by James Wilde
‘At least every man we meet would not want us dead.’
The Mercian laughed. ‘That sounds more like a dream than anything that ever left my lips. Since we first came together in Ely, wherever we turned we have found someone wanting us dead.’ He began to pace around the circle, listening to the crunch of his feet in the stillness. ‘I know you all better than your kin,’ he continued. ‘We are brothers, born from blood. I see before me men who have cleaved heads with axes. Who have ripped open bellies and hacked off arms. We deal in death. And to the Romans of Constantinople we are little more than barbarians. They send us out to fight and kill their enemies so they do not have to sully their pale hands.’ He paused, drinking in the stares of the rapt men. ‘But I see here men who would rather end their own days than kill women and children. Who would turn away rather than slay an innocent man. I see men who fight not for greed or power, but with honour in their hearts. There are easy roads to reach our just rewards, but men like us will never walk them. We take only the right road, however hard it is. The road of honour.’
Kraki dropped back down to his haunches, still glowering, but listening.
‘All is not yet lost—’
‘You say,’ the Viking growled.
‘Have you ever known me to throw myself to the winds of fate? To wait for God to deliver to us what we need?’
Sighard’s eyes brightened. ‘A plan? Is that what you have?’
‘I always have a plan.’ Hereward gave a wolfish grin. ‘On the hard road, we must always wait for our day. But now it is here.’ His thoughts flew back to that hot chamber in the Boukoleon palace where he had bargained with Anna Dalassene to keep his head upon his shoulders. He recalled his mind racing as he stared into her cold eyes, wondering if there was more he could gain than his miserable life. So many sins weighting his soul, so many failures. It seemed scant reward for his bargaining. But if he could find some way to aid his brothers in their misery, to pay them back, finally, for all their sacrifices during the war in England, then that would be a prize worth fighting for.
‘Are you ready to risk everything?’ His low voice rumbled among the trees. ‘At stake, all our lives. Our reward: the gold we need to buy our way into the Varangian Guard and all the riches that will follow.’
‘That, or keep walking the hard road until we are driven down to our knees?’ Guthrinc said with one eyebrow raised thoughtfully. ‘And wait for the Roman bastards to kill us while our backs are turned? Aye. I will take that wager. Better a good death than to be butchered like a stag for the feast.’
‘Where is this gold?’ Kraki snorted, unable to hide his suspicion. ‘Hanging from the trees so we can pluck it as we pass?’
Crouching, Hereward lowered his voice to a whisper. Every man leaned forward to catch his words. ‘When Roussel de Bailleul captured John Doukas, he also took ten coffers of gold plate and goblets and jewelled relic boxes, stolen from the Church when the Caesar was driven out of Constantinople. Unlike John Doukas, the Norman leader is a God-fearing man, like all his folk. He would not dare use that gold for his own gain for fear of damnation.’ The Mercian looked around the faces of his men, watching their eyes brighten as they grasped his meaning.
‘Those coffers are there for the taking,’ Sighard exclaimed.
‘While the Immortals do their best to save the Caesar … when they no doubt plan to sacrifice us to earn their victory … we will be making away with all the riches we ever needed.’ Hereward let the words settle on them. He glanced at Kraki. The Viking would do anything to return to England, he knew that. But as a babble of excited whispers rustled out, the Mercian knew that every man there was ready for this fight. Kraki would not betray his brothers. The Viking gave a reluctant nod.
Hereward felt his heart swell. He had planned to keep this secret close to his heart until they were near their prey, in case he decided the risks were too great to take. But his brothers had decided for themselves. If they were to die, it would be as warriors, fighting for the chance of a better life.
Their hopes renewed, the men buzzed with excitement as they began to make their way back to the camp. Hereward urged them to stay silent, for fear they would wake the Romans. But as he led them quietly out of the wood, a figure hailed him. It was Maximos.
‘I have been looking for you everywhere,’ the Roman said with a broad grin. ‘I was sure the Turks had stolen you from the camp and slit your throats.’
‘We are well, as you can see,’ Hereward replied. ‘It is our way to tell stories of our home so we do not forget the ones we have left behind. Here we could speak freely.’
Maximos nodded. ‘Home pulls at the heart … unless you have kin like my own. I would have given anything never to have returned to the schemes of my family. But return I did, and now I must live with it.’
Turning, he led the way down the slope back towards the camp. Hereward watched him, understanding the emotion that lay behind the Roman’s words, but still not able to trust him. How much had Maximos heard, he wondered? Were they now at even greater risk?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SHAFTS OF LIGHT dappled the forest floor. Under the thick canopy, the air was dry and hot, and fat flies droned lazily. Dim at first, a rumble ruptured the peace. The sound of thunder rolled nearer until a rider hurtled among the twisted trees. His flushed face was contorted with fear and his sky-blue tunic clung to his body, dark with sweat. With fierce exhortations he urged his foaming mount on. The track had long since been lost, as had his axe and shield. He had been too confident, expecting no resistance in these empty lands where only farmers toiled.
Hereward watched the Norman scout slow his pace. The dark-haired man was filled with desperation as he tried to negotiate tangled roots that could bring his horse down. Ducking under hanging branches, he glanced this way and that. His eyes widened. He could see no way out.
Away in the shadowy woods behind him, more hooves pounded. The cries of the hunting Athanatoi rang out, as eager as boys at play.
Sliding back down into the hollow, the Mercian breathed deep of the rich aroma of leaf-mould, then gave a curt nod to Kraki, Sighard and Guthrinc. The Immortals had done their part. Now it was down to the English.
Looking up at the sunlight shimmering through the swaying branches, he listened to the snorts of their prey’s horse as it drew closer to their hiding place. Three days had passed since their night-time conclave, when he had revealed his scheme. Three days drenched in sweat and burned by the hot eastern sun. The Romans had lost some of their bravado as they rode into Galatia and the green plains gave way to brooding mountains in the distance, grey against the blue sky. Bands of Turks roamed everywhere, their mouths red slashes in black bristles. In their strange bowl hats and long coats, they herded sheep or goats as they moved from farm to village, where they held their markets. The Romans could not look them in the face, no doubt uneasy lest word had spread of the slaughter. But these were not fighting men, anyone could see that. And when the shrill voices of these strange folk were softened by gifts of food, Tiberius Gabras’ cold face softened a little. But all the men there knew the greater threat lay ahead.
The beat of hooves drew nearer. Now Hereward could hear the rasp of the rider’s breath, and his curses. Raising one finger, he cautioned his men to wait.
At least Tiberius had shown some wit as a leader. They had heard whispers of Roussel’s fortress at Amaseia, and the warriors the Norman had garrisoned there, but hard facts were few and far between. Why had he left his palace at Ancyra where the rest of his army waited? And so the Romans had bided their time, knowing a leader such as Roussel would send out scouts to ensure his new kingdom was safe from attack. One lone rider was easy to capture.
Shrieking birds took wing above the green canopy as the whoops of the Athanatoi soared. The scout’s horse whinnied in response, its hooves thumping on the forest floor very close to the hollow.
Hereward let his hand fall.
The four warriors bounded from their hiding pla
ce with a roar. The horse reared up, its rider howling in shock. Thrown, he slammed into the forest floor. The English were upon him before he could shake off his daze.
Snarling one hand in the scout’s tunic, the Mercian yanked him up. ‘Lie still and your head will remain on your shoulders,’ he hissed. The other three warriors crowded around, fierce faces saying more than any raised weapon.
Swallowing, the scout nodded his understanding, and Hereward let him fall back to the ground.
Once the Immortals’ horses had trotted up, the riders leapt from their saddles, clapping each other on the shoulders and laughing as if they had ridden down a deer. There were twenty of them, enough to put the fear of God in the scout, not so many that they would struggle to pass through the dense forest. Lysas the Snake wandered up, slaking his thirst from his hide. He splashed some water on the captive’s face and laughed.
‘You English have your uses after all,’ he said, showing his teeth.
‘Aye.’ Kraki could not bring himself even to look at the other man. ‘We show you what seasoned warriors can do, if only you could learn which end of an axe to use.’
Lysas laughed without humour. ‘Bring the Norman to Tiberius. He will tell us all about Roussel before the sun has set, if he knows what is good for him.’
‘We do not answer to you,’ Sighard snapped, flushed.
‘Do as you will, then,’ the Snake replied with a shrug. ‘You will answer to Tiberius.’
As the Roman stepped back towards his raucous comrades, Kraki growled, ‘One day I will take my axe to the lot of them.’ The Viking lowered himself to balance on his haunches, staring at the ground. He seemed even more sour than Hereward had feared.
As the Mercian weighed the other man’s spirit, he realized Guthrinc was standing apart, looking deep into the forest. He had eyes like a hawk, missing nothing.
‘What do you see?’
For a long moment, Guthrinc continued to stare, his face emotionless. ‘A boar, perhaps, if they have such things here,’ he said eventually. ‘Leaves trembled. Something is there. If I could hear myself think over the din the Romans are making, I might know more.’
The Athanatoi’s laughter boomed out. Hereward cursed silently at their lack of experience. No good warrior would rest for even a moment away from his hearth-fire. Stepping beside his friend, he searched the green world. Nothing moved. But he knew better than to doubt Guthrinc. ‘Drag the Norman to the Immortals,’ he commanded Sighard. ‘Let him be their burden.’
Once the younger man had hauled the trembling scout to the Romans, Hereward turned back to the tangle of trees caught in the patchwork of sunlight and shadow. Kraki was moving across the foot of the hollow, easing from cover to cover to get a better look.
‘We are not alone,’ Guthrinc said.
The words had barely left his lips when shadows separated from the trees across the forest, scores of them. Hereward stiffened. At first he thought they were ghosts, so silent were they. But an army had waited there, hidden in plain sight, their footsteps making not a whisper. Turks, he could see now. Their faces were like stone, their eyes coals. As one, they plucked arrows from the quivers at their belts and raised their bows.
Hereward roared, an animal bellow torn from the depths. His men knew the meaning of that guttural sound, recognized it from every battlefield where they had fought shoulder to shoulder. Throwing himself on to his belly on the ridge of the hollow, he glimpsed Guthrinc and Sighard doing the same. His nostrils filled with the choking scent of peat as arrows whined over his head, hundreds of them it seemed. The screams of the shafts were punctuated by dead thuds as they thumped into trunks, and then by real screams torn from the throats of the Romans. The horses whinnied, hooves pounding. When he looked up, he saw five of the Immortals staggering around, arrows bursting from torsos and faces. Blood soaked into the sweat of their tunics.
Before he could move, rough hands grabbed him and spun him on to his back. Enveloped in the reek of strange spices, Hereward looked up into a grimacing mouth slashed through black bristles and eyes brimming with hatred. Cursing in his throaty tongue, the Turk swung up his sword.
As the blade whipped down, the Mercian rolled to one side. Kicking out at his foe’s legs, he heard the knee crack. A howl rang out. The weapon thudded into the forest floor a hand’s breadth from his head. Before the Turk could recover, Hereward hurled himself up. The top of his head smashed into the other man’s jaw. As his stunned enemy spun away into the hollow, he clawed his way to his feet and ran.
Figures flitted all around. The marauders crashed through the undergrowth, pausing every now and then to loose a shaft. Hereward felt an arrow whisk by his head. Another rammed into the ground at his feet. The Turks were trying to herd their prey, like boar to the slaughter. Weaving among the trees, the Mercian realized they had only moments to escape before the enemy had them surrounded.
His feet flew over the forest floor. Ahead, he glimpsed Guthrinc and Sighard already on horseback, both of them beckoning wildly to him. But the Athanatoi were in chaos. Scrambling and cursing in their panic, they fought to get back upon their mounts. Fear had washed away their raucous mood. All of them knew they were outnumbered, and far from reinforcements.
Bow-strings cracked. Hereward dropped to his haunches, sheltering behind his shield. Four arrows punched through the wood. And then he was running again, reaching the huddle of rearing horses. Grimly determined, Lysas had the scout at his back. The wide-eyed Norman had seemingly decided his captors were the least of his worries.
As Hereward dragged himself on to his steed, he saw the advancing Turks swarming all around. More surged out of the depths of the forest by the moment.
‘Kraki?’ he yelled to Guthrinc, who was fighting to keep his bucking horse under control. But his friend could only shake his head.
Hereward searched the confusion of Romans. The Viking was not among them. He felt desperation grip him.
As the Athanatoi fought their horses under control and began to ride away, Hereward scanned the forest. Beyond the milling Turks, he glimpsed the flash of an axe. Kraki was hacking wildly at a ring of five enemies. Though Hereward knew the Viking would never give up, he could see there were too many foes on every side. It was only a matter of time.
Kraki lashed out, even as his enemies swallowed him. A Turkish sword rose, and then plunged down.
Arrows flashed by. The Mercian raised his shield, recoiling as a shaft glanced off the rim. When he lowered it again, his spear-brother was nowhere to be seen.
Blood thundered through his head. He would not, could not, accept that the Viking had been lost. Snarling, he tried to force his horse to turn.
‘Leave him,’ Lysas shouted at his side. ‘He was dead the moment he fell behind.’
But Hereward could not accept that. He would ride back, find the man who had once been his enemy but now, grudgingly, had become a man he could trust with his life. He would find him even if a hundred Turks barred his way.
But then Lysas stabbed the tip of his sword into the flank of Hereward’s mount. The horse bolted. The Mercian felt the branches tear at his face as they hurtled between the trees. The whine of arrows fell behind. Though he felt as if a spear had been thrust through his heart, Hereward knew he had no choice but to accept the truth.
Kraki was dead.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A SHOWER OF sparks swirled up towards the glittering stars Around the campfire, a knot of warriors sat brooding, English and Roman alike. On every side, tents stretched out across the dusty plain, the cloth cracking in the night breeze. The wind moaned, the burning logs crackled and spat. On the evidence of nights past, there should have been singing, laughter, the jubilant voices of men who believed the world bent before them. But tonight all voices had been stilled, all heads bowed.
Except one. In the distance, a bestial howl soared into the night, a terrible sound that seemed to have been wrenched from the abyss. Guthrinc was mourning his dead friend.
Hereward stood at the entrance to the largest tent, arms folded. His heart was heavier than it had been for many a day, perhaps since he had stood on the quay at Yernemuth and said farewell for ever to the land of his birth. Brooding would do no good, he knew that. But his moods gripped like a storm, and were just as uncontrollable. Inside his head he could hear the whispers of his devil, demanding vengeance, berating him for leading his men from one disaster to another. Though he clutched the sliver of relic that Alric had given him, that voice would not be stilled. He felt his blood pulse in his temples. The shadows clotted his mind, and he knew there would soon be a reckoning.
From the depths of the tent came the dull slaps of fists upon skin. In one corner, Tiberius glowered, his face ruddy from the dancing light of a torch, watching three of his men circle the kneeling scout. The Norman’s wrists were bound behind his back, his face bloody and swollen, his lips split. He mewled, pleading for mercy.
Tiberius was not a man who had mercy in his soul. The attack by the Turks had put the fear of God in him. Hereward knew the Romans were worried about the approaching battle with Roussel de Bailleul, but now they realized they were surrounded on every side by a multitude of enemies. If the Turks attacked in force, the Immortals would be wiped out in the blink of an eye. And they had brought this down upon their own heads, though no one would give voice to this harsh truth. But they could not ride back to Constantinople like whipped curs, Hereward knew. The emperor would never forgive them. They would be scorned by all; no doubt lose their standing, their gold, their land. All they could hope now was to strike against the Normans as fast and hard as they could, capture the Caesar and ride back like the wind.
Hereward gritted his teeth. This foray went from bad to worse. Hope was now thin on the ground.
‘How many men does your master have at Amaseia?’ Tiberius barked.
‘Three … three thousand,’ the scout murmured.
Tiberius threw back his head and laughed. ‘An army that great? Do you expect me to believe these lies?’
