The Red Oath

by Jerry Autieri

  “I’d be anxious for my family as well,” Yngvar said. “This will test their loyalty to you, Bjorn.”

  “Me?” Bjorn sat back, all humor gone from his face. “I don’t want to lead men, especially not them.”

  “We don’t always get to choose these things,” Yngvar said. “You are your father’s heir. If Nordbert is as loyal as you say, then he will obey you. Or he’ll obey me because of his loyalty to you. Let’s sit him down and talk.”

  Nordbert joined them, sitting between Bjorn and Thorfast, opposite of Yngvar and Alasdair. His small eyes were narrower and more doubtful than earlier in the day when he celebrated the unclaimed treasure just over the horizon.

  Yngvar explained his promise to Staurakius and the circumstance that led to it. Nordbert listened attentively, but showed no expression even when he learned they would be in Pozzallo through the start of winter. Once Yngvar completed is explanation, he folded his hands on the table between them.

  “So, Nordbert, my friend, I must ask for your patience and the obedience of your crew. A rich reward awaits us all at the end.”

  Nordbert gave a slight nod, his expression never wavering. His eyes drifted off to his own mental calculations. Yngvar noted how his head tilted toward the crew, laughing and eating as if they had already returned home. At last, Nordbert sighed.

  “Is there really as much gold on that island as you say?”

  “There is,” Yngvar said. “I swear it to you by your god and mine. May they all strike me dead if I lie.”

  “It is the truth,” Alasdair said. “But the gold is also cursed.”

  He lowered his head and fell silent. Yngvar closed his eyes at his own shame for having nearly killed his dearest friend over the gold hidden on that island.

  “It is the hoard of an ancient king. I believe he has cursed his gold because all that men remember of him is the wealth he left behind, but his name is forgotten. If we learn his name and proclaim his glory once again, he will release his gold to us.”

  Yngvar looked around the table, meeting everyone’s eyes. Only Ewald looked away, not understanding the Norse speech.

  “Sounds fucking impossible,” Bjorn said. “Ain’t like we can go ask his mother.”

  “One problem at a time,” Yngvar said. He looked back to Nordbert. “There is gold and it will be for all of us to share. There is so much there no man who joins me on that island will ever want for gold again. But before that, can I count on you and your men to obey me? We must spend another season here.”

  “Many won’t like it,” Nordbert said, looking over his shoulder at the crew. “But I’ll keep the complainers silent. They know how far we are from home. No one can realistically expect to return before winter even if our hull was intact.”

  Yngvar rose and extended his arm. Nordbert, though a Frank, understood the gesture and grasped Yngvar’s forearm and shook.

  “Let them have their morning,” Nordbert said. “I will make sure they are all clear before we settle for the night.

  The Frankish captain wandered back to his crew, reseated himself among the cheerful lot. Someone slapped his back.

  “I hope his men will still love him as much after they get the news,” Yngvar said.

  Bjorn belched again, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry for him. He’s a hero to his crew. And Nordbert’s a good man. You won’t have troubles with them.”

  Yngvar slouched against the table, sharing a relieved smile with Alasdair.

  “That was far simpler than I thought,” he said. “Now we will do our part, and the commander will rebuild our ship as he promised. Hopefully this battle in Messina will end in the Byzantine’s favor. If it does, he might lend us soldiers willing to attack Licata for whatever they can carry off.”

  “It’s a fair plan,” Thorfast said. “But it is not in our control. If that battle goes poorly, then what of us? What if the ship is not completed by then?”

  “That’s my task,” Yngvar said. “I will ensure there is no delay in repairing our ship. We must be ready to leave if things go poorly. At worst, we will steal one of their ships. Rowing is rowing. How hard can it be to navigate one of their ships?”

  Hamar seemed to want to answer the question, but Yngvar stood and put his hand on Alasdair’s shoulder.

  “We need to report back to the commander. Let’s tell him the good news. The rest of you, stay here until I can sort out the details of what we need to do.”

  “I thought we’re going to stand on the wall and spit on Arab spies when they get too close?” Thorfast stood and adjusted his baldric across his chest. “I’ll go have a look at those walls. Anyone want to go with me?”

  “It’s not a good idea to wander around right now,” Yngvar said. “The commander needs to address the men and make this arrangement an official order.”

  Thorfast looked at him as if he had spoken a foreign language. Yngvar gently guided him back to his seat. After that, he left them behind in the dining hall.

  “Lord, do you think the Byzantines will win at Messina?”

  They crossed the short space of the parade ground. Across the bright slash of tan sand their ship sat at dry dock aside a larger, higher-sided Byzantine ship. Curious soldiers in red tunics were poking around the longship.

  “Lately you ask questions as if Odin’s ravens bring news of the world to me rather than him. How would I know? Arab and Byzantine both are bigger and stronger armies than any I’ve seen before, except those at Vin Heath. Their ships are too big to float, but they do. When two giants battle on equal ground, who can say who will win. The Byzantines are counting on surprise. I don’t know how they can hide so many huge ships. So we must be ready to move if the Byzantines fall.”

  They had crossed into the main fortress, entered the stone building and were now crossing to the wooden stairs that led up to the war room. A soldier was tramping down them, his heavy boots thudding against the wood.

  The solider wore a red tunic, but a white stripe across its hem denoted him as a file leader. Given he was an officer of a sort, Yngvar deferred to him, stepping aside and saluting. Alasdair did the same. No need to increase tensions now that he had assured the obedience of his companions to Byzantine military structure.

  The file leader did not return the salute, a stinging insult if you were a Byzantine soldier. For Yngvar’s part, he decided he would remember the bastard. If trouble came from someone, it would be a fool like him.

  They bounded up the stairs. Yngvar heard voices behind the closed doors to the war room. No guard stood outside, and Yngvar paused.

  “There’s always a guard here,” he said, glancing back down the murky stairs. The hallway was empty. The room next door was Valgerd’s tiny quarters. Down the hall was the commander’s chamber.

  “Perhaps he was called inside,” Alasdair said. “Should we knock first?”

  Yngvar shook his head. Something was wrong. Something smelled familiar. Hot and sweet and—

  Bloody.

  He snatched the doors open.

  Two soldiers stood over Commander Staurakius, who was unarmored and spread out over his map table, face up.

  One soldier held his head by the temples.

  The other sawed through his neck with a long dagger. Blood was still pumping from the commander’s ravaged throat to patter on the wooden floor. His eyes stared glassy and empty at the ceiling.

  7

  Blood sprayed into the air as one of the two soldiers steadying Commander Staurakius’s corpse sawed furiously with a long knife. Yngvar blinked, trying to understand the scene before him. The two soldiers wore bright red tunics and standard issue clothing. No armor, no helmets, no swords. Their dark faces were splattered with blood from their grizzly work. The one sawing at the commander’s neck did not stop. He simply flicked his head toward Yngvar and spoke a clipped command to his accomplice steadying the commander’s head.

  The other soldier smoothly stepped back from the head. He reached into the folds
of his tunic.

  Yngvar sprang.

  His hand went to his dagger hilt, which was long enough to serve as a sword. His longsword would avail him nothing in a small room. His first bound landed on the heavy floorboards, thudding and sagging under the impact.

  The dagger snapped out of its sheath. Yngvar’s face was wreathed in heat from his rage. He glimpsed the commander’s head dropping back unnaturally as the other soldier carved at the sinews holding it to his shoulders.

  His next step landed in blood.

  He slid forward into a split that threatened to tear the muscles of his legs and crotch.

  In the same instant, the other soldier had withdrawn something other than a dagger. Instead, he held a small pipe.

  Putting it to his mouth, he aimed it at Yngvar as he crashed to the ground. The soldier blew and a black power exploded into a cloud over Yngvar’s head.

  As he skidded to his side, a fine powder landed over him. His face suddenly felt aflame. His eyes burned and sprung tears like a forest spring. His nostrils burned and his nose responded with a blast of snot that tangled in his mustache and beard.

  He screamed, putting both hands to his face. He could not resist the reaction. If he could have clawed his face off, he would have. Anything to end the sizzling burn invading his head. His gasps caught more of the power, a hot pepper that scorched his throat. He was as good as dead, lying helpless at his enemy’s feet.

  Only the expected stab did not come.

  As he writhed on the wooden floor, he realized he was grinding himself into the commander’s blood. The thought sickened him yet lent him strength to avenge his lord.

  The cloud had not just disabled him. He heard Alasdair coughing and cursing on the floor behind him. Even the soldiers shouted at each other, one voice clearly choking through the cloud that had spread through the room.

  But then he heard a thump and a shout of triumph.

  The commander’s head must have been finally taken. Yngvar’s hands sought the long knife he had dropped. His blood- and snot-slicked fingers found the hilt and he gathered it into his hand.

  The two soldiers again spoke in low tones. The burning had faded, and Yngvar strained to hear their mumbled plans.

  But they were not speaking Greek.

  “Arabs,” he choked out of his burning throat. “Alasdair, don’t let them …”

  He ended the command coughing. Alasdair did not answer him.

  Yngvar heard the two men moving toward the door. His eyes were swollen shut. But the man who had launched the burning powder had to move past him. Yngvar felt the air shift as he did.

  Like a viper, he struck.

  No more the weak and worn man he had been after so long a slave, he exploded with power. Long years of holding both tiller and sword had forged his hands into iron grips. He locked his free hand to the leg of the fleeing Arab.

  With his knife hand, he shot the blade up until soft flesh stopped it.

  The Arab squealed and rolled aside. He kicked Yngvar’s face. Whether his nose had broken or the force of the kick had dislodged more snot, Yngvar reeled back with blood and sputum smeared over his face. Sharp pain spread over the burning, but Yngvar held onto both the Arab’s leg and the dagger.

  He stabbed again. Once more striking soft flesh.

  But a terrible pain shot through his hand. A blade had scored across the back of his hand, dislodging his grip.

  In that instant, the Arab scrambled away and fled.

  Yngvar desperately tried to open his eyes. But he was blinded. He tried to pry his lids apart, but suffered only blurry vision.

  “Lord,” Alasdair coughed. “I … cannot see.”

  At least Alasdair was not dead.

  “Stop him,” he said. But he heard the ragged gait of the other Arab as he stumbled out of the room.

  “Alarm.” Alasdair managed to squeeze the word between his hacking.

  He padded around with his hands, splashing in warm blood no matter where he reached. His eyes felt as if they would never open again. He had to raise an alarm. The commander himself often carried a horn. Whether he would have one in his war room was unlikely. Yngvar’s fingers bent against one of the table legs, and soon he had clawed up to his feet though still blind. Nothing came to hand as he patted around the table.

  But an alarm did sound.

  “They’ve been spotted,” Yngvar said, surprised he could finish a sentence through his swollen throat. Those traitors would be unmistakable being slathered with blood and carrying a bloody head.

  Relieved, Yngvar slipped to the floor. He heard heavy boots slamming against the stairs below. Muffled shouts echoed beyond the room. A dozen men or more were racing toward them.

  Rubbing his face only worsened the burning. He would have his sold his sword arm for a tub of cold water. So he just slumped against the table and waited.

  The soldiers burst into the room. Their collective gasps filled his ears.

  “No!” one of the guards shouted. He was the first to tramp into the room. “Bastards!”

  “Did you catch them?” Yngvar asked. He felt the soldier standing over him, but his eyes were sealed with thick tears.

  He was dragged to the ground and a blade set against his neck. The cold edge threatened to break through his skin.

  “Kill them both!” one of the others shouted. “Avenge the commander.”

  Yngvar pulled back from the blade, its edge nicking his flesh. The soldier, however, had not struck to kill him. He had not even moved.

  “Are you mad?” Yngvar asked. “Did you not see—”

  Coughs cut short his question. He folded over and tried to clear his throat.

  Other of the soldiers began to cough as well. The one closest to him cursed.

  “What is this foulness? It burns my eyes.”

  “We were ambushed,” Alasdair said. His voice had recovered better than Yngvar’s. “Two Arabs disguised as soldiers.”

  But he devolved into choking and coughing.

  “Kill them,” the other voice urged. “They’ve been our enemies all along. Kill them before they can lead their men against us.”

  Yet a calmer voice prevailed. “By God, let’s get them out of here. Can’t fucking breathe for the blood and the poison in the air. You two, secure Yngvar. And you others, get the lad.”

  “Don’t fight,” Yngvar said in his hoarse and squealing voice. The guards were understandably confused. To resist would only worsen their situation.

  The soldier beside him stepped on Yngvar’s sword hand. Two others raised him off the ground, then folded his arms behind his back. They dragged him from the room, just beyond the door. The freshness of the air was immediately soothing. He waited patiently until the guards found leather bindings for his hands.

  His eyelids began to peel open. He wrestled through until he could see blurry shapes moving around him. He saw blobs of red tunics with Alasdair between them. He blinked harder, trying to clear out his eyes. Blobs began to resolve into clearer shapes. Vision was slowly returning, the irritants in his eyes washed away with the violent eruption of tears.

  The soldiers tugged at his arms to lead him toward the stairs. He resisted, for he wanted to see what the soldiers had found. Inside the room, he saw the commander’s headless body. His head was set on the war table, facing the door. His eyes were wide with shock. A stream of thin blood like a pink ribbon trickled from the table onto the floor.

  The Arab imposters had not taken the head. Why had they gone through all the effort? They had nearly been caught in the attempt. Had he foiled some other plan without even realizing it?

  “Come on,” the guard said. “Didn’t you see enough of that when you were killing him?”

  “I did not murder the commander,” Yngvar said. He coughed, but the fresh air was a balm to his throat as well. “Where’s his—”

  “Fuck you!” A soldier, no, a file leader, bolted toward him. Held between two soldiers, hands tied, Yngvar could not dodge the small dagger th
at the file leader plunged at his gut.

  But the soldier beside him caught the file leader’s wrist then forced it down. “Sir! You can’t kill him without a trial. Let’s not make matters worse.”

  “You fucking shit!” the file leader shouted as he whirled on the soldier. He pulled free and brandished the knife at his subordinate. “Maybe you’re on the wrong fucking side? You helping these barbarians?”

  Though his heart raced, Yngvar stared hard at the file leader. This was not the one he had seen tramping down the stairs just before he and Alasdair discovered the murder. Who was that man? He wished he knew the regular soldiers better. Yet he was a better friend to Lucas the Byzantine and his former companions in the slave units.

  “Sir,” the soldier said calmly. “Men might accuse you of covering up something if you kill them without a trial. We’re all witnesses, sir. We will see justice done.”

  Yngvar fought to keep his eyes open. Every moment the terrible burn eased and faded away. Alasdair stood defiantly between his captors, but seemed as small as a boy beside the armored men. Yngvar looked past him to where Valgerd’s room was. Though his vision was dull and blurry, he swore he spotted Valgerd peering between a crack in the door. That door, he remembered, had been closed when they first arrived.

  “Take them to the cells,” said another. This man was also a file leader. Two had come to answer the alarm. Yngvar looked to both. One of them must have been the one he had encountered on the stairs, but neither man made much of an impression. “We’ll have to sort this out. Make sure the gates are closed, and let’s get the other barbarians rounded up while they’re in the dining hall.”

  “They’re fucking armed,” shouted the other file leader. “You want to go take their swords away? Fucking mad, you are. It’s going to end in a fight, so we should just kill them now while we can surprise them.”