The Red Oath

by Jerry Autieri

  Yet another step and he was halfway there. Yngvar’s body quivered with expectation.

  Kalim, he thought, at last you will pay for the shameful deaths you caused my crew. You will pay for all the suffering of my friends. You’ll pay for it with your bones.

  The next step up.

  Then one of Kalim’s giants waddled outside the door. His huge sword dragged at his side, weighing down his belt and threatening to pull off his pants. One giant leg was wrapped in a white cloth with a brown stain like an eye staring out in shock. In both his massive hands he carried a wooden chest.

  Kalim followed behind.

  He was dressed in his dandy blue robes. His face shined with tears and he held a cloth to his nose so tightly it might disappear into his nostrils.

  Their eyes met.

  Kalim fell back and screamed. He stammered out commands as he vanished from sight.

  “Die!” Yngvar shouted in answer. He raised his sword and bounded up the stairs.

  The giant blocked the entire landing. He hoisted the chest overhead and flung it down the stairs.

  Yngvar crashed against the wall to avoid it. Alasdair fell against the stone bannister to escape the flying chest.

  Thorfast screamed and dropped flat.

  The chest collided with Bjorn. With a meaty thud and a dull grunt, Bjorn fell backward down the stairs. The chest bounced off of his torso and crashed against the banister then burst open on the stairs.

  Gold and silver coins belched out into a metallic puddle. Bjorn fell among the wealth, arms and legs spread wide as if he hoped to embrace the whole sky above him.

  The shock of the thrown chest paused all of them long enough for the giant to draw his sword.

  “Keep him on the stairs,” Yngvar shouted as he rushed to meet him. He had no time to explain more. The others would know the giant was disadvantaged in the confines of a stairwell.

  The giant lumbered to meet Yngvar. He wore an expression of mild distaste, like a man who wondered if the mead he had just sipped was starting to spoil. He hefted the hunk of gray iron he carried for a sword and swung.

  But it dragged and sparked along the stone wall. He hadn’t the room to use such a weapon.

  Yngvar ducked under it and drove his sword at the giant’s exposed armpit.

  Yet the giant swept down and batted Yngvar back with disdain.

  Alasdair was the next closest. He swept under the giant’s strike. He had dropped his sword and pulled a dagger. With precision born of long practice, he slipped the dagger into the inner thigh of the giant.

  He growled and stumbled back. But he did not die, for as he twisted back, his bulk pulled Alasdair’s hand off the dagger. It remained stuck in his thigh, plugging the wound that would otherwise pour his blood out as fast as an up-turned mug.

  Yngvar readied another strike, but the giant flung his sword at him. The hunk of iron filled his sight and he had to duck beneath his shield. It slammed against the wood, driving him down the stairs. He had to fight to keep from falling back atop Bjorn.

  “Thorfast, get up there,” Yngvar shouted. He flattened against the wall to allow Thorfast passage. He scrambled past.

  Alasdair screamed.

  Looking over his shield, Yngvar saw the giant had lifted Alasdair overhead with both hands. He flailed like a child, held by his neck and legs.

  Yngvar traced the giant’s line of sight. It went over the bannister, three floors below.

  He was aware of his screaming only after he collided with the giant. Yngvar was nowhere as large as his foe, but neither was he a small man. He had been well fed and drilled as a soldier. His muscles were taut and hard. His reflexes were unerring.

  He pushed one hand on Alasdair’s dagger, popping it out with a wet snap of flesh. With his other hand, he lifted the giant at his foot. Even such a massive man could be toppled with a push to the right place.

  The giant flung Alasdair as he stumbled back onto the stairs. Yet his aim was ruined. Alasdair spun through the air to slam into Thorfast, sending them all down the stairs in a jumble of screams and curses.

  Yngvar clawed up the prone body of the giant. It was like scaling a wall of flesh. He found his own dagger and drew it.

  He remembered something Gyna had told him. Something about the giants not being able to handle her crawling all over them while she stabbed them.

  The giant already groaned and worked up to his elbows. His face was red with rage and his yellow teeth were stained with blood. One massive hand reached out for Yngvar.

  Then he shot up the giant’s torso, clawing his face and driving his dagger into his body as if he were scaling a wall of ice. Yngvar straddled the giant, stabbing with the same mania he had seen in Gyna. Like her, he concentrated on the face and neck.

  The giant buckled and flailed. He roared out in pain. But he was overwhelmed and confused. He could fight any man in a stand-up battle. He could not handle frenetic, random stabbing. His hands searched to halt Yngvar’s. Had his wits been his own, he only had to buck Yngvar aside. But now he was bleeding from a dozen puncture wounds, most around his face and neck.

  Yngvar did not slow even when the giant’s arms fell. He recalled how his brothers had continued on even with spears through their guts.

  He wove the dagger like a needle, rising and falling until all he saw was red blood. The giant’s face glistened with gore under the gray sky. Still Yngvar stabbed him. He would not stop until he saw the face bones.

  But his arms finally tired. He realized he was dripping in gore. His eyes burned with it. He looked up, rousing from the crimson-hazed madness that had kept him stabbing long past the giant’s death.

  Another giant stood in the same spot on the landing. He held a massive sword in one hand. His face showed no emotion. Flat black eyes looked into his.

  Yngvar slumped over the body. One giant he could handle. This second one, he would struggle to defeat.

  Then Bjorn roared.

  He dashed up the stairs, coins flying off him and clinking on the stone. Yngvar heard him thud up the stairs behind him. Then he saw his giant cousin leap across him.

  The Arab giant looked up in shock. He made to raise his sword.

  But Bjorn landed on the step below. What had seemed like a sure strike to the head had been only a feint. Bjorn’s mighty ax chopped into the giant’s leg.

  And true to his incredible strength, Bjorn’s ax cut through the thick thigh.

  The ax haft snapped with the force. Bjorn followed through, screaming in glory.

  The giant’s leg fell aside. He stared down as if he could not understand what had happened. His massive iron sword clanged to the ground. Then he collapsed to the stump, both massive hands reaching for the bloody wreckage.

  Yngvar forgot all his weariness and pain. He blinked against the sweat and blood dripping into his eyes.

  Bjorn lifted up the mighty iron sword with both hands.

  The giant looked up in time to see Bjorn unwinding his blow.

  The massive blade slashed sideways through the air, took the giant in the neck, and sent his head spinning straight up.

  The head plopped onto the top step, then rolled down to settle against the shoulder of the other giant Yngvar had killed.

  Bjorn raised the sword overhead and screamed out his victory to the gods.

  Yngvar sloughed off the dead giants, then turned back to find Alasdair and Thorfast collecting themselves from the pile of coins they had landed in. Thorfast’s hand had been badly cut by his own drawn sword and he held it tight against his body. Alasdair slipped in the coins trying to retrieve his own blade.

  “That’s how it’s done, cousin!” Bjorn shouted. “You kill a giant by taking his fucking head!”

  He roared again. His ecstasy was contagious, and Yngvar plodded up to throw his arms around him.

  “I couldn’t have faced another of them.”

  “Ah, they’re not as bad as they look. I’ve killed them before.” Bjorn pulled back and blinked at Yngvar.
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  “Where’s that little turd of a prince?” Yngvar asked.

  They looked into the dark room. At a glance, he was not there. He might be cowering in the deep shadows. Yngvar pulled the door wider to allow more light in.

  “Here he is, lord.”

  Alasdair leaned over the bannister on the landing, looking down.

  Yngvar and Bjorn joined him, while Thorfast groaned as he trudged up from behind.

  A slender twine rope was suspended from the bannister. It had been tied off in knots to allow easy hand-holds. Halfway down this long rope, Kalim clung with both arms and legs wrapped around it. He wept like a child.

  Thorfast pushed through and leaned over to see. He snorted a laugh.

  “I almost can’t go through with this. It’s like killing a baby.”

  “Guess he ain’t good with heights,” Bjorn said, sniffing.

  “I know you understand Greek,” Yngvar called down. “If you’re thinking to jump, you’ll be killed. But come up here, and we will offer you a deal.”

  Kalim stopped crying and snapped his head up. He repeated in heavily accented Greek. “Deal? Why?”

  “Well, you’re a prince. You’re worth something to your father, I bet. We’ll ransom you. Don’t let go and we’ll pull you up.”

  “Lord, lying is a sin.” Alasdair mumbled beside him.

  “So is murder, but that’s not going to stop you, is it?”

  “No, lord, it is not.” Alasdair fingered his dagger. “Nor is it a sin to kill the devil where you find him.”

  Kalim clung to the rope as Bjorn hauled him up. “Just like catching fish.”

  “Only this is a jellyfish with a nasty sting,” Thorfast said. “Time to rid the sea of its vermin.”

  They dragged him gracelessly over the balcony. Kalim fell onto his knees among them. His head cover fell over his face. Sweat had soaked through his armpits, staining wide crescents at both sides. They hauled him to his feet and pushed back his head cover. His black-ringed eyes were puffy with his weeping. When he looked at Yngvar he grimaced as if smelling rotting flesh.

  “So, ransom,” Yngvar said in Greek. “Your father will pay for your life?”

  “Yes,” Kalim said. A fresh hope swept through him and he stood straighter. “Ransom. Much gold for me. I am to be emir one day.”

  “More gold than what’s in there?” Yngvar asked, pointing to the opened treasure room.

  Kalim nodded. “Father is very rich. He will pay. And my brother will pay, but he will pay with blood.”

  Yngvar gave a wry smile. This rat had already assumed his survival and was plotting revenge on his brother.

  “About your brother,” Yngvar said. “I think he is very clever. He sacked your palace but left it for us to capture. Makes it look like Norsemen did all this, doesn’t it? He just locked you up with a bunch of wounded, useless men to keep you warm for us. He’ll be telling your father all about the evil Norsemen who trapped you here and burned your fine city.”

  Kalim grew still. His eyes drooped along with his shoulders.

  “No ransom for Kalim?”

  Yngvar smiled and patted Kalim on the shoulder.

  “No ransom for Kalim,” he repeated softly. “I have sworn a red oath, dear prince. You’d have done better to pay us and send us on our way. Now look at the ruin all around. As I swore, your palace is mine. Your gold is mine. And now, your life is mine.”

  Kalim nodded. He sniffled, then pulled a small cloth from his sleeve. He put it against his nose, and looked down.

  “Thorfast, you first.” Yngvar said.

  Thorfast stood before Kalim, studied him with a curled lip, then drove his dagger into the prince’s gut. He doubled over and groaned.

  Bjorn jumped in next. “For Gyna, you fucking dog.”

  With no dagger of his own, he yanked out Thorfast’s then slammed it back in. Kalim collapsed with a gasp. Yngvar held him up, forcing him to look at Alasdair.

  His coppery hair lifted in the breeze. His bright face glowed with red hatred. He scowled and raised the dagger.

  Then he held still.

  Yngvar wanted to encourage him to strike, but he bit back on his words. This had to come from Alasdair. Valgerd’s life depended on this. The gods would make their blessing according to Alasdair’s choice.

  Thorfast and Bjorn both turned aside.

  Kalim wheezed and gurgled blood. If Alasdair did not strike now, he would die soon.

  “For Valgerd,” he shouted.

  The dagger blade plunged high into Kalim’s breast, just beneath the collarbone. He arched his back and opened his mouth to scream. But only a gargle of blood spilled out. His hands fell aside, dropping the cloth to the ground.

  Yngvar let him slump to his knees. He remained balanced there. Yngvar thought of how his giants had died in the same position. But he was no giant. He was a rat.

  Taking his longsword in both hands, the others cleared the area for Yngvar to strike.

  “Wait,” Thorfast shouted. “By the gods!”

  Thorfast jumped into the treasure room, then stepped out holding a longsword.

  It had a green gem set into its pommel. It was Yngvar’s most prized sword. The one he had carried back from Ireland in what felt like another life.

  “It was just sitting inside the door,” Thorfast said. “The gods are pleased with you, it would seem. Take it.”

  Yngvar took the perfectly balanced weapon in hand. He drew it easily from the sheath. Its polished blade gleamed with the flat sunlight.

  He now pointed it at Kalim. Despite everything, he still labored to breathe, though his eyes stared vacantly at the stone floor. Alasdair pulled back the prince’s head to expose his throat.

  “You took this sword from me,” he said. Reflected light danced across Kalim’s ashen face. “Then you sent good men to their deaths. All for a trick played by one of your ass-lickers. Your head is the dearest prize I can claim. Look at me, for this is your last sight of the world. What you next look upon is for your god to decide. Farewell, dear prince. I will remember you every time I sip mead from your skull.”

  The perfect blade hummed through the air. The full edge cut through the flesh of Kalim’s neck, stuttered through bone, then swept out the other side.

  His head rolled off his shoulders, and his body fell backward.

  The head clopped to the stone floor. Blood and fluid leaked from it.

  Bjorn tore off the head cover, then lifted the prince’s head by his hair. He drizzled the blood over this face and laughed.

  “It is done,” Yngvar said. “I have done as I have sworn. Vengeance is ours.”

  “And a fair bit of gold, as well,” Thorfast said.

  “And a fair bit of gold,” Yngvar said, smiling.

  32

  The day was the coolest Yngvar had ever experienced in Sicily. Granted, they were no longer in Sicily but on one of the many islands dotting the Midgard Sea. They had established a fair camp, pleasant and calm. Fresh water came from a small stream that wended through a thin grove of palm trees. Others had lived here once, leaving foundations to build upon. Yngvar watched the Franks bringing their catches of fish up from the beach.

  Gyna hobbled around with Ewald’s assistance. After nearly two months, she was mostly recovered. Despite this she complained she would never walk again. Currently she was busy supervising some of the former slaves smoking fish. She shouted and cursed, but none paid her any mind.

  Bjorn sat on a rock and honed his axe. He would need a new haft for it. But for the time he kept a sword captured from Kalim’s giant bodyguards. Bjorn laughed more than any other on the island. He had earned a name as a giant-slayer. This was worth more to him than all the gold they had looted from Licata. Combined with Kalim’s carefully flensed skull, Bjorn had all he needed to be happy.

  Thorfast and Ragnar sat on logs with a small boulder between them. Balanced on it was a wood board with small stones. Lucas the Byzantine stood beside it, instructing them on the game neither seem
ed to understand.

  Hamar and Nordbert inspected their ship pulled onto the beach. Hamar bent to examine a point on the hull while Nordbert stood on the deck with one of his men and held a length of sail between them. Nordbert’s face was still wrapped in a white bandage. He would have a fearsome scar on his noble face once he finally removed it. The Arabs had left their mark on him.

  Yngvar took it all in. He smiled and his chest filled with warmth. The sun was bright and the salt air crisp. This might be Yuletide but no one could reckon the time accurately enough to be certain. Besides, how could it be Yule without snow?

  Across the waves the dark Byzantine ship drew nearer. It was Captain One-Eye Petronius returning from a trip to the mainland. He would have supplies, extra food to relieve the monotony of fish, and other sundries needed. He used a portion of the gold they had recovered from Licata to buy for all the men on the island. Some men hoped he returned with women. It seemed possible but Yngvar had forbidden it. Unless they could bring one for every man there would be trouble they could not afford.

  Carrying the gold from Licata had been harder than it first appeared. Kalim’s treasure room was ingeniously placed. The most a thief could carry away from that high place was a small sack of valuables. To scrape it all together and carry it off required dozens of men working in a line down the stairs and through the palace.

  The prince had not been as rich as his palace led Yngvar to believe. Yet even after dividing the spoils equally among all the men—Franks, Byzantines, and former slaves—he had plenty to repair his ship and his weapons. Not enough for better armor, but he held enough for a better shield. He expected it was on this shipment. Bjorn’s ax haft was likely part of the cargo as well.

  Two months had passed since Licata. They had parted with Sergius and his men with a salute to each other on the beach. Of all the men who had fallen in the attack, Sergius had lost none. These were careful and experienced soldiers. Sergius had taken an arrow through his little toe. That was the worst all of them had endured.

  “We go back to face whatever fate awaits us,” he said. “There is not enough space on your ships for all of us. And we would never leave this land. There are friends here who need our help. There are things we must secret from the Arabs. We will die here if we must.”