The Promise of Pain

by David Penny

  “I don’t believe they could have captured Olaf without anyone hearing something,” said Usaden, breathing normally. “He’s not an easy man to subdue.”

  “Mandana drugged both Jorge and me once. We almost died—should have died. I’m sure he’s not forgotten such skills. But if Olaf remains alive he is in their tent. They couldn’t risk carrying him out and our men seeing what they have done.”

  “How many guards went in with them? No more than ten as I recall, so they must have used some kind of drug to subdue him.”

  “We go in the front way, no subterfuge. I’m relying on you to kill as many as you can while I find Olaf.”

  “And Guerrero and Mandana?”

  “Both are mine. You can wound them, but they must remain alive. Their deaths are mine.”

  Usaden slowed, stopped, his hand grasping Thomas’s sleeve. “It is impossible for the two of us.”

  “Ten men, plus Guerrero and Mandana? I think not.”

  “There will be noise. Guerrero’s men will come, and everything ends then.”

  Thomas stared at Usaden. “We have to do something. If Olaf remains alive he may not be so in an hour”

  “Agreed.” Usaden looked around. He offered a cold smile. “This is it, Thomas. This moment. We cannot wait for them to attack us in the night. It is sooner than I would have liked, but if they have Olaf, now is our only chance to free him.”

  “You want us to attack them now?”

  “The men, yes. You and I will do as you said and free Olaf. We will take a few others with us; we’ll need them to carry him out if he’s been drugged.” Usaden began to run back the way they had come.

  Thomas caught up to him where the knot of men they had killed lay and passed by without a glance. Usaden knew Olaf’s commander, another Northman by the name of Buri Bolverkesson, who might have been Olaf’s twin if he wasn’t a third his age. Usaden allowed Thomas to explain the situation.

  Thomas expected Buri to raise objections, but none came.

  “I had myself begun to worry,” he said, his accent even stronger than Olaf’s so it made his Arabic near incomprehensible. “Tell me, what is your plan?”

  “Mine?”

  Buri nodded. “Of course yours. Olaf told me if anything happened to him I was to consider you in command, not me. He says you are clever, and he knows I am not. Though if they have harmed him not a man of them will live.”

  Thomas glanced at Usaden, who nodded agreement to the silent question.

  He told Buri what he wanted.

  Thomas and Usaden crouched forty feet from the entrance to Guerrero’s tent. Behind them, a dozen of Olaf’s best soldiers waited in silence. None of them spoke, waiting for what had been agreed.

  From the gathering darkness behind came a shout, sudden and loud, followed by the scream a man makes when a knife is thrust into his belly. It was the signal.

  Thomas rose and ran to the tent. There were no guards outside, but as soon as he entered he found two standing within. His sword took the one on his right and he ran on, knowing Usaden would deal with the other. From across the scattered campground came the clashing of swords, the shouts of men. It had started—both the distraction and the final battle.

  Thomas pushed through another layer of canvas into a second empty room. He went on, wondering where the other guards were. The sight he witnessed in the third chamber brought him to a halt.

  Olaf Torvaldsson lay naked, tied to a wooden frame. Long trails of rope led from his wrists and ankles—the same kind of bindings Thomas had seen on the man dragged behind a horse.

  “Keep watch.” Thomas moved to the table. He took his knife and sawed through the bindings, but when he was free to do so Olaf didn’t move.

  Thomas laid a hand on the big man’s chest, forcing himself to wait, wait…

  He felt Olaf’s heartbeat. Felt his chest rise and fall. The man was alive, but still drugged.

  Thomas gripped Olaf’s jaw and squeezed hard, rocking his head from side to side. Still Olaf showed no sign he felt anything.

  “Fetch the others,” Thomas said, and Usaden ran from the chamber.

  Thomas slapped Olaf across the face, pricked his arm with the tip of his knife, and then he froze as he heard a laugh from behind.

  “I knew you would come.” Abbot Mandana stood beside his son. Both held swords, Guerrero with a knife in his other hand—the one his father lacked.

  “The others will be back soon. A lot of men.”

  “Oh, I am sorry, Thomas,” said Mandana. “I dispatched some of my own to take care of them.” He glanced at his son beside him. Thomas wondered how long the two had been working side by side against both al-Andalus and Spain, for he knew that was the truth of it. Mandana had never been taken back into the fold of Fernando’s protection, he had only allowed the king to believe so.

  From beyond the canvas walls Thomas heard the clash of sword on sword, the bellow of men fighting for their lives. He smiled, knowing Usaden was out there, inflicting mayhem.

  Mandana mirrored Thomas’s smile, misinterpreting it.

  “You have given me fine sport over the years, Thomas Berrington, but it is time for it to end. We have bigger plans now.” He glanced at his son. “Hold him, Pedro, while I finish this.”

  Guerrero grinned and moved forward, light on his feet, all his attention on Thomas, who stepped back. He knew, despite six weeks of good food and hard practice, he was not yet as strong as he had once been.

  Guerrero jabbed with his sword, laughing when Thomas jerked away.

  “Shall I tell you how your pretty wife squealed when I stuck her? How she called your name? But you were not there to protect her, were you? You abandoned her.” Guerrero threw his head back and emitted a piercing scream that turned into raw laughter. “She squealed, just like that. But the laughter was mine, as I am sure you must know.”

  As Thomas stepped back another pace Lubna’s voice came to him, as clear as it had on each rare occasion before.

  He lies, she said. Now, avenge me.

  Something settled through him—a certainty, a calmness, the coldness he had once welcomed in battle and believed lost for good. The cold strength he had always relied upon, for it had never let him down.

  Thomas leaned forward, his eyes on Guerrero, who felt the change of power. All at once the man was no longer sure, as if he too had heard Lubna’s voice, and if he had it would have been screaming obscenities at him, for Thomas knew she possessed a great many, kept for moments of great danger or great passion. This moment would be passion. Blood-red passion.

  He leapt at Guerrero, striking down, planning to cut into his neck, but the man twisted away faster than Thomas expected and his raised sword deflected the blow. He swung around in a vicious response that Thomas barely managed to block.

  Thomas stepped back, aware of each ragged breath sharp in his chest.

  Guerrero was young, fit, and strong. Perhaps this was the time Thomas would not triumph against another man.

  Guerrero came at him, a blow low to the waist, which was easily parried, but the knife in his left hand came in hard and Thomas felt a sharp punch to his side and staggered away to discover Mandana beside him.

  He glanced to where Olaf lay, no longer comatose, his hand reaching out, and Thomas shouted, “No—he is mine!”

  Guerrero darted to one side, turning to protect himself from behind.

  Thomas turned to Mandana as Olaf closed a hand around Guerrero’s wrist, stopping his escape. Guerrero slashed out with the knife in his other hand, but only succeeded in allowing Olaf to clasp his other wrist.

  Olaf turned his head, shaking the remnants of confusion from it.

  “Kill him, and be quick about it.”

  Thomas didn’t know which of them he meant, the decision taken from him as Mandana came at him.

  He jerked to one side, the sword missing him by a finger-width. Mandana came again, as relentless as he had always been. But he was older now, sicker, and Thomas spun around and his k
nife took him in the neck.

  Mandana went to his knees, the stump of his lost hand rising to the spray of blood. Thomas put his foot on his chest and pushed him backward, stood over him, watching as the man died. Mandana’s eyes remained open, and Thomas left them that way. Let him gaze on the fires of hell, for that is what he was bound for.

  Thomas let out a bellow of anger and frustration. This was not enough!

  He felt no sense of vengeance, no sense of justice. How could he? This man had stalked his life for years. His son had killed Lubna, the one who could never be replaced. There should be more to his death than this sense of emptiness.

  “I see you’re getting back your old skill.” Olaf tried to sit up and failed, falling back to the table. As he did so Guerrero broke free of his grip.

  Thomas advanced, but Guerrero held his sword across Olaf’s neck, drawing a narrow line of blood, and Thomas stopped. They stared at each other with raw hatred. Thomas knew if he attacked now, Olaf would die. Guerrero knew if he killed Olaf, Thomas would kill him in turn. Thomas wondered which of them would triumph. Guerrero was not old like his father. He was young, strong, and vicious.

  The decision was taken from him when Usaden burst into the chamber. In an instant, Guerrero turned and ran. Thomas started after, but Olaf gripped his wrist as he had gripped Guerrero’s and used the contact to raise himself up.

  “Let him run, we will find him again. Find me an axe, or a sword—there is a battle raging out there, and it needs to be finished.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “How many men did we lose?” Thomas had found a stool from somewhere and perched on it, unsure he was capable of standing. He had helped Olaf from the slab he had been tied to, the big general regaining his wits rapidly. Outside, Olaf had found a sword and waded into the battle, still not fully recovered, but even a weakened Olaf was more than a match for any other man. It was a bizarre sight, because he had not bothered to dress, but no doubt this worked to his advantage. He strode naked into battle, a vision enough to weaken any opponent—even more so as his body turned red with the blood of his enemies.

  Now he sat cross-legged beside Thomas, dressed once more. He looked tired.

  “A hundred,” he said.

  “Too many.”

  “Their men fought better than I expected, but every one of mine came willingly. They were good men.” Olaf scrubbed a hand across his face, but it did nothing to clear the blood spatter. He raised his gaze to meet Thomas’s. “This is what I do, Thomas. What men do. We fight. Some live. Others die.”

  “Even for a master you don’t respect?” He was talking of Muhammed, and Olaf would know it.

  Olaf stared at him, and after a while Thomas looked away, unable to hold his gaze. Olaf’s loyalty remained unshakeable, as permanent as the mountains that surrounded them. It defined him, and always would. Even an undeserving master such as Muhammed was offered all his allegiance. Just as he gave the same to Thomas, more a son to him than he had ever been to his own father.

  Around them prisoners were being corralled into groups, archers standing guard alongside swordsmen. Most of the captives were those taken from their homes, their spirit broken first by Guerrero and Mandana, then again by the battle they had endured. Many had been slain, Olaf’s men unable to differentiate between enemies in the wild fighting. Some of the survivors had requested leave to return to their families. Each was questioned to ensure they were not merely Guerrero’s men pretending to be something else, then corralled into a guarded group. Not that Guerrero’s soldiers could ever pretend to be these broken souls. They differed in every way possible, their arrogance visible through each lie they told. Exactly what would happen to them Thomas didn’t know. Gharnatah wasn’t able to hold hundreds of prisoners. He knew their fate was up to Muhammed—which meant every man would be executed as a lesson to discourage others. A lesson to who was less clear, but Thomas had no argument because he knew if the men were returned to Spain they would have to be fought again in the future. A future pushed a little further away by this battle, but still the threat remained. Had Guerrero and Mandana succeeded, then Muhammed would be captive or dead, and Gharnatah would have fallen to Spain. This small battle might offer al-Andalus another year, perhaps two, but the end could not be avoided.

  “You will go after him?” Olaf asked, and Thomas turned back to him.

  “Of course.”

  “And kill him.” It wasn’t a question.

  “As slowly as I can.”

  “Good. Take Usaden with you. I can spare a few other men if you want, but I need to keep most to deal with these maniacs I have on my hands.”

  “Use the captives,” Thomas said. “Use the men taken from their homes. Arm them and let them guard the prisoners.” Thomas glanced across the battlefield. “In fact…”

  Olaf waited, then said, “In fact what?”

  “Leave their fate up to those men. Take your own troops and return to Gharnatah. Leave the fate of those left alive up to those they captured and tortured.”

  Olaf stared at Thomas. “You do know what that means, don’t you?”

  “What would they have done to us?”

  “It is not chivalrous.”

  “Fuck chivalry!” Thomas saw Olaf wince, but he did not disagree, not this time. “These are Guerrero’s men. You have seen what they are capable of. They are worse than scorpions and can never be trusted. I thank you, but I will go after him alone. You must return to Gharnatah. What becomes of those we leave here is in the hands of the Gods.”

  Olaf gave a brief smile. “My Gods or yours?”

  “I have no Gods, so they had better be yours.” Thomas knew Olaf’s Gods could be harsh. He rose, tried to stretch the ache from his bones and failed. He knew he should sleep, but every moment he stayed in the valley offered Guerrero more chance of escape.

  Thomas offered a hand to Olaf, who took it and allowed him to pretend to help him to his feet. The two embraced. Thomas kissed Olaf on the cheek then turned away. He was passing a group of the captives when he heard a voice call out loudly, “Aban!”

  Thomas turned, looking for the youth, saw him walking with his head down.

  “Aban, here!” The cry came again, and this time the youth looked up.

  Thomas watched as a recognition came to him and he began to run. Thomas started forward as well, seeing one of the guard turn, sword raised.

  “Wait, he’s with me,” Thomas shouted.

  Aban stood, breathing hard, a tall man the other side of the guards facing him, and as Thomas watched their similarity sent a jolt through him and he stepped closer.

  “Biorn?” The man turned his gaze from Aban to Thomas. “You are husband to Jamila?”

  The man frowned. Aban came closer and Thomas caught his arm. He led the youth through the line of guards, most of who knew Thomas, until he stood in front of his father. For a moment nothing happened as both stared at each other, then the older embraced the younger, clutching his head to his shoulder.

  Biorn lifted his gaze until his eyes met Thomas’s. “You know my wife?” He asked.

  “Jamila lives. Take Aban and go to Gharnatah. Ask for the house of Thomas Berrington and someone will tell you the way. You will find your wife there.” Thomas turned to the line of guards. “This man can go free.” He waited two men moved apart.

  Biorn needed no other encouragement. He gripped his son’s arm and walked through the space made for them. When he reached Thomas he stopped. “What is my son doing here, and how do you know him?”

  “Aban will explain it all. Take him, and may your God be with you.”

  Biorn nodded, grinned. “Gods. We Northmen have a surfeit of Gods.”

  As they turned away Thomas called after him. “If you get bored ask for Olaf Torvaldsson. Tell him I sent you.” He raised a hand and turned away. He had reached the edge of the battlefield when the sound of raised voices caused him to turn back.

  A white stallion rode down the pass they had followed to reach this
place, and at first Thomas had the illogical idea it was Muhammed come to witness their victory, except he knew the Sultan would never risk himself in such a way.

  Thomas narrowed his eyes, unable to believe who sat astride the horse when he finally made the figure out.

  They had left Jorge in the house on the Albayzin. He had recovered, but needed a month or two more rest before he was fully healed. He was told to help the women, to protect them even though they all knew it was no more than a pretence at work. And now here he was, dressed as only Jorge could in flowing silks, sitting tall in the saddle, a sword sheathed at his side.

  He watched as Jorge reached Olaf and leaned down to talk. When he looked up, Thomas saw his eyes scan the chaos of men in search of him. For a moment Thomas stayed stock still, resisting the urge to raise his arm, unsure why he wanted to remain hidden in the crowd. Then he smiled and started back the way he had come, knowing he could not turn his back on Jorge, of all men. Were they not brothers, after all? Were they not more than brothers?

  Usaden came with them in the end, because neither Thomas nor Jorge were trackers. It was one more skill Usaden possessed, among a myriad of others. Thomas believed Olaf wanted to accompany them too, but duty forced him to remain with his men. He had finally agreed to Thomas’s suggestion. Guerrero’s captured soldiers remained in the valley, together with the remnant of those they had stolen from their homes—two hundred men watched by five hundred. Thomas knew it had been a risky strategy, that if the captives managed to fight and recover their weapons the balance of power would turn in an instant. He also knew those who had been forced into the company needed to achieve some kind of resolution, but as they rode into the foothills of the Sholayr he dismissed them from his mind. There was only one person he wanted to think about: Pedro Guerrero … and his death.