Traveller Probo
81. 11th Century England

By the time Morris and a couple of the hunters arrived at the glade, it was dark. Only the tracking skills of the Saxons assured their speedy arrival. They entered the glade panting heavily, for they had run most of the way. As soon as the big Canadian saw the body of Wicks by the glow of the fire his shoulders dropped, for he done everything he could to get to Giolgrave and return to the glade in time. He carried his pack, where the squad medic kit now sat uselessly.

“When?” asked Morris.

“Not long after you left,” muttered Hurley gruffly. “There’s more to this than you know.”

“Yes, you’re still here. What’s happening?” the Canadian asked, as if expecting no good news.

“Well, there’s a good chance the Ukrainians have taken the Transporter. It’s all a theory at the moment but these lads were Transported over twenty-four hours ago to collect the Base Station, and they’re still here,” Hurley gestured to Aden and Tippins.

Morris frowned. “Well, what do we do now?” he asked in Saxon.

Yffi shrugged. “Such things happen as the will of the Gods. Not much we can now. I think we eat, and then decide to take Wicks back to Giolgrave, or bury him here, though it has to be deep or the wolves will dig him up.” The two hunters who had run with Morris carried their own packs, one with a couple of loaves of rock-hard bread and a sizable haunch from one of the boars, while the other carried more loaves and a skin of beor.

The atmosphere was solemn as the pork hair was singed and the meat placed onto rocks for roasting. Morris contributed dried meat from his rations, while the young lads had collected baskets of herbs and mushrooms. With the advent of spring, plump mushrooms had begun to pop up in vast quantities.

The night was restless and Michael ended up sitting by the fire with Hurley, Morris and the two Royal Marines. The hunters seemed immune to the cold and the hard ground as they snored with a rumble like distant thunder. By the time morning came, the Travellers had made their decision. It was barely light, with a herald of grey mist and birdsong, when they cleared a patch of ground. Using sticks and their seax, they took turns to dig a deep hole in the forest floor. The digging was often difficult as the earth contained a network of stout roots. Smooth rocks were collected from the creek and when Wicks was finally laid to rest, his body was covered with them. The process was repeated a couple of times with intervals of soil. It was likely the wolves would smell death and dig, so the rocks would dissuade them. The process took most of the morning until what remained was a mounded grave with a cover of yet more stones.

“Wicks was a good bloke,” grunted Michael. “This is what he would have wanted.”

Hurley shrugged, “I dunno, I think he would have preferred to bang the daylights out of Olivia. But he hasn’t the choice now, has he?” He sighed. “Now I’ll have to tell her. She has quite a thing for young Wicks here.”

After the burial, the soldiers gave their regards and Yffi and the hunters grasped their amulets and prayed in the old tongue. The soldiers were grim, for the consequences of the Transporter being offline could result in more deaths and Hurley, understandably, fell into a cold fury.