by James Wilde
‘We will not be seen,’ Sighard hissed.
The two men crept out of the trees. ‘You are sure this is the way?’ the Mercian asked. ‘We cannot risk getting lost in the desert at night.’
The younger warrior pointed to a low, rocky ridge silhouetted against the starry sky. ‘Just beyond there,’ he whispered.
As they set off across the rough ground, the music faded away, and the voices and the laughter. The drumming became a distant heartbeat. They kept low until they reached the ridge, knowing that they could easily be seen in the bright of the moon on that flat landscape. Scrambling up the rocks, they lay on their bellies and looked out into the desert.
‘I see nothing,’ Hereward said, his brow knitting.
‘No. They are cunning, these sand people.’ Pointing to a narrow track winding round the ridge, Sighard traced the almost invisible path it cut across the landscape. It came to a halt at a low mound. Hereward squinted. Though it blended into the grey background, now the other man had indicated it, he could see it was man-made.
‘Come,’ Sighard whispered. He crawled over the top of the ridge and slithered down the other side. Scanning once again for guards, the Mercian followed. The ridge hid all signs of the fire, the trees and the Imazighen camp. Hereward felt pleased, for that meant it hid them too. He loped across the open space with Sighard at his side, heading for a dark square on the side of the mound, a layer of branches and palm fronds.
‘It is a frame of wood and leaves on which they have laid sand and rock to hide it,’ the young warrior said as they came to a halt.
Hereward knelt and reached out to pull aside the square of fronds.
Sighard grabbed his wrist. ‘Take care,’ he whispered.
Drawing his sword, the Mercian let his hand hover over the fronds for a moment and then he snatched them aside. Beyond the roughly made door lay darkness.
A voice boomed out, babbling in an unfamiliar tongue.
Exchanging a look with Sighard, Hereward tightened his grip on Brainbiter. Though the words made no sense to him, the Mercian decided the voice had a swaggering tone. Arrogant. Unafraid, certainly.
‘Do not waste your breath,’ he called back into the dark. ‘Your speech has all the meaning of a yapping dog.’
For a moment there was silence. Whoever hid in that shelter was evaluating this strange tongue. Then the voice boomed back, still brash, but this time in accented English. ‘Come. I see you there against a starry sky. Do not cower outside my home like a frightened girl. Enter. Bring all the torments your feeble mind can muster. You are no more to me than a horsefly.’
Stepping into that dark space seemed foolhardy. Hereward snorted. ‘Who are you?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Hereward of the English.’
This time the pause was longer. ‘English? Here?’ For the first time the Mercian heard a note of uncertainty. ‘And you stand with the Imazighen?’
‘I am my own man.’
‘If that is true, come closer, where I can see you.’
‘And have my throat slit in the dark?’ Hereward grinned without humour.
‘I can no more slit a throat than scratch my nose. My wrists are bound. Come.’
For a moment, the Mercian weighed his response. Then, holding his blade before him, he eased through the hole and dropped into a chill, dry chamber dug out of the desert floor. Sighard fell beside him. Once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he saw the dark outline of a man lying on the ground, his back resting against the far wall. While Sighard stayed by the door to keep watch, Hereward stepped to one side so that the shaft of moonlight fell upon the captive.
At first, the Mercian saw only the grin. Here was a man who looked around his prison and saw only a king’s hall, he thought. Although his hands were bound behind his back, the captive was lounging, seemingly at ease, his feet crossed and his head to one side as he surveyed his guest. His black hair curled down to his shoulders. A beard, once well clipped, now starting to straggle, framed a square jaw. His eyes were dark, but where the moonlight glinted in them Hereward saw a sardonic look. His shoulders were broad, his arm muscles hard. A fighting man, by the look of it. But no scars marred his skin. He could well have been one of the earls who fawned around the king in Wincestre. His tunic, once no doubt fine, was now stained with the dirt and sweat of his imprisonment. When Hereward glimpsed the border design of black squares, he was reminded of the clothes worn by the body staked out in the desert. On a finger of his right hand glittered an ornate gold signet ring with a ruby inlay. Hereward saw a fortune there, but the Imazighen had not seen fit to rob their prisoner.
‘Hereward of the English,’ the captive repeated, shaping each word.
‘You have a name?’
‘I do. Yes, I do. I am Maximos Nepos. My home is …’ He looked around him and shrugged. ‘Here. For now. But once it was the great city of Constantinople. Have you heard of that, English?’
‘The home of eunuchs.’
Maximos pursed his lips. ‘Do not take offence that I thought you ignorant. There are some who say the English are nothing but drunks, and lazy ones at that. They rolled over and bared their throats when the Normans danced to their door. I, of course, would never think such a thing.’
‘Aye, we like our drink. And we like to be left alone. But prod us and you wake a sleeping bear.’
‘In truth, I have not been known to turn down a goblet of wine myself.’ He rolled on to his side and waggled his hands. ‘A good deed would not go amiss.’
When Hereward did not move, Maximos sighed and rolled back. ‘Brother, you wound me.’
‘I would know that you are a brother before I set you free.’ Hereward prowled around the captive, sizing him up. ‘What crime has seen you shut away here in the dark?’
The other man gave a hollow laugh. ‘My crime is being too trusting. I have wronged no man. But these desert people took me under their wing, with promises of food and shelter from the hot sun, and when my guard was down they brought me here.’ He took a deep breath. ‘At least I have been fed and watered. A pig in a pen, but not yet ham.’
The Mercian crouched. He tapped the tip of his sword upon the captive’s chest. ‘And why were you allowed to keep your life?’
‘I am worth more to the Imazighen alive. They think they can ransom me to my kin for gold to use in their war.’
‘And your kin would pay for your neck?’
He shrugged, making light. ‘They have some standing in Constantinople.’
‘Wealth? Power?’
Maximos rolled his head, giving little away. ‘If it would help, I am certain that they would dig deep into their coffers for anyone who brought home their favoured son.’
Hereward thought on this a moment. ‘To find a place in the Varangian Guard for my men, that might sway me.’
‘You drive a hard bargain.’ He nodded. ‘My mother has the ear of the emperor. And he does like his English sword-arms.’
‘Aye, why spill the blood of good Constantinople men, when you have English to fight for you?’
Maximos laughed. ‘We care little whether you are English, Norman, or Roman. Constantinople is not one of your English towns. Men and women from the four corners of the world gather there. Strange tongues babble in every street, in every inn. In time, you see that men are men and all that sets any apart is—’
‘Honour.’
The captive nodded. ‘Or lack of it. And in truth, though it pains me to say it, the English, and the Vikings too, are thought to have some skill in fighting. Fire in their hearts, more than any others.’
‘Not only drunks, then.’
Maximos grinned. ‘No. But I have your measure now.’ He raised his eyebrow in silent questioning.
‘One more thing.’ With his foot, Hereward rolled the man on to his side. He tapped the tip of his blade against the signet ring. ‘In the desert, I came across another man who wore a ring like this.’
The captive jerked his head around, all humo
ur gone from his features. ‘Arcadius? What do you know of him?’
‘I know he is dead. Staked out under the hot sun, a wound in his side. What was he to you?’
Maximos slumped back, bowing his head to the dusty ground. After a long moment of silence, he replied in a low voice, ‘My friend. Since childhood we were rarely apart. He was like a brother.’
‘It may not be him. I could not be certain the ring was the same …’
Maximos nodded at the kindness. He eased himself back up against the wall. ‘We travelled here in search of adventure. Yes, gold and glory. Little did we know what awaited us.’ Bitterness laced his final words and he looked up at the Mercian, his eyes burning in the moonlight. ‘Know that the Imazighen cannot be trusted. Only lies issue from their smiling mouths.’
‘Their queen, Meghigda, she has more enemies than friends, it would seem. I rescued her from a ship of sea wolves. What they wanted with her, I do not know and she will not say.’
The captive snorted. ‘You freed her? A good deed that will only result in misery. But how could you have known her true face?’ He paused, thinking. ‘When the Imazighen attacked us while our guard was down, some of my men escaped the slaughter and carried a message from me to Constantinople. Meghigda does not realize what a storm she has unleashed. My kin … Arcadius’ kin … they will not rest. They will pay any price to have their sons returned to them, or to see the queen and her people destroyed for the terrible crime they have committed.’ Rolling on to his side once more, Maximos bared his bonds. ‘Now. Free me. We can be away from here before—’
‘I hear something,’ Sighard hissed from the entrance.
Bounding to his spear-brother’s side, Hereward cocked his head and listened.
‘Hurry,’ Maximos urged.
The Mercian silenced him with a raised hand. He could hear nothing. After a moment, Sighard gripped the edge of the entrance and hauled himself up. Barely had his head poked through the gap before hands grabbed him and wrenched him up into the desert night. His cry of surprise was cut short.
Stepping back, Hereward pointed the tip of his blade at the square of starry sky, but he knew it was already too late.
The stars disappeared as a head hove into view. Salih ibn Ziyad grinned at him, but his eyes glittered icily. ‘You should have left well alone, Hereward of the English,’ he said. ‘But now you have doomed not only yourself, but all your men.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE FLAMES ROARED up towards the stars. Around the bonfire, the women danced to the pounding of the drums in a swirl of robes. Grinning men plucked at their stringed instruments or blew into the long, lowing tubes. The night breeze whisked up the billowing smoke and swept the fragrant scent of crisped lamb and spices across the camp.
Alric leaned back against a palm tree, his belly full for the first time since they had left England. The children had long since left him at peace, lured away by the food and the music. From under eyelids growing heavy, he watched the dancers. In and out of the whirling women Mad Hengist capered, laughing like a fool. As at ease as all the other men, the monk thought, his gaze turning to the hardened warriors lounging among the shadows of the swaying fronds. They had survived a shipwreck. They had overcome the brutal desert sun. Many of them were now starting to feel like their old selves, the ones who had challenged the might of the king with little more than a rag-tag army of earth-walkers at their backs. Drifting, he wondered if Hereward knew how much faith his spear-brothers placed in him. Perhaps it was best if he did not know. That burden would be too much for many men.
A strange noise rose up behind the music. Still dreaming, he cocked his head and half listened. It was those humped beasts that the desert people rode, blaring their irritation and stamping their two-toed feet.
His thoughts drifted. And they had been reunited, when he had started to feel all hope had been lost for their missing companions. He smiled to himself, surprised that he now looked fondly on men who had terrified and disgusted him when they had first met. God’s world was filled with many mysteries.
The whisper of feet nearby. He opened one eye, but there were only the shivering moon shadows.
For some reason he could not explain, he felt unease creep up on him. His heart began to patter. In that floating state, he found himself back in the filthy hut in Ely, his blood leaking from the wound in his side. How he had survived, he did not know. And since that day, it seemed death had never been more than a few paces behind him.
A piercing whistle rang out across the camp. The drumming stopped, the music snapped off, the dancers ground to a halt.
Alric jerked alert as a silence fell across the lake, broken only by the crackle of the fire. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Nothing moved in the flickering orange light of the dancing flames. He glimpsed the frozen faces of the Imazighen, and the English warriors craning their necks, puzzled.
And then furious battle-cries echoed from all sides. As the women plucked up their robes and raced towards their tents, the fighting men of the desert people swept out of the shadows and fell upon the startled English. Jumping to his feet in horror, Alric felt his breath catch in his throat.
Amid high-pitched shrieking, the Imazighen warriors attacked from all sides. Their robes swirled around them. Curved swords glimmered as they whisked through the air. Hereward’s men could do nothing but stare. Thinking they were among friends, they had abandoned their weapons in their tents. Most were dull from too much food, or, like Alric, half asleep.
The monk cried out. Where was Hereward? How could he have let his guard down sufficiently for such a thing to happen?
But before he could reach his friends, a blow struck the back of his head and he crashed to the dusty ground. Running feet thundered all about him. Dazed, he twisted his head around. An Imazighen warrior loomed over him, sword swung high over his head for the killing blow. Yet he did not strike. Instead, he babbled what sounded like a furious epithet in his strange tongue and thundered his foot into Alric’s face.
The monk knew no more.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE RED SUN shimmered in the haze on the eastern horizon. The dawn breeze whipped the sand across the desert pan to the circle of warriors in their azure and ebony robes. At their centre knelt the English, hunched and rigid. Sweat dripped in the fast-rising heat. Beyond the whisper of the wind, all was silent.
From under hooded brow, Hereward looked up at his captors. Robes wavering in the breeze, they had pulled scarves across their mouths against the choking dust so that only their fierce eyes glowed beneath their ghutrah headcloths. In their burning stares, the Mercian could only see loathing for a hated enemy.
On the back of his neck, the blade bit deeper and he winced. A tall, powerfully built Imazighen warrior stood behind each spear-brother, pressing one of the cruel curved swords into his captive’s flesh. Each executioner was stripped to the waist so that their fine robes would not be stained with the gushing of the blood. The Mercian could sense the swordsmen waiting for the order. Their bodies were tense, their gaze turned to where the queen, Meghigda, stood beside her trusted counsel. Her chin raised, she cast a cold eye over the humbled men.
Hereward held her gaze for a long moment, showing his contempt for this betrayal. She did not flinch.
‘We will take your heads,’ Salih ibn Ziyad said, one hand resting upon the silver knife hanging at his waist. His voice, though calm, cut through the moan of the wind. ‘Your blood will drain into the sand, where it will mix with the blood of all our enemies.’
‘How can you commit this crime? Hereward saved your life!’ Alric exclaimed. As he glared at the queen, tears of frustration flecked his eyes.
Afraid that the monk’s outburst would make him the first victim, Hereward raised his head against the sword and called, ‘The churchman speaks true. Where would you be now if we had not rescued you from the clutches of your captors? Dead, most likely. Or standing on a slaver’s block, on your way to becoming a whor
e for filthy sailors in some rat-filled port.’ He felt his blood trickle down his back. Meghigda glowered at him. ‘You brought us into your home, treated us like guests to bring our guard down,’ he spat. ‘You have no honour.’
‘You have no honour,’ Salih snapped, darting forward. He whipped out his knife and pressed the tip just beneath the Mercian’s eye. ‘While you filled your bellies, you bided your time. Would you have slit our throats while we slept?’
‘This is madness,’ Alric choked, his chin slumping to his chest. ‘We have done no wrong.’
Salih dug his knife deeper. A bubble of blood formed. One twist and his eye would be gone, Hereward knew.
‘Every word you say is a lie,’ the wise man snarled. ‘You are snakes, all of you.’ For a moment he hesitated, and then he removed his knife and slotted it back into its scabbard. Pushing aside his anger, he looked down on the Mercian with cold contempt. ‘You are here to save the worthless life of that Roman dog—’
Hereward frowned, realizing the wise man was talking about the prisoner, Maximos Nepos. ‘No man here knew that you kept him captive—’
‘Lies!’
‘He speaks the truth,’ the voice of Maximos boomed out. The circle of warriors parted as he pushed his way to the front, hands still bound behind his back. No one would ever guess he had been a prisoner in a hole in the ground, so straight was his back and clear his eyes. ‘Do you think my kin would have sent this English rabble to save my neck?’ He grinned at the glowering spear-brothers. ‘Take no offence, friends!’
Salih narrowed his eyes. ‘The Varangian Guard—’
‘Fights for the emperor,’ Maximos retorted. ‘However much my mother wishes she could command them to do her bidding, they would never obey the word of any of the Nepotes. These …’ he prowled along the row of kneeling men, ‘these are who they say they are. Outlaws, thrown out of their homeland, adrift on the seas of fate. Desperate to find gold or glory to fill the hollow in their hearts.’