by James Wilde
Kraki turned to glower at the man on the other side of him. ‘You think Hereward would cut us adrift? I will have words with you when your wits return.’
Barely had he finished speaking when a voice rang out from the deserted square behind them. Looking back, the Viking saw Rowena and Deda beckoning furiously.
‘Come,’ the knight shouted.
‘Hereward needs you all,’ Rowena yelled.
As one Kraki and his spear-brothers turned and ran in the direction of the palace. Reaching the grand entrance, they reformed and turned once more to face the enemy. But to Kraki it seemed that Karas Verinus’ men were taking their time to follow, no doubt relieved that they no longer had to fight their way to their destination.
But as the Viking moved to speak to Rowena, a giant figure loomed out of the shadows – a warrior brandishing an axe. It was Varin.
Kraki cursed. That treacherous bastard, here, now! He hefted his own blade.
‘Stay your hand.’ Rowena reached out and grabbed Kraki’s arm to hold him back. ‘The Blood Eagle stands with us. He has always stood with us.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
UNDER THE SPUTTERING torch, Hereward watched his shadow waver. Even now, the metallic taste of the mushroom still lingered in his mouth. His raven had already led him along the shore of the great black ocean, and he had met with the dead and listened carefully to the words that were whispered there. Now the flames were licking up from his heart, and the battle-fury was growing. He was ready, and his devil was ready, and together they would raise all hell.
Through the walls, the sounds of battle echoed. The Mercian closed his eyes, imagining the clash of steel upon steel, seeing the blood. On the one side, Alexios’ army, on the other, Karas Verinus’ men, both of them fighting to the last for that bloodstained crown. But there would be no need to worry about the Nepotes’ warriors now, not if Varin had done his duty.
Hereward gave a lupine smile.
Footsteps thundered along the flagstones, drawing nearer. A moment later, the spear-brothers crashed into the chamber. They were breathless, gore-spattered. It looked as though they had fought every step of the way here.
The Mercian held up a hand in greeting. Though he felt joy at seeing his brothers again, a wave of guilt washed through him for having deceived them so. He could not fault the confusion and anger he saw amid the relief in their faces.
Kraki was glowering at him. ‘You are a bastard for letting us think you were dead.’ He looked to have been in the thick of battle, as did they all. His face was speckled with blood and gore dripped from his axe.
‘Why did you not trust us?’ Sighard asked, wiping crimson spatters from his eyes.
‘Trust had naught to do with it. Knowing my plan would have put all your lives at risk,’ Hereward replied, raising his voice. ‘I know I must make amends to you all. But that is business for another time. Now we have a battle to win.’
Footsteps swept closer, and Alexios emerged into the chamber, his expression grim. ‘Half my men are looting,’ he spat. Hereward could see his simmering anger. ‘I will punish every one who has betrayed the faith of the people.’
Hereward looked up at the young nobleman. He was dressed for battle in mail-shirt and helm, with his shield upon his arm and his sword in his hand. His eyes gleamed with defiance. ‘This battle is not yet won, Alexios. We have much still to do.’ He beckoned to Kraki. ‘Come with us. Karas lurks here somewhere, with a handful of warriors, enough to cause trouble. We must find Nikephoros before we lose what little we have gained through surprise.’ He nodded to the other spear-brothers. ‘Stay here. Make sure no one else comes through that door.’
Hereward spun away, with Alexios and Kraki close behind. They hurried along the corridor into the depths of the palace.
‘If our luck has fled, Wulfrun will be waiting for us with the rest of the Guard,’ the Viking snarled as he ran.
‘Wulfrun will not be here,’ the Mercian replied, smiling to himself.
Kraki cursed. ‘Wulfrun too? Am I the only one who knew nothing about this plot?’
Hereward held up his hand to slow the other two. The emperor’s quarters lay ahead. ‘Wulfrun knew nothing at the beginning. But then his love gave him a hard choice – betray his honour, or lose her. He is an honourable man. Though there is no love lost between us, he came to me and warned me of the threat against me.’ Hereward remembered the look of despair on the Guard commander’s face when he had told all he knew. ‘His sacrifice will have cut him more than any blade.’
As his friend opened his mouth to grumble some more, Hereward raised a hand to silence him. He could feel the battle-fury filling his heart with fire. Unsheathing Brainbiter, he stepped into the large hall that bordered the emperor’s quarters and looked down on Nikephoros, cowering in a corner. His eyes were wide and wild like a whipped dog’s. A new bruise glowed above his right eye. When he saw the English warrior and his allies step into the hall, his lips pulled back from his teeth into a snarling rictus.
‘See, now, son of a whore? I spoke truly. Your days are done.’ The Mercian could see the emperor’s head turning towards the other side of the room.
Hereward followed his gaze. He looked directly into the face of Karas Verinus, the eyes mere pools of shadow under heavy brows, the fists still clenched ready for the beating he had been about to administer to Nikephoros.
Around him, five of his cut-throats were gathered, their clothing stained crimson with fresh blood. Two Varangians lay dead behind them, no doubt men who had rushed to the palace to ensure the emperor’s safety.
‘If you want to keep your heads upon your shoulders, leave now. This business is all but done.’ Hereward heard a note of triumph in Karas’ voice, and felt only contempt for this would-be usurper. Here was a man who had known no doubts. He had never faced defeat upon the battlefield, as the English had. His belief in his own power and the blood of the Verini had led him relentlessly to this moment. The Mercian laughed inwardly, and his devil laughed too. How could any man call himself a warrior if he had never tasted loss?
‘You are wrong. This business was done long ago. You are like a dying man dragging himself across the field of battle, still believing he has fight left in him.’
Karas snorted. ‘You would still fight, even though there are only three of you? Come, then. I have an emperor to slay and a throne to claim. When Justin arrives, a new age will dawn across the empire.’
‘Aye, one drenched in blood,’ Nikephoros spat.
For a moment, Hereward closed his eyes and relished the darkness. ‘I have walked along the shore of the great black ocean, and I have spoken to Harald Redteeth. He told me of many things, but mostly of death,’ he breathed. ‘Of my death, and yours.’ When he opened his eyes, he hefted Brainbiter, smiling at his sword as it caught the light.
‘Harald Redteeth? Your words are meaningless.’ Drawing his own sword, Karas took a step forward.
‘Justin Verinus will not be wearing that bloody crown,’ the Mercian continued. ‘His days are ended.’
Karas scowled. ‘Justin is not dead.’
‘He was not, when he was found drifting in the harbour. Nor when that box was lowered into the hole, weighted with stones, a rag in his mouth and his hands bound. But now . . .?’
Kraki handed over the sack he had been carrying since he left the cemetery. Hereward glanced in it once, then emptied out the contents.
Black with rot, the head of Justin Verinus rolled across the flagstones.
Hereward watched as the other man’s expression turned from horror to despair. Karas staggered back, a wail of grief rolling out. The Mercian had never sensed that the general held any love for the boy, but now he glimpsed in the other man’s face something of what he and his kin had shared, which had now been lost for ever, along with all his plans and hopes for his days yet to come. A life building to this moment, and then dashed into nothing. Hereward felt no pity. There was only ice in his heart.
‘It is done,’ h
e said.
Karas’ men looked at the severed head that lay on the flagstones in front of them. Hereward could almost feel the fight leach out of them. Dropping their weapons, they edged along the wall until they could dash out of the door. Nikephoros’ shrieking laughter followed at their heels.
Levelling his sword, Karas spat, ‘I will have vengeance.’
Alexios half drew his sword, but the Mercian raised one hand and said, ‘He is mine.’ Dropping his shoulders, he braced himself. He could see the general had no intention of backing down. Nor had he. He set his devil free.
With a bestial roar, Karas hurled himself across the chamber. His sword cleaved through the air with enough force to have felled a tree. Balancing on the balls of his feet, Hereward spun aside. The blade shrieked across the flagstones, raising a shower of sparks. Karas did not slow. He was consumed by waves of grief, of anger and despair. The Mercian could see that now, and knew it was to his advantage. All the general’s skill with the blade had been swamped by that deluge of emotion. Only brute strength remained. Hacking wildly, he was trying to drive his foe into a corner where he could be butchered.
Hereward shrugged his shoulders. Brainbiter felt comfortable in his hand. He was more agile than his opponent, his wits sharpened by battle-fury, not dulled by despair. Whenever Karas’ sword began its arc, he was always one step ahead.
The thunder of blood in his head drowned out the voice of his devil. He felt afire. The world fell away until only Karas’ face floated before his eyes. He frowned, recognizing something in those features that he had never seen in the general before, but the battle-fury whisked it away before he could think on it.
His blade nicked Karas’ chest, his arm, his cheek. But still the general came at him, thrusting and slashing. Gone was the ruthless and cunning warrior, and in his place a flailing, howling beast. His foot slipped on the blood-slick stone and he went down on one knee.
Hereward felt surprised when he saw a moment’s hesitation, and then a rush of contempt. Karas did not hurl himself aside or scramble back. Nor did he raise his blade to defend himself. The general’s gaze flickered up, the eyes now haunted.
There could be no doubt. Karas wanted to die. And Hereward knew the devil that always squatted inside him was more than ready to supply that gift. His battle-fury drained away, and he thrust Brainbiter into the general’s chest with a cold will.
This was not an honourable death. This was a warrior who could not face a life where defeat was a possibility, a man fleeing like a frightened child. Hereward turned away before the light had died in his enemy’s eyes. As he strode across the chamber, he heard the body slump to the flagstones. This man who had thought himself greater than all others had been brought to nothing.
Nikephoros clawed his way upright, but his suffering had taken its toll. He looked more frail than he ever had, the Mercian thought. ‘You have my thanks,’ he said, his voice trembling as much as his body.
Hereward held up his hand to silence him. ‘I swore an oath to protect your life, and I would never break that vow. You will have many days yet to come. But not as emperor.’
His face growing cold, Nikephoros looked from Hereward to Alexios. ‘More treachery.’
‘The empire is on its knees,’ Alexios said. ‘On one thing, Karas Verinus spoke true. It is time for a new dawn.’
Nikephoros sneered. ‘And you think yourself the saviour?’
Sheathing Brainbiter, Hereward said, ‘Do not waste your breath calling for your guards. You know this business is done.’
The emperor’s shoulders slumped and he half fell against the wall. ‘Good. My bones are weary.’ From under his lids, he eyed Alexios with contempt. ‘All your promises of returning the empire to glory will turn to dust. You will soon discover this crown is cursed.’
‘If God wills it, so be it,’ Alexios replied, adding, ‘You may think me a liar, but I never sought this.’
‘The Comnenoi have always lusted after the throne. Your mother will no doubt drown herself in wine as she celebrates this victory.’ Nikephoros turned to Hereward. ‘But you . . . a barbarian. Do you truly believe they will reward you with power?’
‘I do not seek power.’
‘Then what gain is there to you?’
Hereward thought back along those long seasons of plotting, of learning the cunning ways of his enemies, of sowing seeds, not knowing if they would ever sprout. But he had told Alric the truth – he had proved himself the greatest viper in a pit of vipers. He smiled. ‘What gain indeed?’
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
ARIADNE FOUGHT HER way through the flow of bodies, tears of fear stinging her eyes. The city blurred past – the crowds, the looting, the torches, the fighting. The slaughtered bodies she had seen at the house of the Nepotes still burned in her mind. But she had not been able to find Leo anywhere. That gave her some little hope.
If he had been preparing for the culmination of his kin’s plot, there was only one place he could be. Now the burden of the Nepotes’ lust for power had been removed, they could flee the city together, find a new home not ruled by death or duty or days long gone.
Skirting the edge of the Great Palace, she raced for the Chrysotriklinos. There were no guards. Only chaos ruled in Constantinople that night.
As she crept into the throne room, her breath burned in her chest in anticipation of what she might find. Yet there he was, still breathing. Ariadne felt her heart leap and a surge of relief that he was still alive.
Leo was sitting in the throne, one leg hanging over the armrest. She opened her mouth to call out to him, but the words died in her throat. He was wearing his jewelled loros, the fine clothes that he would, should, be wearing once he ascended to the throne of the empire. But they were splattered with blood.
Ariadne’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Are you hurt?’ she cried.
Eyes as dead as those of any corpse swivelled towards her and he slowly shook his head.
‘I know my mother and father are both dead.’ His voice trembled with self-loathing. ‘I stood with Varin and cheered him on as I watched them breathe their last. I begged him to let me watch them die.’ His voice was a low whine now. And then she knew the source of the blood upon his loros. Leo was shaking as if he had a fever. Ariadne felt horror as she looked into his face and thought that she might be staring into the eyes of a madman. ‘They died, as Maximos died . . .’
Ariadne’s stomach knotted, her pity turning to despair. What horrors the Nepotes’ lust for power had inflicted upon all of them.
‘Then we are damned together. My brother is dead too,’ she said. ‘Our kin have drained our lives of joy. But there is still hope for us in this world.’
‘For you, perhaps.’ Leo levelled his sword at her, the one that his brother Maximos had taught him to use with such skill. Ariadne felt shattered and terrified in equal measure.
Away in the dark, she glimpsed a ghostly figure. After a moment, Varin stepped forward.
‘What have you done?’ Ariadne cried.
‘Place no blame on Varin,’ Leo interrupted in a low, firm voice. ‘He did what he always had to do – remove the threat of my kin for his allies. He told me to leave, but I wanted to see their stain wiped away.’ His voice rose, cracking.
The Blood Eagle walked closer. Ariadne thought she saw a sadness in his face, a softening that she had never witnessed before. ‘Heed her,’ he whispered. ‘All is now ashes. The emperor has fallen. Karas Verinus is dead. A new age dawns. Go with her from the city and begin anew.’
‘And I will say to you what I said before: my sins are too great.’
A clamour echoed from somewhere nearby. Soldiers drawing closer, no doubt driving out what little resistance remained to the Comnenoi, Ariadne thought.
‘Do not let them find you here,’ Varin said to Leo, with a note of compassion that Ariadne could not understand. ‘They will not be kind.’
The Blood Eagle backed away, casting one last look at his former charge before he faded in
to the shadows. When Ariadne turned back to the throne, Leo too was gone. His sword, his most treasured memento of the brother he had both loved and killed, now lay across the chair.
Ariadne felt a rush of panic. She hurried out of that cursed throne room, along the path that led to the wall where the land fell away sharply down to the sea. Leo was nowhere to be seen, but her heart knew the truth. In that instant, all her emotion drained away and she felt hollowed out. Steeling herself, she pressed her forehead against the cold stone of the parapet and whispered a prayer. Then she looked down.
And God had abandoned her. There, caught in the moonlight on the rock below, lay the broken body of the man she loved.
Hot tears burned her eyes and for a moment Ariadne was blind. As sobs racked her body, she considered throwing herself over the edge to join Leo in death on those rocks. Perhaps that would be the best fate.
But then she felt a hand upon her shoulder, strong and steady. ‘You have endured much. But all this will pass.’ The voice was low and warm and filled with care. ‘You are not alone,’ Salih whispered. ‘You will never be alone again.’
Ariadne turned and fell into the arms of the man who had become like a father to her. ‘Why would he not let me help him?’ she said in a small voice.
‘This is a lesson you will carry with you for all your days,’ the wise man murmured. ‘However much your heart yearns to make things right, you can never truly save another. They can only save themselves.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
TORCHLIGHT DANCED OFF the golden crown. Flames wavered in every jewel studding that headdress as it was held aloft for God’s blessing. Across the Hagia Sophia, a hush fell among the hastily gathered congregation, the few loyal senators and patricians who could be found among the fighting and looting.
Wreathed in incense smoke, Alexios Comnenos knelt in front of the altar, already wearing the ceremonial cloak across his shoulders. Hereward watched his friend as the Patriarch Cosmas lowered the crown on to his brow. At the last, he thought he saw a flicker of doubt in his friend, perhaps worry. But by then it was too late.