He returned the same blow but the Arab’s chain snapped under his superior Frankish blade. The foe crumpled with a wail. Yngvar slammed his hilt into the Arab’s face, then chopped across his neck to complete the kill.
A violent whirlwind of flashing iron and blood swept that narrow path. The Arabs recovered, and those still alive acquitted themselves well. Their grim faces displayed a resolution to die. They could not flee. Neither side could. There was no way down this hill without total defeat of the enemy side. The Arabs hadn’t the numbers or momentum to prevail.
In the end, one Frank was dead and all the Arabs were slain. The one that had fallen from the ledge lay sprawled over rocks not far below. His head had been dashed open.
“Take our fallen brother,” Yngvar said. “We will bury him. But we cannot remain here.”
The Franks carried their slain companion up into the rocky hills. The rain drove harder and wind began to pull at Yngvar’s pant legs. He murmured thanks to Thor for it. A storm would keep the Arabs at bay, or at least discourage a determined search.
At last he reached the seal-shaped rock. He knew this place from his short time in the field, and because Lucas the Byzantine had told him about it. A man with keen eyes could see it from Pozzallo’s walls. Though Yngvar was no longer the keen-eyed boy he was when he left Frankia years ago.
“That’s supposed to be a seal?” Gyna asked as Bjorn set her beside it.
“Seen from the right direction, it looks like a seal,” he said. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“It does,” Thorfast said, breathless and slouching against another rock. He sheathed his sword against the rain. “The other two. They’ll never find us.”
“Ran too far. The gods will have to guide them,” Yngvar said. He lifted his face to the rain to let the water cool his face. It would rust his mail shirt along with everyone else’s. But at least it would force the Arabs to consider their own armor before climbing higher into the hills.
They remained hunkered down. Gyna was afforded a small overhang of rock to shield her from the rain. But now it came in full force.
“No more Arabs today at least.” Thorfast had to shout through the hiss of the downpour. “But they have us trapped up here.”
“We’re not trapped,” Yngvar said. “At least not by the Arabs. We can’t leave the others behind in Pozzallo. We will have to find a way back to them and a way out again.”
“Ain’t no way out,” Bjorn said. “Not now. The ship’s barely ready for the open sea. And it’s not like we can carry it to the water with the Arabs surrounding everything. If we get back in, then we’re not coming out till this thing is done.”
Bjorn waved his hand impatiently toward the Arab encampment as if to explain “this thing” to everyone. Yet no one could misunderstand him, least of all Yngvar.
He leaned against the seal-shaped rock to see what he could beyond the trees. The smoke of their fires now turned white and died under the rain. Arabs scurried all around it, securing their perimeter once more. Beyond that, Pozzallo sat squat and silent as a drab block in the falling rain.
Rain soaked beneath his collar and into his shirt. He had to remove his chain armor at last. Everyone did. Without the proper supplies and time for cleaning, it would never be salvageable. Worse still, rusted links inhibited movement which was key to sword-fighting.
“Now I feel naked,” Thorfast said. His head seemed smaller with the rain flattening his hair to his skull. He stared dejected at the pile of iron chain at his feet.
“A fucking jarl’s treasure worth of mail,” Bjorn said. “All wasted.”
“We might’ve still salvaged it, lord.” Though Alasdair offered hope, he too had stripped off his armor. Though he set it neatly on a rock as if to dry it under the sun. Rain pelted off it, dirt and old oil running down the rock with the water.
“It occurred to me that the only reason we led the Arabs in that chase was because we all wore mail. Had they been dressed lighter, they’d have easily overtaken us in the open. We were lucky. Mail cannot help us with what we must do now. Keep your swords tightly sheathed, for that is what we will need most. Blades and wits.”
Ewald had apparently left while they had been removing armor. Yngvar only noticed that he had returned, and his face was bright with excitement.
“Dry place,” he said, pointing higher up the slope. “Not big, but dry. We go there and wait. Better than this.”
Ewald, bedraggled as the others, held both hands out to let the rain splash on his open palms. The sky had turned nearly dark as twilight now and his golden hair shined with the water and thin light reflecting off it.
They relocated to the dry place, as Ewald had called it. It was as if a giant had struck his ax against the face of the rocks. A massive divot allowed them to all squat beneath it out of the rain. If the wind direction changed, they might still become soaked. But for now they could shelter from the worst of the downpour.
Yngvar and Bjorn helped the other Franks cover their fallen companion with rocks. When it came time to pray over the mound, Yngvar and Bjorn returned to the shelter. God or gods were not listening now.
He mulled over their situation. Trapped outside of the fortress, his ship and the majority of his crew remained inside. Also trapped under siege were men who swore to serve him and those who looked to him as a leader. There was Valgerd and her little gathering of friends who had valiantly rescued him from imprisonment. Even if he could reach these people, the two ships they had were not wholly seaworthy. A strong storm like this could send them to the ocean floor.
Then there was his tiny band. Trapped on a small mountain with their most hated enemy camping at its foothills, they shivered with the cold of their drenched clothes. In fact, this was the first time Yngvar had felt cold since coming to Sicily. He could not even enjoy it. Gyna was injured, whether she wanted to admit it or not. Bjorn was distracted with her. Alasdair worried for Valgerd. Thorfast worried for him. Yngvar could see it in his friend’s eyes. Ewald seemed the most carefree of anyone. Yngvar envied him.
Their armor was ruined. They had no shields or helmets. They had no food or water. They had nothing but their blades and their wits.
And neither felt sharp any longer.
Yet these were just his own problems. Above this, it seemed all of Sicily was on the verge of some momentous change. A clash that would forever alter this land was perhaps only weeks away. Maybe less. The outcome could either doom him to die here or else free him to take his revenge and his freedom. No matter the outcome, he had developed a mild sympathy for the Byzantines. They did not deserve it. But they fought with honor and held a deep pride. Commander Staurakius had showed Yngvar the better side of the people he called Romans.
Even as much as Yngvar hated the Arabs, he had to admit that their warriors were brave and fought with intensity and commitment to match any Norseman. Maybe to even exceed them. For Norsemen often fled at the first signs of trouble. It was a flaw of their shield wall, for once it was broken it proclaimed to all that defeat was at hand. So they fled. Not so the Arabs, at least from what he had witnessed. Still, if he had to choose a side in this clash he was already firmly committed to the Byzantines.
If he could kill Kalim and somehow aid the Byzantines in destroying the Arabs, he would be forever happy.
“You are thinking, lord?” Alasdair sat beside him, knees tucked beneath his chin.
Yngvar looked past him, to where Bjorn lay silently beside Gyna. Ewald sat by his aunt with his hand on her shoulder. Thorfast hung his head between his legs as if in defeat. Outside, the Franks still prayed in the pouring rain.
“I am thinking,” he said. “How are we going to do all that must be done? We ought to collect this rain water. But we haven’t even a helmet to fill. I don’t think we’ve ever been as desperate as this before.”
“Lord, we’ve been held in pits and in cages. We’ve been chased across the ocean by kings bent on our murders. We have come through fires and leapt from the dec
ks of sinking ships. I believe we will find a way forward.”
Yngvar looked at Alasdair’s smooth face. His thin beard obscured his chin, but nothing obscured his hope.
“Thank you,” Yngvar said.
“Of course, lord. You just needed to be reminded.”
“No, I mean thank you for not saying God will find us a way forward.”
Alasdair’s face fell. Yngvar laughed, then Alasdair as well.
Their laughter caused Thorfast to raise his head. Gyna looked up, though Bjorn seemed to have fallen asleep.
Yngvar kept laughing, for it was a comfort. This was one more test of the gods. One final challenge before they allowed him his gold and his glory.
Their laughter cut short.
Through the splash of rain on rock, Yngvar heard footfalls in the mud. The others did as well and all perked up. Even Bjorn roused from his light sleep.
“The Franks?” Thorfast asked, expecting the two lost men to have found them.
Yet Yngvar did not need to answer.
More than a dozen voices were clear through the sheeting rain.
Yngvar and his band had been found, literally cornered into a crack in the rocks.
21
Prince Kalim held the small cloth stuffed with an herb mixture to his nose. The stink of a war camp was one thing. The utterly revolting stench of a soggy war camp that had been burned was pure torment. The precise combination of herbs and flowers produced a stringent yet fruity scent. He sniffed furiously at it. He wondered if it could be poisoned like food or drink. Until this moment he had not considered this. In the future, one of his slaves would need to test these mixtures first.
The rain pelting the tent roof made him wish for his palace. Why did men glorify battle? Why was it necessary that leaders be forced into the mud with common soldiers? Did his suffering alongside them mean so much? The questions pounded his head as hard as the rain must be pounding the heads of the guards made to stand in the rain outside his tent.
This was what a command tent was, then. Really, not anything to be envious of. He had preferred his own tent with its better appointments and cleaner surrounds. But this was Rashaad al Bashar’s idea of how a prince lived. Well, what a fool. The chair was comfortable, he admitted. The desk was small and spare. The brass lamp provided enough light. He supposed the sleeping arrangements would be set on the ground. That would have to change.
The tent pole was inconveniently set in the center of the large room. He would have moved it, but that was not practical. Some hardships just had to be endured.
His two guards stood by his side. One had a bandaged gash in his leg and Kalim feared he might topple over. What if he fell on me, he wondered. I might be killed.
Losing two of them to Rashaad’s men was just one of the more grievous injuries he had suffered today. He certainly did not have the money to buy two new ones. They were not like champion stallions, expensive but readily had from reputable merchants. These were brutes drawn from across the Caliphate and forged into a perfect monster. Their submission to authority of their owner was complete. One could not create these things to order. They had to be found and grown. That Kalim had four of them was once a sign of his father’s favor. No doubt his brother Ahmad was jealous of them, and would be delighted to learn two were now gone to heaven.
He blinked away the terrible memory of their deaths. He was at least clean of all the blood and entrails they had splashed over him. He sniffed the cloth again, worried his gorge might rise with the thought of it.
The tent flap opened, the hiss of the rain sudden and immediate. Rashaad entered. His waifish servant was in tow. Rashaad’s fine-trimmed beard and neat hair were wet, despite the heavy cloak he had draped over himself. He threw it aside and glared at Kalim from the entrance.
“You may enter,” Kalim said, raising his hand. In fact, Rashaad had already stomped inside. The hem of his robes were splattered with mud. His servant held these off the ground behind him.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “Are you quite comfortable?”
“Where am I going to sleep?” He sniffed at his cloth again, his eyelids fluttering with the intake of the sharp scent.
Rashaad’s face turned purple. Kalim smiled, galloping his fingers on the armrest of the chair. Rashaad should have greeted him properly, but given the circumstances Kalim would pardon this.
“I suppose I will have a more capable person answer that question,” Kalim said. “Now, what is your report?”
Rashaad drew closer, his fist balled at his side. The two giants at Kalim’s side stepped forward in answer. He paused and let his fingers unclench.
“Your Majesty,” he said as if spitting out rotten food. “The rain prevents any further action today.”
“That is the report? I can see that very well myself. I mean, what about the dead and captives? How many? And how long before I can expect Pozzallo to fall? I don’t want to be here all week.”
“Prince Ahmad has been at his siege for months,” Rashaad said with a dark grin. “Your Majesty.”
“But my brother did not lay the proper groundwork as I did. Very well, Rashaad. I will talk military strategy with my advisors. They are a hundred times more capable than you, in any case. And where is that traitor, Saleet? I expected him delivered along with the captives.”
“I cannot find him.” Rashaad tilted his head back. “He must have fled the moment you arrived.”
“So, you’re going to protect him? You should have known better being a senior advisor to His Highness the emir. I would take command of this army, being royalty. You are a mere representative of royalty. You thought to seize Pozzallo for my brother. What did you expect to gain from that? Gold? A woman? A dozen women? He won’t pay, you know, even if he only promised a mere brass lamp. He’s that sort. Well, you won’t have that to worry about, as I will be the one to capture Pozzallo. To think, I believed Ahmad was here and it turned out to just be you.”
Kalim guessed that if Rashaad had more guts he would leap at him with a dagger and die trying to kill him. Yet the old adviser had more sense than guts. He simply scowled. Kalim was not going to let it go unchallenged.
“And trying to have me killed and killing two of my prized servants. Now that should see you executed.”
“Your Majesty, I have already explained I have no connection to those men. If it was anyone, it was your cousin Saleet. He has cause to kill you. Not me.”
“My brother also has cause. He wants to ensure his succession after my father. I might challenge that.”
Rashaad seemed to fight back a laugh.
“It’s only my father’s shadow that keeps me from ordering these guards to crush your head like a grape. But I might forget myself, if you understand me. You have my thanks for adding two hundred men to my own. Now I can get real work done in Pozzallo.”
“Your father’s orders were to remain in Licata,” Rashaad said. “Even with victory, you will earn a reputation for disobedience.”
Rashaad then mumbled something under his breath. Kalim leaned forward, guessing he had been insulted.
“Victory makes everyone happy. It erases every sin. Do not lecture me on my father. Now, will you make your report or will I have it beaten from you?”
They locked eyes. Kalim sniffed at his cloth. The scents were already weaker. Perhaps this mixture was not as expertly done as he had hoped. When he found the slave responsible, he would ensure he never forgot the correct preparation. Really, how many slaves did he need to go through before they understood how he wanted things done?
At last Rashaad bowed.
“The Norsemen were chased into the hills. The men we sent after them have not returned. I have sent more to determine what happened.”
Suddenly Kalim was standing at the center of his tent. Rashaad and his mouselike slave were staring at him with wide eyes. He saw his cloth of herbs lying on the carpet before his throne. His two giant guards stared at him, their eyes empty.
His breath came s
hort and his throat felt raw. Had he blacked out? His hands were in two tight balls.
“Your Majesty,” Rashaad said cautiously. “They are not your biggest concern. You cannot send every man into the hills to find them. The Byzantines would punish such foolishness.”
Yes, he had heard of the Norsemen’s escape and their killing of the men sent after them. The anger flared again. His head hurt and eyes throbbed.
“These Norsemen are Satan’s own children. I would see every bone in their bodies crushed into paste then fed to dogs. They defy me at every turn. Barbarians. Simple-minded barbarians. I will crush them. I promise you this.”
He jabbed his finger at Rashaad, who now smiled like the devil.
“Then, Your Majesty, you will be greatly pleased with our captives.”
“What? You caught one of them? Let it be Yngvar, or whatever his name is. I look forward to plucking out his eyes.”
“I will have them sent over immediately,” Rashaad said.
“Yes,” Kalim said, striding back to his chair. He plopped back into it. “Send me the captives. And you will be under guard, Rashaad. For your own protection. If you happen to find Saleet, I expect you to bring him directly to me. I would have a long conversation with him.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Rashaad walked backwards from the tent, his tiny servant holding up his hem from the mud. They opened the tent flap. Outside the rain still strafed the earth, splashing mud everywhere.
The wait for the prisoners felt as if an entire season had passed. Who would he find? Ah, but the torments he would visit upon them. Yet as a prince he had to act with dignity. He could not go running off into the rain, dragging servants and guards with him through the mud. They had to come to him, in his command tent. That was proper.
At last, the sodden guard at the tent looked inside. Water ran off his long nose. “Your Majesty, the captives are here.”
Kalim leapt off his chair and reached the tent pole in the center before stopping himself. He ran a jeweled hand over his pantaloons then spoke calmly.
The Red Oath Page 20
