“Hurry,” Lucia said, beside her. “You’re too slow.”
“I’m going as fast as I can,” Valgerd said. She fumbled with the next key, but Lucia had decided she could do better and tried to snatch them away. All the keys fell to the stone floor in a clump.
“Damn you, Lucia! Now I don’t know which I’ve tried already.”
Yngvar bit his lip. An outburst now would not help. The two girls were already pushed beyond their limits. Instead he glanced up the stairs. For now he saw no danger. But if Valgerd was pursued, then the soldiers could not be far behind.
“Try the longer keys first,” he said. “Short keys would not fit this lock so well. Lucia, let her work please.”
Lucia pouted but stepped back. Valgerd sorted through keys on the ring, frowning at some until she selected a long key of black iron. She stuck it into the lock and twisted.
The tumblers clicked and the grate door rattled. She looked up with her blue eyes shining with victory. Yngvar smiled and started to open the cell door.
The Romans burst through the upstairs door with a roar. They tramped down the stairs. The soldier in the lead had drawn his short sword. He paused at seeing Valgerd and pointed his blade at her. Two more followed, though one in the rear seemed to struggle with something. He had not fully descended.
“Lock it again,” the lead soldier ordered. “And step back.”
Valgerd looked to Yngvar. He had barely pulled the door open. He nodded to Valgerd.
“Do as he says,” he said in Frankish. “But don’t close this door. We’ll take it from here.”
She lowered her head and twisted the key again so tumblers clicked and fell. She withdrew the key and stepped back. Yngvar held the locked door so that it seemed closed. After Lucia and Valgerd stepped back, the lead Roman approached. The one in the rear shouted a curse at someone.
“So you thought to escape justice?” The soldier now stood before the door. He was short with a wide head and haughty eyes. He sneered at Yngvar. “This just proves you killed the commander. You wouldn’t need to escape if you were truly innocent.”
Yngvar looked back to Bjorn and the rest. They gave no expression, though Yngvar saw the determination in Bjorn’s one eye. He turned back to the guard.
“I did not kill the commander,” he said. “But I cannot say that I didn’t kill anyone.”
He pulled the door open and stepped aside. The Roman’s eyes widened with shock. Years of drilling had trained him well, though, and he sprang back with his sword ready.
Only he was in a small corridor. He crashed against the unyielding stone wall behind him as Bjorn charged out with his own short sword. With a roar, he slammed it through the soldier’s gut. His chain armor was of no use. Bjorn’s might drove the sword through the chain as if he were cutting a through a bride’s dress. The soldier gasped, dropped his own sword, then grabbed at the sword through his guts.
Hamar and Nordbert followed and the two overtook the next guard. They drove him to the floor as they stabbed down with their swords. Yngvar drew his dagger and pushed past the three. The hall was filled now, and he had to lurch over the bodies to reach the final soldier.
But the Byzantine had already stumbled while trying to retreat. One of the commander’s slaves was clinging to his leg. Apparently this had tripped him and he now sprawled out on the stairs.
Yngvar rose to strike, but the girl wrapped around his leg opened her eyes and held out a hand.
“Don’t kill him!”
He stopped and looked at the soldier. He was young and fearful. His face was slathered in red pimples. The slave girl had a matching rash on her face as well.
“Do you surrender?” Yngvar asked the soldier. He nodded vigorously.
“Lock him in the cell,” Yngvar said to Bjorn, who had just stood up from his slain foe. “Let’s not kill more men than we need to win the day.”
Bjorn hauled the soldier and the girl clinging to his leg off the stairs. In moments fortunes had reversed. Yngvar and all the others were outside the cell and the single Byzantine was inside. His two companions bled out onto the stone hall.
Alasdair had joined Valgerd, hugging and kissing her while Lucia looked on in resentment. Yngvar laughed, then called out to the excited Franks gathered in the hall.
“Thorfast and Ragnar have led the slaves to capture the main fortress. Once we leave the tower, grab whatever weapon you can and follow me. We do not fight to destroy them. We want as many alive and siding with us as we can. But if they will not accept peace, then we will give them death. Remember, the slaves are our allies. Together we will match the Byzantines man for man. Now, let’s go!”
Yngvar’s feet were light as he charged up the stairs and out of the tower. His heart soared alongside his spirit. For now was the hour of battle side by side with his Wolves. He regretted it was against men he would rather have been sword brothers. But the gods had decided it should not be so. If anything, by day’s end he would be on the path back to Licata and revenge. From there, he would pluck the riches of this land then leave it forever.
The humid air greeted him with salty freshness. Even a clean and unused cell was full of stale air. The number of men imprisoned had worsened the stench. Now he drew sharp and clear breaths. Across the parade ground the red tunics of the soldiers were clear. Every man in the fortress had assembled before the stairs of the building where the commander and his officers spent most of their days.
The cart with their weapons neatly stacked was just a few strides distant.
He lifted aside swords, handing them back to men who reached out eagerly for them. He searched for the sword Commander Staurakius had awarded him. It was not as fine as the weapon he had lost to Prince Kalim, but it was still a personal treasure that he wished to carry to battle. He found it in Alasdair’s hands and almost given to one of the Franks. Yngvar plucked it away for himself.
The rearming of his crew did not go unnoticed by the soldiers. Yet the warring sides were intent that neither of them would turn their back to the other. So they watched helplessly as Yngvar’s crew rearmed.
“Thorfast is in there,” Bjorn said, nodding to the building. “Got the rest of the slaves. Time to let him know we’re here.”
“I suspect those who killed the commander will fight to the end. The other side will be more agreeable to peace. Accept any surrender. We all need to be together against the Arabs.”
Yngvar had never fought with these Franks. They might be descended from Norsemen, but unlike himself they likely did not hold to the old ways. He hoped they still understood the basics of a shield wall and mutual protection. If they all ran off after individual soldiers, the Byzantines would destroy them.
They marched as a line with Yngvar at the lead. At his flanks were Bjorn and Alasdair. Gyna and her nephew were directly behind. Though the young Saxon mumbled his few words of Norse to complain about his position.
The two groups of soldiers began to assemble into something resembling their former fighting units. Yet soldiers had found themselves on different sides now and their squad mates were scattered. This was Yngvar’s single advantage. He stopped short, wishing he had a shield. The Byzantines would throw their spears before launching an attack, and it could be devastating.
“Commander Staurakius is dead,” Yngvar shouted. “And I have been unjustly accused of his murder. Two Arabs disguised as soldiers killed him with the help of one of you. I can prove my claim, if you would stand down from your fighting.”
The largest group was led by the second in command, Captain Alexius. He stood at the front of his soldiers and glared at Yngvar. Unsurprisingly, at his side stood the file leader who had confronted Yngvar over the commander’s corpse. He nearly charged forward, sputtering and raising his fist.
“You little bastard! You’ll prove your innocence? I saw you covered in the commander’s blood. Don’t listen to him, boys, he’s a liar and the one who attacked us earlier this summer. I know it!”
The smaller gr
oup produced no leader. But the gray-haired file leader who had been so encouraging to him earlier emerged. Blood had dried on his face, making him seem far less friendly than earlier in the day.
“Put down your weapons,” he said. “This is not a matter for your interference. I promised a fair trial after all this was finished.”
Yngvar smiled. Without looking away he spoke Frankish to Alasdair.
“When all this was finished, he says. At the time he promised that trial, nothing like this was expected. Somehow, I think our real enemy is the smaller camp and our potential allies are the ones who hate us most.”
“Sounds like the most complicated possibility, lord. Therefore, it must be so.”
“The gods are ever playful,” he said. Then he called out to his men. “Concentrate on the smaller group. They are the real enemies.”
Both groups of Byzantines had now turned to face Yngvar, deciding that the slaves in the fort were no longer the main threat. Many moved to reunite with soldiers from the other side. But a clear divide remained.
Yngvar knew the smaller force wished him to weaken their larger enemy.
“Bjorn, you’ve got the loudest voice. Fetch Thorfast for us.”
His mighty, one-eyed cousin drew a deep breath then shouted for Thorfast.
In the same instant, Yngvar raised his sword and charged.
Years of drilling and discipline drew each group of Byzantines into ordered ranks. They had no chance to throw spears without leaving themselves open to Yngvar’s charge. What they might gain in an initial kill would be swept away in the next breath when off-balance soldiers met the charge.
The roar of the Franks shook the walls of Pozzallo. Yngvar steered them left, knowing that as the larger group tried to fold around their right flank, Thorfast would emerge to draw them back. The Byzantines were about to be pressed on both sides.
The rectangular iron shields raised to meet him as he crossed the final distance. They would try to fight in shifts, but the rear ranks would be forced to fight as well. There were not enough soldiers here to form a proper fighting rotation.
Yngvar slammed his shoulder into a shield. He did not bother to strike. The goal of his front line was to smash open the Byzantine shield wall and let the men behind sink their blades into the exposed middle, like cracking a crab’s shell to spill its guts.
The iron shield thumped against his body, but he was bigger and stronger than the man facing him. He felt it give and heard the soldier curse behind it.
Bjorn was like a boulder flung from a giant’s hand. He smashed into the front line, scattered men like so many broken branches, and waded into the center. His blade already came back red.
“Support him!” Yngvar called out. “He’ll win the day for us.”
Of course, the Franks were loyal to Bjorn. Seeing their lord crashing heedlessly into a solid line of shields emboldened them. Nordbert struggled to follow in Bjorn’s footsteps.
Over the black plumed helmets of the Byzantines, Yngvar saw the fortress doors had opened. Thorfast and Lucas the Byzantine were the first two out. They carried small round shields and short swords. Lucas had fitted himself with a coat of mail. The rest of the slave warriors were behind them.
“Look to your rear,” Yngvar shouted. “You are defeated!”
The Byzantines had no heart for this fight. Though individual soldiers held their own private grudges against them, and Yngvar knew those would have to be slain or there would never be peace for him.
With the smaller force broken open by Bjorn’s charge and the larger force now plucked back to face the threat from their rear, Yngvar pressed toward the file leaders. Shields and swords warded him away at every turn. But one of his men would brush them aside. Gyna had scaled atop a shield and now drove the soldier down with her own body weight as she stabbed at his face. Ewald fought beside her, having captured an enemy shield to defend his aunt’s flank. Alasdair slid alongside Yngvar, using his short height to jab beneath enemy shields.
At last Yngvar found his file leader, the gray-haired man who had seemed so fair. His face was now ruined with hatred.
“You fucking bastard! You can’t win.”
“But I am,” he said. “And you can’t put your new commander in charge. Alexius will rule.”
His guess must have been accurate, for the file leader flung himself after Yngvar. The soldiers around him cheered then cleared a space for what they must have expected to be an awesome battle.
The file leader moved with speed and grace belying his age. He was a wily veteran who knew a hundred tricks to take down his foe.
He feinted left, then twisted to strike right.
Yngvar laughed.
The Byzantine’s sword clanged against his own.
Yngvar slid his blade down the length of the short sword. His weapon was heavier and stronger. The file leader staggered back.
“Traitor!” Yngvar shouted.
Then he buried his sword in the file leader’s neck. It sliced through flesh to lodge in bone. Had he more momentum, the honed edge might have removed the man’s head at a stroke.
But the head tipped to the side and bright blood arced out of the fatal cut. He crumpled in death, his eyes wide with shock and fear.
Yngvar roared and held up his bloody sword.
“Another head for the mast of my ship! Which one of you is next?”
Yet the Byzantines fought no longer.
Bjorn and the Franks had turned their enemies into bloody body parts scattered on the parade ground. It was a sight that even sickened Yngvar’s iron stomach.
The Byzantines that remained recoiled from the rapid collapse of the left flank. Captain Alexius had wisely called for peace, and even wiser, Thorfast had accepted it. His men were mostly unscathed.
Yngvar stood amid the carnage and blinked. Gyna was still stabbing a man on the ground. Bjorn was wrestling with the head of another soldier, trying to snap a neck that refused to break. But the body had already gone limp. Nordbert and his men had pinned soldiers against the fort wall, their hands raised and weapons on the ground.
“We have won, lord.” Alasdair said. He stood by Yngvar’s side, a cut on his nose leaking blood. But otherwise he dripped more with sweat that held his coppery hair flat against his skull. “God be praised.”
“Yes,” Yngvar said, scratching his head. “Victory. But for how long?”
13
Prince Kalim inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. Now this was the perfect scent he sought. At last, a slave had mastered this technique. He would have to find him and ensure he tended to this duty each day. The sweet, flowery notes cleared his mind and focused his thoughts. He held his eyes closed a moment longer. Beyond the confines of the polished stone floors of his audience chamber he heard the patter of a dozen servants in the halls. No doubt they prepared the evening meal.
He felt the presence of his four guards beside him. They were hulking beasts who could snap a man’s head from his shoulders as easily as a flower is plucked from its stem. All four of them stood close, or as close as decorum dictated. He mustn’t seem fearful for his life, even when dealing with men who take lives as a profession.
Kalim opened his eyes. The audience chamber was dim with low-burning brass lamps. These twinkled like old friends winking at him from the walls around the room. Pillows stacked at his feet were all he had to remind him of his beautiful women. They had no place in this meeting. But he wished to see them again. Perhaps before the evening meal and then again after. He could not have enough of his women.
“Your Highness.” The assassin before him bent low. He had dressed in plain robes of dark gray and wore a matching head cover. His beard was pointed and finely trimmed. Some women might enjoy the deep lines carved into his hollow cheeks, or the dark danger lurking in his eyes. He was a rugged man built from hardship and depravation. A cloak of mystery enveloped him, and Kalim guessed he must draw women like bees to lemon blossoms. Fortunately, he did not have to compete with such a man. Wo
men loved him for his status and power. It was enough.
He struggled to keep a smile from his face. it would not do to seem overeager, no matter how much excitement he felt. The assassin carried a black sack that must contain Commander Staurakius’s head.
“Tell me of your success,” he said. He straightened up in his chair, trying to appear taller and grander before the killer. Such men unsettled him. Were his brutes not at his side, he might avoid meeting directly with such a man at all.
The assassin’s dark eyes shifted slightly, even though he smiled. Was that fear? What could bring fear to such a man, Kalim wondered. Certainly only failure would warrant any worry on the assassin’s part. Had he failed, he would never have been foolish enough to return. Kalim raised a brow.
“Commander Staurakius is dead,” he said.
Kalim began to clap. He could not help it. He wiggled to the edge of his chair as he did, a smile tearing at his face.
“God be praised! The foul Roman is at last dead!” Kalim reached down to the leather sack hidden behind the front leg of his throne. He slid it out so that the gold coins clinked as the sack dragged into view.
The assassin bowed low.
“Now you will present me his head,” Kalim said.
Here the assassin again flinched. He reached into the sack. Now it seemed nearly empty. His hand fished around until he withdrew something Kalim could not see. The assassin held it in both hands and stepped forward with the object raised high.
Kalim’s smile fell. This was not a head.
“It is the commander’s finger, and on it is his personal signet ring, Your Highness. If it pleases you, examine the ring and you will see it belongs to him alone.”
Kalim’s nose wrinkled at the stubby, dirty roll of flesh sitting on the assassin’s palm. A silver ring crusted with blood reflected a lamp flame at him.
“This could be anyone’s finger. The ring could be fake.”
The assassin’s head remained bowed, but Kalim saw the color come to his face.
“Your Highness, I assure you this is the finger of Commander Staurakius. I give you my solemn word that I have killed him myself. He was not easy to access without aid. I fear my partner was killed trying to escape. But know, Your Highness, that my entire professional reputation relies on faithfully carrying out my orders. I would not return to you unless the commander was dead.”
The Red Oath Page 12
