by James Wilde
‘As are mine.’
Siward smiled. ‘Good. Keep your spirits high, cousin. And stay on Bedhelm’s left side. He is half blind in that eye. May God watch over you.’
When he was alone in the centre of the arena, Hereward bowed his head. The chanting of the crowd faded into the background. Now he urged his devil to rise. He welcomed it. Only the rage could help him match his opponent’s advantage, even though all there saw him for the dog he truly was. The beast his father had always called him, when old Asketil had shut him in the space under the boards of his hall with only rats for company. He pushed aside his shame and raised his head to peer at his foe. Bedhelm the Giant grinned back. He swung up his axe and whirled it around his head. The crowd roared.
‘Come to me,’ Hereward murmured to his dark companion. But as the words left his lips, he glanced past the towering warrior and saw a familiar face among the pirates on the edge of the battlefield. The head was bowed, the figure still so as not to draw eyes, but still it was Herrig the Rat. He recalled watching the scout swim away into the night like his namesake as the English stood in the surf offering up their surrender. If any man could have survived and crept back into the heart of their enemy, it was Herrig, a ghost, who left no trace in his passing, no footprint, not even a sigh.
‘Come, you little bastard,’ Bedhelm said, grinning. ‘Let my axe sup your blood.’
Something the giant saw in his opponent’s eyes gave him pause for a moment. But then he strode forward, scowling. The axe whisked up.
Balancing on the balls of his feet, the Mercian danced out of the way of the first strike. A cloud of dust plumed where the blade bit into the ground. But his bound hands threw him off balance, and when his foe tried to lop off his head Hereward stumbled. The axe whisked by only a hair’s breadth away from opening his skull. Skidding along the stones and sand, he ripped open his cheek. The blood throbbed in his head at the pain.
The blade slammed down again. He rolled out of the way at the last, staggering back to his feet. Remembering Siward’s words, he kept to the left, bounding this way and that. Whirling, the giant flailed. The crowd’s jeers whipped up into an even greater frenzy, now tinged with frustration. They had expected a head on the ground by this time.
Hereward gritted his teeth and thought of Alric and his suffering. Finally, his devil answered his call.
His vision closed in. The booming in his head drowned out the crowd. There was only Bedhelm. The giant spun round, hacking wildly. Blinking away sweat and grit, Hereward stepped back from the axe. The moment it raised a shower of sparks on the stones, he hurled himself forward. Placing one foot on his foe’s thigh, he launched himself up.
Bedhelm jerked his head back, too late. The Mercian clamped his teeth on to the other man’s cheek and bit deep. Blood bubbled around his teeth. With a yank of his head, he ripped the meat away from the bone. The giant howled in agony.
Hereward spat out the torn cheek as he fell. When he crashed into the ground on the edge of the arena, he heard Bedhelm’s roars dully through the pulsing of his own blood. He had bought himself a moment. Jerking into a kneeling position, he felt the sea wolves try to press him back into the battle. But his fall had not been by chance.
As filthy hands clawed at his back, he felt a lighter pressure on his bonds. In an instant, they broke, and an instant later something cold pressed into his palm. He wrenched forward. Glancing back, he saw that Herrig the Rat had wriggled back into the mass of bodies and was gone. But he had done enough.
Hereward’s fingers closed around the hilt of the knife. Distantly, he was aware of the crowd yelling in fury that his hands were free and that he was now armed. But somewhere Siward was smiling. He would not allow his men to interfere in this battle, the Mercian knew that.
Fury engulfed him. Anger at the betrayal that had cost him victory against William the Bastard. Anger at his cold dismissal from his homeland. Anger at all the miseries fate had dealt him in his life.
Through the crimson haze, he glimpsed Bedhelm, eyes wide in shock at the apparition bearing down upon him. The sea wolf swung his axe half-heartedly in his confusion. Hereward slid under the blade and ripped the edge of the knife across his foe’s wrist.
Bedhelm barely had time to cry out in pain. The Mercian clawed his way up the towering frame and rammed the knife into the giant’s right eye. Hooking his left arm around Bedhelm’s neck, Hereward swung his body around and used his weight to drag his foe back. The giant clawed at the air. Releasing his grip, Hereward plunged the blade into his defeated foe’s neck and wrenched it across the throat.
The world turned red.
Silence fell across the arena. Slowly Hereward turned, staring back at the army of sea wolves, who could scarcely believe what they had seen. As the thunder in his head faded away, he realized how he must look, slicked in blood from head to toe. More beast than man. As he once had been; as, it seemed, he was fated always to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE SEA WOLVES swept across the aquamarine swell. Sails billowed in the ocean breeze. At the oars the men chanted a song of blood and gold to keep the rhythm of their rowing. Sunlight shimmered off helms and hauberks, spear-tips and axe-heads so that it seemed a brittle, unearthly illumination shone out of the sea itself. From the walls of Sabta, perched on a finger of land reaching out from the northern coast of Afrique, the guards must have been struck by fear when they saw such a force bearing down on them.
Standing in the prow of the lead vessel, Hereward watched the town approaching across the white-crested waves. Even from that distance he could tell that Sabta had seen better days. Sections of the walls had crumbled and no effort had been made to repair them. Towers were broken teeth and roofs sagged. Black smoke plumed and white clouds of screeching gulls fed upon the refuse dumped in the lapping waters. No flag flew.
‘If your grand plan works, you will earn yourself many new friends,’ Siward said, his white-blond hair flying in the wind.
‘Salih ibn Ziyad knows this town well. There is gold aplenty here.’ That was no lie, and it was only fair that Siward would get some reward for unknowingly aiding his cousin’s plans, Hereward thought.
The sea wolf leader gave a wry smile. ‘Lying in the streets for us to pluck up as we pass.’
‘Sabta is a city of thieves. They plunder the length of this coast and the lands beyond the whale road and bring it all here. But there is no rule of law. No wergilds. No army, no fyrd. No king or earls or thegns to see justice done. In Sabta there is only the rule of the axe. Once the Umayyad caliph abandoned the place, every rogue with ten men to command thought himself king.’ The Mercian shielded his eyes against the sun. ‘There will be no true defence. When we strike we will carve through the town like hot pork and take everything we wish.’
Siward nodded. ‘It is good to have you at my side again, cousin.’
Hereward looked across the fleet of ships. ‘You have done well for yourself.’
His cousin laughed without humour. ‘William the Bastard left me … left all of us … with little choice. Our land was stolen. Our kin were hunted. The England we remembered was razed to the ground. You know that as well as any man. These …’ He swept his arm out to indicate the vessels. ‘These are not sea wolves. They are farmers, millers, woodworkers, huscarls, warriors who fought for their earls. Good men who have had all they knew ripped from their hands. Who have seen their wives and children murdered.’
The Mercian heard the crack of emotion in his cousin’s voice. Siward peered towards their goal, his face drawn. ‘We do what we must to survive, as all men do.’
‘Survival—’
‘Is not the filling of an empty belly, or a drink when the throat is dry, or a hearth-fire in the cold of winter. It is home, cousin. It is a place where we can be the men we were meant to be.’
Hereward felt a surprising pang. These words he understood. It was as if he had been searching for such a place all his life. Glancing back at the benches, he saw Guthrinc
and Kraki and Sighard and all the others, just as lost, just as hopeful.
Siward pointed to the town’s defences. ‘We will break through where the walls have collapsed. Sweep into the heart of Sabta from all sides. They have no army, no generals. They will not know where to defend first.’
Hereward nodded. ‘We will run them ragged.’
The leader of the sea wolves looked across his fleet, frowning. ‘How many have fled England?’ he mused, his voice wistful. ‘There was a time when it seemed every ship was used to escape those shores. All those who could leave have done so. None of us here could face another winter with William’s boot upon our throat.’
‘I heard tell that many ran to join the Danes, and others went in search of a great land to the west. The Vikings told tales of a place far beyond the whale road that could only be reached by their secret routes, even though they were never out of sight of land.’ Hereward shook his head in amazement.
‘Once we have all the gold we need, we will sail to a new land and there we will build a new England,’ Siward said. ‘A safe place where we can have our comforts as we knew them. Our hearth-fires, our kin, our earls and thegns, our fine art, our laws. A place where women can speak freely and hold their head high as they once did, before William insisted they bow their heads to their husbands.’ His wistful voice hardened. ‘The Normans live in a cold world of castles, and vast, empty churches, and tax ledgers, as cold as William the Bastard’s heart. Our new home will be …’ For a moment he let the words hang as he looked towards the sunlit horizon, and then he clapped the Mercian on the shoulder and smiled. ‘When our attack begins, watch yourself, Hereward. Bedhelm had friends. They will not forgive you easily. In the thick of battle in a narrow street, it is as easy to get a blade in the back as in the front.’
Once Siward had returned to the tiller-man, Hereward studied the town. His plan was unfolding as he had hoped. The lure of great riches had been enough to convince the sea wolves that an attack on Sabta was a worthy goal, especially when Salih had told them that only chaos existed behind the town’s crumbling walls. No one guessed that by now Meghigda would be a captive there. And with the bounty that Arcadius’ father had placed upon her head making her a prize worth more than all else that could be looted from the town, he intended that they never should.
Hereward watched the ships race across the swell to surround the promontory. Siward had planned well. Whatever ragged defence Sabta could muster would be stretched thin along three sides of the town. Resting one foot on the side of the ship, he let his gaze run along the broken walls, seeing the guards scurrying along the ancient stones, their cries of warning ringing deep into the heart of the town.
Another yell echoed, this time from behind him. A hubbub of alarm followed. The Mercian whirled to see Maximos held against the mast by Salih, the silver dagger pressed against the Roman’s neck. The wise man’s eyes bulged with fury, his lips curling back from his teeth.
Hereward bounded across the deck and dragged him back. ‘Have you lost your wits?’ he hissed. ‘This will not help us rescue your queen.’ He kept his voice low so that the sea wolves could not overhear.
For a moment Salih remained rigid, staring coldly into the other man’s eyes. Finally he threw off the Mercian’s grip and walked away without a word. Hereward turned to the Roman.
‘What did you say to him to drive him to such anger?’
Maximos brushed himself down, grinning. ‘He is a sour man. He does not laugh enough.’
The Mercian pressed his hand in the other man’s chest to prevent him from leaving. The Roman’s eyes narrowed. ‘This is not the time to be fighting among ourselves. I will cut you down before you place Alric at risk, know that.’
‘I have fought in Phrygia and Duklja, aye, and at Manzikert too,’ Maximos snapped, pushing the English warrior’s hand to one side. ‘I know the battlefield, and I know what it is like to have sword-brothers beside me, men whose lives are in the palm of my hand. Do not insult me.’
Hereward nodded. ‘Very well. But understand, we need Salih if we are to reach Alric and Meghigda. Only he can guide us through that maze.’
‘He loves her,’ the Roman said abruptly.
‘The queen?’
Maximos snorted. ‘Could you not see it? It is present in every look he ever cast at her, every gesture, every word. Salih ibn Ziyad once had the ear of the caliph himself, so they say, and riches and power were set before him. But he gave it all up to stand beside a warrior queen fighting for a patch of sand. He loves her, Hereward, and he has always resented that Meghigda only had eyes for me.’
Hereward eyed the wise man, who was brooding astern with Siward. ‘Do not vex him, then,’ he commanded. ‘Our enemies are waiting for us. And there will be no victory if we do not stand together.’ He felt the familiar throb of blood in his temples. He needed the din of battle to still the voices that had been whispering in his head since he had slain the giant. Only then would he find peace. ‘Keep your spears and axes and shields to hand,’ he called to his warriors. ‘When the ship nears the shore, there will be little time to prepare yourselves.’
The faces of the English lit with an inner light. Here was purpose. Honour. No more running and hiding.
Maximos joined him in the prow to watch the town walls racing towards them. ‘The Carthaginians were here first. It was Abyla then.’ With a note of pride, he added, ‘But it was not until the Romans took the city that it became a force to be reckoned with. They named it Septa, and from here the army controlled vast swathes of the dry land in these parts.’
‘You know your days long gone,’ Hereward grunted.
‘I know the long and illustrious history of our empire. We are taught it as children, for our days yet to come are seeded in the pride we feel for the power we have wielded since ancient times.’
Hereward heard an odd note in the other man’s voice, and when he glanced at him it seemed that tears glistened in his eyes. But there was no time to puzzle over that. Spray whisked over the prow as the ship ploughed into the shallows. He heard Siward give the order for his sea wolves to stop rowing. On every side the ships swept in. Raucous voices rang out across the swell, everyone there fired up for the coming battle.
Along the walls, men swathed in robes and headcloths swarmed, their swords glinting in the sunlight. But as he squinted, Hereward glimpsed other movement. Whirling, he roared, ‘Shields!’
His warriors responded without a second thought, their shields whisking up above their heads. Behind them, Siward’s men only gaped. An instant later, arrows rained down from the sky.
Hereward braced himself, his head bowed behind his white Imazighen shield. Shafts whistled by his head. Two rattled off the hide covering, but a third and a fourth punched through the wood. Splinters spun at him.
At his back, screams rang out. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a sea wolf clawing at his face as he staggered across the deck. An arrow was embedded in his right eye. The man was dead; he had not yet realized it. Three other men slumped on the benches, shafts bristling from their torsos.
His face contorted with fury, Siward was bellowing at his slow-moving sea wolves. Finally they dragged their shields from the sides of the ship and raised them high.
More shafts whisked down. Most splashed harmlessly into the waves. Sabta had sent its slaves to the walls to try to cut down as many of the attackers as they could before land was reached. But they were not trained bowmen. Only the numbers were a threat.
In the shade of his own shield, Maximos was grinning. The tip of an arrow had burst through the wood a hand’s width from his face. Reaching around the edge, he snapped off the shaft and tossed it away.
‘This is what we live for,’ he said, his voice filled with exuberance.
‘Battle is a serious business.’
The Roman laughed. ‘You are too grim, Mercian. You must drink deep of every moment. Our days are short.’ And with that, he put one hand on the side of the ship and vaulted into th
e shallows.
Hereward thrust one arm into the air and snapped it forward. Instantly, his warriors leapt from their benches. Over the lips of their shields, he could see eyes afire with passion. He felt proud.
‘For England,’ he yelled, and his men picked up the cry.
Leaping over the side, he splashed into the sea. His spear-brothers streamed after him. The din of full-throated battle-cries drowned out even the sound of the ocean as hundreds of sea wolves leapt from their ships at every point where the walls could be breached. Arrows whined through the air. The shafts thumped against shields, rattled off helms. Sabta’s defenders had not been expecting an attack. Soon their store of shafts would be exhausted, Hereward knew. Then it would be man against man.
Maximos had his back pressed against the town wall, looking this way and that for the best path. He was laughing as if he were drunk. While wave upon wave of sea wolves broke upon the narrow, rocky shore near where the walls had crumbled most, the Roman pointed with his sword away from the fiercest activity. Hereward followed the line of his blade. By a small jetty, the maw of a narrow archway gaped. Deep shadow engulfed the passage. There would undoubtedly be men waiting on the other side to pick off any invader who dared venture through the small space.
The Mercian nodded to Maximos and waved his men to follow him. ‘Come, brothers,’ he yelled as he splashed through the surf. ‘Today we must fight like never before.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE SUN GLARED off the creamy walls of Sabta. But in the narrow archway, the deep shadow seemed endless and impenetrable. Hereward crept to one side of the opening. Maximos darted to the other. Both men pressed their backs against the stone, listening. The deafening roar of the attacking sea wolves drowned out any sound that might have emanated from within.