“Bring them to me.”
The guard bowed low. Water slid from his shoulders as if it had been poured from a bowl. Too bad for him, Kalim thought. But guarding a prince should be an honor.
Six armed men marched into the tent. They were hard men with dark skin, crooked noses, and missing teeth. Some had fresh wounds that streaked pink with their wet bandages. Kalim instinctively feared these men. They were the kind to get into the mud. They had nothing to lose, and so they could easily turn against their betters. Yet they were indispensable to warfare. Kalim noted none of them wore his colors. These were Rashaad’s dupes, led on believing they acted on Prince Ahmad’s orders.
Three foreign slaves attended them. Young women in mud-splattered, drab clothes. They were all soaked. Their heads hung low and scraggly, long hair of yellow, red, and brown concealed their faces.
“Where are the captives? The Norsemen?”
The six warriors went to their knees as they should. Yet the slaves did not. Kalim’s eyes widened in sudden understanding.
“These are the captives? You bring me girls?”
The soldiers awaited Kalim’s permission to rise. He stayed his hand, letting them remain kneeling and dripping water onto the tent floor. They had left their swords outside the tent. Yet Kalim noticed every one of them had still been permitted a dagger. He waved them to their feet, then glanced at the two silent mountains of flesh flanking him. He breathed easier.
“Your Majesty, these women were captured from the walls of Pozzallo,” said one. He had the crookedest nose of the lot. Soldiers always seemed to have had their noses broken, Kalim observed. This one must have had his broken a half-dozen times. That was probably why he served as leader. Soldiers measured themselves by broken noses, it seemed.
“Pozzallo must be desperate to have put three little girls in charge of wall defense.” Kalim looked at them closer. They were all revolting foreigners. Unlike his brother, he did not have a place among his women for ugly foreigners and their horrid odors. These three seemed likely to smell of horse shit. He wished he had not dropped his scented cloth now.
“Your Majesty, they were delivering boiling water to the wall defenders. This yellow-haired one even carried a sword and fought against our own.”
“And these are Norse women? The red- and yellow-haired ones I believe. But that one with the sagging stomach. She looks Greek to me.”
The three girls raised their heads, though he doubted they could understand him. The small girl with auburn hair might have been a beauty, but her face was marred with a red rash. The largest girl was fat but mousy. She looked untrustworthy. The yellow-haired one was a typical Norse woman. She had that defiant, icy glare, that arrogance Kalim realized was a trait of all Northern barbarians. He pointed at her.
“Yellow-hair is the one. Of course she carried a sword. Those barbarians can’t last a single afternoon without a sword fight.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said the crooked-nosed leader. He pulled that girl forward and barked something in Greek. Kalim had learned enough Greek to please his father’s ideas of education. Ancient Greeks had some interesting thoughts, or so Kalim had been told. He didn’t care. Yet it seemed the Norse girl understood Greek. She put her shoulders back like all defiant Norsemen do and made a clipped reply.
“They are all slaves,” said the soldier. “They were simply doing as they were ordered.”
“But she carried a sword.” Kalim leaned back. The scent from all these dirty people had crept across the tent room and invaded his nose. “A slave would not be given a sword. Ask her why she carried one and not the others. Is she one of the Norsemen—part of that group led by Yngvar?”
The exchange began as short questions between the soldier and the slave girls. It ended with the guard shouting at her and threatening to backhand her. The girl did not blink at the threat. The guard pulled back to strengthen his strike.
“Hold,” Kalim said. “Let’s leave her teeth in place until I’ve heard everything. What did she say?”
“Your Majesty,” the guard dropped his hand and bowed. “She says she knows nothing about Yngvar or the others. She served in the kitchens and hardly saw anyone. She said she found a sword on a dead soldier and thought to defend herself with it. Says she’s been a slave since she was a young girl and knows nothing else.”
Kalim studied her. She met his stare with too much confidence for one who claimed to be a lifelong slave. In fact, she acted as if she were nobility. Barbarian Norsemen routinely put themselves above all others. But for a lifelong slave of the Byzantines, the girl’s confidence made little sense. Her spirit should have been broken. The other two girls kept their heads bowed, more akin to true slaves. The small one with the rash seemed to want to vanish. The mousy one with the sagging gut seemed about to burst out with something. She kept glaring at the Norse girl whenever she believed no one looked.
Kalim smiled. The truth would be easy to determine.
“That Norse girl is lying. But her friend over there wants to tell the truth. Tell her she will be granted freedom if she would speak her thoughts.”
The guard translated. The reaction from the mousy girl was immediate. She looked to Kalim for confirmation of the offer, and he nodded. She began to speak, pointing accusingly at the Norse girl. Kalim watched and smiled as the three girls argued with each other. The rash-faced girl covered her ears and began shaking her head. The Norse girl and mousy girl began shouting. From all the repetitive shouting, Kalim determined the Norse girl was named Valgerd. The mousy one was Lucia. The rash-faced girl was maybe Silvia. She crouched down between the two and folded her hands over the back of her lowered head.
The flurry of insults escalated into gestures of violence. The guards stopped this, grabbing each girl away from each other. At last Kalim had to raise his hand in a silent order to stop the girls. The guards shook and shouted them into submission. When they quieted, all three girls looked at the floor. Each of their faces was as red as a tomato.
“A lively group,” Kalim said. “I did not understand much of it. But what did you learn?”
The soldier again bowed before addressing Kalim. He looked at the Norse girl.
“She was Commander Staurakius’s personal attendant. She even slept with him, willingly it would seem. She had ready access to things even other officers did not have.”
Kalim clapped his hand together. “Very good! She would know much about Pozzallo’s weak points. She might even know more about the wider Byzantine strategy. This is wonderful. What about Yngvar, though?”
“She was close with Yngvar and one called—Alasdair?” The guard formed the names imperfectly, but well enough that Valgerd looked up with a hateful glare. Her eyes were red with tears. “Apparently she is Alasdair’s lover, and a dear friend to Yngvar. Indeed, a partner to all the Norsemen. Your Majesty, she would have great value to them.”
“Don’t instruct me,” Kalim snapped. His own glare set all six guards to looking at their feet. Kalim remembered their daggers, but then he also remembered the silent killers towering at his flanks. That always emboldened him. He paused, then dusted imaginary dirt from his sleeve before continuing.
“Keep the Norse girl under heavy guard. I will have a use for her after this rain stops. Make certain she comes to no harm. At least not yet.”
The guards bowed low. The leader looked to the other two girls. “What of them, Your Majesty?”
“Freedom, of course.” Kalim spread his hands wide. “It’s what I promised in trade. But you should be rewarded as well. So take the two girls and do with them as you will. Then grant them freedom.”
“Freedom?” the guard asked.
Kalim sighed. Why did guards need to be so literal?
“Freedom. Freedom from the pains of this world. From the suffering they will experience as you and all the others take their rewards. That sort of freedom. Must I spell it out?”
The guard bowed low. He smiled as he backed away from Kalim’s presence. At
the tent flap, where rain still turned the outside to gray mush, Valgerd was hauled in one direction and the other two the opposite side.
Kalim nodded in satisfaction.
“Time to bring you back to me, Yngvar.” He sniffed at his collar, the only pleasant smell remaining. “And you will come running.”
22
The sheeting rain slashed into hard rock and mud. Yngvar did not want to draw his sword in the rain. The oil had been worn off in the fighting and now the threat of rust was a real problem. He sat on his knees under the outcrop, gripping a dagger instead. In any case, a sword was of no use in such a confined space.
Alasdair was beside him. Thorfast, Gyna, Bjorn, and Ewald all formed a line with him. All had daggers ready. The Franks had scurried in from the rain. One coughed and it sounded like a peal of thunder to Yngvar.
They heard voices and the sucking footsteps through the mud approaching. Yngvar hoped they would be passed by. Another clash with Arabs would only weaken them. They had lost three of the Franks already. Two had fled and another lay buried beneath rocks outside. His eyes fell on the mound. Splashing rain formed a wreath of white around it.
“They will see it,” he mumbled. Alasdair hummed questioningly, then followed Yngvar’s gaze.
“It is hard to miss, lord.”
The dark shapes crawled up through the sheeting rain. Yngvar counted three in heavy cloaks with cowls drawn. They turned to assist others. At least one pointed to the shadowed overhang where Yngvar and the rest waited.
“We should rush them,” Yngvar said. “Otherwise, we will be trapped in here.”
More shouts came from behind the wall of rain. Yngvar felt the cool spray splashing off the stone and up under his chin as he leaned forward. He squinted at the gathering.
“Those are not Arabs,” he said. “I cannot see them clearly. But they are speaking Greek. I think I understood some of what they said.”
Alasdair leaned forward as well, and the others looked on expectantly.
“It is Greek,” Alasdair said. “Those are Byzantines.”
“Not necessarily our friends,” Thorfast added. “We cannot assume they’ll aid us.”
“But they won’t attack on sight,” Yngvar said. The moment he saw Thorfast’s skeptical expression, he realized that anything might be possible. “Very well, let me go meet them. Last thing we need is to shock them and start a fight no one wants.”
Before anyone could protest, he slipped out from beneath the overhang. Despite the lashing rain, it felt good to stand. He frowned against the rain pelting his face. Holding up a hand for peace, he called out to the gathering.
By now, a dozen men had clambered up to the ledge and more seemed to be following. Through the gray rain they seemed all dark eyes and soaked beards. They wore cloaks of thin leather, probably treated with oil to repel rain. Their pants were black and high-legged boots were brown. They dressed to hide in nature, it seemed. Yet they were not unarmed. They kept their swords wrapped tight with cloth against the rain. They did not seem to expect a need to draw them.
Yngvar waited as the newcomers gathered on the ledge. His presence was noted, but it did not seem to alarm any of them. In fact, only one watched him while the others helped their companions gather. They husbanded bows against the weather, having wrapped them in what seemed water-repellent skins. Once a half-dozen more mounted the ledge, four of the men walked toward him. Though they wore hoods, they sank their heads into their shoulders against the rain.
“You like the rain?” The lead figure spoke in clear, sharp Greek. His hood shadowed all but a brown beard shot through with gray. Yet the man smiled and returned the raised hand.
“I have no other choice,” Yngvar said, gesturing back to the overhang. “My men have filled the crevice and I drew the short twig. I have to stand outside.”
The four Byzantines paused to look past Yngvar. The leader laughed.
“A good spot in this weather. In fact, we were seeking the same spot. It is well known to us. How did you find it?”
“The gods guided me.”
All four Byzantines laughed, drawing looks from the other still assembling behind them. The leader pulled his cloak tighter against the rain.
“You are Norsemen, then? Your accent is strange, but I’ve heard it from other of your people. What brings you here? Adventure? Gold?”
“Misfortune,” Yngvar said. “We would not be standing in the rain for any other reason. I’d like to be in Pozzallo, warming my feet by a hearth and drinking beer.”
The smile faded from the man’s face. He lowered his head.
“Has Pozzallo fallen already? We only just received word of the attack.”
“Not yet, but it must fall soon. Princes Ahmad and Kalim have united in their attack.”
The man’s mouth bent. “Prince Ahmad is not here. That I am certain of. I just left him behind. Come, let’s talk under the rocks you’ve claimed for your men. Mine will have to find other shelter.”
All three of the others with the man moaned.
“Sir, we passed another spot on the way up here. Are you meaning for us to climb back down?”
“Well, this place would’ve been better had it not been already claimed. The rain will break soon. This isn’t a storm to last days. You’re already as wet as you can be. Just wait it out with us.”
“You always find a way to stay dry, sir.” The men laughed but left their leader alone with Yngvar.
“Trusting men,” Yngvar said. “You’ll just follow me without a care?”
“I trust Norsemen better than Arabs or the Greeks. I’ve had a few serve under me. If you give me your word, I know you won’t break it.”
“You don’t know me well,” Yngvar said with a smile. “But we welcome anyone who hates the Arabs as we do. You have my word.”
He led the Byzantine under the overhang, where he had to crawl on his knees. Only Bjorn could not back into the corner to allow space, but all the others did.
The Byzantine pulled off his hood, letting rainwater flow down his back and shoulders.
Thorfast shouted and pointed. He spoke the only Greek word Yngvar had ever heard from him. It was a name.
“Sergius!”
Yngvar and the others turned in surprise, looking between Thorfast and the Byzantine.
“By God, it’s you. The crazy Norseman who disappeared into a camp of Arabs.”
The Byzantine called Sergius clapped his hands together. Both he and Thorfast crawled to meet each other, then embraced as old friends.
“He really makes friends everywhere, don’t he,” Bjorn said. “Like a fucking skald, he is. Welcomed in every hall.”
Thorfast and Sergius backed up. Neither could speak directly to each other. But it seemed language posed no problem.
“What happened to the woman?” Sergius asked. He spoke louder, as if it would help Thorfast understand. “Sophia, was that her name?”
Thorfast lowered his head at the name, then shook his head.
“She is gone,” Yngvar explained. “It is a story too long for today. You must be the leader of the scouts Thorfast spent his summer with. He spoke highly of you.”
“Too bad about the woman. She had quite a spirit.” Sergius paused as if remembering her. “But your friend here made an impression on all of us. If he represents the rest of you, then I am indeed blessed to find you here.”
“He is. Your other Norseman, Ragnar, is in Pozzallo waiting for us to free him. There are many others there too.”
“Ragnar?” Sergius ran his hand through his wet hair. “I thought him lost. He had hurt his leg and couldn’t keep up with us. I’m glad he is still alive.”
“Fate draws us all together for a purpose,” Yngvar said. The others leaned in as if they could understand. Yet only Alasdair did and he sat on his hands in silence. “You must have met Captain Alexius’s messengers and so have come to Pozzallo’s rescue. How many men did you bring?”
“A messenger reached us, and continued no
rth to seek more aid. I told the poor lad he would find nothing but Arabs and besieged forts all up the coast. There are small units like ours operating in Arab territory. But we are fewer every day. I have with me a mere twenty-eight men. Once I had nearly three times as many operating all over the island. Today, this is all that remains.”
“It is a match to my crew,” Yngvar said. “Only most of them are still behind the walls along with my ship. But there must be three hundred Arabs between us and them. You say Prince Ahmad is not down there? But aren’t those his men?”
“Prince Ahmad is after the big trophies. Pozzallo has always been considered the tail of the fish. The ancient Greeks fortified it once, probably to protect the springs there. So I suppose one of our generals thought to build a fortress there as well. But time has shown it is the least useful of our positions. It has checked Prince Kalim in recent years and it’s a useful supply point for operations in the south. But it can be cut without a loss to the greater strategic situation.”
“So no help is coming,” Yngvar said. “But you came?”
“To be honest, it’s safer to come south than to remain in the north.” Sergius smiled sheepishly. “And I’d rather fight Kalim than his brother. Besides, we cannot relieve the sieges on our own. But with only three hundred men here, we might be able to do some good. Now that I know there are capable men down here, it seems I’ve made the best choice.”
“Each of my men are worth three of the Arabs. Except for maybe those giants Kalim keeps at his side. But even with your help, I cannot see how we will send three hundred men running. Those are not Prince Ahmad’s warriors, truly?”
“They are auxiliary soldiers from the interior. A lot are mercenaries and opportunists. Rashaad al-Bashar gathered them together and had them camped a distance from Licata. Handed them out uniforms to make them seem like regulars. Reports indicated they were causing all sorts of trouble until he put them to work on Pozzallo. Rashaad is close with Prince Ahmad. It wouldn’t surprise me if he hoped to claim this small victory to earn favor with him. He is well connected to the emir as well. So, he’s no small figure but ultimately he is not royalty. Kalim must have assumed leadership from Rashaad. I sent men to scout the camp. We will know more soon.”
The Red Oath Page 21
