The Red Oath

by Jerry Autieri

Being the second day after arriving, the Franks were beginning to lose their appetite for gold. Nordbert hinted that they might be better off leaving before high winter rendered northern travel too dangerous. But Bjorn, being their nominal lord, whipped them up whenever their spirits flagged. Thorfast might not have relished their means of attack, but he said nothing other than a quip about ramming down the doors. “At least you’ve finally come up with a direct plan everyone can understand. You’re still going to get us all killed, though.”

  While Yngvar had laughed it off, Thorfast was not wrong. Neither was Sergius. The Arabs had all the advantage. Yngvar had strength and courage only. The Arabs need not do anything more clever than drop heavy rocks on them while they slammed away at the palace doors. Of all the men gathered here now, many were going to die in the attack.

  Yet Alasdair had gone with Ewald to scout the palace. They looked more carefully at the doors and decided they were not as heavy as Pozzallo’s gates. The real defenses were the city walls, which had already been defeated. Perhaps they did not have as much to fear as supposed.

  They were ready to find out.

  “Lord, before we go, I must say goodbye to Valgerd.” Alasdair looked to the ship where his lover lay in feverish dreams. She had not yet died, nor had she recovered. She remained balanced between two worlds, seemingly ready to pitch headlong into either one. Sometimes she mumbled softly. Other times she seemed to no longer breathe. Gyna kept close to her when Alasdair could not. Valgerd’s condition, it seemed to Yngvar, rested on their success against Kalim. If Kalim were killed, she would live. If he escaped, she would die. It made a certain sense to him, though he did not speak it aloud. The belief came from his gut.

  Gyna sent them off, raising her sword overhead as if blessing all the men passing beneath it. Ewald and Hamar remained at her side, along with six other men either too injured to too reluctant to go to battle.

  “Stick a blade in Kalim’s heart for me!” Gyna shouted.

  Bjorn shouted back with his ax raised high. Yngvar raised his sword to hers and soon everyone that passed by the ship raised their sword to Gyna, whether they were Franks, Byzantines, or former slaves. They were all united in one purpose now. Once Kalim was gone and his coffers emptied, their bonds would likely dissolve. But at this moment they were a band of warriors marching to face a hated enemy.

  They passed through the streets. Yngvar led, but Sergius and Lucas the Byzantine flanked him. They carried shields and a roof made of thatch and salvaged timber to hold over men carrying the ram. The ram was heavy and brutal, wrapped in chains and rope. Twelve men carried it, with Bjorn at the fore. His giant strength would go a long way toward slamming the door aside.

  The palace came into view. By now the smoke of Licata’s razing had vanished, but a sour stench remained in the air. Clouds had gathered yet the wind had fallen, as if the world held its breath.

  “They seem far away,” Thorfast said, looking up at the walls and the gatehouse to the palace.

  “It’s as if no one is there,” Alasdair said.

  “They are waiting for us,” Yngvar said. “They know what we are about. They’re preserving their arrows for when we are most easily struck.”

  They paused in the wide street, nearly a hundred warriors clogging it. The defenders must be shivering with fear, Yngvar thought. Yet he took his shield —a plain round wooden one he retrieved from his own ship—then stepped forward from the others. He shouted at the walls in Greek.

  “You can open the doors and surrender or we’ll break them down. If we break them down, we will show you no mercy. If you let us in, we will offer you a bargain. What do you say?”

  Nothing stirred. Yngvar noticed a line of black birds perched on the far wall. Either no one was there or no one stirred enough to frighten them. For a long time nothing stirred but the wind. He was about to assume the Arabs had abandoned the palace. But a lone figure popped up from behind the gate walls and set a short bow over the edge.

  Yngvar raised his shield in time for the lone arrow to plunge into the wood. The force shuddered up his arm, but nothing else followed. The archer vanished. The Arabs had made their answer.

  Yngvar smiled. He swept the shaft off his shield with his longsword. Then he pointed it at the palace.

  “You choose death. A fine choice!”

  He returned to the ram. A dozen of the strongest men held it between them. A dozen more would hold aloft the makeshift cover and they would in turn be covered by shield bearers. The rest would wait in the rear to take up the place of anyone who fell and to eventually storm the palace.

  “We’ve waited a long time to corner this rat,” Yngvar said to Thorfast, Bjorn, and Alasdair. Ragnar leaned across the ram, his face grim. Nordbert and his Franks nodded. “No bars or doors will keep him from us. Let the memories of our fallen brothers guide our swords. Let the pain we have felt fuel our hate. Let us drink ale from Kalim’s skull and remember this day. For it is the day of vengeance come.”

  They shouted together. The others might not have understood the words, but they understood the spirit. Byzantine scouts and former slaves shouted together. They continued to shout as they marched to the gates beneath the roof held overhead. Yngvar, while not the strongest, took the first position opposite Bjorn on the ram. His cousin grinned at him.

  “I’m going to split this palace in half,” he said. “Been a long time coming.”

  They reached the doors. These seemed small and weak compared to Pozzallo’s gates. They all called out together, heaved back, then rammed the doors.

  The heavy thud summoned the defenders.

  The unmistakable thrum of bowstrings filled the air. Arrows slashed down among them. The roof above shook with the impact. The arrowheads echoed like stones scattering on wood. Someone cried out in shock and pain.

  “Heave!” Yngvar shouted.

  They hauled back, then slammed the ram again. The door, despite its size, was stout and did not buckle.

  Again the Arabs answered with arrows. Again, more of Yngvar’s men cried out.

  They slammed the doors again. Bjorn roared with the effort. The door paint had been scarred and a dent showed. But it held.

  The longer this took, the more likely the Arabs would defeat them, Yngvar thought.

  Yet they battered relentlessly. Yngvar swung the heavy logs back and forth, slamming into the doors until his arms numbed. The Arabs shot into their ranks. Each opening left by a fallen man made their shots more effective.

  At last, the battering began to tell. The bars behind backing the doors were solid and unyielding. But the wood itself had split and would soon burst.

  “Almost there,” Yngvar shouted back to the men at the rear. He noticed a foot on the ground. Someone had fallen behind him and he did not realize it.

  “One last hit!” Bjorn called. “This is the one!”

  They called out together, then drove the ram into the doors.

  In the same instant, fire poured down on the roof.

  Men screamed and fled. They dropped the roof in their terror.

  Yngvar felt searing heat all around. But he continued with Bjorn to drive the ram home.

  The doors spilt. One of the bars cracked and collapsed. The bar at head height remained in place. But the way opened.

  Only now he was engulfed in flaming wreckage. The roof had caught fire and the oil had splashed wide. He realized a hazelnut-sized drop of oil was burning through his boot. But he could do nothing for it. He feared more for the fire closing around him like a hand of flame.

  Then Bjorn screamed. It was not his usual roar. This was beyond madness. Beyond fear. Beyond hatred. It was the call of angry gods through his human throat. It was the hammer of the Old Gods thrown against the Arab walls.

  He held the flaming roof aloft. His one eye was wide and bloodshot. His face was not his own, twisted with fury and the strange shadows cast by the fire burning around him.

  With another shout, heedless of the fire, he hurled the entire bu
rning roof through the opened gates.

  Yngvar stood up. Smoke flowed off of him and he began to dance with pain. The fire had burned through his boot to the top of his foot. But the weak fire snuffed out before it could seriously hurt him.

  Behind, others were less fortunate. One man had taken the brunt of the oil and he lay like a log on a campfire, a still, black shape ensconced in flame.

  But he saw Alasdair and Thorfast staring in disbelief. Behind them a line of dark warriors stretched into Licata’s abandoned streets.

  “Kill the prince!” Yngvar shouted. Then he raised his sword and led the way through the gates.

  The Arabs had come down to the courtyard. Yngvar expected rank upon rank of hardened warriors to defy him. Instead, he faced perhaps no more than thirty spearmen with buckler shields and no helmets.

  The sight of such underpowered warriors stopped him better than if he had faced a wall of heavily armored royal guards. What kind of defense was this? He would cut through these defenders like a hot blade through fresh snow.

  Yet an arrow slashed down his left side, skidding off his shield. A handful of archers remained on the walls and he was their sole target for now.

  Bjorn charged through, ax in both hands. Smoke rolled out of his wild hair and curled around his beard, making it seem like he had burst from the forges of Muspelheim. He raised his ax and roared.

  Together, they led the charge into the Arab defenders. Arrow shafts speckled the path. None found a mark. He heard others swarming behind him, cursing and coughing through the flaming debris beside the broken gates. But Yngvar was intent on the enemies before him. It was as if he and Bjorn alone were going to fight thirty Arabs.

  For an instant, he thought they would all flee. Their dark-skinned faces somehow appeared snow white with fear. Their eyes were wide and their shields held aside as if he did not trust them.

  Yngvar’s sword cleaved into the foe before him. It bit into his neck and he crumpled as if he were no more than a scarecrow.

  But the horrific death-scream galvanized the others. They lowered spears and suddenly Yngvar was on his back foot. He huddled behind his flimsy shield, but it served its purpose. It seemed these unskilled fools were aiming for the boss of his shield rather than Yngvar’s exposed legs. They should have been trying to drive under the shield or else stab his feet. But they fought like farmers pitching hay into a cart. With shield and sword, Yngvar swept the spears aside.

  Bjorn’s fury leveled the front rank. His ax was the equal to the swords of Prince Kalim’s giants. He reaped Arab heads and limbs. Men fell screaming from him.

  By the time they had pulled together, the rest of Yngvar’s force arrived. Thorfast and Ragnar joined him. Alasdair appeared in Bjorn’s wake, finishing anyone who fell or exposed a vital spot. The Byzantines swarmed in and shouts of victory were already reaching to the sky.

  The smell of burned wood and flesh hung in the air. It blended with the blood and urine stenches rising from the tight knot of Arabs. Despite their poor discipline, they did not flee. In truth, they had no place to flee to. Some in the rear might have melted off into the palace or some other hiding place. But the front ranks stood and died.

  The Arabs returned death, as well. A distracted Byzantine took a spear blade through his neck. A Frank sat on the ground, clutching his thigh that sprayed brilliant scarlet into the air. He would die of blood loss within three more breaths. Yngvar blinked it all away. The gods guided his shield and his sword. The day of vengeance had come. No man or god would block his path.

  As with all battles, it seemed as if neither side would break and then one side collapses like a roof falling into a burning building. The Arabs ran for wherever they thought to find safety.

  At last able to see wider courtyard, Yngvar turned to find Sergius and his Byzantines on the walls. They had climbed the ladders and neutralized the archers and the threat of more fire from the gatehouse. They held captured bows overhead and shouted in victory.

  Nordbert sat on the ground with two of his Franks hovering around him. He held his face and blood streamed from under his hands. Thorfast wiped his blade on the pant leg of a fallen Arab. Bjorn and Alasdair chased after any other who fled.

  “They’re running everywhere.” Ragnar appeared beside him. He was wrapping a deep cut over the knuckles of his sword hand with a dirty cloth.

  “You organize a blockade of this exit,” Yngvar said. “Make sure no one leaves. Kill all the Arabs you find. No mercy. But if you catch Kalim, you hold him for us.”

  Ragnar smiled. “Sergius and I can keep this area pinned down. Go on and catch your prince. It’s your day.”

  He gathered Thorfast first, then calmed Alasdair enough that he could follow orders again. He had a look of madness Yngvar had never seen in him before. He seethed with hatred for Kalim and what he had done to Valgerd. Bjorn was taken with madness, and Yngvar realized he had to calm him on his own. He would follow the scent of blood, though, and Yngvar spared no more thought for him.

  “Where would Kalim be kept?” Yngvar asked. “He wouldn’t be in his own prison?”

  Thorfast shook his head. “He’s still royalty. Probably confined him to his room in the palace. By now, if there are guards there, they have fled. We better reach him before he slips out through some secret way.”

  “Does anyone know the way to his room?” Yngvar looked to Thorfast and Alasdair, but neither knew more than he did.

  They turned toward the palace, dashing up stairs into the fine stone halls with their cloying sweet scents. Lamps remained lit, but all the activity Yngvar recalled from his last time here was gone. The palace had been abandoned.

  They threaded the halls. Once Yngvar thought he had spotted a servant darting away only to learn it was a cat. Without thought, he worked his way to the audience chamber.

  The throne was toppled and dried bloodstains showed everywhere around it. The throne had been chopped to reveal pale wood. Pillows had been slashed open to spill down feathers.

  “Do you think they killed him?” Thorfast asked, kicking over one of the pillows.

  “No, but they killed someone,” Yngvar said.

  Alasdair prodded around the mess of bloodied feathers, then lifted a handful of something he had found. He held out a gauzy cloth with a long lock of black hair.

  “They killed his women,” Alasdair said. “Probably made him watch it.”

  They wasted no more time. Alasdair found bloody footprints which he traced out another door. He led them like a hound leading his hunters on a trail. Bjorn followed on, screaming for blood and vengeance.

  At last they came to a door in a long hall. Its finely carved panels had been smashed open from the inside. The bar across it still held, though whoever had been within was no longer there.

  A spray of fresh blood marred the floor. It still ran slowly down the walls to puddle on the floor.

  “Kalim’s giants broke him out and killed the guards,” Thorfast said.

  “Not killed them,” Yngvar said. “Or the bodies would be here. And there is not enough blood for more than one man. For whatever reason, they took him along. Look, blood streaks on the floor lead into the darkness.”

  But the darkness gave way to an archway of grayish blue light. A door hung open to a balcony.

  Yngvar tightened his grip on his sword. “Our prize is out there.”

  31

  Outside the door they found the corpse on the balcony. The Arab had his head spun around on his shoulders and he lay in a widening pool of blood. Stairs led up to the smaller third floor and another door hung open. This one opened to the outside and was heavier than even the gate doors.

  “Lord, let me check on this first,” Alasdair said.

  Yngvar nodded. He glanced over the balcony. While a nimble man could sneak down a rope thrown over the side, Prince Kalim’s giants would simply fall. They might survive the drop from here, but such heavy men would break bones at least.

  “Go make certain Kalim is inside,�
� Yngvar said.

  He waited with Thorfast and Bjorn, who had finally calmed enough that he had stopped shouting. But his face was red and that strange scent that rose from him when he was aroused to violence clung to him. Alasdair stuck to the wall as if he were paint. He crouched low beside it and tilted his head toward the opening.

  But no special techniques were needed to determine the prince’s hysterical screaming. His shrill voice echoed out the door. Whatever he said, he must be urging his giants to act faster.

  Yet Alasdair lingered. He got to his hands and knees and peeked inside. Then he scurried down the stairs.

  “I’m sure you heard, lord. But it sounds like they are moving something heavy, and I’m certain I heard the chime of silver. I glimpsed inside and there are chests and barrels everywhere. It is his treasure room, lord. This dead guard must have carried the keys or else knew how to open the door for them.”

  All of them looked at the blue-faced corpse. He stared into the sky with blood-filled eyes, though his body faced the stone floor.

  “Revenge and treasure,” Bjorn said with a wide grin. “The gods do love us.”

  “They do,” Thorfast said. “But they love to needle us more than please us. I would not be too swift to run up there.”

  Yngvar narrowed his eyes and looked up the stairs. “The longer we delay, the sooner the gods will grow bored. You know what will follow from that. So we act now.”

  Far behind the echoing screams of Prince Kalim, Yngvar heard the shouts of triumph from the courtyard below. It was out of sight at the front of the palace. If Kalim sought to escape, there had to be another passage he intended to follow. For he would never make it past the Byzantines and Nordbert’s Franks.

  Yngvar led the way. His left foot burned from his injury, but he set it down quietly on the stone stair. Stepping up, he looked back at the rest. All of their eyes were wide with anticipation. All of their faces were flushed with killing fury. Kalim would suffer as he never had before.

  Another step took him closer. Kalim howled and wept in the room above. Whoever he yelled at said nothing in reply, but accepted the abuse.