‘Basíleus?’ He hadn’t met this word.
‘Ahhh. How to explain?’ The steward pulled at his beard. ‘Arbasdos is second only to the king. You know that word, do you? King?’
Erlan nodded slowly. ‘King of kings,’ he muttered.
Silanos frowned doubtfully. ‘Never mind. You’ll see.’
Erlan had no idea how far they had walked since the slave market, only that they had come north, more or less, over a steep hillside and then down an even steeper maze of alleys. At the ridge crest, he had glimpsed a long and narrow inlet lying further north, and floating on its surface, dozens of lean-looking ships.
But the vista was soon swallowed up as narrow streets closed over them, choking him with their dusty, stagnant air. At length they emerged once more into a broader sunlit way, and he found himself standing before two high doors of black polished wood set into a severe stone wall which ran up and down the street in both directions as far as he could see.
‘Welcome to the House of Arbasdos,’ Silanos declared. ‘Your new home.’
Erlan waited while the steward rapped a huge bronze knocker against the door. Almost at once the gates swung open and they passed through into a cool and quiet courtyard beyond. The gates closed behind them and Erlan felt sweet relief as they shut out the heat and the dust of the city. Everywhere were columns, fluted, painted, carved into impossibly lifelike detail. In the corner of the courtyard, a small spring was chuckling away into a stone basin, though where the water ran to, he could not tell.
‘Where’s the strategos?’ demanded Silanos of a passing servant.
‘In the Fourth Courtyard, sir,’ the boy answered. ‘Sparring with Davit and Georgios.’
‘Very good,’ nodded Silanos. ‘Bring him, Marcellos,’ he said to his over-sized attendant who still had Erlan’s chain bunched around his fists.
Meanwhile, Erlan was gazing thirstily at the bubbling spring. It had been half a day since he’d tasted water. His tongue was stiff as bark. But Marcellos tugged his chain and went stomping after Silanos so Erlan had little choice but to follow.
They walked and walked, along shaded colonnades and under archways leading from one courtyard to the next. At last the building opened up into a kind of stableyard. At its centre, stripped to the waist and sweating like galley-slaves, were three men. Each held a sword, which Erlan guessed at once were blunt-edged, because two of them were putting the third through a few strokes.
The third man had broad shoulders and a barrel chest thick with black hair. But his legs were a little short for his body. Erlan watched, evaluating the man’s skill. He was probably close to forty, but still fit and lean despite his bulk. He had close-cropped curly hair, dark like most of his countrymen, and a look in his eye that said he didn’t like to lose. So this was General Arbasdos. His new master.
The blades rang several times more before Arbasdos fell back on his guard and raised a hand.
‘A drink, gentlemen,’ he gasped breathlessly. ‘Our steward’s patience is unlikely to outlast your arm.’
‘Oh, but master, you know my patience has no end,’ cried Silanos, with an obsequious bow. ‘How else could I serve you?’
‘I see you’ve returned as impertinent as ever.’ The general accepted a beaker from one of his sparring partners. He gulped it down until wine ran in crimson rivulets down his neck and onto his sweat-slick chest. His wiped his mouth and turned his eye on Erlan. ‘Well, what’s this?’
‘This is Erlan,’ said Silanos. ‘Your latest acquisition. I believe he’s from some godforsaken land in the north. He’s a warrior.’
‘He’s lame.’
‘Well – yes, but—’
‘Tell me you didn’t waste my gold on this dross.’
Silanos gave a weak smile. ‘A-heh.’
‘How much?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Solidi?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Mother of God!’
‘And three for his sword.’
‘What! Are you mad?’
‘But you haven’t seen him fight, master.’
‘And you have?’
‘Well. . . technically, no. But the man who sold him assured me that it was really something to—’
‘That he fights with the strength of ten men? That he’s fierce as a lion?’ The general’s tone became more acid with each word.
‘Ah. Yes,’ Silanos said lamely.
‘You’re a god-damn fool, Silanos. He cheated you! What was he? A Khazar?’
‘A Greek, master.’
‘Holy saints, even worse!’
All the while, Erlan was taking in his new owner. That he was irascible was obvious from the way that he spoke, but his face was curiously benign, perhaps because of the wide-set eyes, giving him an almost fatherly expression. But then his quick, jagged movements, the impatient way he gulped at his wine, the sharp stare that came from those sad, kind eyes. It all added up into something contradictory.
His two men were lounging to one side, sniggering at the tongue-lashing Silanos was taking from his master. The steward turned abruptly to Marcellos and signalled to him to hand over Erlan’s blade. ‘See this, master.’ He presented the hilt to the general who took it. ‘A cripple he may be, but any man carrying a weapon like this must be a great warrior.’
‘Is that so?’ growled Arbasdos, inspecting the thing briefly. ‘And I suppose it was the Greek who told you this was his.’ He gave a dismissive snort. ‘A great warrior. Bah! You’ve been played, Silanos.’ And with that, he threw the sword down at the steward’s feet. But before it could hit the pavings Erlan had darted forward and caught it. He straightened up slowly. It was an awkward moment. For all of them. He was now armed, and with a weapon far more deadly than any other within reach.
Silanos’s face was frozen in horror. The two swordsmen bristled but they were yards away. Marcellos had the presence of mind to give a tug on Erlan’s chain, but Erlan was ready, and resisted, catching the big oaf off balance so that he stumbled forward. But before anyone else could react he flipped Wrathling on its end and offered the hilt back to the general. ‘It’s a fine sword,’ he said softly. ‘But I am better.’
The general grunted and took the proffered hilt. ‘He speaks Greek.’
‘Y-yes,’ stammered Silanos, still flustered. ‘Some, master. But I will get him—’
‘Let’s prove him then, shall we?’ the general cried. ‘If you’re so damn sure he can fight. Georgios?’
One of his men looked up at his name. He chuckled, drained his cup, stretched his neck and then went to pick up the training swords lying nearby.
‘No.’ Arbasdos shook his head. There was a glint of malice in his sad eyes. ‘Those.’ He pointed at two other swords resting against a pillar, still in their scabbards. The man Georgios hesitated, then shrugged and went to unsheathe the blades.
‘Master, have a care,’ Silanos pleaded. ‘The expense—’
‘—is mine to bear. Don’t worry, you old woman! I’ll tell them when to stop. Unchain him.’
A few moments later the metal links around Erlan’s ankles and wrists fell to the ground with a rattle. Erlan stepped forward and swung his arms, feeling buoyant now without his chains. If this Byzantine turd wanted a show of skill, the deadlier the better as far as he was concerned. He was confused, hungry, thirsty, weary. Desperate. . . and about as far from battle-ready as a man could be. Yet something in him wanted this fight. The bewilderment of all that he had seen that day suddenly cleared like fog before a hot wind.
This, he knew. . .
His opponent, this Georgios, had a broad forehead plastered with a sweaty crop of curly hair. He looked pleased with himself. Complacent. Erlan scoffed inwardly. Gods, hadn’t he been facing down muscle-bound muttonheads like this one since he was knee high to his father’s boot?
Georgios was stripped to the waist and wearing a kind of short skirt. To Erlan’s eye, he looked ridiculous, like a man in woman’s clothes, although his torso was anything but womanly
– all hard muscle and sinew, lean as a hunting dog. His skin was already glistening with sweat.
He recalled the advice of his old spear-master, Garik. A man loses a fight more often than another wins it. In short, wait for your opponent to screw up. Erlan had seen him make a few strokes when they led him in. He had a long reach and didn’t look like he would tire easily. Even so, there was one advantage Erlan could always count on. Every man he’d ever faced had underestimated him.
The big man tossed him one of the swords. It landed at his feet in a puff of dust. He picked it up. It was an odd blade, shorter than Wrathling, but weighty, almost like a club. He made a few cuts at the air, then brushed his thumb against its edge. It was sharp as sin. Suddenly it felt like an age since he had stood in a training circle, while this brawny bastard looked like he lived there every day of the year. For a second, his stomach felt hollow, his ankle throbbed, his heart quickened, and then Arbasdos called them to guard.
‘Fight!’ The breath was hardly past his lips before Georgios lunged, his point darting up at Erlan’s throat. Erlan pivoted off his right foot and swung clear and the Byzantine’s momentum carried him past. He was fast but too heavy, too slow to change direction. Erlan could have split the man’s spine right there but instead he smacked his buttocks with the flat of his sword as he went lurching past. Georgios spun, fury burning in his eyes. Erlan laughed. ‘Dress like a woman, get slapped like a whore,’ he growled in Norse but no one understood him.
Georgios muttered his own curses in Greek. But Erlan thought he had the man figured. His sword arm was accurate but too strong for his legs. This offered many ways to throw him off balance. That the general couldn’t exploit this told Erlan something about him, too.
He let Georgios get to his feet, allowed him a few more strokes, shifting his weight one way, then the other, small, tight movements on the ball of his right foot, breathing steady. Now and then he parried the other blade with his own to the ring of steel, but the hardest blows went sweeping harmlessly by. Only when he was sure of the man did he make his own move. He scuffed right and ducked low, inviting a killing blow from up high. Sure enough, Georgios obliged, slashing down at Erlan’s left shoulder.
Erlan shoved hard off his right foot, springing under the falling blade to come up behind the Byzantine’s sword arm. He snatched a fistful of hair and pulled backwards, then sank his teeth into the exposed cords of muscle. Georgios roared in agony, whaling his sword-arm uselessly, but Erlan already had his blade to the man’s throat. He tasted bloody iron, and victory. If he wanted, he could finish the man off in a heartbeat, and it was damn tempting. Although that would win him few friends here. He had made his point. He was about to shove his opponent away when his groin exploded with pain and a wall of bone slammed into his nose. He staggered back, blinded by the stars swimming in his skull, then his leg gave way as Georgios crushed his ankle under a hobnailed sandal. He went down like a sack of manure, sprawling in the dust and cracking his jaw on the paving beneath. The sword skidded away and came to rest at the general’s feet. The air was filled with laughter.
They were laughing at him. These bastards were laughing. He rolled onto his back and saw a walkway above the courtyard crowded with other guards looking on. No doubt they thought this was good sport. They were laughing too. And suddenly it was no longer their laughter but the laughter of the gods, of the Norns, of the Witch King who’d cursed his blood; of Saldas, of Vargalf, of Ramedios, of every fucker who had ever stood in his way. He remembered Inga and Kai and Bodvar and Adalrik and Leikr and Aska and his father. . . and Lilla. All that he had lost. And rage bloomed inside him, wave after wave of it, tumbling over itself into an eruption like the fire-mountains of old. He got to his feet. Arbasdos’s smile curdled into a sneer and he kicked the sword towards him. ‘Again!’
Erlan snatched the hilt and flung himself back into the fight. He cut and stabbed, he gouged and punched. Hack, slash, snarl. He was the Aurvandil. Hadn’t he cut his way out of the pits of Hel, hadn’t he carved a swathe through briars of steel and flesh, hadn’t he swum through an ocean of blood? But he was still here, wasn’t he?
Georgios fell back in the face of his fury, shocked at the change in intensity, slow to match it. But at length he rallied and the fight pitched into the lowest, dirtiest, meanest of brawls. Erlan took cuts and blows on his body until suddenly there was his chance. The dust shifted under Georgios’s hobnailed sole, his balance faltered, Erlan slammed his foot into his groin. The Byzantine howled and doubled over. Erlan’s knee lifted to strike his nose and the bone crumpled. Georgios fell back and Erlan was on him like a wolf, beating his face with the pommel of his sword until his limbs went limp and his sword dropped from his hand.
‘Enough,’ called the general. Erlan brought down his fist again and felt the jawbone shatter. ‘I said enough, God damn it!’
Erlan stopped. He was astride Georgios’s chest, panting. The general was staring him down, his sad eyes full of venom. ‘Get off him. Now.’
‘Far til Hel,’ Erlan muttered, and split the man’s throat to the bone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The guard crashed over the table in a spray of blood.
‘Fly, brothers, fly!’ yelled Valrik, a foot of bloody steel in his hand. He shoved Lilla away from the headman. ‘Go! If we don’t make the ship, we’re all dead!’
Varkonni spears and axes flashed. Valrik’s men had only knives or seaxes. Their larger weapons were stowed at the village gateway. A gesture of trust, now proven futile.
Einar was one of the first to react, roaring like a baited bull and upending his table into the path of two Varkonni guards heading for Lilla. The oxen bolted, dragging the hapless girl roped to them straight through the fire and on into the darkness in a trail of sparks and flame. The headman was yelling orders at his men, his fat face still shining with grease.
Meanwhile Valrik was bawling for his crew to rally to him. Lilla saw a spear on the ground and picked it up. Screams and shouts were breaking all around her. She looked for Gerutha but instead saw a shadow flying at her. She danced left and raised the spear. An axe crashed where she had stood a moment before; she lunged, felt the spear-tip sink into flesh, twisted and pulled and then a body fell at her feet.
She turned, gasping. Arrows fizzed through the air. ‘On me!’ Valrik slashed at another face, then turned to leap through the flames. With no time to question, she hitched her skirts and jumped. For an instant, a blaze of heat enveloped her, then she was through and on and sprinting down the slope towards the gate.
Behind her raged a storm of killing; everywhere Northmen fighting for their lives. She glanced back and glimpsed Einar’s bulky frame swinging his fists like clubs. She screamed his name.
‘Damn you, woman – there’s no time for the others.’ Valrik seized her arm. ‘We have to get out!’
‘Let go of me! My friend!’
But he was already dragging her towards the gate where the guards, slow to react, were at last turning to face the chaos pouring down the slope towards them. Valrik released her to deal with the first of them, smashing aside the spear-tip with his forearm, then burying his long-knife in the man’s throat.
Someone shouted Lilla’s name. She turned and saw Gerutha, skirts hitched, sprinting towards her. ‘Grusha!’ she cried in terror, seeing a figure appear between them, silhouetted against the flames. Gerutha tried to dodge him but stumbled and fell. The Varkonni raised his club and then a spear lanced out of the dark and flung him sideways. Suddenly Einar was there, scooping Gerutha up from the ground. Lilla turned back to the gate almost choking with relief. Other Northmen raced towards them. More lay behind, dead or wounded or already screaming under Varkonni blades. The feast had become a glut of blood and slaughter.
In desperation, the fleeing Northmen soon overran the guards at the gate but behind them the Varkonni were rallying. Valrik bellowed at them to seize what they could from their pile of weapons and keep running. Lilla ran with them beyond the palisade on
the path towards the Dnipar, feet pounding the dust.
It was less than three hundred yards to the riverbank. Fear and the pursuing rabble drove them on. She heard more shouts and bodies crashing through the trees. A black streak fizzed across her vision. She heard a cough and a body came bowling into her. She tripped and fell, hitting the ground like a hammer blow. When the dust cleared she was flat on her belly and face to face with Bayan. Blood was frothing from his mouth, an arrow shaft protruding from his throat. She recoiled in horror.
‘Lilla!’ Valrik’s voice called out of the darkness. ‘Lilla? Where are you, woman?’
She sat up, dazed, and wiped the dust from her eyes. Beside her, Bayan was choking on his own blood, but there was nothing she could do to help him. He was finished. As she picked herself up his hand closed around her wrist. She tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let her go. She could hear men racing through the trees around her. The Varkonni overtaking her. Fear outstripping her shame, she prised his fingers off her. There was no time for a prayer or a plea for forgiveness. Instead she grabbed her spear and stood – straight into the path of an arrow that came whistling out of the dark. She gasped as the arrow-tip raked across her shoulders. Only a glancing blow but it stung like a whiplash.
Everywhere was confusion. There were Norse shouts behind her. Men were already yelling at the riverbank. She was about to run on when a figure appeared on the bank above her.
Then another. Varkonni. She’d a notion that she knew him as a man who had often eyed her during their portage. His mouth cracked in an ugly smile. She backed away, bracing herself for their attack. The man chuckled and muttered something to his friend who held back while he skidded down the bank and circled around her.
‘Come on, you bastard,’ she muttered grimly.
Without a second invitation he threw himself at her. There was no subtlety in his attack, only a kind of lean, animal ferocity that for a moment threatened to overwhelm her. He lunged with his spear. She bludgeoned it away, reeling backwards. They circled around each other, she braced herself again, but before his second attack a shadow came looping out of the dark. There was a thud and he fell like timber onto his face, a hand-axe jutting between his shoulder blades.
A Burning Sea Page 10