Chapter 28 Viking
The pounding of his head woke Harry. Groggily, he tried to raise his hand to touch his temple, only to find something weighing down his wrists. Blinking in confusion, he became aware of the extreme cold seeping into him and a violent rocking motion to the ground he was sitting on. As his eyesight cleared behind the pounding headache he found himself staring at the heavy iron manacles that were weighing down his wrists, a short length of chain stretched between them. The world around him lurched, and he slid sideways against a heavy wooden object, cold, wet spray striking his face. Looking up in shock he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
He was in a large boat, seated near the stern but slumped against a large wooden barrel. From his position in the bottom of the boat he could see the prow rising up before him, the end of it curving in the shadowed shape of a dragon. The prow was rising and falling as pounding waves of water rocked the boat. Only a few steps away from him, seated on wooden benches were two extremely large men draped in heavy cloaks of fur. Both men had a fierce set to their bearded faces as if hardened by a life Harry did not want to imagine.
A glance behind him down the length of the long boat showed that there were a dozen more men of a similar caste seated throughout the boat. Large wooden oars were propelling them through choppy waters, the oars moving by themselves.
For a moment Harry felt a wash of panic roaring through him as he thought perhaps he was on the boat that took men to Azkaban. Sirius had told him that Azkaban was on an island, and prisoners were taken there chained in a boat. But though his heart was pounding fiercely in his chest, Harry forced himself not to cry out. There was no reason for anyone to take him to Azkaban. And besides, why would the boat to Azkaban look like some sort of Viking long boat? It didn't make sense.
He tried to figure out how he could have gotten there. He'd been playing in the snow with Ron, Hermione and Ginny. He vaguely remembered seeing something small and silver flying toward him, the flash of it glinting in the fading sunlight catching his attention. He had thought for a moment that someone had released a snitch in the middle of their snow ball fight, but then the thing had struck the ground and Harry could remember nothing more until he'd woken up here.
A stun grenade, he wondered. He'd heard of such things in the Muggle world. Perhaps there was a magical equivalent? But if he and the others had been stunned, where were the two Weasleys and Hermione? He could see no one else chained on the boat.
A cold gust of wind blew against him, nearly blinding him with its icy chill and he found himself shivering violently. Were they Death Eaters, he wondered. Were they taking him now to Voldemort? But why kidnap him? Why not just kill him out right?
"Are you cold, lad?" One of the grim-faced men had noticed his movement and had turned piercing blue eyes on him. Someone further back in the boat tossed a heavy fur cloak forward and the man immediately draped it over Harry. It looked like it was made out of the skin of a bear - though Harry couldn't remember hearing much about bears wandering around England these days. Nevertheless, he grabbed the cloak and pulled it over him, grateful for its warmth. As he settled it around his shoulders, he took quick stock of his condition.
Besides the headache, he did not appear to be wounded, and the headache was already fading. He was now more grateful than ever for the eyesight correcting potion Severus had made for him, since he doubted his glasses would have survived the kidnapping. A quick search of the inside of the jacket he was wearing confirmed that his wand was gone. He was completely defenseless.
He was leery of drawing attention to himself, but he had to find out where he was and what they intended to do with him. Obviously they didn't mean for him to freeze to death. They had no need to give him the cloak, so he took comfort in the fact that they wanted him alive. Though considering what he knew Death Eaters did to their prisoners, maybe being alive wasn't that great a thing after all.
"Where am I?" he asked the man who had tossed him the cloak.
The man frowned behind his beard and shouted something to someone else further down the boat. Harry vaguely recognized some of the words he spoke - or at least felt like he should, but he could make little sense of what it was the man had said. It almost sounded like Old English.
There was movement in the back of the boat and Harry turned to get a better view of the others. His earlier opinion of the boat was only more firmly enforced when he got a better look at the men - for all appearances they were Vikings. Huge men with long, braided blond and red hair and heavy beards. He saw now that all of them were armed with enormous swords and axes. But as far as he knew, there were no more Vikings in the world - at least not like this. But once more the Wizarding World appeared to be throwing him for a loop. He really should have paid more attention in Professor Binn's class.
A tall blond man moved forward from the back of the boat, taking a seat not far from where Harry was sitting. Though he was dressed much differently than he had been the first time he met him, Harry recognized him immediately. A coat of chain mail and heavy fur had replaced the fine doublet and velvet cloak, but the hair and beard were the same. He stared in shock at Alrik Brand, Diana Snape's husband.
"Alrik!" he exclaimed in shock, feeling the bitter taste of betrayal washing through him. He would not have been surprised to learn that Julius Snape was a supporter of the Dark Lord, but he would never have imagined it of Alrik. Though the man had been gruff and rather brash, Harry had liked the man and his gentle wife. "Why?" he demanded, anger flashing through him.
Alrik frowned. "Rest ease, lad," he commanded. "You're in no danger."
"No danger!" Harry snarled. "You're taking me to Voldemort!"
His words had an alarming reaction, causing all the men on the boat to gasp and grumble, all making a very superstitious sign to ward off evil. It had been a hand gesture that Professor Trelawney had shown them so Harry didn't have much faith in its power.
Alrik leaned forward and clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder, shaking him harshly. "Do not speak that name! Do you want to put all of us into the sea?" He released Harry and leaned back. "This has nothing to do with He Who Must Not Be Named. Truth be told, it has nothing to do with you. We need something from the Ministry of Magic and taking you was the only way we could get it. I promise, you will not be harmed, and we will release you as soon as our own matter is dealt with."
Harry stared at him incredulously. Something insane in his life that actually had nothing to do with Voldemort - didn't sound possible. "You're holding me hostage?" he asked in disbelief.
Alrik nodded. "We're taking you to my home in the Winter Lands. You'll be returned safely to Severus when all is said and done. I swear an oath as your brother-in-law that we are not aligned with your enemy."
"If you mean me no harm, then give me my wand," Harry insisted.
But Alrik just shook his head. "I can't take the chance that you'll try to escape. I'll return your wand, when I return you."
Frustration and rage flooded through Harry, but he knew there was nothing he could do. "Is Diana a part of this?" he asked, needing to know if Snape's sister had betrayed him as well. Surprisingly, this question also brought murmurs of disapproval from some of the men and several again made a sign against evil, though not quite as desperately as the last time.
Alrik glanced at his men, then back at Harry. "It is bad luck to speak a woman's name over water," he informed Harry. "But no, my wife had nothing to do with this. She and my daughters are back in High Hill."
"Lord Alrik," one of the men called. He stood atop the highest point at the back of the boat, looking out across the water. "I see the signal light."
Alrik nodded grimly and turned to the men. "We need to move quickly. Speed is our best defense. The boy must reach Bifrost Hall no matter what the price."
Harry found his rage fading beneath the growing alarm he felt in his heart. The men around him had begun drawing their weapons, pulling swords from their sheaths and grabbing iron shields from the floor of the boat. He could see now that all of them were dressed in various forms of armor - from leather to chain mail. Several men settled pounded-metal helmets upon their heads. Harry had the sinking feeling that this was more than just a simple trip to some land holding ahead of them. These men looked braced for a war.
Alrik clapped him on the shoulder again, gaining his attention. "When we land we will move quickly into the woods. Do not speak or make any unnecessary noise. If you try to run or get away from us, you will die."
"You said you wouldn't hurt me," Harry protested, his heart in his throat.
"And we won't," Alrik assured him. "We're here to protect you. Ours is not a tame world like the one you come from." He pointed to three of the closest men near him. Along with swords, he could see that these three had also drawn wands - no one else seemed similarly armed. "These are Gudrik, Olaf and Bjorn. They are our most powerful wizards. You'll stay with them no matter what. Do you understand?"
Harry nodded, suddenly terrified of what they might be taking him into. The night was pitch black, a heavy mist obscuring the air around them, but he could feel the boat start to rock more violently as they approached some unknown shore. "What's out there?" he asked, wondering what all these men were so afraid of.
"Death," Alrik informed him grimly. He motioned to the men. They braced themselves as if preparing to leap from the boat. The man Alrik had called Gudrik reached over and caught Harry's arm. "Stay with me boy, no matter what," he whispered quietly, his care-lined face grim and frightening.
Harry heard the bottom of the boat scrap against rocks and sand on a dark beach, and a moment later he was being pulled from his seat and bodily hauled over the side of the boat. Someone large and burly caught him and he had only a moment to gasp in shock as cold water lapped around his feet before he was being propelled by an iron grip onto firm ground.
There were more men waiting for them on the shore, all heavily armed and bearing torches that sputtered and flared in the damp air. Somewhere along the way the heavy fur cloak had fallen from Harry's shoulders but he barely noticed so frightened was he now. He was shoved into the center of these men and then all but dragged away from the water and into a black forest beyond.
He could hear the clank of chain mail and the crunch of gravel beneath the feet of all the men. The torches flickered and hissed in the mist, casting horrific shadows all around them. Harry, with his hands still bound by the heavy iron chains struggled to keep up in the dark, barely able to see where he was going despite his perfect eyesight now. Why someone did not cast a lumos spell he did not know, for certainly a spell would be better than the endlessly moving light of the torches.
No one spoke as they marched, but at least they all seemed to know where they were going. When no attack appeared to be imminent, despite Alrik's terrifying words of warning, Harry began trying to figure out where he could be. He'd never heard of the Winter Lands or Bifrost Hall, but then again he had never heard of the County of High Hill either. He supposed it was possible that he was once again in some unplottable county. Our world is not tame, Alrik had said - though what that might mean Harry could only imagine.
He wondered how long he had been unconscious in that boat before he'd woken up. It could have been minutes or hours. It was still dark, but he could not tell the time without something more to go by. In late December the sun did not rise until late in the morning. He might have been out for hours before he'd awakened.
They walked on, never slowing, and to Harry, never seeming to tire either. He estimated they'd been walking at least two hours before he began to notice even the faintest lighting of the sky. Seeing that the earliest light of morning was coming, Harry despaired to realize he must indeed have been unconscious for hours. In that amount of time these people could have taken him anywhere in the world.
A sound nearby in the woods caused all the men to stop in their tracks, their hands tightening on their weapons. The three wizards moved immediately to surround Harry, the other's forming a circle around them. Seeing fear on their faces, Harry knew better than to speak but he glanced to Alrik for some sign of what was going on.
The sound came again - a high-pitched cry that sent shivers of terror down Harry's spine.
"It's the Grendlings," Alrik hissed. "They've got our scent."
"Are they alone?" one of the other men whispered and they all looked to the three wizards who guarded Harry.
Olaf frowned but shook his head. "I don't feel anything else," he told them, though what he meant Harry had no idea. Regardless, his words seemed to put the men somewhat at ease. But the cry came again closer now, and they braced themselves.
Beneath the sputtering of the torches and the rushing of wind in the trees Harry could hear the sound of something moving through the woods. His heart was pounding, and despite the cold he could feel sweat snaking down his back as he breathed in the icy air. He frantically searched the woods trying to catch some glimpse of what might be out there, his hands clenching and unclenching around the cold length of chain binding his wrists. He wished to god he had his wand, hating the feeling of helplessness. But there had to be twenty men around him, twenty armed wizards who looked like they knew how to use those swords they were carrying. But he couldn't for the life of him figure out why only three of them had drawn their wands.
And then he saw the flash of red eyes deep in the blackness of the forest and from one moment to the next they were surrounded, dark shadowy shapes leaping from the trees and attacking with tooth and claw. Instantly the silence was shattered with deafening battle cries and he could hear men screaming and swords striking flesh and bone as the cold steel blades flashed in the torchlight.
The crowd of men around him surged and moved and he was pushed from all sides as they tried to keep him in their center. He could see the creatures now - vaguely humanoid shapes that seemed as comfortable on four legs as two with enormous mouths filled with razor teeth and claws three inches long. Bears he though or enormous wild cats - the Grendlings were covered in heavy fur and their eyes burned red in the darkness. They leaped and screamed, lashing out with deadly claws which screeched against chain mail, powerful bodies breaking like stone against hastily raised shields.
Harry, trapped in the center of the battling men, stared in horror as one man was swarmed by four of the Grendlings and pulled to the ground. His head was ripped from his shoulders before his companions could strike down with swords and drive the beasts back. Blood sprayed through the air, screams echoing in the night. Harry stumbled and tripped, realizing in mindless horror that he was walking upon bodies - men and Grendlings who had fallen in the very first minutes of battle.
There was a breath, a pause, a momentarily lull in the battle as the Grendlings pulled back and then circled in for another attack and the men tightening their circle around Harry.
And then a chill, as if Winter had only just now arrived, washed over them all, and despite the faint light of morning, the shadows grew, a cold iciness filling all of them beyond the heat of the battle.
"The Dementors are coming!" Olaf cried out, warning the others and Harry's heart nearly stopped in his chest.
He could feel them now - that horrible, familiar dread as their darkness swarmed over him, swallowing all his thoughts, all his hopes and dreams. The Grendlings, sensing their approach pushed the attack, and the battle began again. But now Harry could see the cloaked figures of Dementors swarming out of the forest. Several lit like flies on one of the wounded men who lay broken outside the circle of warriors. Harry saw them swoop in for the Kiss.
"Expecto Patronum!" Olaf shouted, brandishing his wand along with Bjorn and Gudrik. A thin silvery stream of light leaked from the end of his wand, striking one of the Dementors and driving it momentarily back from the dying man. Five more moved to take its place.
Harry stared in horror - the other two men had little better luck. The silvery light that leaked from their wands was barely noticed by the Dementors, and they kept coming forward. Two more men dropped, felled not by the Grendlings who were now content to tear apart the men who had already died, but by the despair that washed over them. Harry could see more creatures moving in for the Kiss.
"My wand!" he shouted in terror. "Give me my wand!" He had no idea were Alrik was any more, couldn't even tell if the man was still alive. But he knew in a flash of insight that these men had no defense against the creatures that were swarming them. If these three wizards who stood before him were the best they had then they were all doomed.
Even as he shouted and looked desperately around for something he could defend himself with, he saw Olaf's spell wink out as one of the Grendlings got past his swinging sword and pulled him to the ground. The Dementors and the Grendlings moved in for the kill, and in the flashing light of the dropped torches Harry spied Olaf's wand lying at his feet.
He didn't think, just bent down and grabbed the wand, feeling the power surging to life inside him. He grabbed hold of his most powerful memory and raised the wand, his magic singing inside him, burning like an inferno.
"Expecto Patronum!"
His voice echoed off the trees and from the end of the wand a blinding light exploded, the ghostly shape of Prongs roaring to life. It drove back the Dementors in front of it, striking their shadowed bodies with its enormous antlers and sending them fleeing into the night. Then Prongs turned and circled back, charging the others, antlers flashing, hooves crushing darkness beneath them.
Prongs left a trail of silvery fire wherever he went and the Grendlings backed away in terror. Freed of the horror of the Dementors the warriors leaped at the Grendlings slicing and hacking at them, and within moments all that was left were the sounds of moans from wounded men. The Grendlings were dead or gone and the Dementors had all vanished into the night.
Prongs circled back around again, surrounding them all in a circle of fire as Harry used the wand to trace a warding ring around them. The men had fallen silent, eyes upon the glowing creature as it turned then and bowed low to Harry before leaping at him and vanishing once again into the wand. Shaking in terror, and covered in blood that was not his own, Harry slowly lowered the wand to his side.
For a long moment no one moved and Harry's eyes took in the nightmare around him. Of the twenty men who had guarded him only twelve yet lived, all of them wounded. Five steps from his feet was a body so badly torn apart he doubted they'd be able to identify the remains. The corpses of the monstrous Grendlings surrounded them, the ground black with their blood. He knew that at least half of those men who lay dead at his feet had lost more than just their lives, but their souls as well, devoured by the Dementors that these people seemed incapable of driving back.
Three men with wands - wizards who had used swords instead of magic to fight off an enemy he had never imagined before. Men who had willingly walked into a forest haunted by Dementors. No harm, Alrik had said. No harm would come to him.
Harry raised the wand again. "Accio Harry Potter's wand." He did not see from which direction it came but an instant later his own familiar wand struck his free hand. He immediately dropped Olaf's wand into the dirt and turned his own on the chains around his wrists. "Alohomora," he commanded, and the chains dropped obediently to the ground. The weight of the chains had been all that kept his hands from shaking.
One of the men moved then, detaching himself from the shadows and coming toward him. Though covered head to foot in blood, Harry recognized him now as Alrik. The look on his face was not one he recognized. Harry's hand came up immediately and he pointed his wand dead center at the man's chest. Harry could feel a trickle of warm blood running down his face where he'd been splattered; his heart was thudding so loudly he could hear the pounding in his veins. He did not recognize himself in that instant, could no longer tell what he was feeling - fear, rage, hatred, or nothing at all. All he knew was in that moment he held a wand on another human being and believed he could kill with nothing more than a thought.
Alrik dropped to his knees in front of Harry, his arms held out to his sides as if in surrender. "I beg you," he pleaded and the sound of his voice brought some semblance of life back to Harry's blank mind. "Do not leave us."
In shock Harry watched as the other men all dropped to their knees as well. "I beg you," Alrik repeated. "Do not leave us to die."
His words struck him like cold water and Harry staggered back a step, the scent of death rising up from the steaming ground.
"Why did you bring me here?" Harry barely recognized his own voice - it sounded harsh and broken from screaming. "Why are we in this place?" They brought him here. Alrik had led his men here to this death trap. And while they might have been well matched against the Grendlings with their swords and axes, they obviously had no defense against the Dementors. Coming here had been madness of the worst sort.
"This is our home," Alrik told him, blood from a small head wound dripping down into his beard as his spoke. "This is where we live. But we have been over run with these Dementors, and we have no defense against them. We have begged the Ministry to help us but they have turned their backs on us. We brought you here so that they would have to listen, so that all the eyes of Britannia would turn toward us and see our plight. These Dementors devour our brothers, our wives and our children, and if you leave us, we will all die."
Harry stared at him in disbelieving horror. "You have children here?" he whispered.
"Yes," Alrik nodded. "The Dementors do not care who they take. They have no mercy in them, and we have no way to fight them. I beg you to come to Bifrost Hall and speak with my father. Do not turn your back on us the way the Ministry has. Please."
They were all kneeling before him in surrender and supplication - several of the men who looked too weak to do so. Harry found himself lowering his wand without thought. Still Alrik did not rise, the question shining in his eyes. Slowly Harry inclined his head.
Alrik rose stiffly to his feet. "Gather the wounded and dead!" he barked out the order to the other men, and instantly they all leaped into action. Harry stood off to one side, too numb to know what to think, tremors running through his body and shaking his frame.
He watched as the men swiftly separated human from Grendling on the battlefield. Gudrik and Bjorn were doing what little they could with spells to mend wounds that might prove life threatening. Olaf, Harry could see, was missing one of his legs and half of his stomach. His unmoving eyes were frozen in a look of horror. Had Harry anything in his stomach he would have emptied it at that moment.
It became quickly apparent that the men had no way of transporting the bodies. Of the twelve still living, three of them were barely able to walk and needed the aid of one of their companions to travel. That left six men to carry the bodies of eight, though one of the bodies was little more than a torso.
"We leave them then," Alrik said grimly. "We can not delay."
"We can't leave them for the wolves," one of the men hissed in despair.
"And we can't wait for the Grendlings to come back," Alrik told him.
Harry didn't understand what was happening. In the six years he'd been at Hogwarts he thought he had come to understand the basics of how the Wizarding World worked - but this was beyond his comprehension. What was wrong with these people? Grown men were not supposed to act this way.
He raised his wand and pointed it at the first body. "Moblicorpus," he commanded. The body, held together now by magic, rose horizontally up off the ground and moved toward the edge of the clearing. Seven more times Harry cast the spell and the remaining bodies fell into line. The men stared at him in surprise, the looks on their face again something Harry did not recognize or understand. His stomach churned uneasily.
"Lead the way," he growled to one of the men who was just staring at the floating corpses with disbelieving eyes.
Harry could not tell if the emotion churning inside him was anger or grief. At this point, he wasn't certain if he cared. All he knew was that he desperately wanted to go home. But he could not bear the thought of Dementors devouring the souls of children. And so he fell into step behind an animated line of dripping corpses and followed the Viking warriors into the woods.