by James Wilde
‘Come, we will get you back to your bed. A few hours’ sleep will prepare you for all the morrow’s cursing of this night, when your head is filled with pebbles and your mouth as dry as Afrique’s sands.’ Varin laid a hand on his charge’s shoulder, but Leo threw it off.
‘I said leave me be,’ the youth snapped. ‘I am one of the Nepotes. I do not answer to the likes of you.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and eyed Ariadne. ‘And you . . . I cannot trust you either, it seems.’
‘I would never see you come to harm—’
‘How did you find me? Do you follow me night and day?’
‘Friends watch over those who cannot look after themselves,’ Varin growled, answering for her.
Ariadne stepped forward. ‘Why do you come here? Why leave your home and the ones who love you—’
Leo barked a bitter, drunken laugh.
‘Do you wish to die?’ the girl pressed. ‘You know there are many in this city who would see the Nepotes dead. Aye, and two who want it more than any others, who would see all their rivals for power with their throats slit.’ She felt a force stir within her, either in her heart or in her head, and when she next spoke she heard the voice of the only woman she had known in her short life who had not been beaten down. ‘Two, aye, and God has cursed me to share the same blood,’ al-Kahina/Ariadne said.
‘Enough talk. She speaks true – it is not safe here.’ Varin hooked his arm under the protesting youth’s shoulders and dragged him to his feet.
Struggling, Leo kicked over the table. His goblet and the dregs of his wine splashed across the puddled flagstones. ‘Leave me!’ he bellowed.
Barely had the words left his lips when a lithe figure darted from the shadows. At first, Ariadne thought it was the one she feared more than all others, but it was only a rogue, his clothes and face filthy with the dirt of the road. Candlelight glinted off a blade, a short, curved knife like the ones the dark-skinned sailors from Afrique carried at their waists.
Ariadne cried out. Varin was encumbered by his drunken charge and she was too far away to intervene. But the Blood Eagle only grunted. As the attacker stabbed his blade towards Leo’s chest, the Viking flicked the fallen table up with the tip of his boot. The wood cracked the shins of the attacker and he howled, stumbling over the obstacle.
Varin tossed Leo to one side. The youth crashed on to the wine-soaked floor in an unceremonious heap. The axe swept up faster than Ariadne had ever seen a blade move, and then thundered down, splitting the rogue’s head in two.
Ariadne felt acid rush into her mouth. Her kin revelled in brutality and she had seen many a death in her few short years. This one had been administered with such cold efficiency she felt stunned. Varin yanked out his axe and turned towards the darkened tavern as if he had just brought down a tree for kindling.
A rumble of shock had erupted when the axe came down. Now only a blanket of silence suffocated the chamber.
‘My axe is ready for all of you,’ the Blood Eagle announced in a calm, measured tone.
For a moment, Varin, Ariadne and Leo could have been alone in all the world. Not a breath rustled out. Then a figure hovered on the edge of the circle of illumination, weighing what lay before it. When the man took one more step forward, the light wavered across his face. The features seemed as frozen as a wintry lake, with two black-coal eyes staring from the depths.
Ariadne stiffened. He never could resist the smell of blood.
Justin Verinus surveyed the drunken man in front of him. ‘This is the pride of the Nepotes?’
The girl who hid in the dark behind al-Kahina shivered. As she roamed the city each day, she could not help but hear the whispers of this being’s true nature, rippling out from the brothels and inns. Not man, but beast, they repeated over again. Not man but devil. Knowing him as she did, she could not fault those words.
‘Stay back, brother,’ she commanded. ‘This is not your business.’
Justin cocked his head, puzzled by her strange cadence. ‘But it is my business,’ he replied in a whispery voice. ‘All of Constantinople . . . all of the empire . . . is my business, or will be soon enough.’
Waving his axe towards the bloody remains, Varin demanded, ‘Your man?’
‘I have never laid eyes upon him before this moment.’ Justin stared, unblinking, as ever unreadable.
Leo scrambled to his feet, swaying drunkenly. ‘He lies!’ The youth jabbed a finger at his rival. ‘Every attempt upon my life has been at his behest.’ He fumbled on the floor for his goblet. When he came up, Varin plucked the vessel from his hand and tossed it away. Leo glared at him, but then he sneered as he turned back to Justin. ‘He fears me. He knows that the crown will be mine, not his—’
‘Still your tongue.’ Varin’s words cracked like a lash.
Ariadne recoiled. It was too late. Leo had already admitted to treason in a tavern filled with witnesses who would no doubt kill each other to claim the emperor’s gold for reporting this plot.
The Blood Eagle must have known this too, for he turned back to the shadows and announced, ‘If one man here stirs my wrath, I will return. I will find you. And when I am done, there will not be enough of you left to choke a dog.’ Nodding to Ariadne, he said in a quiet voice, ‘The hour is late. We must be gone.’
Leo began to protest, but the words were half-hearted. His hunted expression showed that he knew what he had done.
Once they were at the door, Ariadne turned back. Justin still stood in the wavering candlelight, staring at them. Drawing her knife, she pointed it at him. ‘I saved your neck once, brother, and once is enough to set you on a new road. You did not choose to walk it. Know I am al-Kahina, slayer of devils, and blood or not, if you harm a hair on this man’s head I will cut out your heart myself.’
In the warm night, Ariadne realized her hand was shaking. Al-Kahina was no longer with her.
‘You have a warrior’s heart,’ Varin grunted to her. He shook Leo as if he were filled with rags. ‘And you are a jolt-head for not seeing the ruby in all that filth under your nose.’
For a while, the streets sped by until they were sure Justin or any of his cut-throats were not following them. Leo had grown more sober with each step, and when they paused to catch their breath he said to the Blood Eagle, ‘If I were emperor, I would make you the commander of the Guard.’
Varin grunted. ‘You have much to learn. I will not always be by your side to keep you safe.’
‘Then teach me,’ Leo gushed. ‘Teach me, like my brother . . . like Maximos . . .’ The name seemed to stick in his throat. Tears welled in his eyes, and then terrible sobs racked his body and he slid down the wall to sit with his head in his hands.
Ariadne felt her heart ache with pity. She dropped beside him, resting one hand on his shoulder. ‘What is wrong? You are alive—’
‘I killed Maximos!’ Leo blurted, his eyes raw. ‘With the sword he gave me. I stabbed him.’
Ariadne felt ice-water rush through her. She could see from his drawn face that he was not lying. ‘Why?’ she murmured. ‘He loved you.’
At that, Leo began to sob again. When he had drained every tear, he said, ‘Maximos was turning his back upon the Nepotes . . . his own blood. He was done with us . . . with all our plans, for the throne, for everything.’
‘Kalamdios and Simonis . . . and Juliana . . . they told you to do it?’
‘Maximos’ leaving was a betrayal, and the Nepotes will not be betrayed.’ His voice hardened and Ariadne sensed he was repeating something that had been told to him so many times that it had become almost a part of him. She felt a deep dread of what was to come for him, for both of them.
Leaning down, Varin snatched a handful of the youth’s tunic and dragged him to his feet. He shook him once, hard, cracking his head against the stone. Leo cried out and scowled at the Viking.
‘Heed my words,’ the Blood Eagle rumbled, lowering his huge head so he could peer into Leo’s eyes, their noses barely a hand’s width apar
t. ‘Every man walks a hard road. Sometimes it leads into shadow. Sometimes it leads to hel. But the gods would not damn a man without giving him a fighting chance. Walk that road and you will come to a place where roads cross. You will have a choice. Take that other road, even if it is strewn with rocks and leads to shadow.’
‘It is too late!’
Varin shook his head. ‘Not for you, little brother. Not yet. There is still time. Soon you will come to the crossroads. Turn away. Turn away. For if you choose to stride on you will be lost for ever.’ His voice held a surprising gentleness. Letting go of the tunic, he rested his hand on Leo’s shoulder. In that moment, Ariadne thought she could see deep into the Blood Eagle’s own hidden life, and she was sure this lesson had been played out once before. Only that time, Varin had been the one hearing the advice. And he had not heeded it.
Leo hung his head.
Varin stepped away and led Ariadne to one side. For the first time, she thought she glimpsed something in his face beyond the frozen wastes of his home.
‘You cannot save him,’ he said quietly, but firmly. ‘He can only save himself.’
‘I cannot stand by,’ she breathed. She felt her eyes burn.
Varin stared at her for a long moment, and she squirmed under the intensity of that gaze. Yet his voice was gentle, and seemed filled with care for her. ‘I would not see you dragged along that same road to hel. Take care, little one. Take care.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE RAIN LASHED down. In the clearings beyond the trees, there was only a wall of water, misty and impenetrable. The forest rumbled with the deafening sound of the deluge, so loud, so relentless, it seemed there had never been silence.
Even the canopy of branches and leaves offered little protection as the English warriors trudged on with their heads bowed into the gusting torrent, unable to see more than a few spear-lengths ahead. Tunics were sodden, boots too, hair flat and dripping. No square of skin was dry, and the nine warriors could not remember a time when it ever had been. The air reeked of damp and mud and rot, the colours leaching away to misty grey and mud-brown.
‘Keep moving,’ Hereward exhorted. They were weary, he knew, and they had endured taking it in turns to carry the wounded Alexios.
Wiping the water from his eyes, he squinted ahead and cursed under his breath. Their enemies would be upon them before they saw or heard anything. But they could not afford to find shelter, even though every man was fighting the chill that was eating its way into his bones.
If they wanted to live, they had to keep moving.
At first, everything had seemed well. Once they had left the clifftops overlooking Robert Guiscard’s camp, they had raced through tracks made by deer in the dense undergrowth. The Normans had let them be, returning to lick their wounds. Though they had not driven the bastards back into the sea as they had hoped, Hereward thought they might have done enough to stop the Duke of Apulia from making a rash move against Constantinople. That would buy more time to build the army.
But that war-band, it was a starving dog on the trail of a rabbit. Once the riders had found their way up the slopes and along the clifftops, the forests had rung with the whoops and howls of their hunting. Now no one could be in any doubt that they wanted the head of Alexios, and perhaps Hereward himself.
If only they could have looped round to find the Immortals and the rest of the Varangian Guard. Tiberius would not ride away until he was sure that there had been no survivors. But now even that thin hope had faded.
Through the night they had scrambled, into increasingly wild country, hoping the horses would not be able to follow. But at some point the rogues must have abandoned their mounts, for the hunting calls never diminished.
At dawn, the rains had come.
Hereward glanced round at his men. Weariness had carved lines into their faces. Yet not one of them complained, not even Hiroc, who found something to grumble about in even the greatest victory. The Mercian was proud of them for that. But could they last longer than their pursuers before exhaustion claimed them? That was the question that haunted him.
A hand caught his arm. It was Kraki, the Viking’s beard and hair and furs so bedraggled he looked as if he had taken a dunk in the lake. He nodded towards Derman, who was limping badly, his face a mask of pain.
‘Turned his ankle on a root as we ran through the dark,’ Kraki said, his voice low. ‘He cannot walk much further. We must carry him too.’
‘And slow us down more?’ Hereward looked back at Alexios. The Roman had recovered somewhat from his exhaustion, but he was still weak. Sighard and Hengist were helping him along. ‘It is time. We must make a stand.’
‘We cannot fight them. They have the numbers.’
‘If not now, then in a day, when we are weaker still? No, we fight.’
Hereward turned and commanded his men to stop. They collapsed against tree-trunks, throwing back their streaming faces and sucking in soothing breaths.
Looking round, the Mercian saw this place was as good as any. True, the drumming of the rain would mask the arrival of the ones hunting them. But they were near the top of high ground where the trees were at their thickest. Riven with rushing streams, the slopes ran away into the haze of the downpour, the ground churning into a sea of mud.
‘Do not rest yet,’ he said. ‘We have hard work ahead of us.’
For long hours, the spear-brothers laboured. When they were done, they slumped around the broad trunk of a spreading oak, filthy from head to toe. White eyes peered through the masks of mud, looking to Hereward for his command. The Mercian allowed them only a short time to rest, and then he whisked his hand to right and left and the warriors melted into the trees. This was how it had been in the fenlands of England. A fortress of wood and water that had given them an advantage over the invading army.
Hereward ghosted from tree to tree down the slope. The rain swallowed him. Amid the thunderous pounding of the torrent, he crouched behind a juniper. The fire in his chest burned hotter. His head roared with the rush of blood. Anger came fast. More treachery threatening to steal away what little he had gained for his loyal spear-brothers. He would not, could not, see them suffer more than they already had.
Sliding Brainbiter out of its sheath, he waited.
Soon after, they came. Shadows appearing in the sheets of rain, like graveyard revenants. One here, one there, others trailing behind. The dark smudges took shape, forming into men. Axes in hand, heads bent, listening. Each step was measured, cautious, and they kept their silence. They knew their enemies were near.
Hereward flitted through the trees from his cover, keeping low. He followed a route that would not easily catch the eye of any of the approaching war-band. Creeping in from the left flank, he crouched in the tangled roots of an old oak and watched one of the outliers straggle nearer. Tall and skeletal and wrapped in a sodden cloak, the man slipped in the mud with every other step, keeping one eye on his feet as he danced around the fast-running rivulets of rainwater.
He did not see the Mercian coming.
Slipping out from his hiding place, Hereward gripped his sword with both hands and rammed it into the enemy’s side. The din of the downpour drowned out the man’s cry. The Mercian had bounded away before his slain foe had pitched face forward into the mud.
The war-band trudged past him, oblivious of his presence. There were eighty of them, he guessed, too many for the spear-brothers to defeat in open battle. Yet even in the face of that revelation, he felt calm. The whispers of his devil drove out all doubts.
A pool had appeared in a hollow running along the slope, deepening by the moment. Hereward eased into the icy water, feeling nothing. Lowering himself until his eyes were just above the surface, he peered through the sheet of rain that had turned the pool into a boiling cauldron. When he was sure all his enemies were ahead of him, he waded on.
Behind one of the stragglers, he clawed his way out on to the muddy slope and rose up. If his quarry had peered back, he would ha
ve been confronted by a terrible sight. A face streaked with mud, eyes cold and unfeeling, teeth bared, more a beast than a man.
Hereward thrust his sword through the rogue’s back with such force that the victim’s feet lifted off the ground. Clamping his hand over the dying man’s mouth, the Mercian dragged him back and eased him into the swelling pool. Face down, the body drifted away, trailing a splash of colour in that grey and brown world.
Blinking away the streaming rainwater, Hereward moved silently up the slope. Brainbiter drank one life, then another, and another. No one heard, no one looked back, and with each death his devil cried louder, for more, more, to appease the hunger that could never be assuaged. But he knew it was only a matter of time before he was discovered and he was ready for it when it came.
A body fell. A head snapped round to flick water from eyes. A cry rose up, leaping from mouth to mouth.
Hereward did not wait. He had done as much as he could. Now all their lives were in the hands of fate.
His feet slipping in the sea of mud, the Mercian scrambled deep into the trees. The war-band was racing wildly after him. Legs skidded out from under them. Bodies careered down the slope. The cursing rang out so loud that Hereward could hear it even above the pounding of the rain.
He grinned, pleased that he had caused such confusion. In a fight like this, warriors needed to keep their lines, shoulder to shoulder. Running like a rabbit would only lead to an early death.
Weaving among the trees, Hereward led the war-band on a madman’s dance. All eyes would be on him. They had forgotten he was not alone here.
An arrow whistled past his head. Looking round, he saw it had thumped into the chest of a rogue closing on his back. Guthrinc’s eye never failed.
Two more shafts lashed out, two more fell. The bowman’s quiver would soon be empty, but he had used his arrows well.