He thought he heard the leader mutter something to one of his aides, something that sounded like, “What’s with that ‘yea’ business?” and the response he got was, “You know Magnusson and that spacey Viking talk of his.” But then they ran up ahead, leaving a space between them and the prisoners.
“What caused all of you to go bald?” he asked one man running in tandem next to him on the right… a tall man with muscles aplenty. In truth, they all had muscles aplenty, just like him. “Do they feed you so poorly here? I have heard that scurvy will do that to men betimes.”
“Cut the Viking crap, Magnusson,” the man said, staring straight ahead. “You’ll get us all in trouble… more trouble than you already caused. Kicking our team leader in the balls… have you lost your bleepin’ mind?”
“Mayhap,” Ragnor said. “By the by, you talk funny.”
“By the by, asshole, you’re the one who talks funny,” he said with a snort of disgust. “Mayhap! Jeesh!”
Ragnor decided not to take offense at the asshole remark… for now. “But back to your baldness… I hate to tell you, but you all look ridiculous with those shiny pates. Like bloody monks with shaved heads. Holy Thor, I will eat grass afore I let my appearance go like that.”
“He must have hit his head harder than anyone thought,” another prisoner running in front of him commented, loud enough for him to hear but low enough that their captors up front could not.
“I’ve got news for you, Viking,” still another prisoner said, “your head’s been shaved the same as the rest of us.”
That news drew Ragnor up short. Impossible! Still, he raised a hand to his head… his bristly head. He roared with outrage then. “I will kill the man who did this to me.” How dare they cut my hair? I am not an overly vain man, but 1 had very nice hair. Somebody is going to pay for this.
Aaah, what difference does it make? I ant alive, thank the gods! And hair grows out… I hope. There are worse things in life than a bald head… like no head.
Another question nagged at him. When did they cut my hair? And remove my armor and replace it with these small clothes and leather boots?
And where are all my seamen and soldiers? Dead? All of them? Was I the only prisoner taken in that battle?
He continued to run, pondering these sorry questions. Every once in a while the chieftain or one of his cohorts ordered them to run into the surf and get wet, then roll around in the sand before resuming their running. Strange people!
Looking sideways to the left, he noticed a tall, slim man with brown skin. “Are you a Moor?” he asked, trying to be friendly.
The brown man gave him a disbelieving look, then stared ahead. “Did you just call me a moron? You really are a dickhead. The only reason I’m not gonna beat the crap out of you is that you probably have a concussion.”
Ragnor frowned. “You say me wrong. I did not say more-on, I said Moor… ah, I see. More-on must be a derogatory word in your language. My apologies if I gave offense. I meant Nubian.”
“Nu… nu… nubian,” the brown man sputtered.
“And as to that other. Nay, I am not a dickhead, I am a Viking.”
There were snickers all around then, followed by a remark from the brown man, “Dumb shit!”
“So, are you a Moor, Sly?” another prisoner asked the brown man.
“More or less,” the brown man, whose name must be Sly, answered with a chuckle.
“I knew a man named Sly at one time… Sigurd the Sly.”
Sly just ignored him.
“You know, there are eight of us prisoners. We could easily overtake those four enemy up front,” Ragnor advised. In truth, he could take all four of them himself, but he did not want to appear boastful.
This time all his fellow prisoners turned to look at him and as one they repeated Sly’s assessment of him, “Dumb shit!”
“But—” Ragnor started.
“Just shut up,” the brown man said.