“Auntie!” Ewald shouted. He called out in his Saxon tongue as well.
Yngvar maintained the pace, and could not slow. But he looked to the ground wherever he could. If Gyna were here, she had been brought low. Otherwise he would see her dancing among them with a bloodied sword. The sea sparkled beyond the gate, past the glare of the burning gatehouse and over the heads of Arabs still entering the fortress. She was nowhere to be seen.
At last, he found her. She lay motionless, curled up with hands over her head. She was right before the gate.
“Gyna,” he called out. “If you are dead, beg Odin to deliver us.”
She lifted her head.
“Get me out of this fucking mess!”
The Arabs here parted for the ship and its wild crew. Some threw spears or else harassed the flanks. But Yngvar and his fierce crew were implacable. Like glaciers sliding overland, the two ships pressed into the gateway.
“Hold on to me,” he shouted to Gyna. Arabs flowed around them or else backed out to the path. Some of their leaders exhorted them forward, but they vacated the space around Gyna in advance of the approaching ships.
“No, hold me, Auntie,” Ewald broke from his place and rushed ahead. He stuck his sword in the earth, lifted his aunt over his shoulder as if she were a sack of fleece, then retrieved his weapon.
“You fucking Saxon!” Gyna shouted. “Don’t let them stab me in the ass.”
“I’ll protect it,” Ewald said, then bounded ahead.
So Yngvar’s ship broke out of Pozzallo. Kalim’s standard was nowhere to be seen. Yngvar could not halt to find it. Outside, there were few Arabs. Perhaps Kalim had already turned back to Licata and sent a token force to topple the fortress. He would never know for certain.
For as they gained the path to the water and the Arabs let them pass, the Franks raised a shout to shake their dead god from his cross. Men praised God, praised Odin and Thor, praised the moon for lighting their way.
They stomped into the rolling surf, waded out beyond the breaking tide, then set the ship down.
“She will sail,” Hamar said as he extended an arm to Yngvar. “Though there is more work to be done before taking the wide sea.”
On the deck, Franks and former slaves fell together. The rocking of the waves was like the assurance of an old friend. Yngvar had missed it. Ewald rolled Gyna onto the deck and she shrieked, pulling her knee up to her chin.
By the mast and sail, which remained unstepped, Alasdair cradled Valgerd. Her neck was wrapped in cloth. Blood had seeped through it. Her left shoulder and chest were sopping with blood. Alasdair wept over her. She held him, though it seemed as if she had no strength.
As both Nordbert and Hamar ordered men to the oars and set the rudder, the gatehouse fire in Pozzallo had climbed to the rooftop, catching the fresh wood afire. Arabs and Byzantines still struggled, killing each other in a pointless battle for leaders on both sides who were no longer there.
He knelt beside Alasdair and looked to Valgerd. Her eyes were closed and her flesh was the color of ash.
“She is dying,” Alasdair said.
29
Licata burned. Yngvar stood in the prow of his ship, foot on the rails and arm resting on his knee. Though it was afternoon, the city smoked from so many places the black clouds dampened the sun. The men put up their oars, relieved from having rowed all night. A dozen of them slipped to the deck in exhaustion, for they had been the ones manning the walls of Pozzallo. They had not slept in a day.
“It is a glorious sight,” Yngvar said. Nordbert stood beside him.
“It is,” he agreed. “It looks like a whole army has run through this place. Hard to believe Bjorn and the others could do so much in so short a time.”
Yngvar stroked his beard.
“It does seem too much,” he said. “Well, by now Kalim must know his palace has been looted and destroyed. We should sit at anchor and let the men rest. Then we go in to find the others. Kalim must arrive soon.”
Nordbert called for his men to drop the stone anchor. They were far enough from Licata’s docks that if they had to flee they could before any danger reached them. The bigger Byzantine ship captained by One-Eye had stopped within shouting distance. He leaned across his rails and shouted.
“You were telling the truth. Licata is broken open.”
“I promised you,” Yngvar shouted back across the waves. “My companions have done this. We will rejoin them soon, but we should rest first. My men are exhausted.”
“As are mine,” he shouted back. His angry face now filled with a smile. Lucas the Byzantine stood beside him and waved.
Yngvar felt the warm glow a successful plan brings to a man’s heart. He looked over his Franks and the scattering of former slaves. Even with losses, he had more than a full crew. They could not all speak to each other. But for now they only needed to row together and fight together. Anything more could come later.
He would have been overjoyed had Gyna and Valgerd both not been laid out on the deck.
Choosing the easier of the two, he approached Gyna. Ewald sat beside her. His face was red and sullen. Gyna, who leaned against the gunwales, held onto her knee. Her frown was so deep it might have been carved on her face. She looked up at Yngvar.
“I’m probably never going to walk again,” she said. “Can you believe it? I’m going to be a cripple. And so young. It’s not fair. Why does Fate let you walk around like this when you do so many stupid things? You should be the cripple.”
Yngvar looked to Ewald, who rolled his eyes while Gyna rubbed her knee with both hands.
“Is it true?”
“She must rest. Rest and not run. Not fight.” Ewald rapped his head with his knuckles. “But Auntie is stubborn. Auntie is never wrong. So maybe it will become true.”
“I didn’t say I was right.” Gyna banged both fists to the deck. “I just said maybe you’re wrong. How do you know anything about healing? You’re just a boy.”
Ewald bit his lip and looked away. His face darkened.
“Listen to him,” Yngvar said. “The battle is over for you. If you expect to fight another one, then wait for the knee to heal. It almost cost you your life.”
Gyna looked aside. She paused at Alasdair sitting beside Valgerd’s prone body. She stared at them, and Yngvar followed.
Valgerd lay still, covered in a torn and battered cloak, likely a garment from one of the former slaves. It seemed she wore a red scarf, but it was the blood-soaked bandage tied around her wound. Alasdair sat beside her, hand atop hers.
“She’s not going to make it,” Gyna said. “That little bastard, Umar. He cut her neck deeper than I guessed. I just stood there and let it happen.”
“No,” Yngvar said. “From what I’ve gathered between you and Ewald, she probably worsened the wound when she fought back. Alasdair hasn’t let me see it, but my guess is you will find a cut then a tear. You had saved her, Gyna. It was a noble and glorious attempt. But Fate has chosen otherwise for her. And no one can avoid Fate’s plan.”
“Alasdair will go mad,” Gyna said. “I can’t watch that happen.”
Yngvar sighed. He didn’t disagree. Over the arduous summer of their captivity in Pozzallo, she had been the one spot of brightness for Alasdair. Yngvar believed he actually did not mind their situation, and would have been glad to remain with her. Certainly, none of his thoughts were without Valgerd. He was always planning their life in the north, and what kind of home they would make together. When Yngvar hinted his days of going a-viking might end with Sicily, Alasdair made no protest. In fact, he seemed gladdened. He and Valgerd would build a modest hall and raise their children. Swords and bloodshed would be traded for a plow and quiet prayers to their meek god.
But that dream was bleeding out on the deck of his ship.
“You better go see him,” Gyna said.
Yngvar sat beside Alasdair. He did not look away from Valgerd. The ship rocked and creaked and the wind blew salty and soft across the deck. The res
t of the crew avoided them, though the deck was crowded with dirty and bloodied men counting their own wounds.
“She still breathes,” Yngvar said at last. “And so there is hope.”
Alasdair nodded.
“You pray to your god, and I will pray to mine. But if it is fate—”
“I don’t want to hear about Fate.” Alasdair’s voice was a sharp crack above the moaning boards. Others looked to him, then turned away.
“I’m sorry,” Yngvar said. “Of course not. I will pray. I will pray to your god, if he will hear me.”
Alasdair looked up. His normally bright face had lost its sheen. The smoothness of his skin was roughened with sweat-caked dirt. But his eyes brimmed with hope.
“God hears all sincere prayers, lord. It would mean much if you were to do it with me.”
“Then move over,” he said. “I am to go upon my knees and clasp my hands?”
Alasdair scooted aside. “Yes, lord, that is best. Exactly as you are now, but bow your head. Then let us ask together for Valgerd’s life.”
Yngvar felt as if he were begging for his own life. He knew his own gods had deferred to Fate in the matter of Valgerd’s survival. They would not hear a prayer to spare her. But perhaps the Christian god would listen. After all, He was said to love everyone in the world. Though He still killed babies with pox and let his most ardent followers starve in the winter. Nevertheless, to pray with Alasdair would do more benefit for him than for Valgerd. So Yngvar lowered his head as instructed.
“Dear Father in heaven,” Alasdair said. “I am a sinner and have no right to beg anything of you. But look upon your noble daughter, Valgerd. See how she has been stricken. I beg you, help her survive her wounds. Let her eyes open again and let her stand upon your blessed earth. Let her live so that she may celebrate and spread your holy words to all she meets. I beg this of you. Praise be almighty God. Amen.”
To Yngvar’s shock, a half-dozen Franks murmured the magic word amen behind him. For his part, he had missed the moment, never realizing it was coming. But he supposed such magic words meant nothing if you were not a true Christian.
Alasdair stood now. His eyes were full of glad tears. He shook Yngvar’s hand and the hands of the Franks who had joined his prayer.
“Do you feel good enough to go ashore?”
Alasdair turned toward the smoke-shrouded city and glared. “I would have revenge upon Kalim. I will go.”
Yngvar laughed and clapped Alasdair’s back. Revenge was not a Christian ideal, but he would not dissuade his friend from it. For Yngvar, revenge was a duty.
They spent the day resting and watching Licata smoke. People moved along the shore. But it seemed most had fled. A scattering of small boats remained at anchor on the docks. Likely their owners had died in the razing. When early evening fell, Yngvar declared they should go ashore.
“Well I fucking can’t.” Gyna again slammed the deck.
“I’ll protect Auntie,” Ewald said. “She needs someone to curse, anyway.”
“Then you two have charge of this ship,” he said. “Nordbert, I assume you will remain?”
The Frank blinked toward Licata. “Actually, if there is gold to be had, I’d rather lay my own hands upon it.”
“That’s the Norse spirit,” Yngvar said. “You will have to leave some crew behind. We’ll need to guard the ship and be ready to sail quickly.”
“My leg is not what it was,” Hamar said. “Still recovering as well. So I’ll keep Gyna company. We’ll be ready to sail when you are.”
After coordinating with One-Eye, they brought their ships into the shallows. The Norse longboat could glide to the shore without issue. They beached it and formed up while waiting for the Byzantines to join. Together they numbered close to seventy men, plus Thorfast, Bjorn and all of Sergius’s men. They would have over a hundred, which would have advantage over Kalim.
They made a loose pack and filtered into the abandoned city that once had been Kalim’s seat of power.
The once lively city was empty. Choking smoke rolled through abandoned streets. Fires blinked in the distance. Yngvar followed the familiar path toward the palace.
“There must have been no defenders, lord.” Alasdair searched ahead, eyes watering from the stinking smoke. “How else could Bjorn and Thorfast done so much?”
The road to the palace climbed up into the city. The impossible domes of gold gleamed through the milky haze like a beacon guiding ships through the fog. At last, they saw shapes in the road ahead.
“That’s Bjorn,” Yngvar announced. His heart raced and he drew his sword. “Right where I expected them.”
They called out, and the crowd turned behind. Thorfast’s brilliant hair was easily seen among the group. The rest were no more than a mob of shadows.
“Bjorn, Thorfast,” Yngvar called out. “You’ve done good work here. Such destruction.”
Meeting in the center of the street, they embraced each other with smiles and laughter. Ragnar clapped Yngvar’s shoulder. Thorfast and Lucas the Byzantine playfully punched each other’s shoulders in greeting. Sergius met Captain One-Eye, who at last introduced himself by his real name of Petronus. The name sounded out of place to Yngvar, and hearing the hardy captain speak so demurely only made him feel stranger.
“So, tell us how you did all this?” Yngvar spread his arms at the burning city.
“We didn’t,” Thorfast said. “At least not most of it. Arabs did it themselves.”
“The people rose up against Kalim?” Yngvar could hardly believe it, but did not doubt such a horrible prince would be widely despised.
Ragnar, who stood beside Thorfast, translated to Sergius. The scout leader joined them, his face covered with soot clinging to his sweat.
“Not an Arab uprising. Kalim’s brother sent a force here while he was away. Seems like the two brothers really hate each other. The unfortunate news is they have holed up in the palace. The rest of the city is opened like an unguarded barn. But the palace is held by Ahmad’s troops.
“What of Kalim then?” Yngvar pinched his nose bridge. “His men attacked Pozzallo, but I do not think he is there.”
“He’s not,” Sergius said. “He returned last night and surrendered to his brother. All his men were disarmed. But he went with those two giant guards into the palace. Didn’t seem like he was being taken prisoner.”
“So what is this?” Yngvar stared at the smoking city. “Ahmad attacked what would be his own subjects. Shouldn’t he just kill Kalim and be done with it?”
“I don’t know their game,” Sergius said. “I expect all of this was like taking a toy away from a spoiled child. There’s a lot of burning and destruction. But you didn’t see too many dead on the way in, did you? Most just fled when the Arabs arrived. Didn’t see it myself, but that seems to be the case. There’s not even a lot of plunder to be found. Ahmad is breaking his brother’s authority to rule. He’ll probably find a way to get his brother executed for it, and blame all of this on us. They know we are here.”
“But they do nothing?” Yngvar looked to Thorfast and Bjorn, who both shrugged.
“There are enough Arabs in the palace to defend against us. We are not in position to attack it. If they came out, they could lose to us. Ahmad is away at bigger things, besieging the eastern forts. He sent a token force here, but real warriors. Not the rabble that was at Pozzallo.”
Yngvar stared at the palace.
“I am getting in there and carrying of all the gold I can find as well as Kalim’s head. And if an army of Arabs want to stand before me, then I will slay them. I have not come so far to find Kalim out of reach.”
“Bold words,” Sergius said, staring back at the palace rising about the gray haze. “But unless you know a back entrance, we cannot hope to enter by force. We have done what we set out to do. The Arabs here are content to wait for the border sieges to settle matters for good. I cannot commit my men to a siege. It is not what we do.”
Yngvar shook his head.
“That is fine. But I will do it. I will build a ram and smash the gates. I will have Kalim’s head. No matter the cost.”
30
“You built a ram?”
Sergius stood with his men around the heavy beams of wood bound together in salvaged chains and ropes. A dozen poles lined the ram’s sides for men to carry it.
“Simple, but it will smash a door down,” Yngvar said. He had stripped to the waist and sweat trickled down his back. The air was cool and still smelled of burned wood. They had formed a camp by the docks to be close to their ships. Sergius and his band had been away to scout the surrounding area for enemies. They had returned in the late morning with news that survivors hovered close but fled at their approach. All during this time, Yngvar led everyone else in constructing the ram.
“We ain’t sitting this one out,” Bjorn said. He did not understand Sergius’s words, but the note of doubt was clear enough. “My ax is thirsty.”
Gyna still remained on the ship, but she leaned over the rails and smiled contentedly at Bjorn’s claims. Yngvar did as well, for he shared the same feelings.
“They’ll drop fire or boiling water on you,” Sergius said as he walked the length of the battering ram. “They’ll rain arrows down on you. Even if the gate opens, who will follow? You’ll all be dead.”
“You’ll follow,” Yngvar said. “And we have built a cover to shelter us as we work. Enough of us will survive.”
Sergius laughed. “I will follow?”
“You haven’t fled yet. So you must be as anxious as the others to find Kalim’s treasures.” Yngvar met him as he rounded the front of the ram. Sergius smiled and looked away.
“I can’t let Captain Petronus have all the glory, can I?”
Captain One-Eye Petronus laughed. His crewmen had been the ones to retrieve suitable beams for the ram.
“It’ll be a race to the treasure room,” he said. “But I don’t care as much for treasure as I do for killing Arabs. There’ll be plenty of glory even for a land-lover like you.”
The Red Oath Page 28