by James Wilde
‘With your own dog upon the throne, you can keep your lands, your riches, and act as general to the new emperor.’
Roussel’s smile faded as he looked towards his milling warriors. Karas Verinus, Ragener and Justin pushed their way out of the crowd. The Roman clutched a large basket to his chest. When he saw the Viking he gave a sly smile and started towards him, but the sea wolf hung back. His yellow teeth were now visible through the hole where Kraki had torn away part of his cheek. He would not make the mistake of coming too close again.
Kraki spat a mouthful of phlegm. He was no fool, this Norman. If John Doukas was to fall, the warlord had already allied himself with the brutal general and that mad, blood-slaked boy who would be the next to steal the crown. ‘Karas will accompany that Roman survivor into the city to deliver your message to the emperor, filled with shock and despair, and to vouch for all that is said,’ the Viking went on. ‘And then, as you lay siege, he will be a power on the inside, twisting things to your … and his … advantage.’
‘He is a hero of the empire, for all his faults,’ Roussel said, watching the general stride over, Justin at his side. ‘He will have the ear of the emperor’s circle. If he says he fears our power, so will they.’
‘At last we no longer have to hide behind pretence,’ Karas said when he arrived. ‘Soon Constantinople will fall.’
‘In time, all traitors fall too, to the axe,’ Kraki growled.
‘And you are above such games,’ the general sneered. ‘A man of honour.’
Justin leaned forward to peer into the Viking’s face. His eyes were glassy, unblinking. Kraki felt the odd sensation that there was nothing behind them. He understood war, but he did not understand this.
‘Do you see the sands of his life running away?’ Karas said to the boy. ‘Do you see the flesh falling from the skull?’
The boy continued to stare.
Kraki broke that gaze and looked to the general. ‘If you put this thing upon the throne, you will damn yourself.’
Karas smiled. Pushing the basket beneath the Viking’s nose, he whipped off the lid. A mass of snakes roiled in the dark depths. ‘Your new companions. After the feast this even, I will come for you. You have my word on that.’
Placing one hand upon Justin’s head, the general steered him away, back towards the camp. Roussel watched them go, his expression wintry.
‘I judge a man by his friends,’ Kraki said.
‘This is war, Viking. You have seen enough blood to know that if we only found allies in friends we would die alone on the battlefield.’ Without looking back, Roussel strode away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
SILVERY MOONLIGHT CARVED a path through the deep shadow of the tent. In the triangle of open flaps, stars glittered in the sable sky. Drifting in on the breeze, the sweet scent of roasting lamb mingled with the tang of woodsmoke. From far across the camp, where the great fire roared, jubilant voices rang out, and raucous laughter, and song. The feast had been in full flow for long hours now, since the fat red sun had turned the landscape ruddy. Soon it would be done.
In the corner of the tent, Kraki salivated. His belly was empty and had been for more than a day. There was no need to waste good food on a man who was not long for this world. But he had years since made his peace with death. He had always dreamed it would come on the battlefield, with his blood thundering in his head, and his good right arm laying waste to his foes. An ending that would earn him a place at the high table in Valhalla. But here he was, trussed up like a deer waiting to be butchered for the pot. Aye, justice, there was little of it in this world.
One dream remained: that his spear-brothers had survived and would bring vengeance down upon the heads of Karas Verinus and all who walked with him.
The voices echoing from the campfire dimmed. The silences in between the songs grew longer. He found himself straining to listen for the sound of a foot on the baked mud of the track. For the whisper of his death approaching.
A shadow fell across the moonlit path and he jerked. He had heard nothing.
His moment had come.
‘Do not tarry there,’ he growled, struggling into a seated position. ‘Look into my eyes, if you dare.’
‘You are so tired of life you would rush to the end?’ A silhouette loomed in the entrance to the tent. So certain had he been that it was Karas Verinus approaching that Kraki found himself struggling to recognize the man who stood there. But then the figure shifted and the pale light lit the features of Roussel de Bailleul.
Kraki snorted. ‘You have come to watch my gutting? Is there not enough song and wine at the feast?’
The warlord raised his right hand to show the goblet he was holding. A toast. He sipped it, his gaze never leaving the glowering captive.
‘Karas will be here soon enough. He eats his meat and watches the fire,’ the warlord murmured, adding, ‘while he sharpens his knife on a whetstone.’
‘You know that Roman bastard will turn on you the moment he sees an advantage.’
Ignoring his words, the warlord began to circle the prisoner. ‘You could join my army. I can always use good fighting men. Even Karas Verinus would not dare attack you then.’
‘You would have me standing at your back in a battle?’ Kraki laughed without humour.
‘You would not attack me if you agreed to fight under my banner.’
‘You speak without any doubt.’
‘Aye. I have no doubt.’ Roussel squatted in front of the Viking, levelling his unwavering gaze. ‘Men of honour know each other.’ He raised his index finger to his left eye. ‘We see it, here. We know it with a look, as one wolf recognizes another, as a brother knows a brother. And we know men without honour too. They are our true enemies, not the ones we face across the field of battle. They are the ones who steal life away, grain by grain.’
This was true; Kraki had learned as much from his father. ‘I would kill an honourable man, if it meant I lived to see a new dawn.’
‘Aye. But you would not gut him and fill him with vipers.’ Standing, Roussel wandered into the shadows at the rear of the tent. His voice floated back, thoughtful. ‘Some of my men fought with William at the battle of Ely. They told me of the courage of the English they faced. Stories of Hereward and his war-band, few in number, near-starving. To come so close to victory, to smell it on the wind, and then be betrayed … that must feel like a spear to the heart.’
‘It is war.’
‘True.’ Sipping at his goblet, Roussel wandered back in front of the captive. ‘Instead of freeing your land from my countrymen, it was you who were sent into exile. A harsh judgement, but you kept your heads upon your shoulders. To fight another day. But a defeat like that wounds in ways the eye cannot see. I know. Tell me … if all had changed, where would you be now?’
Kraki peered into the dark, and saw across fields and forests and the wide whale road to a rain-lashed bog. And standing under the willows he saw Acha, hair like raven-wings, skin as pale as snow. He felt peace. There would be no more running, no more fighting. ‘England,’ he muttered.
‘We are all haunted by days long gone. What was, what if, what might be again.’ Roussel drained his wine and tossed his goblet away. Striding to the entrance, he glanced out into the night and then returned. His voice lowered. ‘Days long gone. Times that shaped us. The land on which we walked, the people we knew. And in days of hardship we long to be back there, to feel the gentle touch and loving embrace. To hear laughter we barely remember. There is an oak tree on the edge of my village, where my father liked to sit. There he would tell me tales of when our folk came to Normandy in their dragon-ships, filled with fire and fury. Stories of great battles, of warriors who made the earth shake. There are days when I would hear those tales again. When I would sit with my father in the sun and learn from his wisdom.’
In the moonlight, Kraki glimpsed the flash of silver. Roussel was holding his knife. The Viking felt his heart leap. Now he knew why the warlord was there, what all the
se strange words meant. An honourable death. Freedom from the suffering that Karas Verinus promised. Raising his head, Kraki sucked in a breath of cool air. He was ready.
‘But it is all like the mist,’ Roussel was saying. He weighed the knife in his hand, watching the way the light reflected off the blade. ‘The oak has been cut down for firewood. My father … I will never sit beside him again in this life. This is the trap of days long gone. They still shape us, even though they lie beyond the horizon, and we cannot find those places again. All we have is here, now. We must hold on to that, brother. We must make it bend to our will, live lives of joy if we can. My father’s words still stay with me. They will never go, and that must be enough.’ The warlord’s fingers closed tight around the deer-horn hilt. ‘What is gone is done. There is no going back to find another path through the forest. Only forward. Only forward. That is where our true salvation lies.’
Before Kraki knew what was happening, Roussel stepped behind him, grabbed the bonds at his wrists and hauled him to his feet. Closing his eyes, Kraki bared his throat, waiting for the blade to free his life-blood.
Instead, he felt the warlord sawing at the ropes. When they snapped free, Roussel shoved him forward. ‘Run,’ he said.
Kraki staggered a few steps, then glanced back. His thoughts tilted.
Roussel slipped his knife into his tunic and turned away. ‘Run,’ he said again.
As he grasped what had been done, the Viking felt a wave of gratitude. His judgement of this man had not been amiss. Rubbing his wrists, he lurched out into the night, scarcely able to believe that he had been given a second chance to live his life. But his legs were weak and unused to walking far, and after so long without food in his belly he had little strength for a fight.
Run, the warlord had said, and run he would.
Beyond the camp, the flames of the great fire spun a swirl of glittering sparks up towards the stars. Bursts of song still rolled out, but the jubilation he had heard earlier had all but ebbed away. Soon the feast would be over and the drunken warriors would be staggering back to their tents to sleep off their stupor.
Picking a path among the guy ropes, the Viking crept away. Barely had he gone more than a few steps when he felt his neck prickle. Looking back, he saw a mountainous figure silhouetted against the glare of the fire. With flames flickering around the outline, the shape was moving away from the feast. Here was Karas Verinus, now ready for his butchery, he was sure of it.
Kraki ducked down, hoping the night had been dark enough to cloak him. At first nothing reached his ears, no roar commanding him to stop, no thunder of feet. But at the last tent he thought he heard something, a sigh perhaps, a whisper of footsteps. When he glanced back he glimpsed a flitting shadow in the moonlight, far away. A trick of the light, he told himself, nothing more.
Beyond the camp, the flatland seemed to stretch almost to the horizon, where a dark smudge of trees lay. It was a patchwork of dusty soil, clumps of tough yellow grass swaying in the breeze and ridges of brown rock like the fins of great fish breaking through the surface of the whale road. He could see few places to hide. Yet if he could reach the forest before dawn he could find some roots and berries to assuage his growling belly, and then he would be ready for anything.
Cursing his weakened legs, he broke into a loping run. His chest was soon burning from exertion. What a ghost of himself he had become. Trussed up for too long, beaten and abused, and deprived of sound sleep. When he reached the nearest slab of rock he paused to catch his breath. Looking back towards the camp, he stiffened.
A figure was moving across the wide expanse with a steady gait, relentless, remorseless, hunting. As Kraki watched, he realized this was not Karas. His pursuer was smaller, and slight of frame. It was the boy, it could be no other, the mad, blood-crazed boy who was not a boy. The Viking cursed again. A boy! But he was too weakened to face even that savage. He was a sheep being pursued by a wolf.
Blinking the stinging sweat from his eyes, he weaved among the rocky outcroppings, hoping the lad would lose sight of him. But every time he reached another open stretch, he saw Justin closing upon his heels.
The forest seemed to draw no nearer. He imagined the boy with his knife, leaping around him. A cut here, a cut there, his blood draining away into the dust, until finally he would collapse. And then that moon-faced bastard would fall upon him.
Kraki roared his anger. All the battles he had fought, all the enemies he had defeated, and his days would be ended by a mere boy.
And then he felt his feet fly out from under him. Sweat-blinded, he had not seen the hollow. Down the slope he flew, turning in the air. With a crash that drove the breath from his lungs, he slammed into the earth, rolled and came to a halt looking up at the edge.
The boy reared up there. His blade glinted in the moonlight.
Raising his huge hands, Kraki snarled, ‘These are waiting to choke the life out of you. Feed them!’
Justin showed no fear, no emotion of any kind. Then, even as he swung up his blade, other shapes seemed to rise up from the very land around him.
The boy paused, looked around.
Kraki shook the surprise from his head. For the second time that night, he had been dumbfounded by a sudden appearance. They were Turks, he saw, each one armed with a sword.
‘God smiles upon you, my friend,’ a familiar voice boomed. Suleiman was standing on the other side of the hollow, grinning. ‘But I would not have thought you to flee from a mere stripling.’
‘Wait!’ the Viking urged as the warriors closed in on Justin. ‘Take care—’
The boy lashed out with his knife. Blood gushed from the throat of the nearest warrior. The man’s hands clutched for the wound, his wide eyes showing his disbelief that such a thing could have happened.
Roaring as one, the Turks whirled their swords, but they were too late. The beast was already gone, sprinting away into the night.
His face now grim, Suleiman helped Kraki to his feet. ‘Karas Verinus has been the bane of all Seljuks, slaughtering us like cattle whenever we dared walk on the land he claimed. It seems his foul blood has tainted the boy too.’ The commander looked towards the ruddy glow over the camp, his dark eyes glinting beneath heavy lids. ‘There will be a reckoning, make no mistake.’
‘What brings you and your men here?’
‘Since Roussel de Bailleul’s army rode out of Amaseia and Ancyra we have been watching from afar. We would know his mind.’ His grin flickered back, his eyes sparkling once more. ‘There may be some gain for us here. What say you?’
Kraki grunted. ‘Spoils aplenty, I would wager.’
‘Good, good.’ Suleiman clapped an arm across the Viking’s shoulder and added cheerily, ‘And what for you now, my friend? You have your freedom again. Do you return to Constantinople and be a running dog for the Romans? Or let God’s wind carry you to a new life?’
Kraki looked to the west. He thought of England and Acha. He thought of the peace he could find once the ache in his chest had been assuaged. And he remembered Roussel de Bailleul’s wise words. Here was the crossroads. The choice was his.
CHAPTER FORTY
SHAFTS OF SUNLIGHT punched through the forest canopy. Shadows flashed around them as shrieking birds took wing from the branches. Three men weaved among the trees, their breath rasping as they leapt gnarled roots. Their grim gaze was fixed on the green world ahead. At their backs, dark shapes swept through the half-light. The ground throbbed with the beat of hooves.
Sweat-slick in the baking heat of midday, Hereward grimaced. Would there never be any respite? Would the running never end?
Maximos skidded down a bank and snarled his ankle in a loop of bramble. With a curse, he crashed on to the soft leaf-mould, only to roll and come back to his feet without missing a step.
‘It is Drogo Vavasour, I tell you. He has found our trail,’ Alexios gasped as he ducked a low-hanging branch.
‘Save your breath,’ Hereward snapped. They could not keep this pace up
for much longer. Their legs burned from weariness and they were near-starved.
Since they had left Malakopea-above, striking out west, only morsels had passed their lips. They had trapped wildfowl when they could, but the meat was never enough to fill their bellies. They had torn out edible roots and gnawed them, and they had begged at the only dwelling they had passed, a small farm where the wife looked terrified when they appeared at her door. A knob of bread had been the reward for their pleadings. That had been a mistake. He felt sure the woman had set these dogs on their trail. Drogo and his war-band or Turks, it mattered little. They would still end up dead.
A whistle rang out. Their pursuers had them in their sights.
Hereward’s eyes darted, but he could see only the seemingly endless forest. Nowhere that offered them any advantage.
A figure bobbed up from the wall of blackthorn ahead of him. Maximos cried out in surprise. The Mercian’s hand flashed to his sword. Before he could draw it, a voice called out, ‘Hold. It is I.’
Hereward skidded to a halt. He could scarcely believe his eyes. Maximos and Alexios slowed, then stopped to gape at the nut-brown, gap-toothed face grinning at them.
Herrig the Rat bounded out from his hiding place and snickered. ‘I have seen a wounded boar cover its tracks better than you.’
Behind them, the sounds of pursuit ebbed away. Hereward turned to the line of horsemen. Familiar faces grinned down at him.
‘Did you think we would abandon you? We roamed across these godforsaken lands for days until we found your trail,’ Guthrinc called, his face ruddy from the exertion.
The Mercian looked along the ranks, taking in Hengist, Sighard, Hiroc the Three-fingered and the rest, with a few Athanatoi taking up the rear. He was more than delighted to see they had all survived.
Slipping down from his mount, Guthrinc strode over and with a hearty laugh swept Hereward up in a bear-hug. ‘You might be a great war-leader these days, but I could still hang you upside down from the branches as I did when you were a lad.’