Hereward 05 - The Immortals

by James Wilde

  The Norman commander seemed to care little about the man who had been proclaimed emperor. That was good, Hereward thought. As he listened to Guthrinc dragging the Caesar away, he raised his own sword, ready to buy his friend time.

  His men needed no order. As one, they rushed their enemies, spears thrusting. Drogo’s men broke line, using their shields to bat away the iron tips so that they could lash out with their axes. The dance rolled out among the tents.

  Hereward locked eyes with Vavasour. The Norman had hungered for this moment for years. He would not back down.

  ‘You have left a trail of misery in your miserable life,’ Drogo said. ‘It must end now.’

  ‘I am wiser now than the man who took your brother’s head,’ the Mercian replied, ‘but still I would do it again. Good English folk suffered his torments. He deserved his punishment.’

  Vavasour gritted his teeth, his anger burning hot. Lowering his shoulders, he narrowed his eyes and prepared to attack.

  ‘But you would do well to learn a lesson here,’ Hereward continued. ‘Every man is the sum total of his days gone by. They shape us for better or worse. But do not let them live on in your heart, or they will poison you.’

  Drogo spat. Barely had the mouthful of phlegm hit the dust than he lunged. Hereward was ready for him. Whipping up his sword, he parried the strike. A trail of sparks glittered.

  A blood-lust seemed to descend upon Vavasour and he thundered in, swinging his sword to Hereward’s neck, then low, to his side. Putting his shoulder behind his shield, the Mercian felt the storm of blows jolt deep into his bones. Even in the midst of his fury, Drogo’s skill as a swordsman was clear.

  ‘Once I have slain you here, and pissed on your leaking body, I will hunt down your men and slaughter them one by one,’ the Norman barked. ‘And thus will all see the true legacy of Hereward of the English – death to everyone who crossed his path.’

  The Mercian felt the flames of anger rise. His father was dead, his brother gone too. He had no personal hatred for Drogo, but he would not let days long gone claim him any more. Days yet to come were his for the taking.

  His eyes narrowing as if he could sense his enemy’s thoughts, Vavasour hacked down from the right as if he were felling an oak. Hereward easily blocked the stroke with his shield. He felt the throb of blood in his head turn to whispers, and without any doubt in his mind he summoned his devil. For too long it had been his enemy. Now he knew he had to make it friend. Hungry, it rushed into him, possessing him even as his vision closed in and all sounds of battle ebbed away. He saw a shadow cross Drogo’s face as he sensed what was coming. Perhaps it was fear. Hereward did not care.

  He would not be thwarted again.

  Wrath powered his arm. Brainbiter became a blur, the gold hilt shimmering in the hot sun.

  The world turned red.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  THE HEAD SWUNG on a strip of skin. Though the eyes rolled up white, the body lurched around on drunken legs as if it refused to believe that it was dead. Glistening rubies trailing from his axe, Kraki whirled, ready for his next foe. But there was none.

  For a moment he wavered, getting his bearings. Gradually the fog of battle began to lift. He had been lost in a frenzy of hacking and slicing for what seemed like an age. His right arm felt as heavy as one of the bibles the monks laboured over at Eoferwic. Every joint burned.

  Looking down, he saw he was standing on a mound of bodies in the centre of a red bog, steaming in the midday heat. More corpses littered the ground from the edge of the camp to where the Turks howled as they routed the remnants of Roussel de Bailleul’s army. Shielding his eyes against the glare, he watched a stream of horses sweep across the grassland towards the horizon. The Athanatoi were hounding those enemies who had already chosen to flee rather than face the judgement of the Seljuks.

  ‘Ah, you make me weary, my friend.’ The deep, honeyed voice, laced with humour, dragged his attention from the scene of carnage. ‘Breathe deep. Enjoy the sun on your face.’

  Suleiman sat on the grass, his sticky sword across his knees. A gash on his forehead trickled blood and his hair was matted, but he showed his white teeth in a broad grin.

  With the back of his hand, Kraki wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes. ‘I will rest when the battle is won.’

  ‘You have done all you can, and more. To fight alongside you as a brother has made my heart sing. So much fire in your heart! Why, there must be Turkish blood flowing in your veins.’ Suleiman looked across the battlefield and his brow furrowed. ‘We have lost many good men this day. The Normans fought as hard as I feared. But the rewards are great, perhaps greater than I ever could have imagined,’ he added, his voice brightening. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them, anticipating what was to come.

  ‘For the emperor, there was much at stake. He would have paid any price to see Roussel de Bailleul defeated.’

  ‘I am happy with my lot, my friend. I will not be greedy.’ Closing his eyes, Suleiman turned his face to the sun. ‘Only one thing remains, and then our work here is done.’

  As Kraki rested on his axe, catching his breath, he glimpsed fighting among the tents. Squinting, he realized he was watching the English crushing a group of men who had been pursuing them. Heaving with all his might, Guthrinc lifted a wriggling foe up on the end of his spear. Sighard rammed his own weapon through another chest. But as he looked on, he realized Hereward was nowhere to be seen. His chest tightened and he began to fear the worst.

  Racing into the camp, he found Guthrinc prodding his spear at the Caesar to urge him to walk towards the last line of tents. With a frown and a shake of his head, the English oak pointed back the way they had come. Kraki spat an epithet and ran on. Finally, the Viking felt a rush of relief as he caught sight of the Mercian standing at the entrance to a tent. Red, he was, slaked in blood from head to toe. His sword hung limply at his side.

  Kraki slowed his step. As if in a dream, Hereward stood unmoving, staring at a crimson mass at his feet. Only when he neared did Kraki realize it had once been a man. Worried, the Viking peered into the Mercian’s eyes, wondering if he would see the bleak stare that often haunted him after such slaughter. But for once, Hereward seemed at peace.

  ‘The battle is all but over,’ Kraki ventured, ‘and we have won.’

  Hereward nodded slowly. As he looked up, he seemed to be returning from some distant land. ‘Nothing will ever wipe away the stain of our defeat at Ely. But for the first time since we left England, I see better days within our grasp.’

  The Viking grunted to hear words that chimed with his own thoughts. ‘Within our grasp, aye, but still not there. I will raise my mead cup only when I can sink my teeth into that promise.’

  ‘A wise course.’ The Mercian sheathed his sword, examining the mess at his feet as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Drogo Vavasour chose his path. It was the wrong one. We yet live to walk our road and we will find our reward at the end of it, I know that in my heart … if we stay true, if we are prepared to fight for it, aye, and kill.’

  ‘Constantinople is a city filled with folk who would stand in our way. Would you kill them all?’

  The Mercian laughed without humour. ‘If I must. We have passed our days bowing our heads to their rules. Now we make our own.’

  Wiping the blood from his eyes, Hereward strode off towards the edge of the camp. Kraki followed. ‘I am pleased you did not flee, brother,’ the Mercian said without looking round.

  ‘The road ahead is hard, but it is the right one.’ Kraki felt Roussel de Bailleul’s words rush back into his mind. The world he had left behind still called to him, but it was like the mist and filled only with perils. He would not weaken. With his axe, he would carve out a new world, and it would be a better one.

  As they left the tents, Kraki watched a horde of whooping Turks stream towards Suleiman. As they washed away in search of victory celebrations, they left in their wake a kneeling figure, bloody and beaten, hands bound behind
its back. Roussel de Bailleul looked up at his captor as if he had never known defeat.

  ‘What now?’ the Norman warlord said. ‘You would turn me over to Emperor Michael and his running dogs so that my head can sit on a pike at the city walls?’

  Swinging his arms wide, Suleiman grinned. ‘My friend! We have feasted together. We have sung, and we have laughed. We are brothers in all but name.’

  ‘Then you will set me free?’

  The Turkish commander feigned a troubled expression. ‘But how would that be true to our friendship? You would never forgive me if we parted ways without one of us filling our hands with gold.’

  ‘Ah. The Romans are paying you well to deliver me to them.’

  ‘They have paid me well to defeat you. They would open even more coffers to see you crawling before them, I wager.’ Suleiman squatted so that he could look the other man in the eye.

  Kraki watched a silent communication pass between the two men. They both smiled.

  ‘My wife sits in Ancyra with more gold than she knows how to spend. A wise man might send a messenger to her with word on how she can rid herself of that burden,’ Roussel said lightly.

  Suleiman tapped his forehead. ‘If only I had thought of that, brother. I will make it so. For now, my men will take you to my tent where you can tend to your wounds. We will feast on hot lamb together at sunset.’ Folding his hands behind his back, the Turkish commander walked away. Without looking back, he called out, ‘And next time choose your allies better, my friend. I might not have been so easily swayed if I had not seen you in the company of that savage dog Karas Verinus.’

  ‘My thanks for the lesson, brother,’ Roussel called. ‘I will learn it well.’

  Kraki turned up his nose. This was not England. They fought their battles in strange ways here in the east. As he turned to comment upon this to Hereward, he saw that the Mercian’s hazy gaze was fixed across the glinting waters of the Bosphorus to the shining dome of the Hagia Sophia in the distance. His features had darkened.

  ‘We have won a great victory here today, but the truth will out when we return to Constantinople,’ Hereward said. ‘Falkon Cephalas waits for us like a fat spider in its web. We still have a fight on our hands.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  THROUGH THE WINDOW, the full moon silvered the rooftops of Constantinople. In the chamber, though, only a sea of shadow swelled. The ghost of a recently extinguished candle lingered in the air. After a moment, the beat of approaching footsteps broke the smothering silence. When the door creaked open, a blade of faint, flickering light hewed a path across the flagstones.

  Silhouetted against the dim glow of a distant torch, Falkon Cephalas hovered on the threshold. A muttered curse rustled out, and he stepped into his room and fumbled for the candle he knew he had lit earlier that evening.

  The door swung shut behind him, seemingly of its own accord.

  Falkon cried out in shock and whirled. The room was too dark to see anything, certainly not the hand that clamped over his mouth, nor the arm across his chest that dragged him back towards the window.

  Salih ibn Ziyad smiled, his spicy breath warming his captive’s ear. ‘Do not breathe a word,’ he whispered. And to make his point, he raised the hand pressing against Falkon’s chest. His silver knife glinted in the moonlight. From over the Roman’s shoulder, Salih watched the white of the other man’s eyes grow wider. Bringing his blade up, he pressed the tip against flesh, a touch too hard. Blood bubbled.

  ‘Once, a long time ago, a boy wandered out of the desert, half dead from thirst,’ Salih murmured, a dreamy cadence to his voice. ‘A nobleman found him and took him to the court of the great and wise caliph. The boy could not remember his own name, nor that of his father, or where his home lay. All of his days gone by were lost in the mists. And so the waif was entrusted to the care of the caliph’s greatest adviser, a man of much learning, who knew the movement of the stars, and the ways of beasts, and the herbs and spices that healed. A man, some at the court would whisper, who could summon devils and foretell what was to come, and kill with but a word.’

  Salih pressed the tip of the knife deeper still. Falkon squirmed, his cry muffled by the hand.

  ‘Over the years, the boy learned everything the adviser knew. And he became that man’s blade, bringing doom to the caliph’s enemies. He slit throats in alleys, and poured hot lead into the ears of sleeping merchants. He poisoned the emissaries of foreign powers. He became death.’

  Every fibre of Falkon’s body seemed to stiffen. Salih smiled.

  ‘I know a thousand ways to kill a man,’ he whispered, his lips almost brushing his captive’s ear. ‘Poisons without smell, or taste. Unguents that dissolve the flesh. Where to cut to bring a slow death, filled with agony. Where to slice to trap wits inside a body that will not move. Do you hear my words?’

  The Roman tried to nod, though the blade at his throat bit with each movement. Salih pulled back his hand from the other man’s mouth. His words had done their work. Falkon could not bring himself to utter even a sound.

  ‘Fortune smiles upon you,’ Salih continued. ‘I have chosen not to end your miserable life this night. But do not rest easy. One day I will come for you, when you least expect it, when you feel all is well in the world and joy lies in your heart. There is no safe place for you. Unless you heed my words, now. Leave the English be. They are not your enemies, nor are they enemies of the man you profess to serve. Do this and you may yet live to see your limbs grow feeble.’

  He pricked Falkon for a response. The Roman gave a curt nod.

  ‘And one other thing: never again must you harm a child. Disobey this command and your fate will be filled with more agonies than you can ever imagine.’ Salih gritted his teeth at the thought of all the young ones who had suffered at the Roman’s hand, but he would show no emotion. ‘Go now,’ he said. ‘Do not waste your breath calling for the guards. No trace of me will be found.’

  Salih whisked the knife away. For a moment, Falkon hesitated, scarcely able to believe that he had survived. Then he wrenched open the door and bolted along the corridor without. The door swung gently shut behind him. For a moment, Salih frowned. He had learned to judge a man by the smell of him. Too sour, too sweet, both spoke of a dark heart. Falkon smelled of nothing at all.

  ‘A boy wandered out of the desert, half dead from thirst.’ The teasing voice floated out of the shadows.

  Crooking a finger, Salih beckoned, and Ariadne stepped into a shaft of moonlight.

  ‘Three times I have heard you speak of your days gone by, and each one has been different. Where does the truth lie?’

  Salih only smiled.

  Her thin face darkening, the girl glanced over her shoulder at the door she had closed. ‘Will he heed you?’

  ‘For now. His anger will rise once he thinks on this night, but a part of him will still fear. The game he plays will continue, of that I am certain. But he has made too many enemies, too quickly, not the least among the Varangian Guard. Yet he is a clever man. He will show some caution … at least until he feels he has the upper hand.’

  Ariadne eased the door open a crack and peered out. All was quiet. The Roman had not raised the guards. Salih watched her with fondness. For so long he had dedicated his life to guiding Meghigda, the queen of the Imazighen in Afrique. But this girl had just as many wounds in her heart as Meghigda, and as much courage too. She needed him, and his wisdom. He could not turn away from that call, for God revealed his plan in strange ways.

  ‘A change has come over you,’ Ariadne said in a quiet voice, as if this notion had suddenly leapt into her head.

  ‘We all change. That is how it should be.’

  ‘You have less anger in you. After Meghigda’s death …’

  ‘After Meghigda’s death, I wanted vengeance,’ he said, ‘nothing more. But vengeance consumes the heart and leads a man away from the true path.’

  Ariadne furrowed her brow, puzzled. ‘Then we no longer hunt the Nepotes?’r />
  ‘The Nepotes will destroy themselves, by degrees. That is the nature of their lust for power. God has opened my eyes.’ Salih slipped out of the door and beckoned Ariadne to follow.

  ‘And when do you plan to tell me of this true path?’ she asked archly, one step behind him.

  ‘When you have learned the wisdom of a still tongue.’ She had fire in her heart – he liked that. But now she would need his protection more than ever. ‘Greater threats than even Falkon Cephalas are blooming in Constantinople. War is coming, any fool can see that – a war outside the city walls, and one within too. We must be ready.’

  Salih stepped down into the dark, and the girl followed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  THE FIRE ROARED up to the heavens. Billowing clouds of black smoke swept across the moon as a shower of sparks swirled across the Boukoleon palace. At the centre of the courtyard, the pyre painted an amber glow on the warriors’ downcast faces. Their reverent silence accompanied the crackle and spit of the blazing logs. Godred of the Varangian Guard was going on his final foray.

  Hereward looked along the ranks of mournful men. His head bowed, Wulfrun stood front and centre, still holding the brand with which he had lit the fire. That was both an honour and an act of the greatest respect, the Mercian knew. And with the loss of the one who had guided him, Wulfrun had now earned a burden that would crush a lesser man, the command of the emperor’s elite force. Wulfrun looked weakened by his time in captivity. His shoulders sagged and bruises still puffed his cheeks. But once he was strong again, Falkon Cephalas would have to beware. He had made a powerful enemy.

  Beside him stood Ricbert, his face like stone, and at the fringes some of the surviving Immortals, who had been invited to honour their victory in the battle against Roussel de Bailleul. Battle had wearied Tiberius. In the glare, he looked ten years older, the Mercian thought. But he held his head up with pride.