Author's note: I do not own the movie The 13th warrior, or the book Eaters
of the Dead, and I have made no monetary gains on this short story. This
is actually an essay I wrote in my Writing 131 class. The assignment was
to write a dramatic autobiographical narrative, and since few of the
students felt that their life had been exciting enough to write anything
about, the teacher allowed us to write fictional accounts, or in my case,
write a narrative from the point of view of a character in an existing
fictional story. I chose to write about The 13th Warrior, concentrating on
the point at which Ahmed stopped whining about not being a warrior and got
in there and kicked some wendol buttocks. I got an A for it.
I liked that teacher.
* * *
Fearing Men
My name is Ahmed ibn-Fadlan, a faithful servant of our God Allah in the City of Peace. It so happened in the year 309 that the king of Saqaliba sent a letter to the Caliph requesting that an ambassador be sent to his country in order to instruct him and his subjects in the way of Islam, and also to assist in the building of a mosque. By a great misfortune, the Caliph appointed me to undertake this journey.
I was not actually the most qualified member of his court to undertake this mission. However, it was my misfortune that the Caliph had another reason to remove me from the city. It so happened that in the City of Peace there lived a niggardly old merchant, well known for being tight-fisted with both his money and his beautiful young wife, whom few have ever seen. Through a twist of fortune, I once found myself in a position to assist this exquisite woman in matters with which her elderly husband had been rather neglectful. This proved to be a mistake, however, as the merchant later became aware of what had transpired between his wife and me, and has since held a rather large grudge against me. Thus, when the king of Saqaliba sent his request, the merchant urged to the Caliph that I be sent on the mission, and so I was.
Even worse, I never made it to Saqaliba at all. As my caravan went on its way towards our destination, we encountered a small tribe of Northmen. Now, the Northerners are a race of tall, pale people who think nothing of gorging themselves upon badly cooked food one minute, and then fighting among themselves over some perceived slight the next. Among these Northmen I often feared for my life, and was greatly distressed both at the violence of these people, and their thoroughly offensive lack of any sanitary habits.
It came to pass that while I was staying with them, a messenger from a king named Rothgar came to Buliwyf, the chief of the tribe of which I was a guest. From this messenger we learned that Rothgar's kingdom had come under attack from a great evil, creatures so horrible that it was forbidden even to speak their name. Buliwyf agreed to undertake a mission to rid his homeland of this pestilence, and an elderly woman considered a mystic told him that he must take twelve warriors with him, making the company thirteen in all. I was foolish enough to stay and watch as eleven brave warriors volunteered for the mission, after which the old crone told Buliwyf that the thirteenth warrior must be no Northman.
I can still recall the leaden feeling in my stomach as everyone in the longhouse turned to look at me.
This is how I came to be prevented from carrying out my mission, and was thus dragged to the north country with this band of ragged, dirty, drunkard warriors. I was at least fortunate in that I have a gift for languages, and managed to discern their tongue after a fairly short span of time, and thus was able to converse with them. This availed me little, for some months later I found myself in the kingdom of Rothgar, awaiting with some trepidation my chance to assist in the battle with a horde of demons called the eaters of the dead.
I hade seen many things in my travels that made me feel afraid, but in this land I frequently found myself being frightened beyond reasoning. I saw bodies that had been dismembered and gnawed upon, I participated in pitched battle with hairy beasts who had the heads of bears, and encountered promiscuous Norse women who had not been taught to take no for an answer. In all this the barbaric, dirty Northmen offered me no sympathy, but laughed and called me a frightened Arab who needed to experience more of life in order to overcome my weaknesses.
I experienced much more of life than I cared to, for after a short battle with the demons inside Rothgar's banquet hall, the creatures known as the wendol attacked in force, bringing with them a fearsome beast that the Northmen called the fire worm.
The sun had almost set and the air was growing cool on the eve of what my companions assured me would be the most fearsome battle yet. In the northlands, the sun warmed you during the day, but at night you needed to wrap up if you did not want to shiver. Tonight, however, no one noticed the cold. The chain mail I had been given to wear was hot and heavy and I felt as though I could not draw breath. My hands were cold and clammy inside my gauntlets, and I could not shake the feeling that I would be unable to hold my sword.
The flames grew closer, spreading over the fields like the wings of a great beast. However, I knew now that it was no beast. The long tongue of flame traveling over the hills had resembled nothing so much as a dragon, the fire worm that these Northmen feared so greatly, but I had seen it with my own eyes. I knew that the fire came from torches. Torches carried by hundreds of the wendol, riding on horseback and coming straight for us.
As Herger, a jovial warrior in our company, had put it, "I rather prefer a dragon."
I began to tremble as I watched the approach of the beasts, though whether from the cold or from fear I still cannot be sure. I bemoaned my fate and cursed myself for whatever it was that I had done to deserve such a mournful adventure. Surely if I had known it would result in this, I would never have done it!
There was little use pitying myself now, though. The wendol were coming. They were coming for us, and it was up to Buliwyf's remaining warriors, including me, to save the land from this ancient evil that devoured the dead. Now, though, as I watched them growing closer, cresting the hills nearest to the city, I could only wonder who would save us.
"Allah be merciful," I whispered, but I had little faith that the prayer would help either my comrades or myself.
There was a scream of terror from elsewhere in the town, and then I saw the wendol hurling their torches, great balls of flame, to strike at the fence we had erected and to land in the thatch of the houses. The scent of burning wood and straw reached my nostrils, but I remained where I was. I was supposed to guard the wall, wait for the wendol to try to come over, and stop them.
Stop them. Me? I am a writer! I am a clerk! An ambassador, even! How was I supposed to stop a demon with the power of a bear, a creature who could be stabbed through the belly and still have the strength to hurl me across a room, as had happened only last night?
I am not a warrior!
Then there was no more time to think of this as an enormous missile, twice the size of any arrow, though too small to be a true spear, flew overhead and buried itself up to half it's length into a house with a menacing thud. A scream pierced the night as a man fell, transfixed through the shoulder by one of the deadly projectiles. I ducked, purely out of cowardice, but it saved my life as something struck the wooden barrier where my head had been but a moment before.
There was a whirring noise, and beside me Herger grunted in satisfaction before thrusting a quiver of arrows into my hands.
"Hold this!" he shouted, before raising his longbow. "Aha! Got you!" Another arrow was launched from his weapon into the tightly packed ranks of our enemies, and another wendol fell from its horse.
It was all I could do to clutch the quiver with my trembling hands, much less hand him his arrows or assist in the defense of the town. I was paralyzed by fear, unable to move even to save myself. What was I doing here? Why had I come? I could not remember.
I am not a warrior!
Then I heard from above, a hideous snarling and roaring, and I looked up to see one of them, a hideous black shape with claws as thick as my finger, covered in dirty black fur, topped with a bear's head full of flesh-ripping teeth. For an instant, my heart stopped.
I had though I knew what fear was, but at that moment my horror grew! I could not remain where I stood; hurling the quiver of arrows aside, I leapt from its path just in time to avoid a blow of its claws. The monster pursued me and I screamed, hacking wildly at it with my sword, which I somehow still held in my hand.
Somehow, though I'll never now how, I struck a mortal wound, and it fell. Even as it fell, I struck at it; cutting into it with my sword until it's cries grew still. I stood over it for what seemed like an eternity, and then, I pushed aside its head with the tip of my blade.
The head was a mask, a bear's skin. It folded back to reveal a face hideously painted, blood red and dark blue black. The face's features were primitive, but recognizable. A fire lit within me as I saw it.
"It's a man."
The wendol were human. Crazed, bizarre, wretched, craven beasts in human form, but human nonetheless. They were mortal. They could die. I had proof of this at my feet.
"It's a man."
I strode away from it, whispering my revelation over and over, like a mantra, my pulse quickening. They were men. They could die. They were not invincible. I had killed one myself.
"It's a MAN!"
With a cry I rushed forward into the thick of battle and struck wildly, laying low another of the beasts. A growl behind me, I turned and struck again, sending another to meet its maker. I roared like one of them and fought by the Northmen, and I slew them like chaff in the wind.
I came face to face with Herger, his hair plastered to his face with sweat, teeth gritted, a strange light in his eyes. He smiled, and I know he saw the same light in mine.
"It's alright little brother!" he shouted. "There are more!"
We turned and rushed into the fray, and fear no longer stayed the hand that defended my fellow men.
I liked that teacher.
* * *
Fearing Men
My name is Ahmed ibn-Fadlan, a faithful servant of our God Allah in the City of Peace. It so happened in the year 309 that the king of Saqaliba sent a letter to the Caliph requesting that an ambassador be sent to his country in order to instruct him and his subjects in the way of Islam, and also to assist in the building of a mosque. By a great misfortune, the Caliph appointed me to undertake this journey.
I was not actually the most qualified member of his court to undertake this mission. However, it was my misfortune that the Caliph had another reason to remove me from the city. It so happened that in the City of Peace there lived a niggardly old merchant, well known for being tight-fisted with both his money and his beautiful young wife, whom few have ever seen. Through a twist of fortune, I once found myself in a position to assist this exquisite woman in matters with which her elderly husband had been rather neglectful. This proved to be a mistake, however, as the merchant later became aware of what had transpired between his wife and me, and has since held a rather large grudge against me. Thus, when the king of Saqaliba sent his request, the merchant urged to the Caliph that I be sent on the mission, and so I was.
Even worse, I never made it to Saqaliba at all. As my caravan went on its way towards our destination, we encountered a small tribe of Northmen. Now, the Northerners are a race of tall, pale people who think nothing of gorging themselves upon badly cooked food one minute, and then fighting among themselves over some perceived slight the next. Among these Northmen I often feared for my life, and was greatly distressed both at the violence of these people, and their thoroughly offensive lack of any sanitary habits.
It came to pass that while I was staying with them, a messenger from a king named Rothgar came to Buliwyf, the chief of the tribe of which I was a guest. From this messenger we learned that Rothgar's kingdom had come under attack from a great evil, creatures so horrible that it was forbidden even to speak their name. Buliwyf agreed to undertake a mission to rid his homeland of this pestilence, and an elderly woman considered a mystic told him that he must take twelve warriors with him, making the company thirteen in all. I was foolish enough to stay and watch as eleven brave warriors volunteered for the mission, after which the old crone told Buliwyf that the thirteenth warrior must be no Northman.
I can still recall the leaden feeling in my stomach as everyone in the longhouse turned to look at me.
This is how I came to be prevented from carrying out my mission, and was thus dragged to the north country with this band of ragged, dirty, drunkard warriors. I was at least fortunate in that I have a gift for languages, and managed to discern their tongue after a fairly short span of time, and thus was able to converse with them. This availed me little, for some months later I found myself in the kingdom of Rothgar, awaiting with some trepidation my chance to assist in the battle with a horde of demons called the eaters of the dead.
I hade seen many things in my travels that made me feel afraid, but in this land I frequently found myself being frightened beyond reasoning. I saw bodies that had been dismembered and gnawed upon, I participated in pitched battle with hairy beasts who had the heads of bears, and encountered promiscuous Norse women who had not been taught to take no for an answer. In all this the barbaric, dirty Northmen offered me no sympathy, but laughed and called me a frightened Arab who needed to experience more of life in order to overcome my weaknesses.
I experienced much more of life than I cared to, for after a short battle with the demons inside Rothgar's banquet hall, the creatures known as the wendol attacked in force, bringing with them a fearsome beast that the Northmen called the fire worm.
The sun had almost set and the air was growing cool on the eve of what my companions assured me would be the most fearsome battle yet. In the northlands, the sun warmed you during the day, but at night you needed to wrap up if you did not want to shiver. Tonight, however, no one noticed the cold. The chain mail I had been given to wear was hot and heavy and I felt as though I could not draw breath. My hands were cold and clammy inside my gauntlets, and I could not shake the feeling that I would be unable to hold my sword.
The flames grew closer, spreading over the fields like the wings of a great beast. However, I knew now that it was no beast. The long tongue of flame traveling over the hills had resembled nothing so much as a dragon, the fire worm that these Northmen feared so greatly, but I had seen it with my own eyes. I knew that the fire came from torches. Torches carried by hundreds of the wendol, riding on horseback and coming straight for us.
As Herger, a jovial warrior in our company, had put it, "I rather prefer a dragon."
I began to tremble as I watched the approach of the beasts, though whether from the cold or from fear I still cannot be sure. I bemoaned my fate and cursed myself for whatever it was that I had done to deserve such a mournful adventure. Surely if I had known it would result in this, I would never have done it!
There was little use pitying myself now, though. The wendol were coming. They were coming for us, and it was up to Buliwyf's remaining warriors, including me, to save the land from this ancient evil that devoured the dead. Now, though, as I watched them growing closer, cresting the hills nearest to the city, I could only wonder who would save us.
"Allah be merciful," I whispered, but I had little faith that the prayer would help either my comrades or myself.
There was a scream of terror from elsewhere in the town, and then I saw the wendol hurling their torches, great balls of flame, to strike at the fence we had erected and to land in the thatch of the houses. The scent of burning wood and straw reached my nostrils, but I remained where I was. I was supposed to guard the wall, wait for the wendol to try to come over, and stop them.
Stop them. Me? I am a writer! I am a clerk! An ambassador, even! How was I supposed to stop a demon with the power of a bear, a creature who could be stabbed through the belly and still have the strength to hurl me across a room, as had happened only last night?
I am not a warrior!
Then there was no more time to think of this as an enormous missile, twice the size of any arrow, though too small to be a true spear, flew overhead and buried itself up to half it's length into a house with a menacing thud. A scream pierced the night as a man fell, transfixed through the shoulder by one of the deadly projectiles. I ducked, purely out of cowardice, but it saved my life as something struck the wooden barrier where my head had been but a moment before.
There was a whirring noise, and beside me Herger grunted in satisfaction before thrusting a quiver of arrows into my hands.
"Hold this!" he shouted, before raising his longbow. "Aha! Got you!" Another arrow was launched from his weapon into the tightly packed ranks of our enemies, and another wendol fell from its horse.
It was all I could do to clutch the quiver with my trembling hands, much less hand him his arrows or assist in the defense of the town. I was paralyzed by fear, unable to move even to save myself. What was I doing here? Why had I come? I could not remember.
I am not a warrior!
Then I heard from above, a hideous snarling and roaring, and I looked up to see one of them, a hideous black shape with claws as thick as my finger, covered in dirty black fur, topped with a bear's head full of flesh-ripping teeth. For an instant, my heart stopped.
I had though I knew what fear was, but at that moment my horror grew! I could not remain where I stood; hurling the quiver of arrows aside, I leapt from its path just in time to avoid a blow of its claws. The monster pursued me and I screamed, hacking wildly at it with my sword, which I somehow still held in my hand.
Somehow, though I'll never now how, I struck a mortal wound, and it fell. Even as it fell, I struck at it; cutting into it with my sword until it's cries grew still. I stood over it for what seemed like an eternity, and then, I pushed aside its head with the tip of my blade.
The head was a mask, a bear's skin. It folded back to reveal a face hideously painted, blood red and dark blue black. The face's features were primitive, but recognizable. A fire lit within me as I saw it.
"It's a man."
The wendol were human. Crazed, bizarre, wretched, craven beasts in human form, but human nonetheless. They were mortal. They could die. I had proof of this at my feet.
"It's a man."
I strode away from it, whispering my revelation over and over, like a mantra, my pulse quickening. They were men. They could die. They were not invincible. I had killed one myself.
"It's a MAN!"
With a cry I rushed forward into the thick of battle and struck wildly, laying low another of the beasts. A growl behind me, I turned and struck again, sending another to meet its maker. I roared like one of them and fought by the Northmen, and I slew them like chaff in the wind.
I came face to face with Herger, his hair plastered to his face with sweat, teeth gritted, a strange light in his eyes. He smiled, and I know he saw the same light in mine.
"It's alright little brother!" he shouted. "There are more!"
We turned and rushed into the fray, and fear no longer stayed the hand that defended my fellow men.