He exited the audience chamber, bringing no guards or any servants. He followed narrow, dark passages unknown to all but Kalim’s closest men. At last he came to the dark storeroom he sought. It smelled like metal and oil and was filled with crates and casks. In the dark, the lone figure awaited him as he had been instructed.
“Your Highness,” the shadowed figure said, showing black against the thin light of a candle flowing in from the half-opened door. “I live to serve.”
“You know why I’ve called you here,” Kalim said. “But I’ve a new instruction. Can you bring me Commander Staurakius’s head?”
The shadowed figure stood straighter. Kalim’s hands went cold as he thought this gesture meant the deed was impossible.
“Of course I could,” he said in a smooth and warm voice. “But I will have to enter Pozzallo, which is not as simple as it sounds.”
“The Norsemen did it,” Kalim said. “And they were brutes.”
“They were brutes, which is how they succeeded. Reaching the commander and exiting again with his head will require a deft touch. Your Highness, if I can gain entrance to Pozzallo, why not have me open the gates to your men instead?”
“Because I can’t bring my men to their walls, at least not without other problems. Now, can you bring me Staurakius’s head? If he dies, the fortress will fall into chaos and collapse. Then I can rush my men there and claim it for my father’s glory. I will pay you three times what I would have paid you for simply spying on them. Can you do it?”
The shadowed figure bowed deep. “For such a generous reward, I guarantee you the head of Commander Staurakius. I will need help, of course.”
“Yes,” Kalim said, waving his hand in dismissal of the details. “How you do it is your business. But do it swiftly. And while you are there, learn what you can of the condition and strength of their men. I’m most interested to know if they are being resupplied.”
“I will learn what I can, and bring you Staurakius’s head.”
Warmth returned to Kalim’s hands.
Pozzallo would fall and Kalim would plant his banner in Commander Staurakius’s corpse.
5
The kitchens were emptied. The stone hearths contained ash with veins of orange glow from embers. Yngvar could still feel the fire’s warmth. He smelled the sweet scents of wine and the savory notes of roasted fish. Pressed to the side of the door, he listened to Valgerd speaking to the cook. She had led him outside of the kitchen into the dining hall where the soldiers and officers had just eaten. It was just a doorless frame between kitchen and dining hall. On Yngvar’s side, the door was swung open to the interior wall. He glanced behind him into the storeroom and the hall beyond.
“Lord, we cannot take too much this time,” Alasdair said, pressed against the opposite side of the doorjamb from Yngvar. His coppery hair hung over his eyes and he brushed it aside. “If we are caught now, I think it would go even worse for us.”
Yngvar nodded. The arrival of his friends, whom he still had not seen since meeting them on the beach this morning, had upset the balance of the fortress. Though he had hardly spoken to anyone besides the commander today, he received moody glances and overheard mumbled curses. He did not fully understand the reaction, other than now they had to share their food with more mouths.
But they were sharing their food, no matter what they thought.
“Take a half cask of wine, what bread you can. If there are scraps of fish, who will miss that?”
“The cooks would know, and they’ve made a report before.”
Yngvar sighed. “Now’s not the time to discuss. Hurry in there.”
Alasdair slipped into the kitchen while Yngvar waited at the door. He watched his young friend glide among the many tables. He shook open his bag and began to shovel in small, round loaves of bread. Some were whole. Most were broken. Despite being a fortress in isolation and without easy resupply, the soldiers ate as if food could never run out. Once Alasdair had the bread scraps, he hustled back to Yngvar.
“There is a cheese wheel,” he said.
“Cheese? And we have not seen this for ourselves? The bastards. Take that as well.”
Alasdair flashed a smile as he handed the bag over. Yngvar set it by his foot and continued to watch both the kitchen and the exit behind. Valgerd continued speaking to the cook inside the dining room.
Before long Yngvar had a half cask of wine and a sack of small roasted fish on skewers. The fish was half-eaten or else leftover from the officer’s meals. Alasdair studied the cheese wheel, but then shook his head. He instead began to rearrange the remaining food scraps so that nothing would seem out of place to the cook. At least at first glance.
Valgerd’s voice suddenly rose. The cook shouted something and he stomped back inside the kitchen.
Yngvar glimpsed the short but burly man and his stained white shirt as he entered. Yngvar snatched the bags and the half-cask and darted out the planned exit. Alasdair remained in the kitchen. But Yngvar did not worry for him. When in water, Alasdair became a fish. When on land, he became a ghost. Such were his two greatest talents and both had saved Yngvar too many times to count.
That he heard only Valgerd speaking louder than normal meant to Yngvar Alasdair had vanished like a ghost.
He walked briskly across the wooden floor, through short halls that smelled of lamp oil and smoke, and exited into the parade ground. Now it was evening and the last light of the day had vanished from the sky. The air was still immeasurably hot and stifling. Yngvar waited in the dark corner where the dining hall and the main building met. He wiped sweat from his brow and watched wall guards touching lit torch to unlit torch, then repeating this down the length of the wall.
“Lord,” Alasdair said, rounding the corner. “That was close. And old Narses knows Valgerd is up to something. He saw the missing cask right away and said he would tell the commander.”
Yngvar laughed. “Let him tell the commander. They had a cheese wheel in there. Why is that being kept from us? I’ll let tell the commander myself. That’s a crime, if ever there was.”
Alasdair chuckled. “Let’s unload this before Narses decides to make more of a fuss. I don’t think he minded so much at first, but we’ve been getting too bold.”
They both proceeded along the shadows of the wall. They walked with calm purpose, half-cask under arm and sacks in hand. They then crossed the parade ground to where they had once been stationed. The slave barracks.
He knocked at the rear entrance. Every barrack had to have at least two exits in case of a fire. This was something Yngvar thought he should do when he built his own hall in the north again. Yet it also made two entrances for enemies, and watching both was hard. Now he and Alasdair stood between the stone fortress walls and the wooden rear wall of the barracks. After a short wait, the door opened.
The block-faced man who answered the door poked only his head through. A smile bloomed on his haggard face when he recognized Yngvar. His eyes fell immediately to the half-cask under arm.
“Our savior,” the man said. He slipped out the door, but kept it half-closed behind him.
“You’ve a feast tonight,” Yngvar said. He presented the cask, then the bags of roasted fish and bread. “You’d best be careful with the cask. Narses took offense to its misplacement.”
The man laughed. He was a slave warrior like Alasdair and Yngvar had been. His name was Lucas the Byzantine. While most slaves were from all over the empire, Lucas was the exception for being the single Byzantine in the slave units.
“You don’t believe in God,” Lucas said as he passed the cask to waiting hands hidden behind the door. “But you do His work.”
“That’s because your god is too lazy to do it.” Yngvar handed over the final sack of fish. “It’s not enough for all, but enough for some to fill their bellies. We will have to ease up now that everyone is watching us.”
Lucas shook his head. His hair was curly and greasy and it stuck to his head in the muggy heat.
&
nbsp; “We are all grateful for what you do. We can survive on rice, meat scraps, and water as we always have. At least until you can gift us fish and wine once more,” he said. After handing off the spoils into the barracks, he leaned on the doorway. “I heard about your friends. Quite an arrival. Some say they were here before as enemies. Is it true?”
“It’s all true,” Yngvar said. “They came here because they heard your mother was spreading her legs for the empire and didn’t want to miss out on such a legendary lay. When they discovered she was elsewhere they flew into a rage.”
“Another man would be picking his teeth off the ground for that,” Lucas said, his smile fading. “I suppose this means you won’t tell me more.”
“You are right,” Yngvar said. “And it matters not, because we need everyone who can swing a sword.”
Lucas nodded. “Thank you for the food, again. When you were freed, we all guessed you’d become like the regulars. But you’ve not forgotten us. We are all grateful for your kindness.”
“Slaves are not to fight as warriors at the front of a battle. It is a cruel system. If you were my slave one day, you would be treated fairly and I would protect you when enemies neared. I would not hand you a sword and tell you to fight for my family while I withheld your food.”
“I’d sooner not be any man’s slave,” Lucas said. “But I understand your meaning. Now go, and go with God’s blessing if I am worthy to give it.”
He and Alasdair slipped away. Freed of their stolen goods, they walked in the open. Alasdair kept a thoughtful silence, finally breaking it as they crossed the parade ground to where a clump of gray field tents had been hastily set up by the main gates.
“Lord, I am nervous to meet them again. Why?”
“I am as well,” Yngvar said. “I expect the others fret over the same foolish things. It’s because we have all thought each other dead. Yet we are not. For my part, I fear why the gods have allowed this. Is it for some greater jest? Is it because they looked away at a key moment and we slipped the fullness of their anger? Whatever the reason, we are all alive together and the gods will demand repayment for such a boon. I fear what it will be.”
They were halfway across the parade ground. Neither walked swiftly. The tents seemed as if they were set up for no one. For beside a small campfire at the center, no one was outside.
“That’s not what I fear, lord.” Alasdair scratched his head. “I fear we have all changed. That we will no longer recognize each other.”
“Ah, well, you are the smart one to think so far,” Yngvar said. “And I think you over-credit us. Our lives are too simple to change by much. Do you think Bjorn will set aside his ax? Gyna will become peaceful and kindly like an old grandmother? Or that Thorfast will have no more to say?”
Yngvar laughed, but Alasdair remained silent.
In truth, his fears ran deeper, but he could not name the cause. He trusted that seeing all his old friends once more would wash away his concerns.
He stopped at the edge of the camp. Ten tents hung limp in the humid air. The small, untended campfire fluttered and smoked in the center. No other sound came from the tents.
“Hey,” Yngvar shouted. “Are you all abed? The sun is not even fully set.”
“Over here!”
Yngvar did not recognize the voice, but heard the clear Frankish call from just beyond the gates. The doors were still open and the grate only half-lowered. Beyond this on the main road to the docks Yngvar saw a crowd of shadowy men. One tall man waved over the heads of all the others.
“What are they doing out there?” Yngvar asked with a laugh.
He started walking, but when he saw Bjorn and Thorfast emerge from the mass of shadows, he began to run.
It was a repeat of their greeting on the beach this morning. Only now they embraced and danced beneath the walls of Pozzallo as bored guards leaned on the walls and stared down.
“We’re just watching the ship,” Bjorn explained, pulling back from Yngvar. “They said we can bring it in for dry dock tomorrow. But tonight someone has to guard it, don’t they?”
Yngvar’s heart soared. Though the faces were all unfamiliar, he felt great comfort being among the Frankish sailors. He paused at the thought, for not until he had joined the Byzantines did he even know the term sailor. Warriors sailed on ships and went ashore to do battle. Sometimes they battled on ships. But the concept of a sailor and a navy was a foreign idea that had worked into his thoughts. Had Alasdair been right? Had he changed?
“Hey, what are you thinking?” Thorfast asked as he looped his arm over Yngvar’s shoulder. “Didn’t you have enough time alone to think before we arrived?”
“I did,” Yngvar said, smiling foolishly. He glanced at Alasdair, and Gyna held him as close as a son. Was she a kindly old grandmother now? She didn’t even have gray hair.
“Come on,” Bjorn shook his shoulder. “What’s the gloomy look? Let’s get back to the camp. There are too many stories to tell and only a single night for the telling.”
Together with the strange crew they all stumbled back into the fortress. The guards atop the wall signaled with a horn blast that the gate would soon close. Anyone wanting inside had best hurry.
Yngvar sat before the fire, feeling its dry heat against his sweaty face. The night air was fast cooling. “Did you need to make a fire?”
“Habit,” Thorfast said, as he settled to Yngvar’s right side. “And we want to see enemies coming in the night.”
“They’re no enemies here,” Yngvar said. But the comment drew sharp looks from both Thorfast and Bjorn. Bjorn even paused as he was sitting with Gyna across the fire.
“Ha, so you say. Not a fucking word can be trusted in the land, besides our own. We’re only behind these walls because you’re here.”
“And because we kept our weapons and armor,” Thorfast added.
Yngvar waved his hands. “Fine, it is good to be wary. I’ll not argue that. But now there are too many stories to tell. How did you all survive and find each other? Why are there Franks now manning my oars? It is as if I am in a dream.”
“Well,” Thorfast said. “There is much to tell. But we have questions as well. How are you and Alasdair alive? And how are you now servants of the Byzantines?”
So they spent the night reciting their respective journeys.
Thorfast introduced a Norseman named Ragnar. Hamar, Yngvar’s navigator from old, also joined. The trio told a tale of survival among the Arabs. Hamar had found Thorfast half-dead on the beach. But they were separated when locals attacked them. Thorfast was wounded but rescued by a woman named Sophia, who he then served. They had traveled with both bandits and Byzantine scouts led by a man called Sergius. Ragnar accompanied Thorfast for a time until they parted ways ahead of the Arab attack on Pozzallo. Eventually Thorfast and Sophia got to the mainland where Sophia perished. He would not speak of how she died. The pain on Thorfast’s face was plain. Yngvar did not press him for details.
“Before she died, Sophia told me she had an agreement with a woman named Valgerd, who lived here in Pozzallo,” Thorfast said while staring at the low burning fire. “She knew you were here, but kept that from me for fear I would abandon her. I have forgiven her for this. But I cannot forgive the one called Valgerd.”
Yngvar looked to Alasdair, whose face betrayed nothing. That worried Yngvar more than if he had rushed to defend his lover, Valgerd.
“She had her reasons,” Yngvar said. “Let’s not dwell upon such things. For it was all part of Fate’s weaving to bring us together. No one could change this.”
Thorfast sighed. “True. I went to the docks to see about passage back here, and there I found this brute and his mad wife.”
He hooked his thumb at Bjorn and Gyna, seated across from him.
“Hey, we are not married,” Bjorn said, rolling back with laughter. Gyna smiled faintly and looked aside.
The Frankish crew had drawn close to listen to Thorfast’s amazing story. Their leader was called Nordbe
rt and he now shuffled closer to Bjorn. There was one among all the unfamiliar faces that he did not recognize and who did not seem to understand or care for the conversation. He was a young man, perhaps a few years younger than Alasdair. He had golden hair and a haughty cast. He was wrapped in a Norse cloak despite the heat. It was as if he wanted to vanish from sight, but yet seemed eager to proclaim himself. At last, Yngvar could not endure the mystery.
“And who is that man who sits behind you as if he had no care for us?”
Bjorn and Gyna turned to follow Yngvar’s pointing finger. When Gyna saw the man she put her hand to her brow.
“That is my curse and my problem,” she said. “He is my nephew, Ewald son of Waldhar. A Saxon, if you need reminding.”
“Waldahr’s son?” Yngvar said. His eyes widened with his astonishment. “The story behind this must need the whole night tell.”
Gyna spoke in her rough Saxon speech to Ewald. He reacted coolly, but as she spoke he seemed to warm up. He at last stood and presented himself to Yngvar. He rattled off a Saxon introduction that seemed to aggravate Gyna. She shouted interruptions that ended in a short squabble between them. Yngvar watched with amusement when the young man finally turned back.
“Sorry, Jarl Yngvar,” he said in thickly accented Frankish. “I just learn this—language? Not speaking good yet. I am Ewald. Tomorrow I am king of the Saxons.”
Gyna threw her hands into the air. “The boy thinks he’s a king. He’s got a fair road to go before he is king of anything more than a shit pit.”
Yngvar rose and faced the young man. Truly, he had the eyes of a king. He was Waldhar’s son without a doubt. There was youthful boldness in his gaze and the fierce determination of one accustomed to rulership. Yet he also had a green streak that lent him softness. He might bend if leaned upon.
“A future king,” he said. “I will not treat that lightly. I am anxious to hear your story and how you have come to be among these men. Learn your language, future king, and serve me before you take your crown.”
The Red Oath Page 5