Lord of Slaughter c-3

by M. D. Lachlan

  ‘Well done,’ said Bollason to Snake in the Eye. ‘So you can fight after all. Stay by me, I may need you.’

  Snake in the Eye felt a jolt of energy go through him as he heard the Viking’s words. He had been honoured, and by such a man as Bollason. Often had he dreamed of such a thing.

  ‘Let’s have some slaughter!’ said Snake in the Eye.

  ‘We will that!’ said Bollason. He took his horn and blew a great blast.

  Vikings came running to him bearing torches. There was a clatter like a hundred sticks rattling against a fence. As if time had slowed, Snake in the Eye saw an arrow bounce off his shield and up to slice away part of his ear. He put his hand up. Blood. Arrows lay all over the cobbles but no one had been hit.

  He laughed. Things were getting better and better. No man could look at his wound and not know how he got it.

  The rest of the Vikings dived for the cover of the side-streets but Snake in the Eye walked forward, trying to find the archers in the fog.

  ‘I am Snake in the Eye, son of Ljot, son of Thiorek, of the berserker clan of Thetlief. You ladies don’t bother me with your pins!’

  Another volley of arrows, directed towards where the Vikings had abandoned their torches. The archers couldn’t see properly, they were just aiming at the flames. Snake in the Eye ducked behind his shield. He was small enough for it to cover his whole body, and though two arrowheads smacked through the wood, many missed and none hit him. He saw movement ahead of him, screamed and charged. More arrows, but the archers were panicking. Some reached for axes and spears, some ran, some shot. Snake in the Eye weaved and ducked as he charged blind, his big shield in front of his face. More arrows punched through it but again none touched him. The other northerners, emboldened by Snake in the Eye’s charge, leaped forward too. At five paces the remaining Greeks’ courage broke as one and they ran. Snake in the Eye took a bowman with a looping blow from his sword. The other Vikings came screaming past him as Snake in the Eye put his hands up to the heavens and threw back his head like a farmer welcoming the rain that breaks the drought.

  He was delirious with happiness. As he discarded his arrow-heavy shield he looked for more opponents. Women ran across the street behind him — a big group of them doubtless fleeing the Norsemen. Or running to them, thought Snake in the Eye. Sluts. His cock hardened and his head was dizzy as if he had stood up too quickly.

  ‘I am a man and a mighty one,’ he said. Then laughed again. His voice was hoarse, like a dog speaking. Finally he was becoming a man.

  He turned to follow Bollason, and as he did, something seemed to wheel around him. The runes, all in an orbit — eight of them. Not eight — or rather eight not as a number on its own, but as part of something greater. Part of twenty-four. That number seemed very important to him. Twenty-four. Eight and eight and eight.

  He ran down the street towards the palace. There he could have his fun. The woman, the one Mauger wanted, was there. And the scholar, the one who had cured his curse. What to do? He had vowed to lead Mauger to the scholar but he had vowed to reward the scholar too. He could do both. Could he fuck the scholar’s wife and then reward him? Snake in the Eye had killed three men that day with sword and spear — not by sorcery. Of course he could. The palace doors were barred and the Varnagians had no siege equipment, so they were left with just beating at them.

  The ground shook under Snake in the Eye’s feet. Was it his imagination? An earthquake? Snake in the Eye had heard of them but never experienced one. No, not an earthquake; something that seemed to come from the same place as the silver river. It was a tremor from the dreamworld.

  For a moment the street faded away. He was standing on the branch of a huge white tree that stretched above him into a sky of stars. Stars were below him too, shining like ice crystals in the sun, and below them was a well fed by three rivers who were also women. The strangeness of the thought struck him, but when he looked again both ideas — river and woman — were in his head as he saw the shining streams flowing from the roots of the tree. Were they rivers? Or were they three long skiens of cloth that extended from the spindles in the hands of the women who sat at the base of the tree? How could he see them so clearly if they were so far away? How could he not identify them as women or rivers or lengths of cloth if he could see them so clearly?

  One of the rivers twisted to flow upwards towards where he was, the glittering waters reaching for him. He put out his hands and the water burst over them, turning his body with the force of its flow.

  He understood where he needed to go — to the roots of the tree which stretched up here at the centre of the world. Something was down there for him. He saw a symbol in his mind — the dead god’s necklace, three triangles locked inside each other — and he understood, as he understood the rivers were really women who were really rivers that were skeins that were woman-rivers, that he was one of those triangles. There were not three below him, nor even two. There was one, and it wanted the others to join it.

  His head cleared. He was in the street again, people running for their lives, Greeks and Varangians battling. He fell to his knees. Something called to him from beneath the ground. He needed to answer it. He tried to work his fingers into the cobbles, as if he could burrow his way into the earth.

  More cries ahead. He followed the sounds. The shouts of anger and the clash of steel upon steel were like sparks of light flashing in the fog, calling him on. A strange oily smell drifted by and something flared in the soupy air, a flash of fire.

  The Numera’s gates lay wide open. Vikings huddled either side of the doorway but couldn’t get in. The entrance was very narrow and the Hetaereia within had shields, long spears and a siphon of Greek fire. The burned bodies of four men lay in the short passageway that led into the building. As he watched, flames spewed forth as if from the mouth of a volcano, keeping the Varangians away from the entrance.

  Snake in the Eye walked through the gates. He needed his courage, not to charge the door but to go where he needed to go — to the place where the wolf was waiting, the garden by the river where the moon was on the river and the river was a bridge of light. Even as he allowed himself to fall into that place he heard snuffling at the edges of his thoughts, the wolf slavering and creeping through the recesses of his mind.

  The Vikings discussed what to do.

  ‘Starve them out!’

  ‘Bollason wants this place taken now — he says it’s important.’

  ‘If we all charge together we can’t all get burned.’

  ‘No, you’re right. Some of us will get shot and others speared.’

  ‘We need a berserker.’

  ‘They’d cook him. There’s no chance.’

  ‘I will go in,’ said Snake in the Eye. The men didn’t even acknowledge he was there.

  ‘We can get some bowmen.’

  ‘They’d have to go into the passage to shoot, it’d be suicide.’

  ‘My name is death!’ Snake in the Eye screamed at the top of his voice.

  A wiry Viking waved him away.

  ‘You’re a boy and a weakling and have proved yourself to be so. The women and kids are plundering the markets, join them and find us some meat. I’ll want a good stew when this is over.’

  ‘I will take the door.’

  ‘Go home.’

  ‘No, let him.’ A big gruff man pointed an axe at Snake in the Eye. ‘I am Arnulf’s kin. This boy wronged us. If he wants to go to his death then we should not stand in his way.’

  Another man laughed. ‘Looks like it’s your own meat you’ll be stewing, boy.’

  Snake in the Eye ignored him. ‘I am ready.’ He had on his iron breastplate; his sword was in one hand, an axe in the other. What a warrior I must seem to these men.

  The Vikings were divided into two groups, sheltering from the flame on either side of the passage.

  Snake in the Eye stepped forward. By the light of the torch used to ignite the siphon, he saw the blackened faces of two Greek guards peering ou
t at him. The men shouted nothing, issued no threat, but Snake in the Eye knew he would only have a couple more steps before the plunger was depressed on the siphon and a stream of clinging oily flame shot towards him. He was yet to get inside the building but he felt sure the fire would reach him if he took another pace.

  There were other flames, smaller lights dancing and flickering on a riverbank wall only he could see. The guttural grunting was in his ears, but he would have time enough at the wall to do what he needed to do and run.

  Many little flames flickered, but he only wanted two. He took one and snuffed it out in his fingers. The man on the siphon dropped and the nozzle of the apparatus dipped towards the ground, dripping oil. Snake in the Eye snuffed out another flame. The man with the torch collapsed and the whole apparatus ignited.

  Flame erupted with a low roar from the entrance like the belch of a dragon. Snake in the Eye staggered backwards, his hair and eyebrows singeing. Inside the guards screamed and howled, burning. Snake in the Eye strode through the doorway and cut a man down as he came running down the corridor like a fire giant, his head ablaze.

  ‘I am death!’ he shouted. ‘I am death!’

  He stepped around the fallen corpse and charged into the prison, jumping over burning bodies and hacking at those who still lived, men more occupied with the flames that engulfed them than defending themselves. Other guards were arriving from the rest of the prison but the Greeks retreated as fast as they had come before the mob of Varangians pouring in behind Snake in the Eye in a howling rush. The Greeks dived through the inner door and slammed it shut.

  ‘Am I not a man?’ shouted Snake in the Eye. ‘Am I not a hero?’

  He saw so many lights in front of him on the wall, lights for the prisoners, lights for the guards, lights even for a piper and a dancing girl who cowered in the corner.

  Snake in the Eye smiled at the girl. ‘I have no need for entertainment today,’ he said. Then he scraped his hand across the wall in his mind, knocking all the little candles to the floor.

  M. D. Lachlan

  Lord of Slaughter

  41 Captured

  Beatrice waddled in to Styliane’s chambers. The baby was terribly heavy, like trying to carry a sack of coal, but she could not let that concern her. The guards had abandoned the doors and no one stopped to question her or demand she indulge in some exhausting formality. As she passed the little chapel, she saw two guards dead on the floor. Had the Varangians got in this far already? On to Styliane’s rooms. More dead men — four of them in the scarlet livery of Styliane’s personal bodyguards.

  She stepped over the bodies and into the splendid chambers. Styliane’s bedroom was empty but a fight had clearly taken place in it. Three dead guards of Styliane’s retinue and two in the chamberlain’s blue. Three ladies-in-waiting were hiding behind a bed.

  ‘What happened?’ Beatrice was almost breathless from running.

  ‘The chamberlain took her.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

  Beatrice hurried out. Men rushed everywhere and she kept a grip on her little knife in case one should attack her. The Varangians were outside, screaming and howling threats to burn down the palace.

  She ran to the chamberlain’s rooms. No guard tried to stop her as she threw open the door to his chambers. The first room contained four big chests, one with a lock. He had his secrets, that man, and she was determined not to pass up the chance to discover some of them. She took a heavy candlestick and smashed off the lock. It came away at the hasp, the rivets pulling free of the wood. Inside was a bullroarer on a chain, five books, some soldiers’ clothes and a desert hood.

  She picked up one of the books. It was written in Greek, full of charts and tables — A True and Faithful Record of the Magical Practices of the Ancients — The Key of Solomon. She picked up another. Night Works. This was written in Latin and the vellum was relatively new — scored by crossings out and corrections, clearly some sort of notebook. She turned a page — a chapter heading: ‘On Sacrifice’. There were sketches and drawings of the positions of the stars, a list of items offered ‘at the crossroads’ and a comment on their efficacy.

  Beatrice was under no illusions about what she was reading. This was as damning a document as could be imagined. But the chamberlain had left it behind. How desperate was he? What did he intend to do?

  ‘Oh God!’ A man screamed in the passage outside, metal scraped on metal. A fight. She looked around the chamber. A door on the opposite side. She took the book and headed towards it, but as she put out her hand to open the door it crashed open and she leaped back.

  A Varangian stood in the doorway — a tall bloody man with wild eyes. She turned to run but one was behind her. They were everywhere! She was sure she was going to die. She thought of Loys, of the future they would never have, of the children they would never raise and the peace they would never know. She was a Christian woman and would not let these pagans defile her without a fight. She raised her knife but a big hand grabbed her wrist and twisted it up behind her back. She gave a cry and dropped the weapon. The man siezed her hair with his other hand, jerking her head back.

  The Varangian in front of her pointed at her with his sword. He was gaudy in appearance, as so many of the northern men were — dressed from head to foot in bright red, as if soaked in blood. ‘This one?’

  ‘This one.’

  She couldn’t see who spoke but it was a female voice.

  ‘Is she going to make it where we need to go? She looks ready to drop.’

  ‘She will make it. It’s foreseen.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Have you taken the Numera?’

  ‘It can’t be long before we do.’

  ‘Then get her over there. We have no time. Put everything into capturing it.’

  ‘The entrance is very narrow. One man can defend it for a week.’

  ‘If one can defend it, one can attack it. You wanted your time to die for me, Bolli — this could be it. Take the prison. You are a hero to men. If you can’t do it no one can.’

  ‘We will take it.’

  The man holding Beatrice’s hair released his grip a little and the big red Viking stepped aside. In front of her now was a small red-haired woman, old but quite beautiful. Her face, though, bore a terrible scar on one side.

  The woman spoke to her in Norse: ‘I’m sorry.’ Then she addressed the Viking holding Beatrice. ‘Bring her with us. Don’t let her go.’

  ‘Yes, Vala.’ And Beatrice was shoved through the door.

  42

  The Old Way

  Five men waded ashore from a boat beached behind the Varangian camp — three in the green uniform of messengers, one in the purple robes of a minor court official and one — a tall pale fellow with a shock of red hair — in the orange of a palace servant. Two carried a stretcher to which was tied the body of a woman. To anyone watching — had anyone been watching — they would have looked like a funeral party. One of the stretcher bearers also had a shovel on his back and a small pick at his belt, and the red-haired servant carried a length of rope. But the woman was not dead: once they were ashore, the red-haired man poured water from a flask onto a cloth and wet her lips with it, squeezing a little of the moisture into her mouth.

  The weak sun was dying, and the moon, a faint gleaming disc behind the smoky clouds, had risen, full but pale, like a penny seen through murky water.

  The men said nothing but pressed on up the hill. Two ran slightly ahead with spears before them. The spearmen were large and frightening in appearance — one a huge Greek with a shiny beard, the other a black man with a fearful glare and a big sword at his belt.

  The Varangian camp was almost deserted. The northerners’ women and children had gone with the warriors into the city, even taking their livestock and their dogs.

  The chamberlain hurried through the darkening air, a torch in his hand, a bag at his side. They went up the hill into the shanty town. It was sparsely po
pulated — its inhabitants had followed the Varangians in, looking to pick up what spoils they could — so the men hurried through what was effectively a huge rubbish tip.

  The steeper climb up into the hills was harder on those carrying Styliane, and at points the men swapped duties on the stretcher. Only the chamberlain didn’t take a turn — it wouldn’t have occurred to him to offer and the men would have only held him in contempt if he had. Nobles handed out the orders; they didn’t fetch or carry.

  Down in the city they could see, even through the mist, that a substantial fire had started. No one commented; they just made their way up onto the first hill and into the boulder field. Here flies were thick in the air and the odour of rot drifted in. The chamberlain guessed Isais was among the rocks somewhere, causing as much of a stink in death as he had in life.

  Progress was slow. The chamberlain went ahead. Once he would have hopped over those rocks, now he had to tread more carefully, picking his way and at points supporting himself on his hands. He was getting old, he felt it. The symbols, the bright living shapes that burned in his head, which coiled like ivy around his heart, which seemed to prick at his skin like thorns or chill him like ice, they were pulling away from him. He could not reach out to take one down, like a fruit from a tree, and send it to kill a rebel charging at the head of an army, to banish a black sky or remove the curse of death from his streets. Not yet, until steps were taken to regain control.