Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome

by James Wilde

  The Mercian glanced back to the line of warriors sheltering behind their shields along the foot of the wall. When he spied Salih, he beckoned. Arrows whistling by his head, the wise man scrambled over the rocks to the head of the war-band. Cupping his hand against Salih’s ear, Hereward whispered his command. The other man nodded. He edged into the dark under the archway. When he heard Salih begin to speak in his throaty native tongue, the Mercian crept in behind him. Sliding Brainbiter out of its sheath, he kept low.

  The cramped passage reeked of piss. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he eased close behind the wise man. Salih was babbling loudly now, the intonation sounding like prayers. Beyond him, framed in the arch at the end of the short alley, was a long, thin street, thrown into shade by the houses on either side.

  After a moment, a questioning voice answered Salih in the same musical tongue. The wise man responded with a stream of impassioned pleas. He stepped through the arch, then darted ahead as Hereward leapt out of the shadows and slashed right and left. He half glimpsed men waiting on either side, two of them, armed with swords. But their guard was down, and both fell. One gurgled his last, but the other twitched on the edge of death.

  Kneeling, Salih pressed his lips close to the fallen man’s ear. Whatever he said, it made the dying warrior’s eyes widen with terror. He jabbered a stream of words and tried to point along the street until the light in his eyes faded. Salih glanced up at the Mercian and nodded.

  Satisfied, Hereward poked his head back into the stinking passage and whistled. Maximos and his men eased through the arch at the other end and hurried towards him. Emerging into the street, the warriors gathered by the wall and looked along the deserted way ahead.

  Some of the houses were tall and made of stone, heavy with age, perhaps from when the Romans ruled the town. Others were constructed from clay bricks, so roughly made it seemed children had thrown them together. In places the residences had become little more than piles of rubble, and there bands of sunlight punched through the gloom of the street. Most of the din echoed from further along the walls where the fighting was heaviest, but here it was eerily still. Dogs barked, but no voices could be heard. Hiding in their houses, the Mercian thought as he scanned the dark doorways. Smoke drifted along the street from bonfires burning on the areas of rubble. He wrinkled his nose. The place stank of shit and rotting rubbish and age.

  ‘Take care,’ he murmured. ‘Death could wait anywhere. Not all the defenders will be on the walls.’

  Kraki shook his axe. ‘If they are wise, they will let us pass.’

  ‘Are we to search the whole town?’ Sighard said, looking around. ‘How will we ever find Alric in this maze?’

  ‘You think a band of pale-skinned Normans with axes and mail-shirts and helms would not be noticed here?’ Salih ibn Ziyad replied with a sly grin. ‘There is not a man or woman in all Sabta who does not know where they are.’ He glanced down at the dead man he had questioned. ‘All will be revealed.’

  He whispered the directions to Herrig the Rat. With a gap-toothed grin, the scout crept away, little more than a shadow winding along the foot of the buildings. He glanced into doorways, down alleys. When he was sure the path was safe, he crooked his fingers and beckoned the others to follow.

  Hereward nodded, pleased, as he watched the men creep along the edge of the houses. They were as stealthy as if they hunted deer. Let the sea wolves draw all the attention with their noisy plundering. To find their prize, the English needed to be like ghosts, as they had been in the fens.

  As they prowled past a low clay shack, a bump echoed from within. Kraki stepped up to the door and waited, listening. Raising his axe, he swung the door open. The smoke of an oven drifted out. Like a wolf ready to leap, the Viking poised on the balls of his feet.

  Looking past him, Hereward saw a women squatting in the centre of the bare, smoky room with an infant in her arms. Her eyes glistened with tears of fear and she pulled the child closer to her breast. Rigid, Kraki stared at her for a long moment. The Mercian did not know what the other man was thinking – perhaps remembering Acha, the woman he had left behind in England, and the future that had been lost to him – but then he swung the door shut and hurried back into the line of warriors.

  ‘You should have searched the room,’ Sighard said. ‘She might not have been alone.’

  ‘If she was not, it would be her husband and she needs him to protect her,’ the Viking growled. He looked away, refusing to meet the other man’s eyes.

  Raucous cheering erupted from several streets away, followed by throat-rending screams. The sea wolves had broken through the meagre defences and were slaughtering anyone who stood between them and their plunder. Hereward imagined the savage fighters flooding into the town. They would be smashing their way into homes and merchants’ stores, carrying off anything of value. Anyone who dared try to stop them would be ruthlessly cut down. Sabta might be a town of rogues, but they did not know what had been unleashed upon them that day.

  ‘Let us hurry,’ he urged. ‘We must reach our prize before Siward’s men come. If they realize Meghigda is here, they will not think twice about cutting us down to carry her away.’

  Salih wrenched his dagger from its sheath. His eyes flickered along the buildings as the sound of Siward’s army ransacking the town thundered along the streets.

  Hereward snapped his arm forward, and his men broke into a lope. Soon they had outpaced the noise of the invaders.

  Ahead, a bank of smoke drifted across the street. The English warriors slowed. Hereward felt the stink of burning refuse catch in the back of his throat.

  ‘We are close now,’ Salih murmured as he sidled up. He jabbed his dagger towards the smoke. ‘The ruined man and his Norman allies have found their fortress beyond there, past the forum. The basilica. An old Roman building, made of stone.’

  ‘They will be able to defend it well,’ Maximos said.

  ‘Only if they are expecting us,’ Hereward replied. ‘Surprise is still on our side.’ He waved his men on.

  The choking smoke closed around them. Through the haze, Hereward glimpsed the ruddy glow of the bonfire in a space between two houses. Nearby, two dogs fought over a bone, snapping as they tore at each other.

  When he prowled forward, the Mercian sensed movement on the edge of his vision. A warning cry rang out. He levelled his blade as two men raced from the dense cloud, whirling swords above their heads. Their robes were black and smudged with ashes. Above the cloths tied across their mouths their eyes shone with a cold light.

  As they ran, the defenders shrieked a battle-cry. It was answered away in the smoke, and again, and again. Eight times Hereward heard that cry. Running feet thundered across the baked mud of the street at his back.

  The first attacker brought his blade down. Bracing himself, the Mercian swung Brainbiter up to parry the strike. Sparks flew as iron met iron. Furious fighting erupted around him.

  For a moment, Hereward and his foe held each other tight, their blades locked together. Then the Mercian heaved. When his enemy stumbled on to his back foot, the English warrior carved the edge of his sword across his opponent’s stomach. The defender reeled back into the smoke, screaming.

  Hereward glanced round to see Guthrinc lifting the other attacker high off the ground upon his spear. The man thrashed like a fish on a spike and then grew still.

  The clash of weapons ebbed, even as the Mercian turned. His spear-brothers had made short shrift of the attackers. Robed bodies littered the street.

  ‘Too much noise,’ he muttered, trying to peer ahead through the drifting smoke.

  ‘There are screams and battle-cries all over Sabta,’ Guthrinc said with a shrug. ‘A few more will make no difference.’

  Hengist had stopped cleaning his blade upon one of the fallen men’s headcloths and was frowning as he peered towards the bonfire.

  ‘What do you see?’ Hereward asked.

  The madman crept towards a pile of dust among the rubble as if he were
approaching a sleeping dog. A round, dark lump was just visible in the sand. Turning his head this way and that, Hengist stood before it, before stretching out an index finger and slowly reaching towards the spot. As he pressed it, the lump seemed to give. The dust fell away on either side to reveal a nose. An instant later, more sand streamed away and two eyes appeared. They blinked.

  Hengist jumped back as a young boy pushed himself up from the fine covering of dust. He looked around the group and grinned. ‘English,’ he said in a heavily accented voice. Before anyone could react, he had leapt to his feet and was racing in the direction where Salih had said the basilica lay.

  ‘Stop him!’ Hereward commanded.

  The madman sprinted away, but the Mercian could already see the boy was too fast for him. Hengist loped back a moment later, shaking his head.

  Salih uttered a cackling epithet in his own tongue. ‘A spy for our enemies. He will warn them.’

  ‘What is done is done,’ Hereward replied. ‘Come.’ He bounded off along the street. He would not, could not, think what would happen to Alric if Ragener knew his hated enemy was coming for him.

  Breaking through the smoke, the English warriors found themselves on the edge of a wide, deserted forum. The ancient flagstones lay shattered, buckling up in parts, missing in others. Trails of coarse sand streamed across the square. In the centre stood a plinth and the remnants of a statue of some great person or other, broken away at the calves.

  And beyond the forum, the basilica loomed up against the blue sky. Though it had seen better days, Hereward thought it still looked formidable compared to the wood and thatch halls of his homeland. Columns on plinths marched across the front of the towering stone building, reaching up for two storeys. On the upper level, a white marble frieze glowed in the sun. Shadows flooded three doorways.

  The Mercian imagined the interior would be a warren of chambers, corridors and stairs. In their fortress, the Normans would be almost impregnable. He looked around at his men and saw they thought the same.

  ‘Alric is a spear-brother. We leave no man to die alone,’ he reminded them.

  Guthrinc looked at Sighard and gave a wry smile. ‘I have seen worse.’

  ‘Come, then,’ Kraki growled, shaking his axe in the air. ‘Let us spill a little Norman blood and put paid to the memory of our loss in Ely. For the monk! For England!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THUNDER RUMBLED IN the distance. Sunlight flashed through a canopy of leaves. England was turning to autumn, the land growing golden and ochre, the sweet scent of fallen fruit on the breeze. Alric drifted, at peace. Here was his favourite time of the year, as the heat faded and the cool nights drew in. What better place to be than England in autumn! With the hearth-fire lit, and friends gathered by. Comfort.

  Thunder cracked.

  Through the trees, voices murmured. Ghosts. The monk threw an arm across his face. He did not want to hear them. He did not want them to intrude upon this peace.

  But the voices hissed on, growing louder, and the distant booms drew nearer, no longer thunder. His body was afire. He yearned to be back in the woods once more, but he could feel them slipping away.

  A foot thundered into his ribs and he yelped and jerked up. Misery descended upon him. The air was hot and dry. His head rang, and his body was a web of pain. No autumnal woods, no peace. His torment had not ended, would not end.

  ‘Leave him be!’ Meghigda’s fingers crooked into claws. Alric knew she would tear away whatever remained of Ragener’s face if she could. Without looking, the Hawk waved a finger at her. As always, the Norman guards were close by. They would be upon her before she moved.

  Alric shuffled up and rested his back against the stone wall. He could not bring himself to look down at the filthy, bloody cloth tied around what remained of his left hand. But the ringing agony told its own story. Two fingers gone now. Ragener was making good his threat to whittle him down bit by bit. How much more of this he could bear he did not know.

  ‘Your friend has come for you,’ the Hawk lisped, pushing his face close. He forced a grin through ragged lips. ‘But he will find only his death.’

  ‘Hereward?’ the monk croaked. He looked past the ruined man and saw a boy waiting on the far side of the deserted chamber.

  Ragener stood up, and turned to the guard near the door. The Norman had not been unkind during his captivity, Alric thought. Even he seemed sickened by the horrors that the sea wolf was inflicting. ‘Fetch Drogo,’ the Hawk said. ‘He would know that his enemy is here.’

  ‘He will not be disturbed. He is with his women,’ the guard replied in faltering English.

  ‘If the English attack and he is not prepared, you will be the first to fall to his blade.’

  The guard hesitated for only a moment and then strode out.

  Alric felt cool fingers on his burning wrist. Meghigda had reached out to comfort him, but he felt sickened by the pity he saw on her face. Had he fallen so low? Was his life truly ebbing away?

  ‘All will be well,’ she murmured.

  He forced a smile. They had grown close during his suffering. Though she never spoke of her thoughts, he glimpsed a kindly nature behind the hardness he had first witnessed.

  Ragener wandered across the room and suddenly lashed out at the boy with the back of his hand. The lad seemed prepared for this assault, for he danced away, cowering in one corner. The Hawk only ever attacked those he thought weaker than himself, Alric reflected. To the pirate, kindness was a weakness. Care. Love. Beauty. All of them, weaknesses. How he hated him. Though he was a gentle man in all things, he knew that if he had the chance he would kill Ragener to be free of him; to free the world of him. The monk felt cold anger burn inside him, and loathing.

  As Ragener prowled the room, casting hungry glances towards his victim, Alric realized that what he had thought was thunder was the sound of a tremendous battle raging across the town. Before he could work out what this meant, Drogo Vavasour whirled in. He was stripped to the waist, his torso still slick with the sweat of his lovemaking. Three naked women hovered outside the door.

  ‘Is this true?’ the nobleman snapped.

  Ragener nodded, his eyes gleaming with eagerness. ‘We will both get our revenge.’

  Drogo snorted. He seemed to have little love for the sea wolf. He barked an order to his guards and they hurried out. Alric heard the rest of the force emerge from their resting place. He felt his heart sink. Ragener was right – Hereward and all of the English had been lured to their deaths, and he was responsible. If only he had been quicker to react when the war-band first attacked.

  The nobleman crossed the chamber and knelt before his crucifix, which he had hung on one wall. Alric had watched him pray ten times a day. Never had he seen a profane man so devout. After muttering a prayer, the knight strode to the window and peered out into the blazing sun. He seemed unperturbed by the sound of fighting, but as he peered down into the forum he gritted his teeth.

  ‘You are right, Hawk. The English are there,’ Drogo growled. ‘But they are waiting. Too scared to come to us. They hope we will venture out into the forum where the battlefield is level.’

  ‘Then we must make sure they come to us,’ Ragener said with a grin. Alric’s eyes widened as he glimpsed the knife that had tortured him so much. Meghigda screamed in fury, but the Hawk only laughed as he strode towards his prey.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE THROAT-RENDING SCREAM rang out across the forum. So loud was it that for an instant it cut through the rumble of the approaching battle. The English warriors stiffened as they sheltered in the shade of the smoky street. Hereward felt ice-water rush through him. Though anyone could have been responsible for that harrowing cry, his instincts told him the truth.

  A figure appeared at one of the dark windows on the upper level. At that distance, Hereward found it impossible to identify the shape, but the lisping voice of Ragener was unmistakable. ‘Come, you dogs. Come! Or there will be nothing left of him!
’ He leaned out and tossed something into the forum.

  Herrig the Rat bounded forward. Fearing a trap, he scurried along one edge of the square and then raced into the centre, stooping to snatch up whatever had been thrown before darting back. Hereward knew what it was before the scout offered up the bloody index finger, severed just below the knuckle.

  Kraki gripped his leader’s arm. ‘Do not let your anger consume you. They want to lure us into a trap.’

  ‘We have no choice,’ the Mercian replied, his voice cold and dead. But in his head the blood began to pound its familiar beat of rage and destruction and doom.

  Sighard stepped in front of him. ‘We will follow you to the death, if need be. You know that.’

  The Mercian shook his head. Now he had seen this fortress, he had weighed all possible outcomes and made his decision. ‘It is me they want. I go alone,’ he heard himself say, the words echoing as if from the bottom of a well. ‘Leave here. Go to Constantinople. Find your fortune.’

  ‘No!’ Salih insisted. ‘We cannot abandon al-Kahina.’ He looked to Maximos. ‘What say you?’

  The Roman nodded. ‘Aye. You do not go alone, Mercian. You have two more at least.’

  But Hereward did not hear his words. Throwing his head back, he roared his fury, a terrible sound that rang off the stone walls. And then he was racing across the forum, axe in hand.

  As he drew nearer to the basilica, he glimpsed movement in the windows. Crossbow bolts whisked by, smashing against the flagstones. Dimly, he heard Sighard cry out, no doubt remembering how one of those bolts had taken the life of his brother. Hereward swung his shield up just in time. A bolt rammed through the wood. As he ran, he wrenched it out and tossed it away.

  For a brief moment, the air seemed black with shafts, but then the volley ended. There would be no second volley, he knew. It would take them too long to reload their weapons.

  He reached the shadow of the portico and slowed his step. When the drumbeat of running feet echoed behind him, he realized all his men had followed him into the jaws of death. Through the haze of his rage, he felt a pang of pride.