by Mia Marlowe
“Tariq tells me that Al-Amin has not returned,” Farouk said. “Do you wish someone to attend you? Shall I send one of the other eunuchs?”
“No,” she said. “I’m used to Al-Amin. He’ll be home soon. Doubtless, he has had difficulty finding a buyer who will pay what the horse is worth, but I wanted to sell it immediately since I had displeased you with it.”
“Thank you, my northern blossom. Your respect for my wishes is commendable.” His voice was edged with impatience. “But I want to share my new plans with you this evening. Surely the servant’s death has already occupied too much of your time. Can I not persuade you to join me?”
A flicker of movement, a shadow wavered by the crack at the bottom of the door. “Please honor my customs. Just for tonight,” she added placatingly. “I couldn’t possibly be worthy company for you. And I wish to give my full attention to your plans, but at another time, I beg you. Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“As you wish.” His tone told Rika that those words had not often passed his lips.
She pressed an ear against the door, holding her breath, listening for his retreating footsteps. When she was satisfied he was gone, she expelled all the air from her lungs and wrapped her arms around herself to still her tremors.
Rika propped a chair under the latch. Then she blew out the lamp and sat in the gathering dark, waiting for the house to grow silent. Farouk-Azziz ordered music with his nattmal, and she squirmed through the squeals and twangs that his musicians produced. She knew Al-Amin didn’t appreciate Norse songs, so it didn’t surprise her that she found the Arab’s music just as incomprehensible.
She moved a chair to her window and positioned herself to watch so she wouldn’t be seen. Tariq had been replaced by another of the eunuchs, but this one looked no less formidable a guard. There had always been someone at the big double doors, but today was the first time she’d been denied passage. Did Farouk suspect something, or was he truly just concerned for her safety and reputation, as Tariq claimed?
The lamps went out in the master’s dining room and a swaying candle lighted Farouk’s progress around the veranda to his suite of rooms wrapped around the stairwell. If only there was another staircase! The only way from the third floor to the courtyard wound through the master’s apartments. Rika admitted to herself that she’d been extremely lucky last night to pass through them undetected. No doubt the Wailer’s loud moaning had helped. Farouk-Azziz rarely asked for the same woman two nights in a row, so Rika knew she and her friends couldn’t count on that noisy distraction again.
Farouk’s many bed partners were nothing to her since she would never join their ranks. She wondered how differently the Wailer’s sounds might affect a woman who cared. Like the different perceptions about what made music, might the Wailer’s cries be not a cause for amused indifference, but for despair? The keeping of a concubine in the North was not unknown, but she never expected to encounter the situation personally. Rika spared a moment to pity Sultana and the others. If any of them truly loved Farouk-Azziz they must die nightly. How could a woman live like that?
The lamps in Farouk’s suite were extinguished. No sound but the nervous twitter of a few night birds and the patter of the fountain came to her ears. Whoever shared the master’s couch tonight was either less vocal or less moved. She watched the empty courtyard, her body tensing, waiting for the signal to unbar her door.
The moon rose and trekked across the sky. Still there was no movement in the courtyard. Why had he not come? Bjorn had fought in battles. He’d led raids. No doubt he knew more about the timing of this sort of thing, but waiting jangled her last frazzled nerve. She stopped knotting her fingers and buried her face in her hands, near tears.
One of the peacocks that strutted through the courtyard scuttled from under a bush and cried out. Its alarm made her look up. She saw a figure disappear into the stairwell.
Finally! He was coming and they would steal up to the roof garden together. Bjorn was carrying the stout rope they’d use to lower themselves to the street level from the roof. Then she and Bjorn would make their way to the Forum of the Ox, where Torvald would be waiting with the horse. From there it would be a quick trot to the Harbor of Theodosius, where Torvald had told Ornolf to have the Valkyrie waiting, ready to sail the moment they arrived.
Rika only had to brave the dark corridor from her door around to the stairs where she would meet Bjorn. They would creep up to the roof garden together. She slipped Al-Amin’s servitude documents into the pouch at her waist. She intended to give them to him the first chance she got. She glanced around the dark room that had been her home for the last half year. There was nothing else she wanted to take. She moved the chair and eased her door open.
The door flew back at her with unexpected force. It knocked her against the wall, her head slamming the stone and leaving her dazed. Rika’s vision tunneled for a moment and she felt rough hands on her, thrusting a cloth through her teeth to gag her. Then she was shoved to the floor. The assailant fell upon her, his weight pinning her down, both her hands locked in a painful grip.
Enough moonlight shafted in the open window for her to make out her attacker. She looked up into Tariq’s snarling face.
Chapter 43
“Going out for a stroll, are you? I think not tonight.” Tariq’s voice grated her ear as he ground a knee between her legs. “You’re not going anywhere. I made sure of that. You see, I told the master I suspected the death of your servant had unhinged your mind, so he needed to keep you safely within these walls.”
Rika struggled under him, trying to scream, but the gag effectively stopped most of her voice. Tariq’s strength was amplified by cruelty. He gathered both her wrists into a one-handed grip and rucked up her tunic with the other.
Rika tried to knee him, but he struck her on the temple with his fist. Stars exploded before her eyes.
“You can’t expect Sultana to stand by and watch you and your bastards displace her son Kareem.”
Rika’s brows knit together. What was he babbling about?
He pressed himself against her and Rika was shocked to feel the hardness of an erection against the inside of her thigh.
“Oh, yes,” he said, obviously reading the surprise in her eyes. “The stories you’ve no doubt heard about late-made eunuchs are all true.” His face twisted into a sadistic snarl. “But the only pleasure left in it for me is the pain I give to you.”
He grabbed one of her breasts and twisted her nipple so viciously, tears sprang to Rika’s eyes.
“Oh, yes, that’s goo—” Tariq's voice was cut off as his eyes widened, then glassed over. Suddenly his body lifted and then dropped beside her. Bjorn stood over him. She saw the glint of a blade as he withdrew his knife from Tariq’s ribs. He wiped the weapon clean on the eunuch’s baggy trousers.
“Are you hurt?” he whispered as he helped her out of the gag.
“No.” She sprang up into his arms, the last remnants of fear still making her tremble. She buried her face in his chest and inhaled him deeply.
“Come,” he ordered and shepherded her toward the door. Before they reached it, the portal swung open again. This time it was Sultana, carrying a lamp.
“Help!” She yelled down the hall. “Tariq has violated the Northwoman!”
Evidently she was unwilling to wait for an examination to discredit Rika and would even sacrifice her own henchman to do it. Then Sultana peered into the room, her eyes widening as she saw her eunuch dead on the floor and a big Northman approaching her, knife in hand. Sultana dropped the lamp and bolted down the corridor, true terror punctuating her screams this time. “Murder!”
Bjorn slammed the door shut and braced it with a chair.
“We’ll never make it to the roof now. What do we do?” Rika asked.
“Change of plans.” He strode to the window and looked down into the courtyard. Lamps were being lit all over the house and men were running up the stairwell. “They’ll be at the door soon.”
Bjorn s
lipped the coil of rope off his shoulder and tied it to the metal balustrade outside the window. He jerked at the rope to make sure the knot was firm, then tossed the length of it out the opening.
“Climb onto my back and hold on.” He hunkered down.
Rika hitched up her tunic so she could wrap her legs around his waist and clasped her arms around Bjorn’s shoulders, taking care not to choke him. He put the knife blade between his teeth and swung a leg over the railing. He hooked one of his calves around the rope, then hand under hand, he lowered them down.
“They’ve broken through,” Rika cried when she heard the door give way above them.
Bjorn let the hemp slide through his fingers and Rika knew he was burning his palms. They plummeted in a controlled fall downward, landing in a tumble at the bottom, but both of them sprang up. Bjorn grabbed her hand and they sprinted toward the big double doors. Rika’s ankle sent darts of fire up her leg with every step, but she gritted her teeth and strove to keep up with him.
The eunuch guarding the double doors had unsheathed his sword, probably at the first cry of alarm, but he was no match for a trained tagmata. Bjorn feinted and rushed in over the guard’s slashing down-stroke, plunging the knife into the eunuch’s jugular. Blood spurted in a red fountain from his neck, and he was dead before he hit the ground.
Pounding feet flew back down the stairwell now. Bjorn grappled with the brace that barred the doors and threw them open, taking the brace out with him. Once he and Rika were outside the house, they pushed the doors closed and Bjorn wedged the heavy timber against them.
“We haven’t much time,” he said as he grabbed her hand.
A clatter of hooves on the stone street made Bjorn pull her back into the shadows of the house. The horseman stopped at the doorway and dismounted.
It was Torvald.
“What are you doing here?” Rika asked, as Bjorn hefted her onto the horse’s back.
“You were late. Thought I’d see if an old man could lend a hand.” Torvald pulled his sword from its scabbard. The wooden doors trembled with the force of a blow. The household of Farouk-Azziz was fully roused and had found a makeshift battering ram of some kind. “Better get going. That door won’t hold long, but this is a good defensible position. I’ll give you as much extra time as I can.”
Bjorn clasped forearms with the old farmer, now turned back into the warrior he’d been as a youth. Then Bjorn vaulted up onto the horse behind Rika.
“No, you’re coming, too,” she wailed to Torvald.
“Not this trip, Daughter.” A smile split his face, the first true smile Rika had ever seen on the old man’s features. “I have another destination in mind. Take care of each other.”
The crack of splintering wood jerked all their heads toward the door. Years seemed to slough off Torvald and he straightened his still broad shoulders. The pain-numbed look of a berserkr stole over the old Viking’s face. Bloodlust glinted in his pale eyes and his nostrils flared.
“Yah! Get on with you!” Torvald slapped the horse’s rump and it lurched to a gallop.
“Father!” Rika wailed.
Behind them, the door crash in pieces and Torvald’s battle cry split the night in an eerie, feral howl.
Chapter 44
Rika wasn’t sure which was louder, the clatter of the horse’s hooves on the paving or the frantic thumping of her own heart. Her fingers clenched convulsively around the horse’s mane and she clamped down with her thighs on the rolling shoulders of the beast. Bjorn’s arm around her waist steadied her, but their headlong flight through twisting alleys stole her breath away.
“Yah!” Bjorn bellowed. The horse laid back its ears and stretched out its neck in a full gallop across the Forum of the Ox.
Rika heard the beat of other hooves behind them. Her gut churned. Torvald was dead then. He’d never have let them past him otherwise.
“They’re coming!” Rika yelled. She and Bjorn leaned forward as one and the horse beneath them responded with more speed. But the animal was carrying twice the weight of the pursuers’ mounts and, with each pounding step, they lost ground to the household of the Arab.
Bjorn jerked at the reins and they turned sharply into a dark lane. In that slice of a moment, Rika glanced back to see a pack of horsemen, Farouk-Azziz in the lead, his face twisted in fury like a hot desert wind bearing down on them.
The path was steeper now and the stench of fish guts told Rika they were nearing the harbor. When they burst out of the lane onto the wooden planks of the wharf, the horse hooves’ brisk clack turned into muffled thuds. At the end of the long pier Rika spotted the Valkyrie, Jorand lighting their way with a torch.
She heard Farouk-Azziz shouting, but the words were caught by the wind. When they reached the ship, she tumbled off the horse, half falling, half being dragged by Ornolf and was bundled onto the waiting vessel. Bjorn pulled out his knife again and slashed the ropes binding the craft to the dock. He shoved her off and then made a running leap into the Valkyrie as she surged away from the pier.
Jorand, Al-Amin and the priest were already positioned at the oars. Bjorn joined them and they heaved away while Ornolf manned the steering oar. Rika stood in the prow, grasping at the sides of the ship to steady herself, delayed panic making her shake like an aspen in the wind.
Zzzt! The air around her buzzed with sharp droning sounds like a swarm of angry bees. Arrows sliced through the water around them and one lodged in the long neck of the Valkyrie’s prow a finger-length from her hand.
“Rika! Get down!” Bjorn yelled between strokes.
She huddled below the curve of the hull, listening to the spat of arrows against the wood. The Byzantine guard had been roused against them. She’d known Farouk-Azziz was powerful, with highly placed contacts throughout the city, but she never dreamed he could mobilize the authorities so quickly.
The air was thick with shouted orders and Farouk’s outraged bellowing. The stinging missiles stopped peppering the Valkyrie. Since they seemed out of arrow range, Rika peeked over the side of the ship. They were making steadily for the narrow mouth of the Harbor of Theodosius. On the shore a group of guards boarded a heavy Greek vessel, while another sprinted for the harbor entrance. At the end of the land spit, men began turning a ponderous wheel, gathering up the wet links of a heavy chain.
“They’re closing off the harbor,” Rika shouted back to Ornolf. His grim face told her he’d seen it too.
“Toss over the cargo,” he growled. “Lighten the ship.”
The Greek vessel headed for them, so the rowers couldn’t be spared for even a moment. Rika heaved every crate she could lift into the black water, the gold and silver that would have enriched Sogna finding its rest instead in the warm depths of the harbor. Bales of silk and cachets of rare spices bobbed in their wake. Ornolf left the steering oar long enough to hoist the heavier loads. The now trimmer Valkyrie surged away from the other ship.
Rika watched the men on the Greek vessel fumbling with a bulky mass. She couldn’t tell what they were doing until a torch was lit. Then she gasped. She’d come to the harbor with Al-Amin one day and watched the demonstration of the formidable weapon that secured the safety of Miklagard. It was the scourge of pirate vessels and enemies of the Byzantine Empire all over Middle Earth’s inland sea. They called it ‘Greek fire.’
The long arm of flame snaked across the water at them, igniting a silk bale in a fiery blast. The Valkyrie was barely beyond range, but that would end when her hull met the harbor chain ahead of them.
“We’re trapped,” Rika said softly, her gaze finding Bjorn. He was still hauling at the oar, his breath coming in hoarse grunts. Her heart swelled with love for him. He’d tried so hard. If she must die, at least it would be with him, and in this last blaze their ashes would be joined forever. She would ask for no more.
“Rika, get to the stern,” Bjorn ordered. She scrambled past him, resting her hand on his shoulder in a last loving touch for a glancing moment. “On my mark, everyone leave y
our oar and make for the stern.”
The harbor chain pulled taut at the waterline, the metal glinting in the light of the Greek fire. Flame hissed toward them again, its sulfuric breath a whiff of the Christian hell. The heat of the blast blistered her arm and she cringed away from it.
“Steady,” Bjorn said with icy calm. “Three more strokes. One.” He heaved the oar forward and then strained, dragging it back through the water.
“Two.” The four oarsmen leaned in concert to put the combined force of their strength toward propelling the Valkyrie.
“Three! Ship oars.” After one last heave, they tucked the oars into the craft to reduce the drag and the men rushed to the stern. The added weight in the rear raised the prow and the Valkyrie surged forward under her own momentum.
The shallow draft of the hull let her slide over the chain a little more than half of the Valkyrie’s length before she ground to a halt, her prow dripping above the waterline.
“Forward!” Bjorn ordered and they all scrambled toward the prow. The Valkyrie’s dragonhead dipped toward the water as her stern lifted. “Jorand, with me.”
Bjorn positioned himself at the rear oars and together with his friend, he flailed at the water, trying to lurch the hull over the chain. The Greek ship bore down on them and the soldiers scurried to rearm their weapon. This time the flames would incinerate them like a goose on a spit. Rika’s heart sank to the soles of her feet.
Ornolf grabbed an oar and wedged the blade against the chain, pushing at it with a groan. Al-Amin snatched up the last oar and shoved on the other side of the Valkyrie as well. The little priest prayed in a loud chant to his God. In jigging fits, the ship shuddered over the chain, first in agonizing finger-lengths, then as the fulcrum shifted along the hull, she lurched in longer slides until the Valkyrie broke free and plowed the water, gliding away from the chain.
