Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome (3 page)

‘Every man here does.’ Hereward felt the weight of his burden. All of his spear-brothers had lost so much during the long war against the Normans. Exile had left them with nothing, and they looked to him, as their leader, to give them that hope once more. ‘All will be well when we reach Constantinople.’

The monk nodded. ‘Aye. Gold and glory. That promise keeps them going. Without that—’

‘They will get their gold and glory. I will see to that,’ Hereward said curtly.

As he pushed his way through the warriors towards Kraki, the Mercian knew that nothing less would do. He had to deliver them to Constantinople. Only then would they be able to put the past behind them. Only then could their lives begin anew.

Though the Viking hid his own loss better than most, the Mercian knew it still consumed him. Kraki was a fighting man. He lived for battle. But then he lost his heart to a woman, and when he was forced to send her away to save her life the agony had cut deeper than any blade. Hereward weighed his choice, and realized it was the right one.

‘I need your aid,’ he said.

‘You always need my aid.’

‘Sighard must have a wise head to guide him. I cannot find one, so I have chosen you.’

Kraki snorted. ‘Am I to wipe the snot from the noses of babes?’

‘He mourns his brother still. More … that loss is turning his heart black.’

Kraki looked away, understanding.

‘He is a good man, you know that. And he has always given all for his brothers. But now he needs us,’ Hereward continued. ‘Watch over him. He is wounded, and this battlefield is no less dangerous than any other.’

After a moment’s thought, the Viking grunted his assent. Though he scowled at the prospect, he seemed to be pleased to be given the task, the Mercian thought.

On the horizon, lightning flickered. A low boom rumbled across the waves, and the wind picked up. As Hereward looked towards the approaching storm, he glimpsed tiny dots of colour in the distance. Sails.

Kraki had seen them too. ‘Sea wolves?’

‘We should not tarry here,’ Hereward replied. ‘Push us free of this ship of ghosts, and let us be away before we join them.’

THE SPITTING FIRE-POT
trailed showers of sparks with each wild swing on its creaking chain. Shadows flickered across the rain-lashed faces of the men hunched over the oars. Like statues, they seemed, as they looked out across the heaving waves to the black horizon. The light of the pot’s flames carved deep furrows into their drawn features. All eyes watched the distant ship. The roiling clouds had near turned day to night and they would have missed it if not for the blaze of lightning sheeting across the horizon.

‘What do you say?’ Kraki bellowed.

‘A fisherman. Or a merchant. Lost in the storm.’ Hereward shielded his eyes against the elements and waited for the vessel to reappear on the roll of grey swell. He could sense all his men waiting for his judgement. He braced himself against the bucking deck, holding still with a warrior’s strength and grace. The rain pasted his long fair hair to his head and stung his eyes, but still he watched.

The ship came and went, came and went. Scarlet sails billowed, but whoever manned that vessel was lost to the gloom.

Kraki heaved himself to his feet. Dragging his axe from under his bench, he used its weight to balance himself. ‘Or a sea wolf, blown off course?’ he growled. The howling wind almost snatched the words from his lips.

‘Perhaps.’

Hereward looked across the bowed heads of his men and saw many quaking with the terror of the waves. Who could blame them? The sea was a monster that could not be tamed, only respected. Few of these men were sailors, and they had learned their new skills the hard way, with stomachs filled with sea water.

A figure clawed its way across the benches. As it neared the fire-pot, Hereward saw it was Alric. The flames lit the terror that contorted his face.

‘We must put to shore,’ he yelled above the gale. ‘This storm will send us to the bottom.’

The monk’s fear seemed to ease Kraki’s own worries. The Viking raised one eyebrow and said, ‘Are you not praying to your God? Surely at your plea his great hands will scoop us up and carry us all to calm waters.’

Alric glared. ‘He tests me, I know. I have been all but drowned every time I have dared to cross the whale road. Enough, I say!’

‘We should have been warned of this before we agreed to sail with you,’ Kraki said. He jabbed a finger into the monk’s chest so that the younger man almost tumbled backwards. The men around laughed, the humour easing their concern.

‘These waters are known for their terrible storms, so we have been told,’ Hereward said, ‘and putting in to shore is a good plan. But first we have another worry.’

Kraki’s eyes flicked out across the waves once more. The red-sailed ship was nearer still. In that gale, there was now no question it had set a course for them. ‘Fight, or run like dogs?’ he asked. Both options had their risks.

‘How do you fight at sea?’ Alric asked.

‘The same as on land,’ Kraki replied. ‘For your life.’

Hereward’s hand fell to the golden hilt of his sword, Brainbiter. He sensed his friends’ fear. If fight they must, they would have to rely on their instincts and God’s judgement.

‘No doubt now,’ Kraki said, peering into the storm. ‘Those curs are bearing down on us.’

Hereward nodded. ‘Ready yourselves,’ he bellowed, his voice cutting through the gale. Heads ducked down to search for spears and axes secreted beneath benches. He gave an approving nod. Though his men were afraid, they showed none of it. They all knew death had many guises. It came as a winter storm. The thunderclap of a full-throated roar. The lightning strike of a keen axe blade in a churning field of mud and blood. Or a soft autumn wind when the leaves are turning gold and the fruits are heavy, or a whisper in the still of midnight. If they wanted to see their days continue, they had to be always vigilant, always ready.

As he clambered over the benches towards the prow, he felt the first flames of anger flicker to life. He was already sick of running.

‘We will draw them on,’ he shouted. ‘If they decide a chase in these waters is a trouble too far, so be it. But if they come on, let them think us weak. They will let their guards down. And by the time they find the truth, it will be too late.’

More lightning flickered along the horizon. The pitching waves glimmered as a rumble of thunder rolled out. For one moment the world became black and white, and then the blood-red sails carved above the roll of dark water. Hereward felt the blood in his head begin to match the pounding of the elements. The part of him he loathed, the part of him that brought him bloody and brutal victory in battle, began its insidious whispering. So much had been torn from his grip, but now, by God, he would deny any man who would try to take all that he had left: the lives of his men, and the future they sought together.

‘Keep your heads down,’ he roared. ‘Act as if you are bedraggled merchants lost at sea, little fish to be gutted and eaten.’

His crew obeyed in an instant. At the prow, Mad Hengist danced, his lank blond hair whipping in the gale. His feet whisked across the bucking, slick boards as if he were in an earl’s hall. Since the Normans had slaughtered his kin his wits came and went, but he seemed to see things hidden to other men. He turned his rodent features towards Hereward, his eyes glittering. ‘I smell gold,’ he cackled, glancing ahead.

‘And blood?’ Hereward asked. ‘Do you smell that on the wind this day, Hengist? Victory for the last of the English?’

The smaller man gave a wolfish grin.

Hereward nodded, grinning in return. ‘Victory for the last of the English!’ he called to his crew. ‘Hengist has listened to the wind!’ He watched the light begin to burn in the eyes of his men. They were wet and cold and their stomachs growled for the next meal. The terror of the sea tugged always at the back of their thoughts. But they trusted Hengist, for he spoke with God and gods. And if they were to go to the bottom this day, it would be with a fire in their hearts.

The storm loomed at their backs with towering cliffs of black thunderheads. Yet it did not advance. Perhaps God had smiled on them, Hereward thought. He watched Alric kneeling on the deck as salt water washed around his legs, hands clasped, eyes clamped shut, face contorted in desperate prayer.

The Mercian beckoned to Guthrinc at his place in the centre of the front bench. His old friend levered his huge frame up and cracked his knuckles.

‘Put those hawk’s eyes of yours to good use,’ Hereward said.

Guthrinc wiped the spray from his face and peered towards the approaching vessel. ‘I see shields along the side. I see the glint of axes, and helms, and bodies hunched over oars, speeding the ship towards us.’

Death, then. Death like a winter storm.

‘Has the king recanted and sent his dogs to drive us to the deep?’ the tall man added.

‘The king is a butcher and a bastard, but he has honour. He said we could leave with our lives, and he would not go back on his word.’

‘Sea wolves, then.’

Hereward nodded. ‘They think us merchants, our ship laden with goods for the hot lands to the south.’

Balancing on the balls of his feet, he peered across the water as he made his way aft. The red sail glowed in the half-light. It had seen better days, he could now tell. The bottom edge was ragged, and it had been patched here and there. The paint on the shields was old and worn, the wood showing through. On one, a skull stared out with hollow eyes. Now the vessel was close enough for him not to need Guthrinc’s sharp gaze to discern the outline of the dark figures crowded on deck. They heaved on the oars, adding to the force of the wind. Their ship sped towards their prey like an arrow.

‘Wait,’ Hereward growled to his men. ‘Wait.’ If the dogs did not fear resistance, any archers aboard would not waste shafts. ‘Now. Ready yourselves,’ he rumbled.

Hands ducked down for spears and axes. Guthrinc had his bow, though even his skill with an arrow would be tested on those heaving waves.

Hereward cast one furtive glance over his shoulder. The red-sailed ship was barely a spear’s throw away. It had not slowed or deviated from its course. He saw the helms, and the leather armour the rowers wore, despite the heat. Ready for battle. He saw pale skin, too. These were not the swarthy, dark-haired people who lived along this coast. These warriors came from colder climes.

When he looked back towards the prow, a booming rose up above the sound of the ocean. At first, he thought it was more thunder. But it was too rhythmic, and soon it was accompanied by a low, steady chant. The curs were hammering out the war-beat with their feet upon the deck, and they were singing open the gates of hell, as the Norman bastards always did before battle.

He cocked his head and listened. Words reached his ears above the moan of the wind. English, it was, he was sure. They sang of bones and blood and gold and glory.

In the prow, a warrior stood, his axe raised high. Hereward could see why this man had taken to a life on the whale road. Women and children would find it hard to rest their gaze upon him, so fearsome was his appearance. His nose was gone, sliced off in some fight or other. Two holes remained, so that at first glance his face had the look of a death’s head. Both ears were missing too, and part of his hair had been torn out or burned away. His bottom lip was split in two. His eyes were sunken, one of them milky. What remained of his features seemed little more than a mass of ragged scars. Battle had not been kind to him; it looked as if he had been whittled down bit by bit. And yet he still had his life, and his stripped torso was powerfully built. If he could survive such deprivations and come back for more, he would never die easily. Hereward knew he should not underestimate such a warrior.

The ruined man pointed directly at the Mercian, and as his ship neared he tore his mouth wide and roared. As one, his men drew in their oars and roared in unison so that it seemed a wild beast was bearing down on them.

‘Wait until you smell the reek of their sweat,’ Hereward said, just loud enough for his own men to hear. ‘And with luck we will take some more parts of their leader.’

The red-sailed ship’s tillerman guided his charge with dexterity as it swept alongside. Still roaring, the crew rose from their benches and braced themselves. They were a motley group. Wild-haired and bearded, skin lashed red by the elements. Hereward wrinkled his nose. They stank of vinegar sweat, yes, but shit and piss too, as if they had not put ashore in many a day.

Iron hooks flew across the gulf and bit into the wood along the side of the English ship. Amid cheers and jeering laughter, the wild men of the sea braced themselves and hauled on the attached ropes to bring the two vessels together.

Wait
, Hereward thought.
Wait.

The churning black water between the ships shrank to a spear’s width. The noise from the pirates grew so loud it drowned out the distant rumble of thunder. The English remained silent, heads bowed, as still as stones.

As the ships drew closer, the ruined man sensed something was wrong. Slowly his axe lowered. He looked across his quarry until his gaze settled on Hereward. The Mercian held that look, a warrior’s stare, and though he could read nothing in those destroyed features he knew the other man must sense the deception.

‘Now!’ Hereward bellowed.

With a roar that dwarfed the enemy’s battle-cry, the English wrenched up their weapons and leapt to their feet. Silence fell upon the other ship, but only for a moment. Fury erupted as the pirates recognized the trickery, driving them on to even wilder exhortations.

Guthrinc rested one foot upon the front bench, nocked an arrow and let the shaft fly. It rammed through the eye of a red-bearded man and burst out of the back of his skull, flipping his helm off his head. Stunned by the speed of the attack, the pirates were wrong-footed. A wave of English fighting men crashed upon them. Axes slammed down. Spears thrust. And for a while the spray turned red.