by David Penny
Go home, my love. Go to where you belong.
There was no need for the impossible voice to state where. There was only one place it could mean. Will’s fingers tightened against his and he said, “Who said that, Pa?” And Thomas stopped walking and looked down at his son.
“There’s only me and you here.”
Will shook his head. “I heard someone. Not Belia, she’s too far ahead. It sounded like…” Will’s eyes glistened with unshed tears and he shook his head.
“We’re both tired,” Thomas said. “Our minds are playing tricks on us, that’s all.”
“So you heard Ma, too?”
Thomas started walking again, already thinking of the words spoken to him—and whether they had been her words or nothing but imagination. He had thought on the matter since the first time it happened on the side of the mountain. He knew if he believed Lubna still spoke to him it would bring some small comfort, but his rationality rejected the notion. Thomas almost preferred to believe the words had been conjured directly in his own mind—memories of the woman he had loved, the woman he still loved. The words were his own, couched in the form of her familiar tones. Except … if that was true, how had Will heard them too?
He walked faster, passing Helena who travelled alongside Luis, strode on until he reached Olaf.
“We need to go back,” Thomas said.
Olaf glanced at him, his expression unchanged, but a question clear in the tilt of his head. “Back? We have only just left.”
“Not back there. We need somewhere we can protect, somewhere we know. Gharnatah is close.”
“We should go to al-Zagal,” said Olaf. “Throw ourselves in with him and fight, maybe even put him back on the throne. Make him Sultan again. Give this land hope again.”
Jorge heard them and dropped back from where he had been walking with Belia on one side and Jamila on the other.
“He’s a spent force,” Thomas said. “He was strong once, but when he was defeated it broke something in him. It’s changed him, and not for the better.”
“Who is a spent force?” Jorge fell into step with them. When he held out his hand Will took it, a hand in each of theirs, a smile on his face that made Thomas wonder if his son didn’t love Jorge more than he did his own father. And if he did, so be it—he had hated his own father and was the stronger for it.
“Al-Zagal. He cowers in al-Marrilla and does nothing.”
“But we would be protected,” said Olaf. “Al-Marilla’s walls are high and strong, and there is always the sea to escape across.”
“I thought he blamed you for his defeat at Malaka,” said Jorge.
“He did, but it is still a place of refuge. And we do not have to tell him we are there.”
“People know you,” Thomas said. “Word would spread that Olaf Torvaldsson has come. I would rather put my trust in myself, in you, and a place I know.”
“And Muhammed?” asked Jorge. “Do you think he will not hear of your return? He hates you, Thomas, you know he does. I believe he wants you dead. What you did to spark such hatred in him I don’t know, but you can’t deny it’s there.”
Usaden appeared like a spirit. He had been tracking to one side of the roadway and popped up now as if from behind a curtain. He stood a little apart, keeping his own council, but Thomas knew he would have taken in what they said. Had probably been listening the whole time.
“We could always throw ourselves on the mercy of the Spanish Queen,” said Jorge. “Isabel left Malaka shortly after its fall, but I’m sure we would find her in Ixbilla, Qurtuba, Alcala de Real or somewhere even further north.”
“There will be snow in the north,” Thomas said, and Jorge laughed.
“And she will have a great fire burning in whatever hearth she sits before. Spain is safer for us now than al-Andalus.”
“You forget that Mandana is Fernando’s man,” Thomas said. “I don’t believe Fernando knows all that is going on here, but I don’t altogether trust him either. If it came to a choice between me and Mandana, whose side would he take?” He wanted Lubna to speak inside his head again, but she remained silent, if she had ever been there at all. Thomas missed the old certainties, missed the surety he had once possessed in his own sanity.
“We could go home to Gharnatah, of course,” said Jorge.
Thomas smiled. “Yes, I suppose we could.”
“You have a fine house on the Albayzin with enough room for all of us, and if not, I also have a fine house. Olaf can send for Fatima, I am sure she misses him. It is the last thing anyone will suspect, and we will be surrounded by people who know you—people who will fight for you.”
“I have no wish to put anyone else in danger,” Thomas said.
“You already have,” said Jorge. He raised a hand to take in their small party, each of them slowly growing more visible as the sky to their backs lightened with the coming of the day. “Can you truly consider us safe? Fleeing from five hundred men, each of whom would love to see us strung up by our heels and used for target practice? It would be even worse for the women.”
“I didn’t force anyone to come,” Thomas said, aware it sounded like petulance even to his own ears.
“You didn’t have to. People follow you. They follow you because they love you, and because they trust you.” Jorge slapped his chest. “I am the pretty one, but it is you who attracts loyalty. Use their trust wisely. Don’t throw away a single life you can save.”
Thomas glanced behind, more as a means to allow himself time to think than to any other purpose. The day was coming, and Mandana’s distant campfires were now hidden in the growing light, not even smoke to show where the men had spent the night. For all he knew they were on the move already, heading toward Pampaneira. A sudden sense of urgency filled him. Mandana possessed loyal soldiers mounted on fast horses. There was nothing to prevent him sending them after Thomas, who felt the world vibrating around him with the promise of danger.
“You’re right,” he said, turning back, accepting the inevitable as he knew he must ever since Lubna spoke to him. “There is nowhere else. I have brought us to this. Alone. At risk. Vulnerable. How far to Gharnatah?” He looked toward Olaf, who would know better than anyone else.
“Half a day if it was only us four,” said Olaf. “More like a day with all of us.”
“Too long.”
“I cannot make them walk faster.”
“But I can ask,” Thomas said. “I was a fool to drag us away from the city.”
“No, you were not,” said Olaf. “Or do you forget men were sent to kill you? And the rest of us too when they found us together. But Jorge is right. They believe you have fled and will never think for you to return. And it will be good to have Fatima sleeping at my side again.”
“It’s always good to have a beautiful woman at your side. Or beneath you…” Jorge’s voice faded as Thomas went ahead, leaving Will with him. A sense of frustration tightened inside his chest. They had fled Gharnatah only to return to it. Was he a fool to be leading them back there? But the fact they were all of them together again offered some hope. If they had not left Gharnatah then Jamila and the others would still be in Pampaneira, unaware of the danger that was about to engulf the town.
He caught up with the women and encouraged them to move faster, telling everyone to discard what they had brought. There would be food and clothing in Gharnatah, and the lighter they travelled the sooner they would be safe.
Helena complained, which was to be expected. Her feet hurt. Her back hurt. Thomas ignored her, taking Jamila by the arm and drawing her to one side.
“Are you willing to come to Gharnatah with us?” he asked. “You and Aban and Dana?”
“To your house?”
“If it stands. If not, there will be another house. I still have friends who will help us.”
“Yes,” said Jamila, “I will come. Where else do I have now? Nowhere. None of us do. We have been set adrift and you offer us a haven, so of course we will come.”
<
br /> Olaf came forward with Will on his shoulders and cajoled Helena into stopping her complaints. Jamila organised her small group and everyone doubled their pace, not quite running, not quite walking. Thomas knew none of them could keep the pace up for long—other than Usaden, who was nowhere to be seen once more, no doubt gone to scout their flanks.
Thomas searched out Luis and walked beside him. He took the youth’s wrist until they both slowed, allowing the others to move ahead.
“Have you considered what we spoke of?” Thomas asked.
Luis nodded, his face set. “I had considered the idea myself before we spoke. It is a good plan, Thomas.”
“So, you agree? It is not without danger. Not without great danger.”
“They killed my parents,” said Luis, and Thomas released his hold and walked ahead, back to the others.
The land continued to rise along the broad flank of a ridge, and when they crested it the track twisted away below, doubling back on itself over and over as it cut through an almost vertical slope. Beyond, the rich Vega plain surrounding Gharnatah was wreathed in mist, which rose higher in a sinuous line to mark where the Darro river lay hidden. Catching the first rays of the sun the palace of al-Hamra sat like some glittering jewel, tiny and perfect. And then, from behind, came the sound of a horse at full gallop. Thomas spun around, his sword already in his hand. Olaf stood beside him on one side, Jorge on the other, and Thomas wished Usaden was with them too.
A black mount came into view, still not slowing, and Olaf said, “Thomas, I take the horse, you kill the rider.”
Thomas nodded. “There will be others close behind.” He looked around, wondering if they could create an ambush, but it was too late. He looked to the others, pleased to see they were continuing to move, picking their pace up even more.
The horse came at them, became a giant, and then it clattered to a halt and Usaden leapt from its back. He had a curved sword in one hand, its blade stained red.
“I acquired this from a man who no longer had need of it. Put the women and children on the horse, as many as will go.” He glanced back. “There are others if you want me to fetch them.”
Olaf laughed and clapped Usaden on the back. The blow would have felled Thomas, but Usaden barely moved. Thomas sent Aban back with the horse and instructions—told him to return with Luis and the others.
“How many?” he asked.
“A score. Outriders, nothing more. One of them stopped for a piss.” He raised a shoulder. “I let him finish before I killed him. It was the least I could do.”
“He’ll be missed.”
“He will, but not immediately. Which is why you need to send those who can’t fight ahead while we stop the others.”
Thomas looked around. Four, plus Luis and Aban. Six against twenty, and he didn’t know how the youths would fight, or even if Aban was willing. And Jorge was never much more than a threat. So three against twenty.
“I don’t like the odds,” he said.
“I don’t suppose the odds care much one way or the other,” said Olaf. “They are what they are, and we are who we are.” He thumped his chest. “Olaf Torvaldsson, Hvirfla! I will kill them all.” He looked at each of them. “And we have the dog, of course.”
Thomas laughed, a cold settling through him. The world took on a brittle sharpness he had not experienced since Lubna had been taken from him. It was the Thomas of old, and he welcomed the once familiar power—accepting it as a sign he was beginning a return to the man he had once been.
“Leave some for the rest of us,” he said. He saw Luis and Aban jogging toward them. Beyond, Helena, Dana and the children rode atop the captured horse while Jamila led it at a run, holding on to the pommel so her toes barely touched the ground. He turned back to Olaf. “How do you want to do this? Do we hide or set an ambush?”
Olaf paced forward until he stood at a spot where a large rock had crashed down from the hillside to form a barrier on one side, the land rising steeply on the other.
“We form a line here. They will have to come through us, not around. Three abreast at most, so we won’t have to kill them all at once.” He nodded. “Yes, this is as good a place to die as any.”
Thomas wondered if he meant the men who were coming, or themselves. He knew Olaf never questioned his own mortality. Thomas wondered what Hvirfla meant. He would ask Will to tell him, for he spoke the language of the north almost as well as he did Arabic. If they lived that long.
He glanced at Jorge, who stood tall, sword in hand. Anyone who didn’t know him might be afraid, which was good enough for the moment. Luis’s face had taken on a grimace, while Aban was pale, and Thomas wondered if he had ever faced trained soldiers before instead of hiding from them. There might have been a better time to find out the answer, but that time was not now. He leaned close to Luis and whispered in his ear, “Make them believe in you.”
Luis nodded, just as the first of the riders appeared. Their leader saw the six of them standing across the track and grinned, spurring his horse forward.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Olaf took the centre, his axe swinging softly from the leather thong tied at his wrist, as if he had forgotten it was even there. Thomas stood to Olaf’s left, Usaden on the right and a little further out so Olaf had room to swing. Both held a sword in each hand. Jorge was on Thomas’s left and behind, with Aban beyond him, while Luis was to the right of Usaden. Thomas didn’t know how these others would fight, but they added numbers if not skill, and he knew it would be the three of them standing at the heart of the line who would do the most damage. It didn’t occur to him he hadn’t fought in half a year and was weaker than he had been. He was filled one again with the ice of battle he believed he had lost after Lubna’s death, and with its return he knew he was invulnerable.
Thomas took in the look of the men, judging if they were professional soldiers or new recruits, and saw they fell into the former camp. It would make the coming fight all the more interesting.
“Do you think the tall one in the middle is their leader?” asked Olaf.
“More than likely. He has the best horse and a chainmail vest.”
“Then I will kill him first.”
Thomas smiled. “You do that. I’ll take the stocky one on my side, he looks like he knows what he’s doing.” He glanced at Olaf. “Do you think we’ll have to kill them all?”
“I do hope so.”
Thomas heard a retching sound and turned to see Aban throwing up on the side of the path. When he looked in Luis’s direction the young man stood firm, his face set. Beside him, Usaden appeared bored with the waiting.
“Let them attack us,” Thomas said.
“Of course,” said Olaf. He moved his arm, the axe hanging from it forming a wider arc as he readied himself for what he had been born to do—kill his enemies.
The leader came on several paces before slowing. Thomas started to count the numbers behind, then stopped. There was little point. They would be less once Olaf and Usaden began.
The leader drew his horse to a halt, taking his time to study the six men confronting him.
“Which of you is Thomas Berrington?”
Nobody spoke.
The leader shifted in his saddle to the soft creaking of leather.
“None of you? If that is so, you may continue your journey. We are looking for Berrington only.”
“It is him.”
Thomas turned his head fast at the sound of Luis’s voice. The youth held his arm out, pointing directly at him.
“He is the one you seek, but you will have to kill the others as well. They are stupidly loyal.” Luis began to walk toward the mounted man. “I recognise you, do you remember me?”
The leader narrowed his eyes and stared at Luis for a long time.
“This is growing dull,” said Olaf, his voice so low so it only carried to Thomas and Usaden.
“Yes, I know you,” said the leader. “I heard you ran like a coward.”
“I had a job t
o do, that is all. And now I have brought Thomas Berrington here so you can kill him.”
Usaden took three paces toward Luis and raised his sword.
“Leave him,” Thomas ordered. “You’ve seen what they do with deserters.” Usaden nodded and stepped back.
The mounted soldier waved a sword at Luis to get behind him, but Luis stayed where he was, turning slowly to face Thomas and the others.
Foolish and brave, Thomas thought. Young and headstrong, just like I once was.
He sighed. “Well, we’d better start killing them before it’s time for lunch.”
Olaf grinned. “We wait for them. They are almost ready. Some men ignore the prospect of death, others have to push it from their minds.”
As if he had heard the whispered conversation the leader of the troop bellowed an order, encouraging his horse into a gallop.
Thomas, Olaf and Usaden waited in line. Aban turned and ran. Jorge took a single step back, his sword shaking, but he stayed firm.
“Dance for them!” Thomas shouted. He ducked beneath a wild swing a moment before he heard the leader’s horse scream as Olaf’s whirling axe took it in the chest. The animal toppled like a felled oak, spilling its rider to the ground. Thomas stepped in and took him under the arm, hearing the screams of agony and rage around him but ignoring them. They meant nothing—they were the music of battle, and he hoped Jorge danced to it as he did. Others came at them to die, most to Olaf’s axe, but Usaden was as sharp as the blades he wielded, and fast, unbelievably fast.
Thomas felt the breath burn in his lungs—felt his arm grow tired, his legs turn to lead. He killed a man who came at him from the left, pushed him away, barely able to gather the strength to do so. He glimpsed Jorge deflecting a blade and then striking back, pulling his blow at the last moment so it didn’t kill, merely maim, but the attacker fell back, clutching at his shoulder.
