by James Wilde
Meghigda thrust her way forward, her eyes blazing. Hereward thought how strong she looked, an oak that would not be broken however powerful the gale. ‘We can trust no one. No one!’ she stormed. ‘Our enemies are everywhere.’ She glanced towards the lake where the women, children and old men were breaking up the tents, ready to move on. A line of the strange hump-backed animals, horses and mules waited on the edge of the trees, chewing lazily. ‘We have been punished too many times for trusting. I … I have been …’ The words choked in her throat and for a moment she trembled. ‘And you …’ she said to Maximos, her voice thick with contempt, ‘you are the worst liar of them all.’ Hereward glimpsed something in the glint in her eye, or the way she held the captive’s gaze too long. There was a history there, he was sure; and a deep hurt.
The queen looked Maximos up and down and then spat at his feet. Striding away, she commanded, ‘Kill them all.’
Along the line, the lengths of steel whisked up.
‘Wait,’ Hereward called. ‘If some wrong has been done here, take my life only. These men obey my commands. They should not face your wrath—’
‘No.’ When Hereward jerked his head around, he saw that it was Sighard who had called out. ‘I am at fault here.’ He did his best not to show any fear, and Hereward felt proud of his spear-brother. ‘I discovered your captive. I took Hereward there. You say you trust too much. I trusted too little. That is my crime. Take my head, if you will, and free the others.’
Meghigda looked along the line, frowning as she struggled to comprehend this sacrifice. For a moment her face softened. But then she caught Salih’s eye and nodded. ‘If we do not take our stand, we will be the Free no more. We will be slaves. Or worse. The time has passed for open hands and open arms. We have no friends anywhere, we see that now, and we must fight if we want to live to see another dawn.’ She turned her back and began to walk away. ‘Let us be done with this. Take their heads.’
As Salih strode forward to give the order, Hereward could see that any chance of escaping their fate had gone. Now there was only the ending, and that would be with honour. ‘Hold fast, brothers,’ he called. ‘If we are to die, it will be as warriors, not mewling like babes.’ He showed a defiant face to the wise man. ‘Come. Be done with it.’
Salih bowed. Hereward saw no anger there, no hatred, no contempt. This was war. An act of survival from a people afraid that their days were passing. He could understand that.
The desolate wind moaned. The Imazighen watched, impassive. The glinting swords hung at the top of their arc.
Before Salih could utter the command, a drumbeat rolled across the arid wastes. In the distance, a cloud of dust billowed up, lit ruddy by the rising sun. Meghigda stopped and looked back, her brow furrowing. Hereward saw a shadow cross her features. Salih turned and peered towards the approaching rider, and all his men followed his gaze.
From the cloud of dust, the newcomer emerged. He was slumped across the neck of one of the hump-backed beasts, clinging on with what seemed to be only the weakest of grips. As it neared, it slowed its rolling gait until the rider tugged at the rope tied around its snout and brought it to a halt. He tried to clamber down, but could only manage to slide off into a heap upon the ground. His face was gashed, and dark patches stained his ragged robes. Reaching out one trembling arm, he croaked a few words in the Imazighen tongue.
Whatever he said, it had an instant effect upon the gathered warriors, and upon the queen too. Meghigda’s jaw dropped and her face cracked with shock, and she ran back to join the men racing towards the fallen rider. Babbling, they circled him, no doubt demanding more information. His voice was too weak to be heard and Salih yelled for silence.
While the throng listened to the rustling words of the wounded man, Hereward glanced back. The blade above his neck wavered, the executioner distracted by the activity, as were all the other swordsmen. The Mercian’s gaze flickered towards Sighard. His face was strained and Hereward knew he was thinking the same thing: when should they make their move.
Before any of them could act, another cloud of dust swirled up along the horizon, much larger than the one they had first seen. Though the English glimpsed it first, the Imazighen were soon pointing and jabbering. Salih tried to calm them, but Meghigda’s anxious voice cut through the chaos. A moment later the desert people were running towards what remained of their camp. Unsure what to do, the executioners looked down at their captives. Their swords wavered again. But no order had been given, so finally they sheathed them and ran after their brothers.
Hereward pulled himself to his feet. Relief burst in the faces of his men. Exuberant laughter rolled out and they clapped each other on the shoulder, scarcely able to believe they had escaped their fate.
Alric stumbled up, beaming. ‘God has smiled upon us once more,’ he said.
‘Save your cheers,’ Maximos called. Growing silent, the English warriors eyed him with suspicion.
‘You know their tongue?’ Hereward demanded.
The Roman nodded. ‘Some, at least.’ He glanced back at the plume of dust. ‘Their enemy attacks. The Banu Hilal, the tribe who take the coin of the great power to the east.’
Hereward watched the dust-cloud. In that flat landscape, there was no element of surprise. It would take long moments for the enemy force to reach the oasis. ‘What scares the Imazighen so much? They knew this battle was coming.’
‘Not so soon. They are not ready. Meghigda has been hiding here while she tries to forge alliances with other tribes. She strains every sinew to build a great force that will crush her enemies so completely that no one will dare attack again.’
‘The rest of her men …?’
‘Her generals have ridden to the four corners to sway the minds of the other tribes.’ Maximos flexed against his bonds like a dog straining to free itself. ‘What you see here is all she has.’
The Mercian looked to the rising wall of dust and tried to guess what numbers could raise that cloud.
Mad Hengist pointed to the camp, his eyes dull with sanity at that moment. ‘We cannot steal their beasts to ride away from here. Are we to try to escape on foot? We will not survive, you know that.’
‘You always see more than any man here,’ Hereward said as the other men gathered round. ‘And will these Banu Hilal let us walk away? I wager they are here for a slaughter, and Imazighen or English will mean little to them. Blood is blood and it spills just the same.’
He eyed the Roman. Maximos grinned back. ‘It seems our path has been mapped for us.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
UNDER THE RUDDY glare of the rising sun, the cloud of brown dust was sweeping across the desert waste. The earth drummed and blood-curdling battle-cries rang out as the Banu Hilal bore down upon the oasis.
Hereward and the English raced towards the cool shade under the swaying palms. Only confusion was waiting for them. The Imazighen warriors crashed among the trees and the scrubby bushes, scrambling to retrieve their weapons from what remained of the camp. The Mercian could see that they were unprepared, and fear had its grip upon them.
Frightened by the fearful expressions on the faces of the fighting men, the women ushered the children across the circle of vegetation to the column of heavily laden mules, horses and hump-backed beasts. It was too late for them, too late for all the Imazighen, Hereward knew. The attackers would carve through the fragmented defences in no time.
Salih ibn Ziyad ordered his men to their positions along the tree-line. Meghigda stood beside him, her shield already on her arm and her sword in her hand. As the English ran up, the wise man whipped out his curved knife. ‘Fate has granted you mercy,’ he snarled. ‘Do not throw it away.’
Ten Imazighen warriors darted in front of the queen and her counsel, their swords levelled. Staring down that length of steel, Hereward said, ‘We will fight alongside you.’
Salih snorted. ‘Do you think us fools? We should hand you weapons so you can slay us while our backs are turned? Away now, or my men
will cut you down where you stand.’ His gaze flickered towards the approaching plume of dust. He could not afford to be distracted. Nor could he afford a battle that would further deplete his forces, the Mercian could see that.
‘Time is short, Salih ibn Ziyad,’ he pressed. ‘Your numbers are few, and here you have the fiercest warriors in all England ready to stand by your side. Arm us. You have my word that we will not betray you.’
As he watched the enemy drawing near, desperation contorted the wise man’s face. The Mercian stepped into Meghigda’s line of vision. ‘We have a common enemy here. The Banu Hilal will never let us walk away from this place.’ When he saw her hesitation, he added, ‘We are your only hope.’
Meghigda glared past him at Maximos. For a moment, hurt stung her features. ‘You are dogs, all of you. You cannot be trusted. You … you cannot be trusted.’ Overcome with passion, she thrust her way through the line of men and swung her sword up to the Roman’s chest.
Maximos pressed against the tip of the blade. Looking her full in the eye, he said, ‘I know you think I have wronged you. Perhaps I have. But the words that passed between us remain. Punish me if you will, but do so later.’ He flashed a grin. ‘But first let us make sure we have days yet to come in which to continue our argument.’
Meghigda held his gaze for a moment longer and then whirled. Striding towards her warriors, she called back, ‘We stand together and die together. But if I see any sign of betrayal I will command my men to turn on you, even if it means showing their backs to the Banu Hilal.’
Salih scowled, unhappy with his queen’s decision. But he pointed to where her tent had been and said, ‘There is a pit hidden there. A store of weapons for when we might need them. Take what you need. Do not betray us, Hereward of the English.’ His eyes glittered as he looked at the Mercian, his words heavy with implied threat.
Once the English warriors had thrown off the covering of branches, palm fronds and sand, they dragged out the spears and axes that had been taken from them, and the long shields covered in white hide. Racing back to the edge of the trees, they pushed their way through the milling Imazighen warriors. At the front, the slaves knelt with their bows. On the flanks waited the meagre cavalry, a handful of riders on ponies, each one armed with an iron lance.
‘Is this all they have?’ Kraki grunted, turning up his nose at the small force.
‘They have their wits,’ Maximos replied. He rubbed his wrists where his bonds had been cut. ‘You may be surprised.’
Hereward shielded his eyes against the sun’s glare. The air was filled with thunder now, but he could see in the dust-cloud that the force was not as overwhelming as he had imagined.
Sweeping his silver dagger in the air, Salih bellowed in the tongue of the desert people. The riders kicked their heels into the ponies’ flanks and the cavalry pounded away.
Racing back to his queen, the wise man began to jabber, waving his arms in an imploring manner. ‘He wants Meghigda to leave with the women and children and old men,’ Maximos said, listening.
Hereward watched fury contort the woman’s face. Though he caught nothing of what she shouted, he understood her meaning: she was a leader – she would stand or fall with her army. He was surprised to see Maximos dart over. ‘You must do as Salih ibn Ziyad advises,’ the Roman said.
‘I am al-Kahina,’ she snapped. ‘I will not let my men think I have abandoned them.’
‘They will never doubt you, you know that. They will die to see you safe. Whatever happens this day, your people will need a leader who can carry on the fight against your enemies.’
Gritting her teeth, Meghigda bowed and marched away. She glanced back once at Maximos before the Imazighen warriors surrounded her.
A roar went up from the fighting men. Hereward spun round to see the cavalry bearing down upon the enemy. They were too few – they would be cut down in an instant. But at the last, the Imazighen lancers brought their steeds around along the enemy line and urged them back towards the oasis.
A furious roar from the Banu Hilal rang out above the drumming of hooves as they saw they had put fear into their foes. They had them now. Hereward glanced at Salih. The wise man watched intently, unconcerned that his men had turned tail. As the cavalry thundered back to their lines, he shouted an order and the riders dug in their heels, urging the ponies to leap as one. Landing with grace, they continued on their way. The Banu Hilal were hard at their backs.
Rigid, the Imazighen warriors held their breath as they faced the approaching army. And then a resounding cheer rose up when chaos descended upon the enemy horsemen. As if they had been struck by an unseen weapon, the first row crashed down in a confusion of flailing limbs and frightened neighing. Riders were thrown across the rocky desert floor. Necks snapped, arms twisted. The earth itself seemed to be consuming the horses.
Hereward nodded with approval. Salih and his generals had been clever. The oasis was protected by a system of hidden ditches.
Salih grinned, his teeth white against his black bristles. He bellowed another command. The row of kneeling archers stood, nocked their shafts and snapped their bowstrings. A volley of arrows soared up against the blue sky and rained down hard on the milling enemy ranks. The screams of the wounded and the dying echoed across the wasteland.
The wise man nodded, pleased with his handiwork. With a high-pitched scream, he swept his arm over his head. His warriors roared a full-throated battle-cry and raced forwards.
Whirling, Hereward snatched Alric’s arm. ‘This battle will be brutal. It is no place for a churchman,’ the Mercian shouted. ‘Go with the queen. Watch out for her – and the children.’ He knew the final exhortation would leave the cleric’s protests stillborn. ‘We will find you once this battle is done.’
Once he was sure his friend was safe, Hereward spun back to his men and yelled, ‘Let us show these desert people how we fight in England!’
The Imazighen were skilled with their weapons, but there was no shape to their attack. They swarmed at their enemy from all sides. Swords hacked, shields splintered. But often as not they blocked the lines of their brothers in the confusion. Brutal they were for certain, and effective to a degree, but they lost more men than they needed. And soon, he knew, the Banu Hilal’s greater numbers would begin to tell.
Now the Imazighen cavalry struck like daggers to the heart of the roiling mass of foes. Iron lances plunged through chests. Dark-skinned fighters screamed as they twitched and died on the skewers. But they were too few. As the remaining riders of the Banu Hilal got their mounts under control, the Imazighen’s horsemen were driven back.
‘This will be a slaughter in no time,’ Sighard shouted as the English reached the edge of the battle. ‘And we will be in the centre of it.’
‘Then let us not forget all we learned in our long fight against William the Bastard,’ Hereward replied. ‘Shield wall!’
His men surged into place with Hereward at the centre. Shields slotted into place, spears bristling out. Over the wooden rim, the Mercian watched their enemies as the wall advanced. The Banu Hilal had seen nothing like this. Their flowing robes were black, as were the headdresses and the scarfs tied across their mouths to keep out the whipping sand. In their framed eyes, wide and white, the Mercian saw incredulousness at first, then mockery for this strange breed who advanced behind a wall of wood and hide.
One warrior let out a gleeful battle-cry. Leaping towards the English, he swung his akouba above his head. Guthrinc braced himself as the blade thundered into his shield. The sword bit deep. As the scowling desert warrior struggled to wrench it free, a spear burst through a gap in the wall and rammed through his gut. His eyes widened in disbelief. By the time the spear tore free, he was dead.
Across his range of vision, Hereward saw the Banu Hilal pause as they tried to comprehend this strange attack.
‘Forward!’ he yelled. ‘Let us take this fight into the heart of these dogs!’
Keeping their heads low, the English drove their s
hield wall into the thick of the battle. Spears lanced out, slashing tendons, punching through ribcages. Without mail-shirts or armour of any kind, these desert warriors were vulnerable in any fight.
But as he looked around Hereward could see that his spear-brothers were at just as great a disadvantage. The enclosing shields had formed an oven and the English sweltered in the suffocating heat. Stinging sweat blinded them. Dust choked their noses and mouths. He sensed some of his men beginning to falter.
‘Fight on,’ he urged. ‘There will be enough water to slake any thirst once we have won.’
But near the edge of the shield wall, Bedric stumbled and fell. In an instant, an iron lance rammed through his chest. The Mercian winced as if the killing blow had taken his own life. Bedric had once been a scop, entertaining earls and kings with his recitations. A gentle man who had picked up the spear to help defend Ely. He would be mourned.
‘Close the wall!’ Hereward roared as their enemies bore down upon the gap. The shields locked together just in time. Blade after blade crashed against them.
On the English pressed, carving a path through the startled Banu Hilal. Bodies fell on all sides. With a heavy heart, the Mercian watched two more of his men die: Ceolbald, a dour warrior from the cold north; and Hardwin, who trapped fowl better than any man there.
Squinting through the wind-whipped sand, Hereward glimpsed one foe who seemed braver than most. He was tall, perhaps two heads on Hereward himself. A broad scar cut across the bridge of his nose. He had torn away the scarf that covered his mouth, and when his eyes locked on the Mercian’s he gave a gap-toothed grin that showed he was unafraid of this strange breed of warriors.