The Red Oath

by Jerry Autieri

  “What then?” Thorfast asked. “If they attack each other, we’re still outside the walls. Whoever wins will still be able to attack Pozzallo, where I’ll remind you our ship and crew remain.”

  “It’s no use to plan so far ahead. For now, after the fires begin I want you and the rest to start driving out everything in your path. Make them run in terror. Kill a few so they know real fear. Blood and fire should set anyone running. Let’s meet back here. Watch for the first flames.”

  Yngvar and the others disguised as Arabs snuck away into the camp. Thorfast and the others watched them go. Yngvar’s last glimpse of them were their wide-eyed faces prominently displayed over the bushes. He would have to act fast before the Arabs discovered them.

  The torches were set at regular intervals. They were freshly soaked in oil and ready to light at a touch come nightfall. The perimeter would be bright, but Yngvar would leave them a blank spot. He and Gyna snatched four while Ewald and Alasdair carried off even more.

  They were spotted by two women but ignored. Their fair coloring and golden hair, except for Gyna’s, were hidden beneath the head covers. Without speaking, they looked to each other and nodded. They then walked to the center of camp where slaves worked on setting campfires. In the vague light of the midday sky, the young fires cast thin, yellow light.

  A ring of six campfires were set here, yet only three had been set. The slaves used striking steels to rain sparks on the kindling. Other slaves knelt beside these to blow on the burgeoning flames. These were cooking fires that needed to come to a steady heat by nightfall.

  Without a word, Yngvar led the others to light his torch. It whooshed into flame, which he then touched to the others’ outstretched torches. Again due to their disguises they received at best curious looks from those busy with other matters. Even the slaves, as close as they were, just glanced quizzically. One turned again to stare at Alasdair, whose locks of coppery hair had fallen across his face. But seeing this, Yngvar interposed his back to block the slave’s view.

  Each of them now held two lit torches. Yngvar smiled. They had not carried their captured spears but left them for the others. Beneath his robe, his Frankish-made sword gifted by Commander Staurakius remained hidden. He relished its weight against his hip.

  He whispered to his team.

  “Burn everything that will catch. Burn anyone who comes close.” He looked to Alasdair. “Kill anyone who crosses your path, be it a woman or child. No one is innocent in this camp.”

  “No one is innocent in all of Sicily,” Gyna said. “Let’s be quick. Standing in the open makes me nervous.”

  Each sped in a different direction, though Ewald hewed close to his aunt. Yngvar rushed deeper into the camp, then put his torch to a tent flap.

  Flames caught and raced along the edges of the fabric, creating a deadly frill. He did not wait for it to spread, but moved to another tent and repeated his process. Even this went unnoticed by the rest of the camp. He begged Thor to send a wind to spread his flames, but the weak breeze would not help.

  Soon he heard calls that must be the Arabic word for fire. He threw his current torch at a distant tent with a sloping top. It landed there and began to burn through the dirty fabric. Someone ran out, a fit-looking man with a spear.

  Yngvar stepped back in surprise that a warrior remained behind. Perhaps there would be more. Then he realized the man carried his spear in a single hand not because he was lazy. He was missing his left hand.

  He laughed, pausing to touch his other burning torch to another tent. Yet the one-handed guard did no more than glare at him. Instead, he focused on the torch atop his tent. He swept frantically at it, trying to knock it off the top. The fabric seemed to resist the flames, but it did nothing to comfort the guard. His panic seemed out of proportion to the threat of this single torch.

  Flames sprouted over the tents in the distance and he heard calls of alarm. Bjorn’s deep bellow echoed from across the camp.

  Yngvar drew his sword, struggling to extract it from the slit in his robe. But once he freed it, he found the guard had at last caught the torch with his spear. Yet the flames appeared to have taken to the tent cloth.

  He screamed for help as if he were being stabbed through his guts.

  Yngvar wondered at this. What was in the tent? Evidently it was highly flammable.

  He withdrew an unlit torch he had thrust through the black sash around his waist. He watched the guard frantically gesturing to someone out of view while he absently touched the flames heating his right side. The torch swirled to life.

  Yngvar sprinted across the distance, aiming the torch for the opened tent flap. He still could not see what was within. But a bit of torchlight would help, he thought.

  The flaming brand spun past the guard, who again screamed in horror as he realized what had happened.

  Yngvar did not know what he had done, but the Arab’s fear infected him. He backed up as fast as he had run forward.

  Something brilliant flared inside the tent. He heard a series of loud pops.

  Then the entire tent engulfed in flames. The one-handed guard fled for his life. Yngvar stopped backtracking. The brilliant light and heat painted his awed face. The flames rolled up into the sky in a ball of yellow, orange, and black. Bits of flaming debris and ash floated down around him and also landed atop the surrounding tents.

  “You’ll see that, you Arab fuckers!” Yngvar shouted. He raised his sword in salute to the flaming god that had climbed out of the wreckage of that tent. Its burning arms reached out to scorch everything around it. The heat rushed across Yngvar, finally forcing him to run laughing from the destruction.

  The explosion had not been loud, but it was brilliant and powerful. Both Arab princes would be signaled by its incredible display. Ahmed would know whatever he kept secret in this tent was now destroyed. Kalim would know the position of his brother’s camp as well as its vulnerability.

  He just had to draw them together.

  Sprinting through the camp, he slashed at anyone who stepped out. He did not bother to learn the results. A woman fell back under his sword. Two slaves dropped their burdens as he ran with his blade reflecting the fires now leaping up everywhere. Bjorn’s shouting continued to echo through the camp. Above the tent tops, Yngvar saw some deflating and toppling down.

  The Franks were about their business of terrorizing the camp.

  He stumbled back to their original meeting place, the first to return. He laughed at Prince Ahmed’s arrogance. He was so secure that he had left an entire camp guarded only by the weak and maimed. Their unguarded baggage was now aflame.

  Alasdair rushed back, followed again one of the Franks.

  “What was that?” His face was sweaty and stained with soot. “Lord, did you burn your face? It is all red.”

  Yngvar felt the heat glowing on his cheeks. “Ah, nothing worse than what the wind and sun do to a man at sea. Something caught fire like I have never seen before. It was something to see, and I’m certain everyone for miles around already did.”

  Gyna arrived next with Ewald helping her limp into camp. She cursed and shoved her nephew aside. But her knee was clearly weakened and the blow to her head had not cleared. She slumped down with a groan.

  “Fires everywhere,” Ewald reported. “What now?”

  “Hopefully Thorfast will calm Bjorn enough to bring him in. Then we will fall back and be ready for Kalim to arrive.”

  Ewald nodded. Alasdair, who had taken the moment to peer into Gyna’s eyes, now looked up.

  “We will make an attempt at Kalim?”

  Yngvar narrowed his eyes and nodded. “I dearly want him to see Pozzallo for himself. If the gods approve, I will carry his head back with us and set it atop the walls. Best view he will ever have of it.”

  At last the Franks arrived in small groups, each one rushing to tell Yngvar of the chaos they had sown. They were delighted men, now roused to violence and the hope of plunder. One even showed Yngvar a curved dagger he had f
ound. It was at best a trinket, but the Frank held it in both hands as if its hilt was set with jewels.

  Bjorn and Thorfast returned last. Bjorn red-faced and sweating. Thorfast seemingly exhausted. Bjorn saw Gyna, caught his breath, then knelt beside her. Thorfast wiped sweat from his brow.

  “It’s madness in the camp, and not a man to challenge us. Is this how the Arabs make war?”

  “They were either too arrogant or too hasty to attack,” Yngvar said. “No matter the reason, it has served us well. And look. Across the field, the Arabs are turning back and in force.”

  Thorfast followed Yngvar’s extended finger. “By the gods, they are retreating.”

  “No,” Yngvar said. “They’re coming for revenge. We had best not be here when they arrive. Let them find Kalim instead.”

  Yngvar tore off his restrictive robes. He had no idea how men fought with these. The others did the same. The air felt good flowing through his hair once again. Yet he wished for his helmet. His scorched face felt taut and painful, but he laughed nonetheless. Bjorn scooped Gyna in one arm and she protested with token blows to his shoulders.

  “Fall straight back,” Yngvar said. “Then we shall see where Kalim and Ahmed meet, and from there we pick our prize. Kalim’s head!”

  They picked a path back through the mixed palms and other trees. A drizzle began to patter on the fronds above, sounding like crazed drumming. He hoped the weather would hold long enough for the two Arab princes to tear each other apart.

  His men and ship still remained caught behind Pozzallo. His ship was not yet fully seaworthy. But those were problems for later, if he and the others still lived.

  Kalim’s forces marched into view just as Yngvar and the others had pulled back.

  The real battle would begin now.

  20

  To his credit, Kalim led his men from the front. Yngvar watched from within the shadows of the trees as the prince led his crescent banner proudly toward the burning camp. The giants flanking him marked his location better than the banner. They stood clear above the ranks of spearmen and archers following their prince.

  Prince Ahmed’s army streamed back from Pozzallo, which Yngvar could no longer see clearly for the columns of smoke rushing into the air.

  “I could not have planned this better,” Yngvar said. “The gods have seen us and they lend us aid this day.”

  “I will drink ale from the prince’s skull,” Bjorn said. “Real northern ale. No more of this land’s goat piss.”

  Gyna, who stood once more with Ewald and Bjorn to support her, leaned forward to see the upcoming battle.

  “I’ll be madder than a hornet if Kalim gets himself killed before I can reach him.”

  “He won’t fight,” Yngvar assured her. “He’s making a show and will then fall back to let real warriors do his work. That’s when we will trap him.”

  Barely more than a dozen warriors at his command, yet Yngvar felt as if he had a grand army at his back. The gods had seen him. Victory. He could taste nothing else on the wind.

  “A good rain now might help us,” Thorfast said, looking up at the canopy. Nothing more than a drizzle feel, but the raindrops were fat and resounded off the wide palm fronds above them.

  Another standard to match Kalim’s drew closer. It was white and showed a black crescent and three stars arrayed around it.

  “They will clash now,” he said. His palms itched to draw his sword again and take it to Kalim’s neck.

  Yet the clash did not come.

  At first Yngvar thought the forces maneuvered around each other. Yet it was clear that they drew into a static line.

  “When’s the killing start?” Bjorn asked. “Been waiting a long time for this day.”

  “Lord, it seems they are negotiating.” Alasdair stood atop a fallen log, stretching to see the distant armies obscured through scrub and trees.

  “Go find out what the delay is,” he said. “It might just be a parley that lasted overlong.”

  Thorfast sighed. “A parley? Is Kalim stupid enough to surrender his surprise? He could’ve caught his brother in the open and raked down his men with archers. What a fool.”

  Yngvar touched his hands to his face, feeling the heat there. It was more from frustration than the burn he had experienced. He clamped down on the feeling. Leaders should not let their men know when they are shaken. So he tried to stand as the Byzantine commanders did, hands clasped behind his back and shoulders squared. He simply gazed ahead as if he had no cares until Alasdair returned with his report. The others adopted his patience, squatting behind cover in silence.

  Alasdair appeared through the bushes.

  “It’s what you feared, lord. Kalim is speaking to someone. I don’t think it is his brother, though. Which might be why he has not attacked.”

  “Because no matter his victory here, his brother would still live to make war on him.” Yngvar turned his head aside and closed his eyes to think.

  “So what?” Bjorn asked. “Didn’t he want to kill his brother’s warriors anyway? Why did he stop?”

  “I can’t say why he stopped. But Prince Ahmed does not lead his troops,” Yngvar said. “He sends underlings to gather his victory. Now there’s a real noble. Kalim could learn something from his brother. So now that he has surrendered his opportunity, he must make it seem as if he has come to his brother’s aid. Otherwise, all the nobles will know Kalim is an open traitor and rebel to his own house.”

  Yngvar opened his eyes and looked between Alasdair and the others awaiting his thoughts.

  “And so you understand what happens next.”

  Bjorn looked aside as if hoping the question was not asked of him. Gyna stared, inscrutable in her anger. Thorfast bowed his head and scratched the back of his neck. He drew a deep breath.

  “They’ll come looking for who attacked the camp. And we did not take care to disguise our trail.”

  The words were an announcement of disaster.

  Yngvar spotted the Arab crouched behind a tree trunk, dressed in plain brown robes and head cover. He blended with the surroundings. His dark eyes met Yngvar’s. Then he lifted a bronze horn to his lips. The warning blare tore through the trees.

  The Franks shot to their feet. All the others turned to face the threat.

  Yngvar hauled Alasdair up from his crouch, then turned to the others.

  “There is a hill north of here with a rock that looks like a seal. Meet there if we are separated. Now flee.”

  Bjorn hoisted Gyna again, who did not protest. They all fled deeper into the trees.

  The Arabs followed. The only advantage Yngvar had was that the trees prevented both archers and larger groups of spearmen from targeting them. It was a chase led by individuals.

  The Arabs came screaming. Yngvar led his men until he reached the end of the trees. From here it was rolling land leading away to steep, rocky hills.

  Yngvar pointed and ran. The rest followed.

  The Arabs were close behind, but from glances over his shoulder Yngvar guessed only a dozen followed. Terror gave his legs strength. It had the same effect on the others. Two of the Franks outstripped Yngvar in their dash toward the hills.

  An arrow skipped across the earth beside his feet. But it was a single shaft, shot more to find range than for accuracy. Yngvar was glad to learn that he was beyond the effective reach of their bows.

  “Into the hills,” he shouted. He struggled to finish his sentences as he ran. “Keep with me but remember the rock if we are separated,”

  “I don’t know where the fucking rock is,” Gyna shouted from behind.

  “It’s a seal,” Yngvar said. “You’ll know it.”

  Sicily’s most distinct feature was its uneven and rocky land that always seemed to lead to a sharp hill or mountain. There was always a place to hide. He had heard that a volcano dominated the island and the commander had once shown him its place on a map. He wished he understood maps better, for he would welcome a volcano to swallow his enemies into Muspelheim.
For now, he clambered up rocky ledges and steep inclines.

  The Franks ahead of him did not even turn around. They climbed as if they were goats bounding away to safety.

  Soon, Yngvar had gone deep into the jagged, rocky hills with everyone following. The two who had bounded ahead unfortunately were lost to him.

  He had not lost their pursuers.

  “Make a line here,” Yngvar said, indicating a natural trench that ran along what amounted to a wall of rocks. “We will fight. Cover our tracks with blood.”

  “That’s a better plan,” Bjorn said. His voice was short and winded. His face was red and gleaming with sweat. But he carried Gyna effortlessly.

  “I’m not going to be your shield,” she shouted. “Put me down where I can fight.”

  The Franks seemed dismayed but Bjorn simply glared them into order. They took up positions hunkered down behind the rock wall. The Arabs would have to cross along it and expose themselves to attack. The fight would be a near thing, but Yngvar counted each of his men good for three enemies. He expected to slaughter the Arabs.

  They waited in silence, ducked behind the wall with swords ready. They let the first two pursuers slip by them, their feet scratching against the gritty rock. They panted in exhaustion as Yngvar and the others had.

  Yngvar sprang out in the middle of the Arabs. The others followed him.

  Despite hunting for their prey, the Arabs leaped back in shock. Though they held weapons ready, they did not raise them in time.

  Bjorn’s sword claimed a head at a stroke. He struck sideways and claimed an arm from another.

  The terror of his brutal attack sent Arabs sprawling. One fell off a ledge Yngvar had not seen.

  They climbed out of their hiding places. Such ponderous motion hampered by chain armor should have ceded advantage to the Arabs. Yet their shock had been so complete and so disproportionate to Yngvar’s ambush they remained flat-footed.

  Yngvar endured a slash to his side that his armor turned. The heavy chain was now like a weight driving him into the ground by the shoulders. He had cursed it the entire climb up the hill, but now thanked the gods it had preserved him.