Hereward 05 - The Immortals (16 page)

But as he waited for the speaker to reveal himself in the crowd, Tiberius gripped his arm and hissed, ‘Someone comes.’

Hereward glanced over his shoulder. Three figures were walking through the shadows of the winding street towards the palace.

‘Come,’ Tiberius insisted, his voice low but urgent. ‘We must not be caught here spying on Roussel.’

Nodding, the Mercian turned back. He kept his head down, his face turned towards Tiberius as if they were in intense conversation. As they walked back down the street, Hereward glanced quickly at the three figures passing them. At the front was a boy. The Mercian glimpsed an emotionless face, pale like the moon. He felt almost as if the boy were not there at all, a ghost. His feet made not a whisper on the baked mud, and he seemed to leave no sense of his passing.

But Hereward felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle erect when the second figure went by. He could not see the man’s face, but he was tall and broad-shouldered, his stride powerful. The Mercian’s chest tightened at the odd sensation that he had walked past a blazing forge.

The third figure was smaller, and now Hereward stiffened at the sense of something familiar: the shambling gait, perhaps, the unpleasant vinegar odour.

Once the trio had passed, Hereward flashed a glance back. With a jolt, he saw that the third figure was looking back at him too. Now there could be no doubt. Instantly, he took in the ruined face, the wheezing holes where his nose had been, the milky eye, the missing ears, the raw scalp where the hair had been torn out or burned away. This was Ragener, the Hawk, who hated Hereward perhaps more than any other in this world. The Mercian recalled hacking off the sea wolf’s left hand, then tossing him into the sea to die. But Ragener clung on to life like a cornered wolf, and every time it seemed his end was near he found some way to survive.

Hereward jerked his head back, hoping the ruined man had not recognized him. ‘Quick,’ he whispered. ‘We must get away from here.’

‘Hold!’ The command was shouted from the edge of the courtyard. It was Ragener, the word distorted by his ragged lips.

The Mercian did not look back. Urging Tiberius on, he turned in to a narrow alley and broke into a sprint. Cursing under his breath, the Roman followed close behind.

The crack of running feet echoed behind them.

Hereward darted down another street, and then another, trying to lose the sea wolf in the maze as he made his way towards the gate. Finally he could not hear any sound of pursuit, but he knew that would not be the end of it. Ragener had not seen his face, he was nearly sure of it, but on some level the ruined man must have sensed an implacable foe, as Hereward had sensed the Hawk.

‘We must be away as fast as we can,’ he insisted. ‘The alarm will be raised. And while Roussel’s men will not know what stranger they are looking for, the gate will be closed while they search, and they will now be on their guard.’

Emerging on to the bustling street along the walls, they slipped into the throng. Loud voices echoed behind them, and warriors thrust their way through the crowd, axes gripped. The Norman army had been lazy in the sun only moments ago. Now the beast had stirred.

Avoiding the flashing glares as he pushed through the bodies, Hereward pressed on towards the gate. Eyes darting, Tiberius caught his arm and hissed in his ear, ‘They are coming from both sides. We will be pinned between them in no time.’

The Mercian glanced towards the gate. Three guards had gathered, listening intently to a stern-faced commander. Only moments remained before the only way out of the city was barred.

‘Stay close to me, and utter not a word,’ Hereward growled to the Roman.

A two-wheeled cart was trundling by, piled high with what looked like bales of silk. Stepping beside it, Hereward dropped down so the cart would hide him from the eyes of the guard. He crept forward, matching the slow turn of the wheels. He sensed Tiberius slip in behind him.

When the little procession neared the gate, the Mercian glanced back and nodded to his companion. Before the Roman could register any understanding, Hereward pressed his shoulder against the side of the cart and braced himself. Somehow Tiberius read his intention.

Together, the two men heaved. The cart lifted up on one wheel, hovered for a second, then crashed on its side, spilling its wares across the mud. The merchant who had been leading the cart roared his anger, torn between calming his skittish horse and watching that no one stole his possessions. Men and women milled around, their curiosity caught by the disturbance. And then the guards too were hurrying over.

Hereward flicked one hand towards the now unguarded gate. With Tiberius close behind, he darted away from the cart and slipped into the surging crowd. Within a moment they were through the gate and hurrying along the track back through the mountains. Only then did Hereward allow himself to breathe easily.

He was troubled by the presence of Ragener. It seemed like fate speaking to him, perhaps warning him. The last he had heard the ruined man had been hiding in Constantinople, but when his patron Victor Verinus was murdered he had disappeared from sight. The sea wolf was savage and cunning and there was no vile act he would not consider to gain advantage for himself. If he was here in Amaseia, with Roussel, then no good could come of it.

AN ARC OF
blue sky filled the warrior’s vision. On the fringes he could glimpse the jagged peaks of brown mountains and daggers of light as the sun slipped towards the horizon. The dip and splash of oars echoed rhythmically on all sides, and the creak of timbers as the hull flexed against the river currents. His nostrils wrinkled at the spicy sweat of the Turks as they rowed in the heat. Every now and then they would break into song in their strange throaty tongue.

But he lived, he yet lived. That in itself was a miracle.

Kraki was lying on his back, his hands bound behind him – his punishment after he had attempted to claw out the throat of one of his captors. His ankles too were strapped together with a leather thong – his reward for kicking one of the Seljuk warriors in the balls. And he tasted a filthy rag stuffed deep into his mouth to stop his stream of curses and abuse.

But he still lived.

Lances of pain stabbed his ribs. Blood was crusted around his left eye and his right had closed up. His lips were split. He grinned to himself. He had had worse.

The Turks’ song started up again, a lilting refrain that matched the rhythm of the oars. As he drifted with the music, his thoughts flew back to the battle in the forest. If he had been quicker, he would not have been separated from Hereward and the others. He was a poor excuse for a warrior these days. Too many nights yearning for Acha, the only woman to tame his wild heart, that was what had taken the edge off his battle skills. If his father had been there, the old man would have clubbed him round the head with the haft of his axe and told him he was a mewling child.

The Turks had surrounded him in an instant. Three had fallen under his blade. But then the flat of a blade had clattered against the back of his head and that was all he remembered of the fight. The gods had little time for the affairs of men, but that day they must have been watching over him. If the sword had been turned even the slightest degree it would have taken off the top of his skull, and he would have been swilling mead with his ancestors in the ringing halls of Valhalla.

When he had woken beside a campfire under the night sky, his first sight had been of a Turk holding a sword above his bared neck. The others had been laughing and dancing around him, tearing at chunks of lamb from their victory feast. For long moments they had barked questions at him, but he could not understand a word. The warrior had waved the sword, threatening to bring it down time and again. But the Viking had not shown any fear, and that seemed to have angered them further.

Once the blows had stopped raining down upon him, he had spied another captive on the other side of the campfire, one of the Romans. He was young and frightened. These were probably the first enemies he had ever looked in the face.

Kraki closed his eyes. The painful memory was easier in the dark of his head. He recalled yelling words of encouragement to the lad. But when the Turks had realized what he was doing, their swordsman had swung up his blade and taken the Roman’s head to show they meant business. Even now he could feel the burning as his rage surged through him like wildfire. He had thrown himself at his captors, and not for the last time. He felt proud that he had drawn blood and broken bones before they had beaten him into unconsciousness again.

‘Are you dead yet?’

The Viking opened his eyes at the oddly inflected words. At first the sun’s glare blinded him. Then a head hove into view. Suleiman ibn Qutalmish was the only Turk Kraki had ever heard speak English. His teeth were white among the black bristles of his beard, his grin was wide, and his eyes sparkled with humour. His broad shoulders and the way he balanced on the balls of his feet as he moved showed he was a warrior, used to wielding a sword. Even if the other Turks had not bowed their heads in deference whenever he neared, Kraki would have known he was a leader from his fine clothes. Gold thread glimmered in the swirls of embroidery on his purple coat, and his bowl cap was studded with rubies. When the Viking’s captors had taken him on horseback across the plain to a vast tent city and thrown him on to the ground in front of this man, Kraki had thought his head would soon be resting beside the poor Roman lad’s. But Suleiman had been wise. He knew death was only the right course when it served a purpose, and some men were worth more alive.

The Turk crouched beside him, prodding Kraki’s leathers with a finger. ‘No, dead men do not scowl so,’ he grinned.

‘Set me free,’ the Viking growled. ‘I will show you that the fire still burns in my chest.’

Suleiman threw back his head and laughed. ‘You Northmen. You are bags of wrath, as bad-tempered as a wolf with a thorn in its paw. Life is good, Viking. Open your eyes and you will see it.’

Kraki snorted and looked away. He would not give this enemy any satisfaction.

‘You slaughtered my people, Viking,’ the Turk said, his grin falling away.

‘I had no part in that.’

‘A man is judged by the ones who stand at his side.’

‘The Romans are like frightened children. They lashed out.’

Suleiman peered at the mountains. ‘They will lose this land because they do not know how to fight for it,’ he mused, almost to himself. ‘I know how to fight, Viking. My father Qutalmish craved the throne of the Seljuks and he fought his cousin Alp Arsan for the right to sit upon it. He did not fight hard enough. And when he fell, I was made to flee with my three brothers into the mountains. We lived with the Qguzes, the tribes who did not bow their heads to Alp Arsan, but we did not forget our father’s desire, and we plotted and we waited. And Alp Arsan did not forget. He sent war-band after war-band to hunt us down. My brothers are all dead now. But I still live. And now Alp Arsan is dead too, and the tribes fall in step behind me, one by one.’ He smiled. ‘Your god smiled upon you when you were brought to me, Viking. Others might have taken your head without a second thought. But I see the currents of this great river of life, and I know where to steer to get where I want. There are many different ways to fight. The Romans would do well to learn that lesson.’

Suleiman stood up, stretching. Kraki eyed him. He had seen worse leaders. The Turk was not cruel, like William the Bastard, nor was he weak like the Roman emperor. But still he could not understand why his captor had not killed him.

The ship plunged through cool shadow, the spray dousing him. After a moment, he drifted with the rhythm of the oars and found himself back in England, in a glade with Acha. She was caressing his brow and telling him all would be well. More than gold, more than glory, he yearned for her. It made him feel weak, like a babe crying for his mother. He should be stronger than that, strong like his father, who had trudged across frozen wastes after his wife had died, carrying her body to the hill where they burned it and offered up her soul to the gods. His father did not yearn. He fought hard, all his life, and put meat in the pot for his son, and instructed him in the ways of the world. Kraki never saw him shed a tear, or complain about his lot. He was a good man, who did his best for his kin. Sometimes, though, Kraki thought he remembered his mother’s face, though it was as if she were looking at him through the autumn mist.

The ship jolted and he jerked awake. As the oars dragged up the side and clattered on the boards, the Turks stood up, stretching their weary muscles. They had arrived at their destination.

Kraki pushed aside a glimmer of apprehension. His end-days were near, he knew that, and he would face them like a man. Rough hands dragged him to his feet. Swaying on the bobbing deck as two men tied the mooring rope to a post on the quayside, he looked out across a town of white-painted wooden houses at the foot of soaring cliffs.

‘Amaseia welcomes you,’ Suleiman said at his side. ‘And soon, Roussel de Bailleul will too.’

The Turk was clever, Kraki acknowledged. He knew the Athanatoi had been riding to confront the Norman warlord. Now Suleiman would trade his captive for favour or gold, and Kraki would face days of torture while Rome’s enemy tried to extract all that he could of the emperor’s plans to defeat him. Kraki owed the Romans nothing. They had heaped misery upon misery upon him since he had washed up in Constantinople. But he would never speak, however much of him they sliced off. No man of honour would betray his spear-brothers, no matter the degree of suffering.

One of the Turks sawed through the bonds at his ankles. Two men gripped his arms and all but carried him over the side and on to the quay. Grunting, he thought of tearing at one of his guards’ throats with his teeth. Better to die now than suffer days of agony. But the Turks seemed to sense his thoughts, for they stepped back, one of them pressing the tip of a sword into his back.