Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome

by James Wilde

  With a whooping battle-cry, he charged. His akouba flew around his head in a shimmer of dazzling sunlight. When he brought it down, Hereward was all but crushed to his knees by the jarring impact. His shield cracked, splinters of wood flying out, but it held. Sighard jabbed his spear through the wall but the tribesman danced out of reach, jabbering in a tone that could only have been mockery.

  When the warrior attacked again, Hereward set his shoulder hard against his shield. The sword boomed against wood and hide like a wave crashing on the beach. More shards spewed up. The shield would not last much longer under such blows, Hereward knew. Quickly, he uttered a command to the men around him.

  The desert warrior flexed his muscles ready for his third strike. The Mercian held his gaze, silently taunting. The tribesman’s eyes narrowed, his laughter draining away. With another high-pitched whoop, he whirled the sword around his head and threw himself forward.

  At the last, Hereward yelled. The men behind him eased back, and he pulled away from the wall. As his enemy’s sword whisked down, the point skimmed down the surface of the shield and bit into the desert floor.

  Hereward lunged. Hooking his axe into the man’s side, he yanked it forward, tearing the flesh. Howling, the tribesman staggered. Seizing his moment, the Mercian hacked at his neck. So strong were the towering warrior’s sinews that it took two more strikes to cut deep and even then Hereward could not free the head from the body.

  His eyes rolling back, the tribesman crashed down into the sand.

  ‘Cunning,’ Sighard said from behind his shield.

  ‘A strong arm is not enough,’ Hereward replied. ‘Sharp wits win battles.’

  The death of their formidable brother seemed to drive the Banu Hilal into an even wilder frenzy. With blood-curdling shrieks, wave after wave crashed down upon the English. A storm of swords thundered upon the shields, the bodies pressing tighter on all sides.

  Hereward’s ears were dulled by the clash of swords, the shriek of the strange, high-pitched battle-cries, the screams of the dying, the constant drumming of hooves as the battling cavalry circled the field of war. Underfoot, the sand churned into thick mud with the blood and piss of the wounded. So many bodies littered the desert around them that they could not move without tripping over the remains. And so they stood their ground as the waves crashed against them, unable to advance, unable to retreat.

  Blinking the filthy sweat from his eyes, Hereward glanced at the hardened faces of his men on either side. Heads bowed in the shade of their shields, they thrust their spears between the gaps in the wall. If he were to die this day, he felt proud to be alongside his brothers.

  After what seemed an age, he looked up and saw a broad space among the chaos of the fighting. He could barely believe how few of the Banu Hilal remained. The Imazighen knew victory was within their grasp. Somehow they found new energy, striking harder, faster.

  Hereward glimpsed Salih ibn Ziyad, confident and controlled in the heat of the fighting. He swung a sword with his right arm, and with his left he slashed his silver dagger across the throats of his staggering victims. And beyond the wise man, a hellish apparition loomed. For a long moment, Hereward could not comprehend what he was seeing. But then he realized it was Maximos Nepos, slicked from head to toe in the blood of his victims, laughing like a madman as he swung his double-edged sword. So strong was his arm, it looked as though he was scything corn in the fields of England. Ceaselessly, untiring, he reaped his crop of bodies.

  A cry spiralled up into the cloudless sky, undulating for a moment before dying away. Waving their swords in front of them, the Banu Hilal backed away from the men they faced, and then spun on their heels and raced away. On the edge of the battlefield, the circling riders, too, brought up their steeds and sent them galloping back towards the eastern horizon.

  A cacophony of whoops and shrieks rang out from the Imazighen. The men waved their swords in the air, and held high their shields.

  Exhausted, the English warriors slumped to the ground. To a man, they looked up at Hereward, scarcely able to believe they had survived that day.

  ‘Life is good, brothers,’ the Mercian roared. ‘Drink deep.’ He glanced around the corpse-littered land and nodded with pride. ‘We turned the tide of this battle. We … the English. The Imazighen will be in our debt now. Good fortune comes our way and we will seize it with both hands.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE DISTANT SHRIEKS of the dying ebbed away. The clash of steel ended, and the rumble of hooves faded into the distance. On his mule, Alric turned and shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun. The oasis was a dark smudge on the horizon at the end of the long, straight trail the caravan had carved across the rolling dunes. Was the battle over? And who had won?

  He muttered a prayer and promised himself he would think of it no more. Hereward had faced greater odds before and he had survived. It was in God’s hands now, and if the Lord thought fondly of his good works here upon the earth, he would be reunited with his friend soon enough.

  Turning back, the monk looked along the column of laden beasts, and the white-bearded old men on their horses, as upright as young warriors. The women and children walked alongside, seemingly oblivious of the merciless heat. The undulating line snaked on, moving at a steady pace beneath the azure sky. The only sound was the smacking of the men’s lips as they chewed their mash of foul brown leaves, pausing every now and then to spit a clot upon the earth.

  The desert out here was not so flat. Fewer rocks and more of the sweeping waves of sand that sucked at a man’s feet. Alric grimaced. Oh to be back in Ely, with the rain drumming on the church roof and the north wind swirling leaves across the reeking marshlands. He felt a brief ache for simpler times. This hellish place would be the death of him.

  Ahead of him rode the queen. Her back was straight, her chin raised. She had never looked back, even when the screams and the sounds of the fighting were at their loudest.

  Alric dug his heels into the mule’s flank, urging it alongside Meghigda’s pony. She did not look down at him. Her gaze was fixed upon the distant horizon.

  ‘What Hereward said was true,’ he ventured. ‘He will fight alongside your people unto the end.’ When she still did not acknowledge his presence, he added, ‘He is a good man.’

  ‘So you say,’ she replied in a dismissive voice.

  ‘So I swear, as God is my witness.’

  This time she eyed him, looking him up and down as if measuring his very worth. ‘I have trusted men from beyond the sea before. They are all good men. But then they shed their skins, as all snakes do, and the truth is revealed.’

  Alric felt surprised by her command of English and wondered how much else she kept from her guests, but he passed no judgement. ‘Not all men from beyond the sea are the same.’

  She sniffed, looked away.

  ‘The betrayal you feel … You speak of Maximos Nepos.’

  Meghigda glared at him. ‘Enough. I will not hear his name spoken in front of me.’

  The monk wondered what the Roman could have done to create the depth of hurt he saw in the queen’s eyes. ‘Hereward speaks highly of you,’ he said, changing the subject.

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘He does?’

  ‘You are a good leader of men, he says. Strong. Just. You are not like our own King William, who would see all England burned to the ground to achieve his heart’s desire. Your people have placed their faith in you, and you have accepted it.’ He paused. ‘You would die for them?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The monk nodded, pleased. ‘That is rare. But good.’

  With a slender hand, Meghigda unfastened the scarf from her mouth and let it fall away. For an instant, Alric thought how sad she looked. ‘I was but a girl when I took up the sword of the Imazighen. It has been my life, and I was prepared for it from the moment I came into this world. In our tent, the one my father and my father’s father and my father’s father’s father had carried across the hot lands, I would si
t upon my mother’s knee and hear the stories of my people. Stories of pain and blood and suffering. Since the time when we first walked the sands, we have looked to the east and the invaders who want to bring us to our knees and make us slaves. We have never been beaten. Never!’ Her eyes sparked with passion.

  ‘And now you must fight yet another war.’

  She snorted. ‘This is no hardship. Battle … that is the soul of the Imazighen. When I had seen eight years pass, raiders came to our camp. They killed my father. And my young sister. And they cut off my mother’s head and set it on the floor of our tent, and made me stare into her eyes all night. Oh, how they laughed!’

  Alric winced.

  ‘And when six more years had passed,’ she continued in a quiet voice, ‘I led my men across the sands until I found them. And with my own knife I cut them open and left them under the sun for the birds to eat. Left them alive, so they could think on the crimes they had committed before they stood before God.’ She looked at him, her face drained of all emotion. ‘I am al-Kahina.’

  The monk felt chilled by what he saw there.

  From up ahead, shouts and cries echoed through the still air. The disturbance rippled along the column.

  Meghigda frowned. ‘What now? We must reach the rest of my men before dusk to warn them of the Banu Hilal.’ Before she could investigate, warriors swarmed over the rolling dunes on both sides. Alric gasped. He had seen no sign that anyone had waited there. His shock burned even brighter when he saw that these were not the desert people. Their skin was pale.

  Before the Imazighen could react, arrows showered down. Crossbow bolts thumped into faces and chests of men, women and children too. Horses and mules and the hump-backed beasts cried and fell and thrashed as the shafts lashed into them. Screams filled the hot air.

  Old men plunged backwards down the brown drifts, trailing glittering arcs of blood. The survivors ran aimlessly, but the attackers seemed to be everywhere. A spear rammed through the back of a fleeing woman. An axe slashed the chest of an old man as he thrust a short-bladed knife. Everywhere the Imazighen fell. The caravan broke up, the surviving beasts thundering away into the wastes.

  Aghast at the slaughter, Alric called upon God to help these poor souls, to no avail. He watched as Meghigda drove her pony into the fray. Snarling and spitting like a wildcat, she drew her sword. But she was one and her foes were many, and all the fighting men had been left behind. The monk’s heart fell as warriors surged around her, forcing her mount to a halt. Once, twice, she hacked down into skulls and shoulders, but then hands caught her wrist and she was dragged from her pony. A cheer rang out from the warriors as she disappeared from view.

  Alric felt rough hands yank on his arm and hurl him to the ground. Dust filled his mouth and stung his eyes. As he flailed, feet thundered into his ribs, his stomach, his head. For a moment, the world spun into darkness.

  When he came round, he was being dragged across the sand. Craning his neck, he saw the bodies of the old men littering the dunes, their blood already turning brown in the heat. Only a handful of the women and their children had survived. Wailing, they knelt in a circle under the cold gaze of their captors.

  ‘Who are you?’ the monk gasped.

  A hard boot in his gut ended his questions.

  Relief flooded him when he saw that Meghigda had survived. Small surprise if she was as valuable as he had been told. Head bowed, she knelt, the tip of a sword pressed into the back of her neck. But Alric could see that her face was contorted with loathing.

  ‘Be strong,’ he called to her.

  Glancing at him, she spat a clot of blood into the sand. ‘Let the monk live,’ she called. ‘He is a man of God.’

  ‘I know full well who the monk is. We are old friends.’

  Alric flinched at the strangely familiar voice. Squinting against the glare of the boiling sun, he searched for the speaker, but only silhouettes hovered before his eyes. ‘Who is there?’ he asked.

  Laughter rolled out. A figure swaggered forward and set its fists upon its hips. As the man moved to block the sun, his features fell into relief. He was tall and strong, his hair shaven at the back in the Norman manner. Playful eyes surveyed the churchman, a grin falling easily upon the lips. ‘My name is Drogo Vavasour, monk.’

  Alric frowned. ‘You are not the one who spoke.’

  Another figure wriggled forward, and the churchman all but recoiled at the sight of the ravaged features of Ragener the Hawk. ‘You live,’ he gasped.

  ‘God chose to raise me up from the jaws of death, monk, and he watches over me now. You cannot harm Ragener.’

  Before he could begin to understand how the sea wolf had survived those turbulent seas, Drogo wagged a finger at him. ‘I had heard that Hereward, the last of the English, travelled with a monk.’

  Alric showed a defiant face. ‘You know of us.’

  ‘Aye. Tales of the rebels and their dark deeds in the English fenlands have spread far and wide. Your names are known by many. Even yours, monk. Murderers and thieves to a man.’

  The churchman glared. Drogo laughed silently.

  ‘See,’ Ragener gushed. ‘I told you Hereward was here.’

  ‘’Twas hard to believe, so far from his home,’ the Norman said with a slow nod. ‘But if the monk is here, the English dog cannot be far behind.’

  ‘What care you about Hereward?’ Alric said. ‘The rebellion is long over. England is lost. The king himself spared our lives and sent us out across the whale road.’

  For an instant, Drogo’s eyes hardened, but he hid his thoughts before Alric could read them. ‘England is lost, that is true, and I would not give that dark, wet land another thought. What lies between Hereward and me is …’ he looked out across the wastes, choosing his words, ‘a matter of blood. One that can only be ended with your friend’s death.’

  ‘You waste your breath,’ Meghigda snarled. When she looked up at her captors, Alric was impressed to see there was no fear in her face, though she must have known what hardships lay ahead for her. ‘Even now he fights with my army, even now as more warriors arrive to swell our force.’ She cast a contemptuous look across the war-band. ‘This … You would challenge us with this few. You will be torn apart before you can even cry for mercy.’

  Ragener’s eyes flickered towards the Norman commander, sensing the doubt. ‘Do not listen to her! You are Normans, the greatest warriors known to man. A few barbarians like her …’ He spat at the queen. ‘They will be no match for you.’

  ‘But if she is right …’ Drogo mused.

  ‘She is right.’ Alric set his jaw. ‘The army of the Imazighen is great indeed. You risk everything if you try to attack them.’

  Ragener lashed out with his one hand, cuffing the monk across his cheek. Alric saw stars.

  ‘Hold,’ the Norman said in a light tone. ‘I have waited long to look in Hereward’s eyes. A little longer will make no difference. We have our prize.’ He eyed Meghigda. ‘If what you say is true, she will earn a fine reward.’ He looked down at Alric, smiling. ‘And if what I have heard of that English dog is true, he will not abandon even one of his men. It seems God has smiled on you too, monk, for your days will not end here. What say you, Ragener?’

  The sea wolf seemed to read the intent in the other man’s words for his eyes sparked with glee. ‘Aye. Here is judgement indeed. His master took my hand. Now I will take a part of him, and another, and another, until there is nothing left, and I will leave a trail for Hereward to find. The rebel leader will come to us soon enough, Drogo, that I can tell you. And then you can have your revenge.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE FIGURE STAGGERED across the blasted waste. The moaning wind whipped at his ochre robes and snagged in his white beard. Swirls of sand whirled around him, but he kept his head high, his eyes clear, as he focused on his destination.

  ‘Another enemy?’ Sighard asked, shielding his eyes against the gritty sand caught in the breeze. He was caked in blood, some of it even his
own. His long hair was matted with the filth and the sweat, and his legs trembled with exhaustion. For too long after the battle they had laboured, helping the wounded back to the oasis where Salih ibn Ziyad oversaw their treatment. The bodies of the fallen were dragged to a pyre where they could at least be sent into the arms of God. All any of them wanted was to wash away the gore and rest.

  ‘Too old,’ Hereward replied as he studied the lurching figure. ‘And the Banu Hilal will be licking their wounds. They would not dare attack so soon after we sent them fleeing.’

  Cracking his knuckles, Maximos Nepos strode up. Somehow he had found the time to wash himself in the lake, and he looked as fresh as if he had woken from a long sleep. ‘That is one of the Imazighen elders,’ he said, frowning. ‘He rode with Meghigda.’

  ‘He is wounded,’ the Mercian exclaimed. Before the others could respond, he was racing out from the shade of the palm trees towards the approaching figure. By the time he reached the old man, Maximos had caught up with him. Hereward could see that his first impression had been right. Blood from numerous wounds blackened the elder’s robes, though none seemed life-threatening. However, he was weak from his trek under the midday sun and he all but collapsed into the arms of the two men.

  ‘Ask him what has happened,’ Hereward commanded after they had lowered him to the ground, but before Maximos could speak Salih darted up and knelt beside the old man. Anxious, he reached out pleading hands and whispered in the tongue of the desert people.

  The elder moistened his cracked lips and croaked his response. Salih listened, his face growing grimmer by the moment. When he looked up at the other two men, his voice was almost lost beneath the whine of the wind. ‘The caravan was attacked by warriors with skin as pale as yours. They took al-Kahina …’

  ‘The bounty upon her head,’ Maximos said, nodding. ‘The self-same sea wolves who stole her before. We should have guessed they would return. That much gold …’ He swallowed his words when he saw Salih bow his head and cover his eyes in despair. Turning to Hereward, the Roman added in a whisper, ‘They must have waited until the Banu Hilal attacked, knowing that our eyes would be averted.’