by James Wilde
Hereward felt his rage surge. The young warrior’s stinging words only echoed what he believed himself. Lunging, he snagged his fist in Sighard’s tunic and dragged him across the stones. It was foolish, he knew, but he could no longer control himself, even if it brought disaster down upon them. The other man snarled, as adrift from his wits as Hereward. He bunched his fists and prepared to swing.
Breathing a curse, Salih threw himself between the two warriors. ‘Stay your hands, you wild wolves,’ he spat, his eyes blazing. ‘I will cut both your throats before I let you doom my queen.’ With a thrust of a hand, he spun Sighard across the rocks. Then as quick as a snake, he curled his fingers around the hilt of his silver dagger and snatched it out, turning his back on Sighard and levelling his blade at Hereward. Salih knew the real threat here, the Mercian saw. ‘You fear for your friend and so your temper runs high. But take another step down this road and you may as well plunge your sword into his chest yourself.’
Hereward could barely hear the words through the thunder of blood in his head. But Alric’s face floated behind his eyes, and he remembered what the monk had said to him in times past. Somehow he managed to push aside his anger. ‘Your words are true,’ he growled to Salih before jabbing a finger towards Sighard. ‘We will speak of this again.’ Before the younger warrior could respond, he crept away into the lengthening shadows. As the dusk closed around him, he could hear his devil still whispering in his head. The thing that had been with him since he was a boy had awakened, and it would not readily sleep again.
Beyond the ridge, the rest of his men crouched in the dark. No one spoke. Kraki sat with his axe in his lap, his fingers tight around the haft. Guthrinc balanced himself against his spear, watching the spray of stars. Even Mad Hengist was quiet. No longer filled with their faraway look, his eyes were sharp. They were ready.
As they settled in for a tense wait, Salih crawled over. Smelling of strange spices, he leaned in to Hereward and whispered, ‘In the small things, there are matters of great import.’ The wise man nodded across the circle of men. Separated from his brothers, Sighard sat on the ridge. Moonlight limned him against the backdrop of stars. At first the Mercian could not guess what Salih meant. But as he studied the young warrior he saw the bowed head, the hunched shoulders, and glimpsed the fingers plucking at each other in worry or doubt or fear.
‘You have let your own feelings for your lost friend consume you,’ the wise man murmured, ‘and you have not seen how the monk’s capture lies upon others.’ He held up the palm of his right hand as if he were weighing his words. ‘It eats into him,’ he continued, jerking his head towards Sighard. ‘Eats his heart. He has already lost a brother. He sees the world as his enemy, and only the churchman gave him hope of a better day. Now that hope has been snatched away.’
As Hereward watched Sighard, he felt another pang of guilt. It was true. He was a poor leader. He had thought only of his own pain.
‘You must watch him closely now,’ Salih continued, in his low, steady voice. ‘Watch every move with the eyes of a hawk. Sighard can no longer be trusted, for he cannot trust himself. His torment now rides him like a mare, and he must go wherever it takes him.’ Leaning back, he folded his hands upon his chest. ‘Watch him,’ he whispered. ‘Watch him.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AND HEREWARD DID watch Sighard. The moon crept across the arc of the sky and the raucous voices of the sea wolves ebbed away. Soon there was only the crashing of the waves and the whine of the wind across the wastes. But the young warrior barely moved, a hunched figure silhouetted against the stars.
When Herrig the Rat crawled over the ridge to say that their enemies slumbered, Hereward pushed himself up. Pressing one finger to his lips, he lifted the other hand and his men rose like ghosts ascending from their graves. Only Sighard continued to sit. After a moment, he stirred himself and stumbled up to the war-band. The Mercian looked around the faces of his spear-brothers, silently communicating his confidence in them. After so long fighting shoulder to shoulder, they no longer needed words. They were of one mind, one heart.
Hereward led the way, as he always did. Creeping over the ridge, he picked a path among the ragged brown rocks. His men followed, staying low, like wolves. The line wound down against the steep wall of the cove, keeping to the deepest shadow so they would not be seen against the lighter sky.
Time and again, the Mercian’s eyes darted towards the pirate camp. The fires were burning low. A few torches sizzled here and there in the gulf of night. He cocked his head, but could hear nothing.
As they clambered over rock pools to the edge of the beach, the wind dropped. A path of shimmering moonlight stretched out across the still sea. The low, steady beat of the waves throbbed in their ears. Crouching on the sand, Hereward balanced on the fingertips of his right hand and studied the forest of masts. Many ships had been dragged up on to the strand, the bungs knocked out with mallets to drain the bilge. Further out, other vessels rolled on the swell, straining at creaking hemp ropes fastened to stone anchors.
Creeping beside him, Kraki levelled his axe towards a ship on the edge of the fleet. The prow had been carved into the shape of a horse. The vessel lay in water shallow enough for them to reach and its course out of the cove was not blocked by any of the others. Hereward nodded. A good choice.
Raising his right hand, he gestured towards the ship. The silent message was passed along the line, and the warriors loped forward into the surf.
As the cool waters surged around the Mercian’s calves, a hand grabbed his arm. Guthrinc flashed a concerned look and pointed back up the beach.
On the edge of the sand, a dark figure waited, silent and unmoving.
Hereward squinted through the gloom and saw it was Sighard.
‘Why does he wait?’ Guthrinc hissed above the wash of the breakers.
Kraki cursed under his breath. ‘That jolt-head will be the death of us.’
‘We should have let him take his own life when he had the chance,’ someone growled.
Eyes blazing, Hereward whirled and saw that the speaker was Hiroc the Three-fingered, so-called because he had lost two digits on his left hand. He was a sour man, prone to complaining. ‘He is one of us,’ the Mercian snapped, ‘a spear-brother. Would you have us send you out into the wilderness when you have served your purpose?’
Hiroc looked down into the swirl of foam.
Hereward turned and looked back up the beach. Sighard had thrown his head back and was staring into the vault of the heavens. The Mercian could almost sense the cloud of desolation enveloping the young warrior. Once again he was thinking about giving up his life, Hereward was certain. Walking into the waves and then swimming out until the black water sucked him down to the deep. A step into the enemy camp and a sword raised in anger until spears rammed through his chest. He had seen this despair before, in men who had fought too much, too long, until only blood and death filled their thoughts.
‘Fetch him,’ he commanded.
Kraki and Guthrinc bounded out of the surf and crunched up the sand. Barely had they travelled a few paces when they skidded to a halt.
Hereward stared past them. Along the crest where the rising beach flattened out into the featureless desert, torches bobbed in the dark like fireflies in England’s summer fields. The lights trailed towards the camp.
The Mercian stiffened. It could only be one of the raiding parties returning from another day’s futile search for Meghigda. ‘Fetch Sighard,’ he hissed. Dropping low, Kraki and Guthrinc began to creep forward. Their progress was too slow, Hereward could see, but they could not risk drawing attention to themselves.
The torches danced. The sea wolves would be weary, thirsty, yearning for sleep. Surely they would be so keen to reach their camp their eyes would barely stray from the path ahead.
Fingers scraping the sand, Kraki and Guthrinc inched forward. The rest of the English stood like statues in the swirling surf. All heads were turned towards the unmoving figure of S
ighard. Breath burned in tight chests. Hereward heard a muttered prayer. Another man crossed himself.
And then Sighard threw his arms wide and his head back. ‘Let God decide!’ he cried out.
In the still of the desert night, the words rang out as clear as a church bell. For a moment, Kraki and Guthrinc froze. Then, realizing the moment for stealth had passed, they bounded forward. The beach was a gulf of darkness. Amid the crashing of the waves, the sea wolves might think the voice had echoed from the camp, Hereward hoped.
But Sighard was not done. ‘That is what you said to Ragener, Hereward! Let God decide!’ he yelled. ‘And he did, and he let the cur live. That judgement has been passed on us too. So, I say now, let God decide my fate! If he wills that I live …’
The words died in his throat. Kraki and Guthrinc slammed into the young warrior and flattened him to the sand. Too late. Though the sea wolves surely could not see the bundle of bodies on the beach, Sighard’s passion-filled cry had resounded far and wide.
A querying call chimed from the top of the slope, then another. A whistle cut through the rising babble of shouts. An instant later a response echoed from the depths of the camp. More shouts boomed out as the sea wolves threw off their sleep.
‘Now what?’ Maximos called. But he knew as well as Hereward that there was no chance of retreating. All the English warriors could hear the sound of feet thundering over the rocks towards the shore.
‘The ship,’ Hereward ordered.
As Kraki and Guthrinc dragged Sighard down to the water’s edge, the war-band plunged into the swell. Hereward thought how dazed the young warrior looked. His eyes were flecked with tears.
‘You have doomed us,’ Hiroc the Three-fingered spat.
Sighard’s face crumpled. ‘I meant you no harm,’ he sobbed.
Over his shoulder, the Mercian could see torch after torch flaring into life in the camp. A river of fire began to flow down the beach towards them.
‘There is still time,’ he called to his men. ‘Board the vessel. We’ll cut the anchor and row like devils until we are in deep water.’
Maximos forged ahead of him, his huge frame ploughing a furrow through the swell. As the cold brine washed up to his chest, Hereward could hear the sea wolves’ angry shouts drawing nearer. Some of the wading English warriors tried to swim, but their shields and their weapons pulled them down. Hereward saw them flounder and felt his desperation grow.
Maximos’ strong strokes swept him to the edge of the vessel they had selected. But as he reached up to grasp one of the hooks that supported the shields at sea, a dark shape loomed over him.
‘Beware!’ Hereward roared above the din of the ocean.
An axe swung down. The Roman must have glimpsed the sudden movement for he threw himself back into the waves. The blade whistled past him by a hair’s breadth.
Wiping the brine from his eyes, the Mercian could see three figures prowling along the deck of the ship, their weapons poised to hack down anyone who tried to climb aboard. Dark shapes moved around the other vessels bobbing out on the swell. He had been too complacent, he could see that now. The sea wolves were cunning. They had left men sleeping aboard all the anchored ships to counter just such an attack.
‘Too late! We must fight!’ Kraki bellowed. ‘They will cut us down with our backs turned if we try to get aboard that ship.’ The Viking whirled, seawater streaming from his axe.
As Hereward forced himself round, he could see that his spear-brother was right. A wall of men lined the water’s edge, their jeering faces lit orange by the dancing light of the torches. Axes waved. Spears jabbed towards the sky. And the chorus of mocking threats drowned out even the pounding of the waves. More sea wolves flooded down the beach by the moment. An army, ranged there, five deep or more.
‘Hold!’ the Mercian called as Kraki began to wade towards the fierce band.
When he looked around, Hereward saw how futile was their resistance. The force of the currents dragged the English warriors this way and that. Waves crashed against their backs, threatening to drag their legs from under them. The sea wolves had all the advantage, and they knew it. Within moments, the waters would run red with English blood.
The waves flickered with orange fire. Maximos shook his fist, his raging words lost to the turbulent elements. Salih’s eyes glittered as he watched the curs who had hunted his queen. And Sighard bowed his head, tears and salt water streaming down a face ragged with despair.
Hereward stiffened. All sound ebbed away until there was only a frozen moment. Here was his choice, his destiny. He could heed the voice of his devil and see his men slaughtered. Or he could be the leader the others imagined him to be.
‘Lay down your arms,’ he bellowed, choosing thin hope. ‘Our fight is done.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE HORIZON SHIMMERED like glass. Through the heat haze, the creamy walls of an ancient city wavered in a baking landscape of brown rock and ochre sand. Trails of smoke drifted upwards from the flat roofs into a sky the colour of old skulls. Though it seemed close enough to touch, Sabta was still a day or two away. The men breaking camp in the lee of a low hill knew that, took their time. Too much exertion was not wise in the oven of the day.
Alric leaned back against a rock at the top of the rise, taking advantage of what little shade remained. His face was the colour of the sky, his cheeks hollow. Through eyes haunted by pain, he glanced down at the bloody cloth bound around his left hand. The stump of his finger whined, and needles of agony stabbed into his knuckle.
Hearing a noise behind him, he glanced back to see Meghigda hurrying towards him across the sand. Her expression was fierce, and in that moment he understood how she instilled fear in her enemies. There was a power to her.
At first he wondered how he had wronged her, but then she swooped down and plucked up one of the poisonous scurrying creatures that infested that land. Within a moment, it could have stung him with its lashing, spiked tail and he knew from past warnings that he could have been dead by nightfall. He expected Meghigda to crush it underfoot as he had seen their captors do. Instead, she carried it far off and let it loose in the dunes, smiling as it crawled away.
Alric frowned. There was much about this woman that he did not understand. She was as fierce as any English warrior, and yet, as now, there was a gentle side to her. At the Imazighen camp he had watched her care for the children, the elderly and the sick. She claimed to be possessed by the spirit of that ancient warrior Dihya, but he knew that was only her way to manipulate her followers. So she was skilled in the art of deception too. So many contradictions. Of all those he had met on the long road of life, she was the only one he could not fathom.
As she sat beside him, he welcomed the chance to distract himself from the debilitating pain. He offered his thanks for her swift aid, then asked her about the Imazighen.
Her eyes took on a wistful look as she peered into the distance. ‘We are a wandering people. Our homeland is wherever we are. You know where England is. You know your shores, your frontiers. We roam across the desert from the Almoravid empire to the edges of the Fatimid caliphate, from Alodia and Makuria and Bornu to the land of the Banu Hilal. We face attacks from all sides. Others covet our trade routes, our water. Even the sand beneath our feet – they want it because they do not have it. It is all our home, all this vast northern desert, and we will allow no others to take it from us.’
‘And all your life, even when you were a child, this has been your destiny – to be queen of the Imazighen?’
Since she had been taken from her people her unguarded moments had been more frequent, and this time Alric glimpsed a hint of sadness in her face. ‘If my mother and father had not been slain, many years would have passed before I had to bear that burden. But God did not choose that road for me. My training began before the blood of my family had soaked into the sand. The elders guided me, advised me. I learned all I would need to be a queen who would keep her people safe.’ She bowed her head, reme
mbering.
Alric thought how sad that life must have been. The simple times of childhood had been stolen from her. To shoulder the burdens of a ruler at such a young age must have taken a great toll upon her.
Meghigda smiled as if she could read his thoughts. ‘I do not regret one day. This life I have is a gift, an honour. All I have I give freely for my people. If I die tomorrow, it will have been a life well spent. It is good to live this way. It means I know no fear.’
Alric feigned an annoyed expression. ‘You speak English well. That was not how it seemed when we met.’
She laughed. ‘A queen must wear many masks, man of God. I have met English before, warriors like your friends, knights. Men from all four corners of this world. And I have tried to learn from all of them. And then Salih ibn Ziyad arrived at our camp one day. His wisdom was greater even than our elders’, and I listened as he told me of many wonders, and of secret knowledge. A great man. Why he stayed I do not know, but I gave thanks every day that he was by my side to guide me.’
Alric felt surprised to see a deep joy in her that she had kept hidden until then. It pleased him. But then he winced as a lance of pain spiked up his arm.
Meghigda leaned forward, concerned. Reaching out, she let her slender fingers hover over his bandage. ‘Put your hand to your nose,’ she said. When he only stared at her, puzzled, she snatched his wrist and thrust his fingers under his nostrils. ‘Does it smell of ripe fruit?’
Alric shook his head.
‘Good. You must do this every day. Every day,’ she stressed, ‘without fail. And if one day you do smell fruit, we must take your hand at the wrist and put the stump to the fire.’
The monk recoiled, horrified. ‘Are you mad?’