Einar’s forearm was smarting like he’d shoved it in a hornets’ nest.
‘Where is she?’ gasped Erlan, wide-eyed.
‘Where is she!’ snarled Einar. ‘Where the Hel were you?’
‘I thought you had her.’
‘I did! But now she’s gone. There.’ Einar jabbed his seax south at the dark head bobbing on the swell, slowly closing the distance to the little light. Soon she was just another shadow in a sea of black.
Erlan squinted, straining his eyes against the darkness. ‘Did she make it?’
‘I couldn’t tell.’
Erlan cursed.
Einar looked down at the blade in his hand, then held it up for Erlan to see. Six inches of steel from the tip were slick with blood. Erlan shook his head in disgust and turned away.
Meanwhile, Einar’s balls were throbbing like war drums. Gods, but that girl could kick. He was about to follow after Erlan when his foot knocked against something on the flagstones, making it roll. He stooped down and picked it up. Peered at it.
‘Here, lad,’ he growled. ‘Look at this.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Erlan had come to her before dawn. She knew he had to go, knew in her heart that it was for her that he went. But the parting was hard.
He told her what had happened. Admitted what he hadn’t before: that he knew the woman who had tried to kill the emperor, but that once before she had helped him. Lilla understood. Erlan didn’t judge as other men. He took from others no more than was his due. But, he said, something strange was afoot. He told her that Einar had found a leather pouch and inside was. . . nothing.
Even so, Erlan was certain the incident boded ill. In turn, Lilla had told him of her failure the day before. There would be no more friendly audiences with the lampros. All her efforts were wasted. She wondered whether Nikolaos was vindictive, whether what she had done would come to the ear of Leo and she would have to give an account of herself.
‘Keep your head down while we’re gone,’ said Erlan. ‘You should be safe within the palace precinct. This isn’t your fight.’
‘It is,’ she insisted. ‘Of course it is. If the city falls, our hopes fall with it.’
‘I need you to lie low. Please.’ He squeezed her hands till it hurt. ‘Let me do this for you. And meanwhile, befriend the princess or the empress, or do whatever you think may help. Just don’t provoke anyone. And promise me you’ll leave the lampros and the other fire-makers alone.’
‘All right.’ She nodded evasively.
‘I mean it. Well alone,’ he repeated, forcing her to look him in the eye.
She suddenly smiled and kissed him. ‘I will. And you. . . get this thing done. Then come back to me. All of you.’
He kissed her again, fiercely, and then left her.
She had watched them depart in a clatter of hooves from an upper gallery overlooking the Sentinels’ Courtyard. The two Northmen, two other imperial guards in white and another garbed in blue – all of them escort to the emperor’s envoy, Lord Daniel, Eparch of the City, who looked anything but comfortable on top of his horse. And finally Aska, Erlan’s huge rangy hound, trotting along obediently beside his master. She watched them ride out through the great Bronze Gate, her eyes fixed on his dark tousled hair until the whole party vanished from sight on the far side of the Augustaion. She prayed it would not be the last time she saw him.
Back in her chambers, she paced up and down, picking up items, fidgeting with them, putting them down again, pacing some more.
‘Well?’ Gerutha was standing hands on hips, a challenging look on her lined face.
‘What is it?’
‘If you’re going to be walking up and down for the next who knows how long, I just might find me some other place to live.’
‘Oh. Sorry, Grusha. There’s too much weighing on my mind.’
‘Yours and mine both. But you don’t have to make it worse by giving us both a headache.’ Her servant’s stern expression softened. ‘Why don’t you come with me and Domnicus into the city?’
‘No. I’m. . . I’m too distracted.’
‘Well, go for a walk in the gardens or something. You can’t stay cooped up here.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’ She shook her head and snorted. ‘Anyway, you’re spending a lot of time with Domnicus, aren’t you?’
‘What of that?’
‘And he gave you that.’ Lilla pointed at the little golden cross hanging around Gerutha’s neck. ‘What does it signify anyway?’
‘It’s the sign of their god.’
‘I know that. But what does it mean?’
Gerutha shrugged. ‘He told me it means that love is more powerful than death.’
‘Huh! That’s absurd.’ Lilla couldn’t remember when her heart had grown so cynical. Love hadn’t stopped her kin from dying.
‘Is it?’ Gerutha shook her head. ‘Maybe. But I like the sound of it.’
‘It sounds as if you like him,’ Lilla smiled.
‘What? No, I—’
‘A man doesn’t give a woman gold unless he likes her too.’
‘He’s not a man. He’s a priest.’
‘Aren’t priests allowed to marry?’
Grusha chuckled. ‘Actually, I don’t know. But I promise you it’s not like that. I. . . I admire him. He’s fearless – and yet completely humble. Gentle too.’
‘It definitely sounds as if you like him,’ Lilla chuckled.
‘Well, you can think what you want,’ replied Grusha to close the matter. ‘Now then, you have all you need. If there’s anything else, Yana can help you. Wherever that useless girl’s got to,’ she added. Gerutha was unimpressed with the servant Katāros had assigned to them. She threw a shawl around her shoulders.
‘Where is it today?’ said Lilla.
‘The coppersmiths’ quarter. I’ll be back before dark. Try to think of other things.’
Lilla scoffed. ‘What other things?’
Gerutha gave her a sympathetic smile then lifted the latch of the door. ‘You’ll come up with something.’ She opened the door and took a step back in surprise. Three tall sentinels stood in the doorway, their faces half-hidden behind steel nose-guards. One of the men stepped forward into the room.
‘Queen Lilla Sviggarsdottír?’
‘You know who I am.’ Lilla frowned as two other sentinels entered the room and moved behind her. ‘What is it?’
‘By personal order of Emperor Leo, third of his name, I am charged to place you under arrest.’
It was just before noon when the eparch and his escort loaded their horses on the boat in the Neorion Harbour that would carry them inland along the Golden Horn to deposit them on the deserted shore of its head waters to the north-west. The hours of daylight were still few, the break of winter into the first days of spring still a handful of weeks away, so Alexios told Erlan.
Not waiting for dusk, they rode west up into the hill-country above the Blachernae Gate. The main lines of Maslama’s army were drawn up further south. Months before, they had dug in for the winter. Two great fortified ditches protected them from attack, from the Byzantines on the east, and the Bulgar night raiders to the west. Entrenched though they were, all of the country outside the city was dangerous and the eparch’s party took care to watch for any Arab patrols roving that far north. The aim had been to get well clear that first night, slipping through the Arab lines without detection. But their progress up and away from the Horn was painfully slow thanks to the eparch’s poor riding skills and his excessive body mass.
‘I think I see a flaw in the emperor’s plan,’ said Einar in Norse, when the sun had already set and they were still climbing. Every few minutes there was another crumple of loose stones, followed by a burst of foul language and the sound of a horse being flogged.
‘Aye,’ agreed Erlan. ‘This mission could be over before it’s started.’ He kicked on his mount alongside Alexios, the captain of the escort. ‘That fat fool is going to break his neck if we go on like
this,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Or else hobble his mount.’
‘Mmm. You may be right. I was hoping we’d be clear before daybreak.’
Reluctantly, Alexios agreed to make camp among the rocks at the top of the next hill and then continue in the grey before the dawn. He called a halt. The eparch protested, doubtless realizing it was for his benefit, but when Alexios insisted, Erlan could see Lord Daniel was relieved.
They found a likely spot in the lee of a rocky outcrop, which shielded them from the eyes of any Arab gazing that way from their encampment, if not from the cold breeze blowing from the north. They tethered their horses and set up three small fires to keep the worst of the chill off them. The fifth guard in their party, there to represent Arbasdos, was the general’s spatharios, Davit – a man who held no love for Erlan. But aside from the odd hostile glance, he seemed minded to make no trouble. The two Northmen sat separate from the others, talking softly as they built their small fire. Aska was coiled in a pile of grey fur beside Erlan. ‘Crazy situation, huh?’
‘I don’t know. Once you’ve taken a dump over a trough of running water that magics away your turd, nothing seems so crazy.’ Einar started laughing. ‘I mean – where the Hel does it go?’
Erlan smiled. ‘This isn’t our world, that’s for sure. Here, toss me your fire-steel.’
‘In the pouch.’ Einar waved a stick at the long leather cylinder lying amongst his gear, which he had appropriated from the unfortunate Lucia.
‘I thought you said this thing was worthless.’
‘I said there was nothing in it. But I’ve a use for it even if that little wench no longer did.’
Erlan pulled the top off and tipped out the contents into his hand. There was the fire-steel, a whetstone, a scrap of char-cloth, even a half-eaten bit of cheese. ‘What’s this?’ he said.
‘What’s what?’
Besides the other items, there was a scroll of thin leather half hanging out of the opening. ‘I thought you said this was empty.’
‘Oh, that. That’s just some kind of lining.’
Erlan pulled the whole thing out and it unfurled on his lap. He’d seen something similar on the emperor’s desk. ‘That’s not lining, you big oaf. They call it parchment. They use it for their rune magic.’ He held it up to his face to examine it more closely. ‘It’s got markings on it. Here, get the fire lit.’
‘You get the damn fire lit.’
Erlan shook his head and cursed, setting to work with char-cloth and fire-steel, and soon had the kindling crackling away. Once the bigger pieces began to take, he tipped the parchment towards the growing flames.
‘Well, don’t get it too close or you’ll set the stupid thing alight.’ Einar pulled Erlan’s hand back. ‘What’s it say?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Get Alexios over here. He’ll tell you.’
The captain was crouched beside the eparch’s campfire, tending to the flames. With a low whistle, Einar caught his attention. He rose and came over. ‘What do you make of this?’ Erlan asked him.
Alexios dropped to his haunches and took the piece of parchment. Erlan watched his steady gaze scan over it. Then his eyes suddenly snapped up. ‘Where did you get this?’
So Erlan explained, turning out the whole story – of the attempt on the emperor’s life and their pursuit of Lucia over the sea wall.
‘Is the girl still alive?’
‘Who knows? She was certainly wounded.’
Alexios shook his head. ‘Do you have any idea what this is?’
The two Northmen exchanged glances. ‘Barbarians can’t read,’ said Erlan. ‘Everyone knows that.’
‘They’re plans for the manufacture of liquid fire. Every detail. Not even I should be reading this,’ Alexios muttered. ‘If these ever fell into enemy hands—’
‘Well, thanks to us they didn’t,’ grinned Einar.
‘Thanks to you,’ Erlan corrected him. The fat man shrugged. Erlan was eyeing the unfurled parchment and the tiny scribblings all over its face, thinking of what Lilla would do for it. Thinking what she would want him to do. But Alexios was already rolling up the scroll and shoving it inside the folds of his tunic. ‘I ought to destroy this.’ He glanced at the other fires. ‘But the emperor should see it. It’s proof that the Arabs have spies within the city walls.’
‘One fewer now,’ observed Erlan.
‘Mmm. Get some sleep. It’s a long ride to Pliska.’
They were mounted again long before dawn broke, dirty, grey and cold. The ground beneath them was sodden; the snow had melted at last leaving the gullies muddy and the rocks slick. The snows had covered the land for a hundred days, they said. Longer than even the oldest memory in Byzantium could remember. The priests said it was a sure sign of God’s wrath on the infidel. But that was more than Erlan knew.
From the ridge they descended through the gloom, past swaying shadows of alder trees and whitebeams as they picked their way down to the plain below. Alexios bid everyone ride in silence, a command the fat eparch seemed to find impossible to obey. Perhaps he was nervous and was trying to pass off his disquiet as good fellowship with the other men. He wanted to know how every one of them had slept, how far they thought they would reach today, and so on. When the captain hissed him to silence, the eparch only laughed at him.
‘Oh, loosen up, man! What are you so afraid of? The nearest Arab is miles to the south and asleep, half-starved, or more likely dead!’
‘Excellency,’ countered Alexios, his voice cold as a north wind. ‘You are envoy. I command this party until we reach Pliska, so I’ll say this only once – if you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll ram this sword so far up your arse you’ll be spitting iron.’
Lord Daniel’s sleek red cheeks flushed white with fury. His chest puffed like a bullfrog and he was about to unleash fresh invective when an arrow came whistling out of the grey, and took him straight through the throat. Blood spewed from his mouth in great gouts of scarlet. His horse reared up. ‘To arms!’ yelled Alexios. ‘To arms!’ Erlan freed Wrathling from its sheath. ‘Stay on your horse!’ he snarled at Einar who had started to dismount.
‘I can’t wield an axe on top of a blasted horse, can I?’
‘This is no time to make a stand, fat man. Ride like fury!’ The image hardly fitted with the great sack of turnips Einar resembled on horseback. But he took the point and dug his heels into his horse’s flank.
Alexios was beside the eparch, trying to haul him across his horse’s withers. Arab horsemen were appearing out of the broken ground below them. Another arrow fizzed between Erlan and the commander.
‘Leave him! He’s finished,’ cried Erlan.
Alexios gave one more desperate haul at the envoy but his mount shied away and the eparch’s obese corpse crashed to the ground. The fastest of the Arab horsemen were kicking on across the contour of the slope to head them off.
‘Ride north-west,’ screamed Alexios, drawing his sword. ‘All of you – get clear, for God’s sake!’
Erlan squeezed his knees and his mare took off down the rocks. Beside him, Aska barked and bounded on. Davit and the other guard – a man named Bringas – were weighed down with saddlebags stuffed with gold and other treasures for the Bulgar khan. They had a head start down the slope but Erlan and the Fat-Belly were gaining on them quickly.
Seeing the two front riders of the Arab patrol bearing in from the left, Erlan turned to come between them and the gold. As the gap closed he saw they were dressed in scale armour and billowing green breeches with long lances lowering for the kill. He bent close over his horse’s ears, half-praying the riders were too intent on the easier prey to see him slanting in at their flank.
The lance-tip of the closest was only yards from catching Davit when Erlan bellowed a war cry. The Arab turned and twisted his body; seeing the danger, his spear-tip swung to meet Erlan. He lifted his shield and took the blow on its boss, which nearly vaulted him from the saddle, but grinding his knees tighter into the horse’s fl
esh he kept his seat. He was inside the point now, his horse barrelling along beside the Arab, shoulder to shoulder down the narrow path. Erlan held his shield out, twisted in his saddle and swung his sword arm like an axe. He had a split second to see the horror in the Arab’s eyes and then his head was gone, bumping away into the mud. Erlan punched with his shield, and the headless body tipped over and fell like a broken doll against a rock.
He heard a yell behind him and stole a glance back to see Alexios wheeling his horse to meet another lancer driving in from the left. Erlan sawed on his reins and yanked his filly’s head round, then kicked her on up the slope. This was a bloody mess. But there was no use others dying now.
Alexios was at a standstill – an easy target for a skilled lancer at the charge – but at the last second his horse lurched right; Alexios deflected the spear-tip off his shield then lunged with his sword, taking his attacker in the belly. The Arab slowed and slumped away. Already Alexios had turned his horse and was yelling at Erlan to do the same but he hadn’t seen another horsemen appear out of a gully behind him. Erlan shouted a warning that came too late. Alexios turned just as the lance-tip found its mark. His body arched in pain as Erlan reached him, flinging his shield into the Arab’s face. The rim sliced like an axe into the bridge of his nose and the man went over. The lance was drooping out of Alexios’s body. The captain threw down his shield to tear the tip free. With a yowl of pain, he got it out and dropped it to the ground.
‘Can you ride?’
‘Go. . .’ he said, his voice a gasp. ‘I’ll follow.’
There were more horseman appearing from the left, spurring on into the skirmish. Einar and the other guards had reached the bottom of the slope and were climbing up the other side towards a shallow ridge lined with trees. Aska was still with Erlan. ‘Time to run, boy,’ he called in Norse and snatched Alexios’s reins. His heart was hammering at his breastbone as he dragged the beast after him. His own reins were flapping loose; he had to trust the little filly to keep her footing but together the pair of them were slow. He looked back. Two, then three other riders emerged from other gullies. They were gaining, no doubt of that. Alexios’s face was a pale grimace.
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