Hereward 05 - The Immortals (17 page)

As he strode up the uneven path to the gate, he glanced back and saw Suleiman walking just behind him. The leader had his hands behind his back, a smile ghosting on his lips as he surveyed the merchants and their wares. Never had a man seemed more at ease. Here was a leader who feared nothing, Kraki thought.

His captors prodded him through the gate on to a busy street. The Norman guards paid them no heed, as if these new arrivals were old friends. Kraki pushed his chin up, baring his teeth at anyone who dared look at him. Suleiman laughed, amused by this display.

‘You are not like the Romans, I will give you that,’ he called. ‘I see now why they need you to fight their battles.’

Wincing from the dull throb of his bruises, Kraki trudged along a winding street to a courtyard in front of what he took to be the warlord’s palace. Two of Suleiman’s men had hurried ahead to announce their leader’s arrival, and the Turkish band was beckoned inside by a fierce-looking warrior with a mass of red hair and one empty socket.

Looking around, Kraki saw that the palace lacked the opulence the Romans enjoyed. Though it seemed to have been raised up by the same hands that built Constantinople, with its columns and large windows that flooded the chambers with light, the stone was cracked and blistered, the floor crumbling. A pool of dark water gleamed where the roof had leaked. But no gold plate shone like the sun; no ornate tapestries hung on the walls. There were no comforts at all. This was a warrior’s home, not a king’s.

Within moments, three men marched in. One was the red-haired man with the missing eye, his hand never straying far from his axe. Kraki smelled a seasoned war-leader, perhaps the commander of the Norman warriors. The one at the front could be none other than Roussel de Bailleul. His clothes were finer, silver leaves emblazoned on a tunic of purple, the colour of emperors. But it was the way he moved, with the confidence of a man used to victory, that betrayed his station. Tanned, tall and strong, his chin was raised and he sported the grin of a man who did not need to hide his thoughts for fear of attack.

But Kraki stiffened when his gaze fell upon the third man, someone he had thought he would never see again. Drogo Vavasour was tall and muscular, with a swaggering gait, but his eyes still skittered with an uneasy movement that carried a light Kraki had only seen before in Hengist’s gaze. The Viking’s thoughts flew back to the sweltering heat of northern Afrique and the glaring sun of Sabta, where this Norman bastard had lured the spear-brothers into what he believed was a trap. Fired by his hatred of Hereward, who had killed his brother during the English rebellion, Drogo had been too confident on that day. His men had been slaughtered and Drogo himself had fled to save his miserable neck. It was only fitting that he had found his way here, to Amaseia. These Norman dogs always ran in packs. And in this part of the world, Roussel’s reputation was rising fast.

From under his heavy brow, Kraki studied Drogo. The warrior was unlikely to recognize him; the fighting had been too fierce. For now Kraki was safe from threat, he knew. But Vavasour was wild, unpredictable, and dangerous. His hatred of Hereward made Roussel’s army an even greater threat when they encountered the English.

Suleiman and Roussel embraced, laughing as they clapped each other on the back like old friends. Talking quietly in each other’s ears, nodding and grinning, they renewed bonds with memories of shared times. Then they both looked to Kraki.

‘I bring you a gift,’ the Turk said with a sweep of his arm.

Roussel feigned turning up his nose. ‘It is not much of a gift, brother. Is it a bear? A wounded wolf?’ Roussel began to circle the Viking, a smile dancing on his lips as he enjoyed his game. ‘A bedraggled wretch, perhaps? What have you caught yourself, Suleiman ibn Qutalmish?’

Kraki pushed down his defiance. Even now, when hope seemed so thin, he could not find it within himself to take any course that would cause his doom. Fighting to the last, that was in his blood. It was there in all his father had taught him in the cold wastes as they ran from the packs of enemies who hunted them. He could never forget that life-lesson. And now he had to live to warn Hereward of Drogo Vavasour’s presence here. He gritted his teeth. The warrior’s way was never easy. He would endure.

‘Gold mined from the earth seems no more than rock, brother. But once it has been polished, it gleams,’ the Turk replied. ‘This bedraggled wretch has a fire in him. But he also has knowledge of an attack set to strike at you, by the Romans. A war-band has picked its way east. At first they wailed like a child demanding attention …’ Suleiman shook his head, unimpressed. ‘These are not warriors like your own good men, brother, ones who know how to carry themselves into battle. But they learned fear on the road, and now they creep through valleys and forests, drawing towards Amaseia.’

‘Is this true?’ Roussel demanded, stepping in front of his captive. Kraki watched the warlord’s eyes. They were calm, perhaps even amused.

‘Aye. A storm of steel is about to break over you,’ Kraki told him. ‘Be afraid.’

The Norman laughed. ‘The Romans have grown fat and lazy through their long rule. They have known victory and wealth for so many years, they think it their God-given right. But men have to fight, always, for the things they value. Let us see, then, who fights the hardest.’

The Viking spat on the floor. ‘Cut these bonds. Then I will show you all I know about your days yet to come.’

‘You will speak. In time.’ Turning away, Roussel raised one hand and snapped his fingers. The warrior with the missing eye held out a leather pouch. Kraki heard the clink of coin.

Suleiman grinned. ‘You are too kind, brother,’ he said, taking the pouch.

Kraki showed a cold face, hoping it would hide his thoughts. The Normans seemed distracted, as if they had larger game to hunt than the Athanatoi. And the longer Roussel waited to get answers, the more chance there would be to escape.

‘Take him away, Drogo,’ the warlord said with a dismissive flap of his hand. But as Vavasour unsheathed his sword to prod the captive out of the chamber, the sound of approaching feet echoed.

Three figures emerged from the shadowy depths of the palace. At the front was a moon-faced lad with dead, unblinking eyes. But Kraki found his gaze drawn to the man who towered over him. He was big, bigger than Guthrinc, with shoulders broad enough to carry a mule. His tanned skin was like leather, but he was not young, for all the power that was revealed in even the slightest movement. Deep lines were carved into his face, and his hair was the colour of steel, sweeping from his brow and falling down the back of his neck. Yet he had lost none of his potency, Kraki could see. Here was a warrior who would give a good account of himself on any field of battle.

‘How much longer must we wait?’ he demanded, the voice of a man used to being obeyed.

‘All goes to plan, Karas Verinus—’

But a snarl of anger from Suleiman cut off Roussel’s words. The Turkish leader whisked out his sword, all humour draining from his face. His men swept up their own weapons. ‘You side with this devil?’ he barked.

Roussel held out his arms. ‘There is no need for argument here—’

‘No need?’ Suleiman spat. He narrowed his eyes. ‘This Roman dog slaughters my people. Men, women, children. He straps their remains to crosses to warn off others, as if they were crows on a gibbet.’

Karas did not flinch from the accusation. ‘My land is my own,’ he said, his voice low and rumbling. ‘I am not like the other Romans you meet, who roll over and bare their throats when you Turks sweep in and steal every patch of earth you cross. Come in your tens, your hundreds, your thousands – the soil will run red with your blood and still you will not gain what is mine.’

Kraki frowned. He knew the name of the Verini from his time in Constantinople. Their head, Victor, had had his cock torn off and his body dumped in the street, a feast for the wild dogs and the rats. Was this warrior then kin?

‘Stay your arm, brother,’ Roussel insisted. This time Kraki heard an edge to his voice. ‘This is talk for another day.’

Suleiman finally drew his hard gaze away from the man he loathed. Nodding to the warlord, he sheathed his sword. ‘Another day.’ But as he strode towards the door without any other pretence at pleasantries, he flashed one murderous backward glance at Karas.

Kraki almost grinned. Already they were fighting among themselves. These cracks would only get deeper.

But he felt his confidence ebb away when he glanced back at the new arrivals and saw that the third one was the ruined man Ragener the sea wolf. Kraki lowered his head. He doubted he would be recognized – the dog had been pleading for his life the first time they encountered each other, and hiding from the thick of battle the second time. But he knew he could not take any risks. Though he was a coward, Ragener was also vicious, with a heart filled with hate. He had carved away the flesh of Alric while the monk was his captive, a barbarous act that had cost the churchman his hand. If he could, Kraki knew he would take Ragener’s head and tie it to his belt by the hair for that crime.

The sea wolf lumbered forward, his gait rolling as if he were still aboard ship. He waved a finger at Kraki, words tumbling out of his misshapen mouth. ‘Do I know you?’ he mumbled, leaning in so that the Viking could smell his vinegar breath.

Kraki grunted. ‘I have seen you in my nightmares.’

Ragener scowled. ‘This is your captive?’ He prowled around like a hungry rat.

Kraki averted his eyes, regretting his inability to hold his tongue. His father had always said it would be the death of him.

Roussel was distracted. Karas was looming over him, talking in a low voice. His fierce unblinking eyes glowed. The warlord waved a hand as he tried to dismiss whatever was troubling the Roman.

‘I will watch over him,’ Ragener breathed, like steam escaping from a bubbling pot. With the exclamation, he lunged forward until his eyes were a hand’s breadth away from Kraki’s. In that moment, the Viking could see that the ruined man knew him. He hungered for revenge, against Hereward, against fate for the iniquities that had been heaped upon him, and he would take it out of his captive one chunk of flesh at a time.

THE SETTING SUN
ignited a line of fire along the jagged rim of the black mountains. And across Amaseia too, flames flickered into life. Torches blazed in the fora and the main street and folk chatted lazily under their light, stretching their exhausted muscles. From the river came the creak of timbers and the calls of the men on the quayside as they moored the last of the ships.

As Hereward watched the peaceful end to another hard day, he felt oddly adrift. Faces floated through his mind. Memories of similarly peaceful days long gone, in England, when the dying sun set the fenland waters alight and the birds shrieked their final calls over the wide, empty land. Turfrida was there, whispering words of comfort, his wife whom he still missed as if she had only just been lost. Aye, and Kraki too, drunk on mead and roaring with laughter. He missed his quiet conversations with Alric, the only true friend he had found in his life. And he thought again of his son, the boy he had never even named. Three summers had passed since the babe had been left with the monks at Crowland Abbey. How tall would he be now? Was he even still alive? Hereward slipped his fingers around the sliver of wood at his neck. He had abandoned the boy for good reason, or so he thought. The Mercian dipped his head. He had always feared becoming a man like his own father, who used his fists on those around him. His son deserved better than that.

Hereward jerked from his reveries. A dark shadow was flitting through the scrubby trees and thorny bushes, up the slope from the town to the cleft in the rocks where the knot of warriors waited.

‘He has returned,’ he murmured. Sighard and Three Fingers nodded. But the Romans did not have the Mercians’ keen eyes, forged in the long, dark fenland nights. Maximos and Alexios leaned forward, squinting. Zeno Oresme, the Wolf, did not stir, his almond eyes calm as he sat on a rock, his sword already in his hand. He was a cold man, murderous by all accounts, but like the other Romans he could identify the Caesar. And as a veteran of the brutal battle at Manzikert, he had more experience in a fight than most of the others.

The warriors strained to hear, but only the whisper of the wind rolled up the hillside. But then, as if from nowhere, Herrig the Rat appeared at their backs. The men all jumped.

‘God’s wounds. He is like a ghost,’ Maximos breathed, irritated with himself.

Herrig was frowning, puzzled, Hereward saw.

‘What did you find?’

The Rat clambered on to a rock and peered down towards the tent city where Roussel’s forces camped beyond the walls of Amaseia. ‘Half of his army are nowhere to be seen. Long gone, from the cold ashes of their fires. Of those left …’ He pursed his lips. ‘The horses have been fed and watered, and the carts have been loaded with bales and hides. They smelled of bread and olives. And the Norman bastards are cleaning their hauberks with sand and sharpening their swords with whetstones.’

‘Could they know?’ Maximos asked.

‘If they are preparing their carts, they are readying for a journey,’ Alexios said. ‘Perhaps Roussel has bigger plans than we thought.’

‘I fought beside him at Manzikert.’ Zeno’s lisping voice floated from their backs. ‘He is not a man of small dreams. I wager he would see this land he has here grow and prosper. With the Normans and the Turks carving chunks out of it daily, soon there will be no empire fit for that name,’ he added with a note of bitterness.

‘If Roussel’s men are ready, we may have lost what little chance we had to surprise them,’ Sighard breathed. ‘Should we turn back?’

‘To what end?’ Hereward said. ‘We will still be a flea biting a bear’s back. This plan is all we have. We must see it through and hope we are still alive to greet the dawn. Put fire in your hearts, brothers. After all, we have only half an army here now to trouble us.’

‘Aye,’ Maximos added, ‘and we will still surprise them. This plan will work. I feel it in my heart.’