A/N: This is the fourth story in a cycle. The first three are The Warrior's Tale, The Watcher's Tale, and The Student's Tale. In order, they are story IDs 2355715, 2366224, and 2488083. All of my stories can be found at my website, The Keep.
Disclaimers: Nothing about Highlander: The Series is mine. It all belongs to Davis/Panzer Productions, so far as I know. This story also owes much to The Thirteenth Warrior and to Beowulf, neither of which are mine, either.
Rated K
The Scholar's Tale
"The Vikings, or Rus, as Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan knew them, traveled thousands of miles on inland riverways. They were well known in the area of the Black Sea, for instance. Of course, even that was a little too far north for Ibn Fahdlan. But he had had the bad judgment to be caught in bed with the wrong woman. The woman's husband wanted him executed, but the Caliph, who had had some reason to be grateful to Ibn Fahdlan for his service as a scholar, instead made him ambassador to Bulgharia."
"Bulgaria?" Joe asked.
"Not that one. Bulgharia. Much further north, deep in the wild forests of Rus-land. He might as well have been banished to the end of the earth. He certainly felt he had."
"Do you mean Russia?" Richie asked. "What was so bad about that?"
"It was uncivilized. No music or literature. Think of it like this. If you lived somewhere warm and comfy where the women all went around in belly-dancing costumes, would you want to trade it for a cold place where the women are buried in furs, and mostly you only get to see the men anyway because there's so much fighting to be done?"
"Oh," said Richie wisely. "You mean like Scotland."
Joe snorted. MacLeod gave Richie a glare. Richie grinned.
"Yeah," said Methos. "Only more trees and not so much golf."
"Go on," MacLeod said.
Methos smiled. "He didn't meet the Rus right away. He traveled with a caravan headed … I don't remember where, right now. They were attacked somewhere in the steppes by bandits. They were on a wide open plain with no cover and no way to outrun the bandits. The bandits were Tartars, which was really bad. They never left anyone alive. The caravan leader bolted in the direction of the only river, and Ibn Fahdlan followed, sure that his short career as an ambassador was about to meet a bloody end."
Methos shook his head. "He really should have kept it in his pants.
"They reached the river and were about to force their terrified mounts into the deep current, when around the bend of the river came a Rus longship. Beautiful high prow, carved like a serpent. Broad, flat base for shallow beaches. Made of strong oak, with round shields hanging on the sides. The Tartars saw the ship - and, to Ahmed's surprise, turned and fled.
"The Rus hove to and disembarked on a broad strand. They showed no interest in the vanishing Tartars, nor in Ibn Fahdlan's caravan as they set up a camp. Ahmed found himself fascinated by them. What tremendous warriors they must be to strike such fear into the Tartars!
"His caravan leader was reluctant to stop nearby for the night. He wanted to put distance between himself and the bandits. He also didn't trust the Rus.
"'Are they dangerous?' Ahmed asked.
"'Hard to say. Sometimes. Sometimes not. Best to leave them alone.'
"But with a strange sense of fate gripping him, Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan said farewell to the caravan and camped nearby, alone. He was intensely curious, and already admired these men very much."
"Not what I heard," said MacLeod.
"I haven't got there yet," Methos retorted.
"The Rus lit fires and began singing and drinking. Ahmed screwed up his courage and approached their camp. No one stopped him, though he looked very different than the long haired, bare headed Rus in their leather and furs. He wore his black robes and a black headdress. Ahmed was good with languages, and he hoped that the Rus might speak a language similar to something he knew.
"They didn't. Their language lilted and rasped, and he didn't recognize a single word. A few of them tried to speak to him, in a suspicious, drunken way, but no one truly challenged him. He was even offered a drink, which he refused, being a good follower of the Prophet.
"Before too long, three friends grouped around him, drinking and asking him questions. One of them fingered the cloth of his robe and made a rude joke. Everyone laughed. Ahmed tried out a few languages on them, and one man brightened. His name was Herger, and he spoke Greek.
"'Now we're getting somewhere,' thought Ibn Fahdlan. 'I should present myself to their chieftain. It's only proper.'
"'May I speak to your …" he hesitated, then decided that vainglorious warriors would give themselves important titles, "king?'
"Herger grinned, and translated the question for his companions. All three men laughed.
"'Certainly,' said Herger, his eyes twinkling with mirth. 'We put him in that tent.'
"Ahmed looked at the small tent the man indicated. He looked back at the men who watched him merrily.
"Ahmed didn't much like being laughed at. He gathered his dignity and turned toward the tent. 'Let us know if he talks to you,' Herger said, chuckling. He said something in the Rus language and all three men laughed heartily again.
"Ahmed turned to look back, and met the Northman's gaze steadily. Herger burst out laughing again.
"'He's dead! His spirit is bound for Valhalla!' He spoke the last word with gusto, and the others echoed him.
"'Valhalla!' they cried, raising their drinks in the air.
"'Valhalla!' answered the whole host.
"Herger's laughing companions moved off into the crowd, telling the joke to others, Ahmed was sure, by the way their listeners looked at him and laughed.
"Ahmed was a little shocked. 'This is a funeral?' he asked Herger, who still smirked at him, but had not left him.
'Tomorrow you can talk to the king,' Herger said. He pointed through the crowd at a blond well-built man with deep set, narrow eyes, and a broad forehead, who appeared to be enjoying himself as much as the others. 'One of his sons will be king after we have sent Hygiliak's body to Valhalla, tonight.'
"Abruptly the singing stopped as loud arguing broke out between two men. The others hushed and turned. Herger looked as well, as the blond man he had pointed to abruptly drew a huge sword and gutted the other man. The corpse fell back among the revelers.
"A silence followed, then the music began. The gathering relaxed and began again to drink. Two women dragged the corpse outside.
"Herger turned back to Ahmed. 'Buliwyf will be king,' he commented, and took a deep drink from the animal horn which held his liquor.
"Much later in the night, after the wheel of the stars had rotated overhead, and the cold air had turned damp with the promise of morning dew, Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan witnessed the proper funeral rite of the Rus for their kings. 'It is the old way,' Herger told him. 'You will not see this again.'
"The body, wrapped in cloth, was carried to a small ship. People brought offerings of gifts and placed them on the ship. A woman, dressed in white, who looked drugged, to Ahmed's eyes, was lifted up in the air by the crowd and lowered again, repeatedly. With each elevation she called out a line of ancient verses into the pre-dawn, and Herger translated.
'Behold, I see my father and mother. I see all my dead relatives seated. I see my master seated in Valhalla and Valhalla is beautiful and green. With him are men and boy servants. He calls me. Take me to him.'
"'She will travel with him,' Herger said.
"Ahmed looked at the ship. 'To Valhalla?' he asked, puzzled. He had thought Valhalla to be an afterlife.
"Herger nodded. Then, to Ahmed's horror, the gathering placed the woman beside the dead king, and an elderly woman stabbed her to death as the gathering beat their swords on their shields. Then the met brought forward torches and set the ship ablaze.
"'That's … you can't …'" Herger's previously cheerful countenance turned dark.
"Show some respect, Arab."
"'Show respect … me?' Ahmed almost sputtered, he was so angry. He searched for the Greek words and found them.
"'Human sacrifice,' he spat, and walked away, into the darkness.
"He slept uneasily in his own tent and after a few hours he emerged into a morning only half over. Daylight made the night's events seem dreamlike and Ahmed found he was still interested in learning about the Rus, though he was having second thoughts about asking to travel with them. He decided he would seek out some breakfast with them and then try to catch his caravan up.
"To his surprise, he saw a second ship beached beside the first. This Rus ship, like the first, had a high proud bow, only this one was carved in the shape of a ram's head.
"Ahmed entered the Rus tent cautiously, and realized at once that the festive atmosphere of the night's funeral was gone. The Rus, their women, and their slaves sat or stood attentively, facing away from Ahmed's entrance. At the far side of the tent, Ahmed saw Buliwyf, seated on a raised chair, leaning forward to hear the words of a blond young man – a boy, almost – who spoke at length.
"A few people glanced at him as he shouldered his way to Herger's side, but, like the night before, no one challenged or halted him.
"Herger's smile of greeting was warm, if a little haggard-looking, and Ahmed guessed that few of the Rus had slept yet. He was relieved that Herger didn't seem hostile, considering how they had parted.
"'What's going on?' he asked.
"'The son of Hrothgar has come to ask Buliwyf for help. His father's kingdom is under attack,' Herger said.
"'Near here?'
"'Back in our lands.' Herger shook his head and Ahmed subsided, to let Herger hear more.
"Herger's eyes widened at something the boy said, and all around them was a nervous rustling. Ahmed studied the faces of these large, strong men and saw fear there.
"'What is it?' he whispered.
"'His father's kingdom is threatened by ...' Ahmed would have taken Herger's hesitation as uncertainty with the language, but something in his expression told him that Herger didn't want to finish. ' ...an ancient evil,' he said with an uneasy glance at his nearest comrades.
"The other Rus paid him no mind; Ahmed was quite sure no one else spoke Greek, and they were all enthralled by the tale the boy was telling.
"When the boy finished, a sigh went through the gathering. Ahmed again saw that look of fear as men avoided each other's eyes, or met them a little too defiantly. He wondered what tale could so frighten such fearsome men.
"For a while there was silence. Then Buliwyf spoke.
"'He calls for the Angel of Death,' Herger translated.
"'For the what!'
"'Hush.'
"An old crone hobbled through the crowd, which parted uneasily before her. She leaned heavily on the arm of an adolescent girl dressed in thick furs. The crone's hood covered her face, and long strings of gray hair draped down from inside the hood. Ahmed recognized her as the woman who had slain the sacrifice the night before.
"She hunched over before Buliwyf and threw down an animal skin. Onto the skin she tossed some stones carved with symbols. Ahmed realized she must be an oracle.
"As oracles went, she had very little ceremony. Ahmed had seen Seers spend hours in a trance interpreting signs. This woman spoke immediately in a high, shrill voice. The faces of the men hearing her showed the age-old distrust of warriors for the supernatural, mixed with a healthy dose of respect.
"'She says thirteen men must go to the aid of Hrothgar,' Herger said, his eyes sparkling. 'The number of the moons in a year.' He looked around the room with an eager anticipation. The mood of the crowd shifted to one of excitement.
"'Hver vilja vera the fyrstur maður?' she called out."
MacLeod glanced at Methos as the older immortal spoke the Rus language, the words rolling sonorously from his throat.
Joe and Richie grinned at each other.
Methos went on.
"'Who will be the first man?' Herger translated.
"Buliwyf, the new king, placed his hand over his heart, and bowed his head as if he had received a high honor.
"'ÉG vilja vera the fyrstur maður,' he said solemnly.
"'Buliwyf, of course,' said Herger, grinning. Loud cheering filled the tent.
"'Hver vilja vera the second maður?' asked the old woman.
"A tall dark man, dressed in black furs, stood up.
"'ÉG vilja vera the second maður,' he proclaimed. More cheering followed and people congratulated him."
"Hey," Richie said. "I think I saw this movie."
"Hush, you," said Methos.
"'One after another, warriors stood and volunteered to go to Hrothgar's aid. The dark man who volunteered second was Edgtho. His brother Roneth stood next. Then came Ragnar and Helfdane, and Rethel, the archer, whose gray braids reached his waist. Ahmed watched with interest as the most powerful looking men in the company stood and swore to follow Buliwyf to rescue Hrothgar's kingdom. Ahmed saw none of the fear which the "ancient evil" had caused at first - not until the eleventh man, Skeld, a red-haired man with an interlocking pattern tattooed across his nose and cheekbones. As he stood to declare 'ÉG vilja vera the ellefti maður,' he looked pale and he did not smile, not even when his companions shook him in welcome congratulations.
"Herger, too, watched and cheered.
"'Are you going?' Ibn Fahdlan asked him.
"'Just waiting to see who my companions would be,' Herger told him, grinning, as he got to his feet and loudly claimed the twelfth place.
"The cheers for him were raucous, particularly from the other volunteers. But, where before, the old woman had called out for the next volunteer, now her shrill voice spoke other words. Silence gradually fell over the whole gathering, and the hair stood up on Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan's arms. He realized that all eyes had turned to him.
"Buliwyf spoke - to him, it seemed - and Ahmed recognized the word 'ahrahb.' He looked to Herger, who wore a bemused expression.
"'She says that the thirteenth man must be no Northman,' Herger said.
"With growing alarm, Ahmed asked 'What does that mean?'
"'Your luck runs high today, little brother. You must be our last man.'
"Appalled, Ahmed protested. 'I am a scholar,' he told Herger. 'I am not a warrior.'
"Herger shrugged, enjoying Ahmed's discomfort. 'Soon you will be,' he said.
"Ibn Fahdlan was alone, his caravan long gone. Though he tried to protest, Herger conveniently forgot how to speak Greek, and Ahmed saw that he had no hope of resisting if these men were determined to bring him with them. He chose the more dignified option and co-operated.
"Buliwyf preferred his own ship so he transferred those of his party who were staying behind to the ram-headed ship, and the thirteen warriors and their horses boarded the one with the snake head. Ahmed took his tent and bedroll, but his horse, a beautiful gray Arabian stallion, balked at boarding the ship."
"He had an Arabian," MacLeod said, admiration and nostalgia in his voice.
"Of course," Methos said.
"What was the horse's name?" MacLeod asked.
Methos gave him a curious look. "Why?"
"Just wondered."
Methos frowned for a moment, then his face cleared. "Arifah," he said.
MacLeod nodded.
"Ahmed finally coaxed him aboard - without a single hand on the bridle, by the way: he was an intelligent, devoted creature.
"Across forests of demons and rivers of monsters they journeyed. They reached the land of the Bulghars, that Ahmed had believed was the end of the earth, and still they journeyed farther north. In Bulgharia, Ahmed considered jumping ship and completing his duty as ambassador, but the prospect of being hunted down and carried back to the ship over the shoulder of an immense Northman was too humiliating. These men were much larger than he was.
"As they traveled, Ahmed kept to himself. He did not speak their language and he would not imbibe their mead . . ." Here Methos took a deep draught of beer and the host lumbered to his feet good-naturedly to refill it. "but he spent his time listening to their speech. Occasionally Herger could be persuaded to translate or explain a thing or two, but Herger preferred the raucous company of his other companions. Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan had never felt so alone.
"It was funny, though, the day he spoke in their language for the first time. Rethel had told some story about a dark skinned whore who 'looked like that one's mother' and Ahmed spoke up. 'My mother,' he said, and everyone looked at him in shock, 'was a pure woman. And I at least know who my father was . . .' He should have stopped there, but I'm afraid that guy had only contempt for the Rus, by then. 'you, pig-eating son of a whore,' he finished."
Methos leaned back in his chair, grinning. There were some chuckles around the table. "How did that go over?" Joe asked.
"Between Rethel being insulted and the more paranoid in the group demanding to know how long he had understood their language, Ahmed very nearly got the stuffing kicked out of him. Only two men didn't jump on him: Buliwyf who often sat kind of brooding, listening to the stories, and Herger who laughed so hard he fell off his seat. It was Herger's laughing that defused the incipient mayhem - that and the fact that the new king didn't dive in with them."
"I swear I saw this movie," Richie said. "I can't remember the name of it."
"Mac told you, his journal survives. Let me finish the story," Methos said.
MacLeod shook his head. "Not this much of the journal survives. Do they end up in Denmark?"
"No, in Sweden. Why?"
"I thought it might be Beowulf. You mentioned Hrothgar, and I recognized the dead king's name, too."
Methos spread his hands, palms up, on the table. "May I finish my story or would you like to?"
"Go on, go on," said MacLeod.
