Behind the sounds of battle met him.
From the silhouettes tangling behind him, he saw Gyna’s hair flying behind her as she struck out at an enemy. The rest of the shadows blended together.
He ran back, dagger in his sweaty palm. Yet he joined too late.
Three Arabs lay dead on the mud-churned ground.
“The others are close,” Alasdair said, heaving. “We must run or we will face the whole camp.”
He tapped Yngvar’s arm then ran. Ewald hauled his aunt over his shoulder. She screamed in fury, but allowed her nephew to carry her. She was not light, being packed with solid muscle, and Yngvar admired the young Saxon’s strength.
Valgerd ran hand-in-hand with Alasdair, and Yngvar followed. Each step forward was like trying to run through deep surf. He had done too much running, too much climbing, in one day. Yet a horn sounded behind him, and it renewed his strength.
The bright moon marked them. Yet the alarm was not answered by another. Yngvar thanked all the gods he could name for it. Pozzallo drew nearer.
Fortunately, the Arabs had not begun a proper siege. They had expected to overrun the fortress, and would probably attempt the same the next day. The rain had left the ground soft and boggy, which would make digging trenches too troublesome. They would collapse and fill with mud. So again, even as his feet squished into the wet ground, he thanked the gods for the rain that had seemed such a hardship. Thor had protected them with a storm.
Yngvar called a halt before the wall. The others stumbled behind him.
“Let’s not run up and be shot as enemies. Looks like they are working up there.” Yngvar pointed to the walls. Men labored under torchlight to erect wooden barricades atop the stone walls.
“Alexius said they would do this,” Valgerd said. “He cursed the walls for being too low.”
Yngvar nodded, his mouth gaping for more air. He smiled at Valgerd and offered her a wordless pat on her shoulder. Her gray robes were torn and covered in mud. Her once beautiful hair was dirty and stuck to her head. Yet her smile was as bright as the moon’s.
So was Alasdair’s.
“I will go hail them, lord. We should proceed to the gate.”
“You can put me down,” Gyna said. “My knee is not broken. Just not up to running.”
Ewald let his aunt slide down and tried to support her. Gyna batted him away like chasing off flies.
They stalked forward, wary of being spotted. Alasdair went ahead, again flitting into the darkness as if it were another world he alone could enter.
Reaching the front gate, they stayed back on the road. He heard Alasdair shouting to the walls. Soon he heard return shouts. They waited in silence, staring up at the freshly constructed wooden barricades above. This was a clever trick, Yngvar thought. For now the Arab ladders would not be high enough to scale the walls tomorrow. While Kalim arrogantly slept, the Byzantines had spent their night working. Though he was no Byzantine, the defiance shown by Pozzallo’s defenders brought a warm bloom of pride in his chest.
At last someone came to the walls. A head barely peeked over the new wood barricade. He called down in Greek.
“Is that Yngvar? That’s all you’ve got left?”
Yngvar stepped forward, and raised his hands.
“It’s me, and yes, this is all for now. Open the gates. We have news.”
“For a traitor like you? I don’t think so.”
Yngvar’s smile fell. He dropped his outstretched hands and folded them behind his head.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have come,” Gyna said. “You’re not as welcomed here as you said you were.”
He closed his eyes and bit his lower lip. Yet before he could curse the guard for a fool, Valgerd stepped to the fore.
“Open up. We have reports for Captain Alexius that cannot be delayed. Would you like to explain to him why he had to wait till morning to learn news of his enemy’s plans?”
“Valgerd?” the sentry called down. “Hold on.”
Alasdair came trotting up, his face sullen. Yet as he was about to make a gloomy report of rejection, the heavy iron gate rattled and rose. The gate doors swung open enough for them to fit through one at a time.
They slid on their bellies beneath the grate. Yngvar figured it was an innocent excuse for forcing them into the mud. The grate could have been raised higher without trouble. But he was already a wreck from rain, sweat, blood, and mud. He crawled into the old parade ground and struggled to stand up.
Alasdair came next. “We’ve made it inside, lord. I didn’t think they’d allow it. They cursed me when I identified myself earlier.”
“Thank Valgerd for it. I suppose a former slave commands more respect than us. I never thought to be glad getting back behind these walls,” Yngvar said. He extended his hand to Alasdair and hauled him up. A group of soldiers descended ladders from the walls. Others looked over the sides and called out in welcome. Still others were too absorbed in their work to pay them any mind.
They were met by a mixed crew. Alexius and his hateful veteran advisor were first to arrive. But Nordbert and a dozen of his Frankish crew arrived next. They pushed past the Byzantines, looking for their brothers with smiles that faded after not finding them.
“They are well. But their duties take them toward the enemy,” he said. He did not want to mention who had been lost or fallen. He had barely learned any of their names. Nothing could be more insulting to a warrior’s legacy than his own leader forgetting his name. So Nordbert and the others nodded gravely and let Alexius shove his way to the front.
“You came back, but no prince in tow.” He scowled at Yngvar, but it did nothing to impress him. The captain seemed to be half-alive. His eyes were couched in dark bags of flesh. His lids drooped as if he had no strength to hold them open. Cuts crisscrossed his arms, the dried blood like miniature mountain ranges. His chain armor had broken in spots. He wore no helmet.
“I have news you must hear, and a plan to save all of us. Gather all your officers in the dining hall. I will share my news and plans.”
“It’s a trick,” the veteran said. “He wants to trap us.”
Even Captain Alexius had the strength to roll his eyes at this.
“I think we’re safe from the enemy for now. Do as he asks. I am open to any plan that promises success.”
While news was passed around the fortress, Yngvar met Hamar and Ragnar and embraced them like brothers. Hamar was indeed a sword brother of long service. Ragnar, though newly joined and Dane, was a welcomed countryman among so many foreigners.
“You’ve got a story for us, then?” Ragnar asked. “Did you kill lots of Arabs?”
“We killed a few,” Yngvar said. “Though not even a quarter as many as I would’ve liked. Bjorn and Thorfast have gone with your old friend, Sergius, to burn Licata.”
Ragnar’s eyes widened. “Sergius? Well, Fate does guide our lives. But it’s a bit much to call him an old friend. Last I saw the bastard was fleeing into the woods while Arabs ran me down.”
“You’ll forgive him, because he has taken all his men to draw off Kalim to Licata. Had he died trying to save your worthless life, then we’d never find a way out of this trap.”
They shared a laugh, then went to the dining hall. Yngvar thought of a simpler time of stealing leftovers for his former slave companions. Had it just been a few weeks ago? It seemed as if it happened in another life. As if summoned by thought, Lucas the Byzantine and a few of the former slave soldiers were first to arrive. They embraced Yngvar as a hero, and poured him wine and offered him stale bread. Yet more pleasing than anything he expected, they produced a wheel of cheese. It might have been the same one Alasdair had spotted in the kitchen weeks ago. His stomach growled at the sight of it.
So they all ate and drank while they waited. Yngvar wondered what Bjorn and Thorfast would fill their bellies with on the trail to Licata. No doubt, once they gained the palace they would feast over fire and slain foemen.
Finally, when Alexius arrived
with what had to be more than officers alone, he guzzled the remainder of his wine, then addressed them.
He spoke of all that had happened until reaching the walls. Yngvar had developed a knack for storytelling. He embellished his stories, painting himself more heroic and brave than he had felt at the time. No need to tell everyone he had no idea what he was doing or if anything he attempted would succeed. It had succeeded, and so he got to tell his version of events. He drew no protests from the Gyna and the others, as he was certain to cast them in the best light he could.
Then he outlined his plan. Here the Byzantines lost their rapt expressions and shifted from doubt to distaste. Yet Yngvar focused most on Captain Alexius. He sat behind a table with his back resting against a wall. His eyes fluttered against what seemed an urge to sleep. But his folded arms communicated his stubborn defensiveness even if he had nodded off at points.
Once Yngvar had spoken his plan, his throat was dry. Indeed, his voice had grown hoarse. Valgerd fetched him a wooden mug of fresh rainwater. It was a salve to his throat. His gulping could have echoed through the silent hall. The soldiers stared at him, all straining not to stare at Alexius who seemed again hovering at the edge of sleep.
“We will have to hold up long enough for news to get back to Kalim,” Yngvar said into the pause. “We will need two days. The barricades you have constructed will shock them tomorrow. They will not be ready to attack. These are not experienced warriors facing you, but opportunists. You do not need to fight them with swords. Doubt will be your sword.”
Captain Alexius nodded, wiping his face. Yet he seemed to have missed crucial points, and so just blinked with red-rimmed eyes.
“Did they have any siege weapons?” One of the officers, a haggard man with eyes slanting down as if they might run off his face, broke the silence. “Did they have rams or bolt-throwers?”
“None that I saw. Whatever I set aflame exploded with a force I’ve never seen before. I suspect that might have been their only weapon beyond their swords and spears. Now their ladders will not even be high enough. We can resist for the time we need. Then, by night, Kalim will shrink away with his best men to reclaim Licata. We will go into the field to strike their leaderless rabble. They will scatter and Pozzallo will be safe again.”
“Safe enough to get your ships out of here.” A different officer spoke up. He had short coppery hair to match Alasdair’s. But where Alasdair’s face was bright and smooth, this officer’s face was shadowed with pox scars. “We’ve seen your men working day and night on repairs. Same for you, One-Eye. You’re all just seeking escape and you don’t mind walking over our corpses to do it.”
Some of the soldiers banged the table and voiced agreement. Yet they were in the minority. Most looked to Alexius, who now sat up straighter at the commotion.
“It’s a fine plan,” he said. Suddenly his eyes brightened and his shoulders squared. Like a good Byzantine officer, he banished all discomforts to demonstrate strength and command to his subordinates. In this way, Yngvar thought him equal to the best Norse leaders.
“Then you agree to attack when the time comes?” Yngvar asked. “We are not going to flee. We are going to sail to Licata and break Kalim’s power for good. We will take any willing to follow us.”
Alexius stood, then walked out from behind the table. He stood beside Yngvar, and nodded appreciatively.
“It is a good plan. You almost convinced me to leave the fortress and walk into Kalim’s trap. But I will not be fooled, even half-asleep.”
Yngvar’s mouth fell open.
“Keep him under guard,” Alexius said, pointing to his sneering veteran aide. “We’ll see what comes tomorrow. But it won’t be us leaving the only defensible position we have.”
25
Prince Kalim sat on his chair, fingers thrumming the armrest. The whole place smelled of mud and shit. Despite his ardent wishes, no one had taken care to properly scent his dwelling. Was he not a prince? Was this humble tent not his palace? Was his father not the emir? Judging from his mud-caked situation, apparently no one else found any truth in those questions. He was forced to live in squalor with vile smells and clinging mud.
So this was the cost of glory?
He held his finger beneath his nose and leaned his head on his hand, driving his elbow into the hard armrest. The messenger kneeling on the carpet before him remained with his head lowered.
Kalim’s two giants loomed at his side. They had just finished honing their swords, a terrible rasping sound that annoyed Kalim. Yet he had endured it. Now their blades with their fresh white edges rested under their palms, points driven into the earth. Kalim caught the kneeling messenger glancing at the massive weapons. They could chop a palm tree in half with one swipe. That was the legend anyway. It pleased Kalim to sense the man’s fear.
“So,” Kalim said in a long, slow breath. “I was not alerted of these developments until this morning. Why?”
The messenger lowered himself once more, his head nearly touching the carpet.
“Your Majesty, your orders were to not be disturbed except for the direst emergency.”
“The complete and total ruination of all my plans, of all my hopes, of my express desires were not considered dire? If not, then what in God’s name would you call dire?”
“Your Majesty, I am a mere messenger. I am no more than a beetle crushed beneath your sandal. We all acted according to master Rashaad’s instructions.”
That name. Kalim closed his eyes. He imagined Rashaad and Saleet both mocking him to his brother, Ahmad. The three of them laughed like hyenas, their fangs sharp and yellow. They called him a fool and a dandy. They called him weak and useless. Ahmad laughed at him for wetting his bed. He was only a child, no more than seven. But Ahmad had mocked him. He was always mocking him.
“Your Majesty?”
Kalim’s sight returned from his horrid imaginings. The messenger had dared to look up, but snapped his head down before their eyes could meet. Kalim inhaled deeply, so angered he ignored the horrid odors drawn into his nostrils.
“You have given me your message,” he said. “I understand you are not to be blamed. But there is one who should be. Bring Rashaad al-Bashar to me. Take the guards outside my tent with you. I will accept no hesitation from Rashaad. Bring him directly and subdue if he resists.”
“Your Majesty?” The shocked messenger raised his head and no longer had any fears to meet his sovereign’s eyes.
“You heard me correctly. You act on my authority as a prince in this matter. Do not hesitate to use it. Go now. I am already impatient.”
So the messenger backed out of the tent. After words with the guards outside, he left.
Kalim felt the heat radiating off his face into his hands as he rested his chin on his palm. Once more, the Norsemen had poked him in the eye. And while he slept! Had they more guts, they might have slipped in here and killed him. He shuddered at the thought. His bodyguards would’ve handled them, of course. But just the thought of the Norsemen’s arrogance sickened him. If they were to step into his tent, it would only be as defeated prisoners.
But the Norsemen, and that Yngvar person in particular, had humiliated him for the last time. They too mock him, just as Ahmad and all the others. But they did not know anything about him. They thought he was here with just his soldiers and bodyguards. Well, they didn’t know everything, did they? Kalim smiled at the thought.
Unconsciously, his eyes wandered to the tent wall to his left. He snapped back. Mustn’t betray anything now, especially with Rashaad arriving soon.
Yet it had not been soon enough. For Kalim felt the wait until Rashaad came stumbling into his tent had been half the morning. But now the old man had arrived and his tiny servant huddled behind him. His head cover had slipped forward over his eyes from the rough handling. He was so angered that he did not greet Kalim, but instead glared over his shoulder at the messenger and guards who had shoved him inside. He wore plain robes of light blue and one sleeve had been r
oughly shoved up to his shoulder. He flicked it down and patted out the wrinkles as he turned his glare to Kalim.
“Your Majesty,” he said in a tone that made it more of an insult than an honorific. “What sort of treatment is this? Do you forget I represent the emir?”
“I forget nothing, Rashaad.” Kalim had not bothered to lift his chin from his palm. “But do you forget I am the emir’s son? A prince equal to my brother who you so sickeningly fawn over. I can do with you what I will. I will deal with the consequences later. If there are any.”
Rashaad’s flinty eyes faltered. This tiny concession to Kalim’s authority filled him with joy. It was as if he had been smashing at a diamond with a mallet for days on end, and had finally flaked off a sliver.
“The Norse girl, my prisoner, was taken from me while I slept. The Norsemen slipped into this camp, one that you constructed, and walked away with her. But not before killing five men. Five. What sort of men did you bring to me, Rashaad? Five men killed. My four bodyguards killed fifteen men. That is what a real fighter can do.”
He glanced to one of the silent giants at his side. Rashaad stared ahead as if he did not see them. His face was darkening, making his finely trimmed white beard seem all the brighter.
“Nothing to say? Well, there needs to be an accounting for this. My life was in danger. And you were in charge of this camp.”
“I’m in charge of this camp?” Rashaad stepped forward, putting his wizened hand to his chest. His little servant disappeared behind him.
“Well, you set this up. You provided the men. Who else is in charge? You let a member of the royal family be placed in danger. Were the Norsemen braver, I might have been killed. Something I’m sure you would have delighted in.”
“Your Majesty, you must be careful to accuse me. I should receive a fair audience with—”
“We are at war, here. You will get justice from your commander, and that is me. I am your prince and your general. I am your god on this earth. Every man here obeys me and I obey my father and God only.”
The Red Oath Page 24
