Olaf waited, the water up to his knees.
Suddenly Erik leaped the distance between them. Neil strained his eyes as the water covered both men, the blood on Erik’s arm washing away in a billowing red cloud.
Like two great sea animals, the figures in the water thrashed wildly. Olaf got to his feet first, clubbing at the water with one hand as he held Erik’s throat with the other.
Erik’s head bobbed to the surface, followed by a tremendous upheaval of his shoulders. As Erik’s fist shot out again, Olaf staggered backward, hands raised to his face as the blood spurted from his nose. Again Erik’s fist connected.
Olaf swung back venomously, his fists pummeling Erik’s face, but, once again, the blond giant lifted Olaf and slammed him down against the water with backbreaking force. Erik waited while Olaf struggled to his feet, then his powerful hands went to work again, forcing Olaf out, out, far into the deep water.
Olaf cried out as the bottom dropped from under him. He began to swim, trying to outdistance Erik as the big Norseman’s arms reached out again. This time the powerful fingers tightened around Olaf’s throat. A strangled cry echoed in the darkness. There was a slight splash as Erik thrust Olaf’s head beneath the water.
Neil watched the two figures in the moonlight.
The water rose in tormented splashes as Erik’s powerful fingers held their grip on Olaf’s throat. Neil saw Olaf struggle to the surface, saw Erik plunge him under again. Olaf’s fingers clawed at the captain’s back, and his feet lashed out, sending cascades of water into the air.
Erik held on, squeezing, squeezing.
Suddenly the thrashing ceased.
Erik stood like a big bear in the water, his hands below the surface, his head bent, watching the water in front of him, the muscles on his gigantic arms still bulging with the power behind his grip.
Then he released his hold and lifted his arms from the water, his eyes still watching the spot before him.
There was no thrashing now, no muted cries. There was only a vast stillness of sky and land and water.
Slowly, breathlessly, Erik pushed through the water and staggered onto the beach.
He flopped onto the sand and sucked in huge gulps of air.
“He is dead,” he said to Neil. “I have killed Olaf.”
Neil nodded silently.
Erik had rested for no more than five minutes when the other Norsemen came laughing onto the beach, each of them carrying water.
Erik got to his feet, picked up Olaf’s fallen ax and stood before them like a king.
“Olaf is dead,” he said, his voice booming over the sound of the surf. “I killed him with these hands, and I shall kill any other man who disobeys my orders.”
The Norsemen hesitated, wondering what course of action to take.
“Return the water to the wells, and the food to the storehouse,” Erik said.
The sailors hesitated again, looking one to the other. Then some started for the ship to unload the food as the others turned back toward the city with the water.
“There will be no more trouble now,” Erik promised. “We will sail after the harvest.”
Neil turned his head toward the city. “Listen,” he said.
Far in the distance, beyond the forest, a noisy din rose.
“What’s all the shouting?” Neil wondered aloud.
“They have probably discovered the theft,” Erik observed. “We will find it hard to explain this, Neil.”
The shouting grew louder, and a dull, red glare lighted the sky on the other side of the forest.
“That doesn’t sound like…”
A Norseman burst out of the forest, his face smeared with blood.
“Captain,” he shouted, “Captain.”
“Lars!” Erik answered. “What is it? Are they punish…”
“The barbarians,” the Norseman said. “They are attacking the city again. Hundreds of them! Hundreds of them! They cover the city like ants.” He paused to catch his breath. Then his eyes turned wide and frightened as he blurted, “It is a slaughter, Captain!”
Chapter 13
A Crippled War Machine
Erik swung his ax in a circle over his head and then pointed the blade skyward. “You wanted blood this night,” he shouted at his crew. “Well, here’s your blood! Who’ll follow me and show the gratitude of a Norseman?”
A terrifying cry rose from the throats of the men as axes and knives flashed into view.
“An ax for Neil,” Erik cried. A sailor rushed over with a sharp, heavy weapon. Erik gave this to Neil and then faced his crew again, his eyes blazing. “Strong arms are needed,” he shouted, “and brave hearts. The cold thrust of a blade and the terrible blow of an ax.”
Another roar went up from the crew.
“Norsemen all, we are, and strong.” His eyes scanned the crew. “No more than a dozen, with our fellows already in the city.” He paused dramatically. “Ten barbarian heads for every strong Norse arm!”
He pointed his ax to the sky overhead again. “Can we do it?” he bellowed.
“Yes,” they shouted. “Yes,” and their voices were loud and their eyes bright.
“Then to the city, and God be with you. To the city!”
They ran swiftly through the woods, Erik and Neil leading the way, with the battle-hungry Norsemen behind them.
The city was a scene of chaos. Fire leaped from every building, the flames dancing like painted maniacs. There was fighting everywhere, women screaming and running through the streets, snatching for their children to draw them into shelter. An old man clutched at his long skirt and fled in panic, a band of barbarians in close pursuit, screaming, hooting and roaring their blood cries.
This was psychological warfare at its best. The barbarians had utilized the element of surprise to its fullest, attacking in the dead of night while the city slept, their faces grisly masks of color-red, white, and black. They screamed, hissed and shouted. They shook rattles and pounded drums. The furor was as if a gigantic, wild beast had been loosed, striking terror to the heart of every Maya.
Shaken from their sleep by this noisy war machine, the Mayas fled in disorganized panic as the barbarians covered the streets and the buildings like swarming insects. Torches swinging in their hands lit up the night as they cut a bloody path through the city.
Neil’s eyes took in separate details, his glance following one bloody scene to another. Here, a group of barbarians clawed at the garments of an old woman, throwing her to the ground and pinning her there with their spears. There, three Maya soldiers fell into the hands of a dozen barbarians, who quickly beheaded them and hoisting the heads aloft on spear points, ran shouting through the city.
A young Maya girl, her long black hair streaming behind her, blood gushing from her torn lip, screamed wildly as a barbarian threw her over his shoulder and ran triumphantly through the streets.
Baskets of food were thrown from the storehouse, the barbarians stamping their feet into the fruit and vegetables, overturning jars of honey-Maniacally, like obsessed fire bugs, they put the torches to everything in sight, fire carrying its terror from building to building.
Erik’s eyes flicked over the picture. And then, bellowing like a wounded bull, he charged out of the forest and into the midst of the battle. The Norsemen followed behind him, their voices raised thunderously. From the other end of the city, almost simultaneous with Erik’s rush, came a battle cry now familiar to Neil. It was Baz, the warrior and conspirator, fighting again for his homeland in a time of danger. He swung a sword at his side and led a band of Mayas into the fight, pushing them forward with the sheer drive of his own energy.