Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome

by James Wilde

  For the first time in that inhospitable place, the English were on familiar ground, even if their cloak was no longer dense, shadowy woods but a wall of swirling sand, and instead of water-filled ditches to hide their attack they had shallow graves in the dust and rock. In the fens they were the silvanti, the wild men of the woods. Here they were the ghosts of the sand.

  The group of sea wolves broke up. Three disappeared into the whirling brown cloud. The other bowed his head into the gale, searching the ground for any signs of their prey. Closer he came, and closer still.

  Hereward’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword beneath the folds of sand. Without a sound, he rose up from his hiding place. The rocks tumbled away. Dust cascaded from him; more crusted his sweat-slick face, his torso, his arms. And when he opened his eyes wide and grinned he must have looked a frightful sight, a vision of death itself, for the sea wolf reeled back. His free hand swung up to his mouth in shock. His axe hung limply at his side.

  Hereward’s blade hacked straight through his neck. Rubies glistened in the air. Still bearing a startled expression, the head bounced away into the cloud of sand and was gone. Before the rest of the body had fallen, the Mercian was already loping away, low to the ground. The muffled shouts of his enemies throbbed through the howling wind, guiding him.

  Ahead of him, the grey shape of a sea wolf coalesced. He was hunched over, examining something on the ground. As Hereward prowled nearer, he saw that the other man was peering down at a strange pale plant, five stalks protruding from the desert floor. The shoots wavered, once, twice, and then began to grow. A hand pushed up out of the sand. Fingers reached up. Reeling, the sea wolf stumbled over his heels and crashed down on his back. Sighard surged out of his hiding place. In one fluid movement, his axe swung up and then down, splitting the fallen foe’s face in two.

  The Englishman wrenched out his weapon. His eyes flickered towards Hereward. A nod, a silent communication, and then they swept away, a growing storm of iron within the storm of sand.

  Apparitions rose from their burial places on every side. Eyes as black as coals, skin dusted the colour of bone. They were there only to kill, to earn their survival as they had fought to earn it for so long under the brutal rule of William the Bastard. The sea wolves, though greater in number, were unprepared for such a terrible sight. They faltered, too slow to raise their weapons, too shocked that the whipped dogs they thought they were hunting had turned upon them.

  Hereward’s men were well trained, waiting until their enemies were close enough for them to smell the reek of their sweat. Spears stabbed, axes hacked. Heads were stove in with rocks. Snapping and snarling, Mad Hengist raked flesh with jagged, dirty nails. His teeth sank into the cheek of a howling sea wolf. When he ripped his head back, blood sprayed across his contorted face.

  Bodies littered the desert floor. As Hereward raced through the whipping clouds of dust, he came across one after another, their blood draining into the sand.

  Finally the cries of the dying ebbed away. The howling of the wind was all. For a while, the Mercian and his men roamed around, searching. They would not be surprised by any survivors.

  Only one sea wolf remained. Kneeling beside the jagged rock, he whimpered like a babe. His face was scarred, his axe notched from where it had bitten through bone, his broad torso marked with the black and blue spirals of the warrior, but still he mewled before the might of the last of the English. Hereward nodded. He was pleased.

  As his men gathered in a circle around the pirate, the gale began to move away. The bank of swirling brown dust drifted past them and into the distance. The wind dropped and the oven heat enveloped them. The blue sky was cloudless, the sun boiling just above the horizon. All was still.

  Across the desert towards the knot of men came three figures, Salih, Alric and the woman emerging from wherever the stranger had taken them to hide before the battle began.

  Hereward raised Brainbiter and rested its tip against the chest of the kneeling sea wolf. ‘You are the last,’ the Mercian said, his voice low but resonant. ‘You thought we were less than rats. That we could be run down and picked off one by one until you had what you needed. Now you know better.’

  ‘Show mercy,’ the prisoner begged.

  ‘I have already shown mercy to one of your kind. I threw him into storm-tossed waves on the whale road. If he lived, it would be because God willed it. That was mercy. Should I do the same to you? Send you off under this hot sun? Would you wager you can reach your ships before dust fills your throat and your bones are picked clean by the birds?’ Hereward felt Salih ibn Ziyad, the woman and Alric step beside him, but he kept his gaze upon the bowed head of his captive. ‘There is a third way,’ he said.

  With a shudder, the kneeling man looked up. ‘Gold?’ he began. ‘My freedom … I will buy it with my share of our plunder …’

  The Mercian shook his head. ‘Why do you hunt us? Of what value is this woman to you?’

  The sea wolf’s eyes darted towards the woman and he grinned. ‘You have a gale of axes breaking around you, and you do not know why you will be hounded to the ends of the earth?’ He laughed in amazement.

  ‘Speak.’

  With a sly look, the captive nodded. ‘I will tell you what was told to me. And then you will show me mercy.’

  Hereward lowered his blade. The sea wolf looked up at the woman and showed a gap-toothed grin. ‘You have no idea what you hold. She is worth more than gold—’

  The woman lunged with such speed that Hereward barely saw it. Snatching the cruel, curved knife from the silver scabbard hanging at Salih’s waist, she slashed across the sea wolf’s throat. A gush of crimson glittered in the hot sun. The prisoner gurgled, clutching at his neck, then pitched forward into the sand.

  With a snarl, the woman spat upon the lifeless form. ‘Justice is done,’ she snarled.

  Hereward stepped back, stunned. All around, his men were gaping, as much at the woman’s command of the English tongue as at her savagery.

  Salih leaned forward and gently took the dripping blade from the woman’s hand. Crouching down, he wiped the knife clean on the sea wolf’s breeches and returned it to its scabbard. When he stood, he turned to Hereward and said in a calm voice, ‘Judgement has been passed. This is as it should be, and it is just.’

  The Mercian looked to the woman, but she would not meet his gaze. She raised her chin, aloof. With a deep bow, Salih swept his arm and the woman strode away without a glance at any of the men staring after her.

  ‘She is no slave?’ Sighard asked. ‘No good wife?’

  Salih smiled, but his eyes glittered darkly. ‘She is Meghigda, known as al-Kahina. Priestess, soothsayer, leader of her people. The spirit of Dihya has entered into her. Now men bow their heads at al-Kahina’s command, and her enemies flee as their blood drains into the sand.’ He bowed. ‘You have done a great thing, Hereward of the English, and God will smile upon you. You have returned Meghigda to the bosom of her people. War is coming, brutal and bloody, and now, with al-Kahina at our head once again, we will see victory rising like the dawn.’

  With a swirl of his robes, he turned and joined his queen. Hereward frowned. ‘There is much here that remains to be seen,’ he said.

  ‘That is true,’ Alric said, his brow knitted as he watched them. ‘Did she slay our captive in vengeance for her treatment at the hands of those sea wolves? Or to silence him?’

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE MAN SPRAWLED across the baked mud. Along the narrow street, a few people glanced over at his plight, but none came to his aid. Constantinople was too hot for that. Or perhaps, Deda thought, it was not wise to interfere in the business of strangers in that part of the city. Standing in the doorway of the hovel, the knight looked along the row of ramshackle houses, taking in the faces peering out from the shadowy interiors. A multitude of races congregated in that overcrowded, dust-choked quarter. They seemed to come from all four corners of the world, seeking out fresh beginnings in the city of gold
, as he and Rowena had. There was no gold here, though. The hot air reeked from the cesspits and middens and the competing aromas of strange spices. The babble of unfamiliar tongues was swallowed up by angry shouts and the barking of dogs and the incessant bawling of babes. But still there was the promise of gold, and in hard times that was enough.

  The rogue who had tried to rob their home pushed himself up from the filth of the street and shook his ringing head. Glancing back with murderous eyes, he sneered, ‘You have a fine sword. Are you afraid to use it?’

  ‘And what good would killing you do? Should I end your days for having an empty belly?’

  The thief narrowed his eyes, unsure what this creature was. ‘There are plenty here who would.’

  ‘Then God has smiled upon you this day. Enjoy your good fortune as you go about your business,’ Deda replied in a wry tone.

  The man scrutinized this black-haired, dark-eyed knight for a moment longer, then, still puzzled, he stood up and lurched away along the street. Deda turned back into the shadowy room.

  ‘Four thieves you have sent on your way now, in as many days,’ Rowena said. She had combed her hair and tied it back with a new blue ribbon. ‘Is this how it is to be now? A daily battle for … what?’ She swept out one hand to indicate two stools, a straw bed and the hearth, the only comforts in their cramped home. He smiled. There was no bitterness in his wife’s voice, and for that he had only admiration.

  ‘But we have riches beyond measure,’ he said, gesturing to the basket containing bread and olives that Ricbert the guardsman had sent them at first light.

  Rowena smiled. ‘And friends too. That is more than we ever hoped for when we set off upon our journey. In England we thought keeping our heads upon our shoulders would be reward aplenty.’

  ‘If Wulfrun makes good on his promise of work, then truly we shall be blessed.’

  Placing her arms around his neck, she rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I have had enough of killing,’ she murmured. He could feel the stiffness in her back, the strain of this new life that they had been forced to adopt.

  ‘England is far behind us,’ he soothed. ‘The days of war and fighting are done.’

  His thoughts drifted back, over the dusty land and across the sea, to those last days in the fenlands when he realized that King William would never leave him in peace. The monarch was a man who held his grudges tight to his chest, and though he could forgive an English rebel, he could never forgive a fellow Norman who had broken with his own people. Bands of the king’s men had scoured those wet eastern lands searching for him. They would never have rested until his head was taken back to William’s fine new palace in Wincestre.

  ‘I do not regret anything,’ Rowena whispered as if she could read his thoughts. She hugged him tighter still, for she knew his doubts.

  He still felt guilt; he doubted that would ever leave him. Out of love, Rowena had chosen to leave behind everything she had ever known and had readily accepted a new existence where death was always only a whisper away. He would never forget that. Easing her back, he rested his hands on her shoulders and peered deep into her eyes. ‘The days to come will be hard, but no harder than the ones behind us. We will stand together unto the last, and if God is willing we will win ourselves a new life, free from the suffering we have known before.’

  Though she smiled, her eyes blazed. ‘We are exiles. We have no land to call our own, no folk, no kin. We have nothing left to lose. And that is our strength, husband. Let Constantinople be warned – we will fight as never before to find a place we can call home.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE RED SUN blazed on the western horizon. Tongues of shadow licked across the rolling dunes and ridges of blackened rock towards the cluster of whispering trees around the still pool. As the heat of the day ebbed away, a group of black tents billowed, the lines cracking in the cooling dusk breeze.

  Hereward stood in the entrance to the largest tent, watching the gleaming river of stars wash across the darkening sky. The sweat and grime of the long trek had been sluiced from his body in the lake. He had assuaged his thirst with fresh, clean water and soon he would fill his grumbling belly. As he breathed in the sweet scent of roasting lamb and unfamiliar spices drifting across the camp, he felt the knots in his shoulders begin to unwind.

  Through the camp, the men and women of Meghigda’s tribe wandered with languid steps. They were a strange breed. Quick to smile, the babble of their voices was filled with music. They dressed in swathes of cloth that he thought would only have made them sweat more under the desert sun. Sapphire, amber, rose, their robes glowed against the old bones of the dusty landscape. Only warmth had they shown to the bloodstained English warriors trailing into their camp, even though the strangers had eyes that gleamed with the fierce look of cornered dogs and bristled with weapons plundered from the slain sea wolves. He felt comforted by that show of hospitality amid the harshness of this new world in which they found themselves.

  Sighard strode up, his hair still dripping from his dunking in the lake. Many of the spear-brothers still lingered on the fringes of the pool, no doubt trying to wash away the terrors of the midday sun.

  ‘I am a poor excuse for a warrior,’ Sighard began, his head bowed. ‘My head spins, and I say things I do not mean—’

  Hereward silenced him with a hand upon his shoulder. ‘I was wrong to strike you,’ he said. ‘We have all lost so much. We cannot see what lies ahead. This can turn any man’s heart black. But we beat these things by standing together, not fighting among ourselves.’

  Sighard nodded, but added, ‘And yet I feel I will never know peace again, or kindness, or warmth.’ Glancing around the verdant lake, his gaze fell on Alric who sat at the foot of a tree, the shadows of the fronded leaves swaying across him. Children danced around him laughing. The monk beamed, playing along with their jokes. ‘I could not see myself ever sitting there.’

  ‘Good things lie ahead. We must have faith.’

  The younger warrior nodded. ‘In Constantinople. Only that keeps me putting one foot in front of another. Once we are there, we can carve out a new life for ourselves. Forget days long gone. The world will be brighter. That is my only hope.’

  ‘And I will lead you to that new world,’ Hereward said, silently vowing that he would not fail his men again. He would die first.

  From deep in the trees came the clash of steel. Hereward squinted, picking out whirling grey shapes in the half-light. Even at that late hour, the desert people’s warriors still honed their skills with mock-battles. Over their heads they swept the long, straight, double-edged sword that they called the akouba, similar in style to the deadly blades of the Normans. They knew how to fight, he would give them that. They danced across the sand as if they were floating, striking high and then low with fluid sweeps. On their left arms were long shields covered in white hide and strapped to their forearms were daggers for those moments in battle when a swift thrust with a knife was the difference between life and death.

  Sighard shrugged. ‘I have seen better warriors.’

  ‘Not many. They would make us sweat, that is certain.’

  The younger warrior’s attention drifted to men leaping over a fallen tree. Each one had a heavy stone fastened to his right arm. ‘Are they mad? Why would they do such a thing?’

  ‘You would do well to talk to our hosts,’ Hereward replied. ‘There is much we could learn here.’ He pointed to the stones. ‘They carry those weights to build up the strength in their arms. These warriors, the noblemen, ride into battle carrying an iron lance … a heavy lance … which they call the allarh. Their servants ride with javelins and daggers. The slaves fight with bow and arrow. They can hit a bird at five spear-throws, but the nobles think the bow is not a weapon for a man. Only the weak would kill without seeing their foe’s eyes.’ He grinned. ‘We will tell Guthrinc that when next we meet.’

  Hearing movement at his back, Hereward turned. Salih ibn Ziyad was emerging from behind a wall of clot
h that hung across the centre of the tent. He beckoned.

  The Mercian moved slowly into the cool interior. He was still not sure if he could trust Salih. A smile was always playing on the dark-skinned man’s lips, but the look in his eyes tempered its warmth. Hereward sensed a fierce intelligence in his host, and as with all clever men there were dark depths hidden beneath the surface.

  ‘Come,’ Salih said, wagging a finger. ‘You are an honoured guest. You saved al-Kahina when all here feared her lost for ever.’

  ‘I would have done the same for any woman who suffered so.’

  ‘Still, we will always be in your debt.’

  Easing aside the wall of cloth, Salih swept one arm to guide Hereward into the hidden quarters. The scent of honey and cardamom wafted out from the shadowy recess. The Mercian was surprised to see how opulent it was. Intricately embroidered tapestries hung on the walls, and sumptuous cushions were scattered across another tapestry that had been laid upon the ground. On a small chest, silver pendants and earrings gleamed in the half-light.

  Meghigda sat upon a large cushion. She was now dressed in robes of the brightest blue, a golden headdress covering her sleek black hair. The wounds upon her face had been cleaned and were now barely visible against her dark skin.

  ‘I am pleased to see you well,’ he said.

  She nodded, her face giving nothing away. Holding out a slender hand, she urged him to sit. Hereward could not hide his resentment that she had tricked him. ‘You speak my tongue,’ he said. ‘Why did you hide it?’

  ‘I speak some,’ she said in heavily accented English. ‘Words I have learned …’ She frowned, struggling with the unfamiliar sounds.