- to the water.

The black surface was ruffled by the wind in an almost hypnotic pattern. To the left, the fjord narrowed, eventually running into a glacier coming from the inner mountains. To the right, the fjord led to the sea, a narrow fifty foot opening between two high outcropping of rock the only was in and out. They had rowed in through that opening shortly before nightfall seeking landfall. No ship’s wake disturbed the surface of the water, no oars dipped into the water. All was still.

Ragnarok tensed. All was still now, the wind dying down, the water becoming mirror flat. The winds of the north were fickle, with a mind of their own to betray and confuse even the most experienced sailor, but to suddenly cease like that- Ragnarok shook his shoulders, pushing away a chill.

The fjord was on the west coast of Norway, north of even the most northernmost Viking settlements, where during Winter the sun was little more than a glow on the horizon for a few hours each day and the rest of the twenty-four hour cycle was spent in darkness. It was early Spring and while the beach was free of snow, patches of white still clung to the elevations just above.

There was nothing moving he could see. Nothing to indicate what might have woken him. There was also no warrior standing guard on the small wooden ledge six feet up on the main mast that served as the look-out post for the ship.

Ragnarok strode down his boat, stepping over sleeping bodies, pausing at the large rudder. He gently kicked one of the forms under the last bench.

“Eh?” a deep voice grumbled.

Ragnarok bent over and kept his voice low. “Hrolf, get up.”

Hrolf the Slayer pushed aside his blankets and sat up, head twisting to and fro.

“Who is supposed to be on guard?” Ragnarok asked.

Hrolf cursed as he looked down the boat and saw the empty post. “Duartr. I will whip him like a dog for-”

Ragnarok held up a hand, head cocked as he heard something, almost the same pitch as the howling wind that was now gone, but deeper, more threatening, coming from a single point in the distance. “He is not in his sleeping place.”

Hrolf stood, grabbing his sword and drawing it out of the scabbard. He was a foot and a half shorter than his leader, but broader, a keg of a man, with muscle layered on muscle and a tremendous belly under his leather tunic. The sword was as long as half Hrolf’s height, and very thick. The end was blunt as a Viking fought not by jabbing but by slashing. The edges on both sides were razor sharp and with the weight of the sword and the muscle Hrolf could put behind each stroke, the sword was capable of beheading a large bull with one slice.

“What was that?” Hrolf’s head turned toward the landward side.

“I don’t know,” Ragnarok said. “Get the crew awake- quietly- and the boat afloat.”

Ragnarok climbed onto the gunwale and jumped onto the beach, the pebbles making a very slight noise giving way under his leather boots and weight.

The distant howling set the hair on Ragnarok’s neck to rise. Not wolves, he did not fear them. Some of the blankets he slept under were made from the fur of wolves he had killed with ax or spear. Something different, something he had never heard before. Ragnarok had sailed the north sea to Eire Land, Iceland and even beyond to the land Eric the Red had so deceitfully christened Greenland. He thought he had seen all there was to viewed in the great white North. The unique sound told him there was something more he had not yet met, and his heart leapt at the thought, but he had given the order to Hrolf to float the ship as a Viking always protected his ship and his village before any other pursuit.

Ragnarok’s right hand tightened on the haft of the ax. The sound had come from over the ridge behind the beach. He kept his eyes focused on the steep walls as he crossed the beach to the scree pile of large stones deposited at the base of the steep rock wall.

Something was lying where the ground rose precipitously. A body. The top half jammed between two boulders. Ragnarok knelt next to the corpse. Ragnarok frowned. The man’s sword was gripped by both dead hands. He recognized the engraved cross-guard- it was Duartr’s. A good Viking death to have one’s sword in hand but who could have killed him before he gave an alarm? Ragnarok reached down and pulled the body back from between the boulders.

The head was gone. Even in the darkness, Ragnarok could see the white of the spine poking up above a bloody hole. Whatever had taken the head off had not done so cleanly. And the chest and stomach had been ripped open, as if a beast had feasted on Duartr’s innards.

Ragnarok let go of the body and stood. He could hear the boat being pushed out, wood scraping against pebbles and into water, hushed voices hissing orders. He looked up, scanning in short arcs, trying to see through the clinging fog.

His efforts were rewarded when he saw something moving, about two hundred feet above and to the right. Someone was climbing down. The strange screaming came again, closer this time, from near the top of the ridge, not from the climber.

Ragnarok growled, the sound coming from deep in his chest and not very loud. He felt the blood pounding in his head, the battle-fury rising with each accelerated heartbeat.

The figure was lower now, less than a hundred feet above his head, climbing with skill and speed. The body was covered with a black robe that dangled below it. Ragnarok climbed higher on the scree pile, closing the distance.

He reached a large slab, about eight feet wide and long, that had broken off the ridge and was now lying almost horizontal. Putting his feet wide apart, Ragnarok lifted up his ax and rested it on his left shoulder.

The figure was less than fifty feet away now, but Ragnarok’s focus was higher, searching for the source of the chilling screams, which were coming more often now, every few seconds. Ragnarok stepped back slightly as two screams, one right after another whipped by him. They had come from slightly different directions. And there was still the matter of what had happened to Duartr’s head and body- whoever or whatever had done that was already in the area.

The figure had altered direction slightly and was now climbing down directly toward Ragnarok. The black cloak swirled as the figure reached the slab and turned about, facing him, a deep hood covering the face, two hands upturned, empty of any weapon.

“Who are you?” Ragnarok asked.

The screams were getting closer and Ragnarok could feel the threat in them.

He was surprised at the voice that answered him- a woman’s! “Perhaps you would be better to worry about what is making that noise?” The woman spoke Norse with an accent the Viking had never heard before.

“They sound like dogs from hell,” Ragnarok slipped the ax off his shoulder and held it in front of him with both hands.

“They are,” the woman said. “Valkyries and their creatures of the night.”

All Vikings knew of the Valkyrie- the demon-goddess of the lord of the underworld, who did his bidding on Earth. Who feasted on the corpses of those killed in battle.

“Then I will die bravely fighting the demon bitches,” Ragnarok said, the moonlight glint off the edge of his ax.

“It would be better to flee quickly,” the woman said.

“A warrior does not flee battle.”

“You cannot stop them,” the woman stepped forward and placed a hand on his heavily muscled forearm. “They have killed many brave warriors like you.”

The howls were getting closer. Ragnarok had heard stories of the Valkyries and many other strange and frightening creatures from his mother, but he had never seen any of them. He had no doubt that such creatures existed though- or else his mother would not have told him of them. And he had seen Duartr’s body. To fight an emissary of a God- even a demon God- would be quite a challenge. If he won there would be glorious stories to tell. If he lost, the gate to Valhalla would surely be open to such a warrior.

“I cannot run,” Ragnarok said.

“I am a Disir,” the woman pulled her hood back. Her hair was pure white even though her face was young and unlined. Ragnarok had never met someone with skin so dark. And the eyes! They were angled as if the skin on the side had been pulled back, unlike any he had ever seen. “My name is Tam Nok. I demand your assistance in escaping my enemies.”

Ragnarok needed time to think, but as in all battle there was no time. “I thought it was the other way around- Disir’s are supposed help us?”

Tam Nok stepped closer. Ragnarok knew there was danger close by, but his gaze was drawn to her eyes, their strange slanted shape. Deep black, even darker than the night around them, they drew in his very being.

“I am trying to help more than just you,” she said. “Every Viking- all of mankind is in danger. If I die here, we all die. Make your decision now, Ragnarok Bloodhand.”

A distant part of Ragnarok’s mind wondered how she knew his name. “I cannot-” He whirled as an unearthly growl ripped the air to his left, the ax leading the way. The blade impacted in the chest of a beast in the midst of its leap. Ragnarok had a brief glimpse of bared teeth, a thick body, outstretched arms with claws at the end as he followed through the swing, throwing the body past him. A serpent’s tail flickered by, narrowly missing his face, as the beast made a dying attempt to kill.

Ragnarok shoved his boot into the creature’s chest and pulled the ax out with a cracking of bones. It had the body of a lion, the tail of a serpent, and the head of a monster with fanged teeth. Ragnarok had never seen the like.

“We need to leave,” Tam Nok pulled on his arm. “Now!”

Looking past where the creature had come from, Ragnarok could see a tall figure- over seven feet in height- cloaked in red, with blood red hair cresting over shoulders. The face was white and long and hard. No mouth that he could see, just two red eyes that bulged outward. The Valkyrie’s scream chilled Ragnarok’s blood, although there was no mouth from which the sound could emanate. The scream came from the entire being, twisting the air the surrounded it. Ragnarok squinted. The air was shimmering next to the Valkyrie in a way he had never seen. The creature held up its right hand toward him. The hand was covered in the same sort of white armor as the face with a bright gold stone held in the palm.

As Ragnarok stepped forward toward the Valkyrie, both hands holding the ax over his head, Tam Nok cried out “No!”.

A gold beam flashed up from the Valkyrie’s hand, hitting Ragnarok in the chest, searing through the leather. He screamed in agony and staggered back. The hand pointed toward him once more. Tam Nok stepped between them, whipping something shiny from under her cloak. The gold beam hit the object and ricocheted off into the darkness. Tam Nok jumped back, into Ragnarok, and the two of them slipped off the stone, falling.

The pain in Ragnarok’s chest was forgotten as he tumbled down the rocky slope. He came to an abrupt halt at the bottom, Tam Nok on top of him. Both were bruised and battered but still alive. He rose up, pulling her along with him.

“They cannot see well,” Tam Nok hissed. “We must go now!”

There were voices below, the men on the boat alarmed by the commotion. Ragnarok looked across the pebbled beach. His longship was in the water, oars manned, several warriors standing behind their shields slotted along the side, arrows notched to bows, peering into the fog and dark.

“Let us go,” he ordered, but Tam Nok was already moving. Ragnarok frowned and hurried after her. Something flashed out of the dark and Ragnarok reacted instinctively, pulling the ax up in front of him. What looked like a red rope lashed around the haft. There was a sizzling noise and the ax head fell off, the haft cut through.

Ragnarok stared in the direction the rope had come from. A very dark shadow, a pitch black huge blob in the darkness, was about twenty feet away on the shore. More rope, arms grasping for a victim, came lashing out. Ragnarok threw what remained of his war ax, spear tip forward at the dark mass. He rolled under the groping arms and came to his feet, running full out now after Tam Nok. Several arrows flickered by just missing him, aimed toward the monsters behind him.

The scream of the Valkyrie behind was echoed to the left and right, other Valkyries closing in. Something leapt out of the darkness at Ragnarok, a small whirring ball of claws and teeth that he caught and threw over his shoulder, feeling a slice of pain along his right shoulder.

He scooped Tam Nok under his right arm, tossed her over his shoulder and splashed into the water as his bowmen continued to shoot over his head, their eyes wide at the glimpses of the inhuman targets that they could make out in the dark.

Ragnarok tossed Tam Nok over the edge of his boat and jumped up, Hrolf grabbing hold of his arms and hauling him aboard.

“Row!” Ragnarok yelled. “Row!”

Ragnarok peered backward. The beach was disappearing into the dark. The howls of the Valkyries echoed across the water, as they discovered their prey had escaped. The wind was picking up again, as abruptly as it had stopped earlier.

“Drop the sail,” Ragnarok ordered Hrolf. Ragnarok wrapped both large hands around the worn wood for the rudder adding his strength to that of Bjarni, the helmsman.

The old warrior looked worried. It was a dangerous move in the narrow fjord with such a strong wind blowing, but he did as ordered. The wind grabbed hold of the cloth and the ship picked up speed. Ragnarok leaned into the rudder, helping Bjarni steer a course directly between the outcroppings that defined the entry into the fjord.

Hrolf threw his powerful shoulder against the wood, helping Ragnarok and Bjarni as the wind pushed them further to the left, toward the southern rocks. Ragnarok was surprised when Tam Nok joined them, her lean form next to Hrolf.

A chill ran down Ragnarok’s spine. He looked up.

“Beware!” Tam Nok screamed.

Ragnarok let go of the tiller and spun about. One of the Valkyries swooped out of the dark fog, clawed hands outstretched, ruby eyes glistening in the otherwise blank face. It was closing rapidly on the ship.

Ragnarok grabbed a spear and held it up, braced against his chest. The Valkyrie swerved at the last second, narrowly missing being spitted on the spear and flew along the left side of the ship. Thorlak the Hardy swung at the beast with his sword, his shield held in his other hand, and the beast dipped a wing under the metal. A clawed hand grabbed Thorlak’s extended arm and snatched him off the deck as a mother might grab a child. Thorlak swung with his iron rimmed shield even as his feet cleared the edge of the boat.

The metal connected with a hollow clang, as if it had hit fellow metal, and the creature abruptly rose straight up, then the free hand, claws extended, sliced down and neatly separated Thorlak’s shield arm from his body at the elbow. The Valkyrie disappeared back into the fog, Thorlak hanging below, his screams fading.

“Ragnarok!” Hrolf yelled.

The Viking leader turned his attention back to the boat. The longship was heading straight toward rocks. Ragnarok threw his shoulder back into the tiller, every muscle straining to bring the boat about. Warriors in front of him were grabbing bows, spears, and shields, their frightened eyes scouring the fog, tensed for a reappearance of the demon.

Slowly the dragon head on the high prow swung to the right. They cleared the southern promontory with less than twenty feet to spare, the howls of the Valkyries fading as they sailed into the open sea.