Hereward 05 - The Immortals (25 page)

As the pounding of hooves rose up, their heads jerked round. Hereward followed their gaze. Alexios was riding hard towards them, his sword drawn. Maximos and Zeno followed behind him. Maximos was laughing, pleased that here was a problem his blade could solve.

Digging in their heels, the two Normans drove their horses back the way they had come. This was not a fight they could win.

Hereward sheathed Brainbiter and strode towards his fallen horse.

‘Come,’ Alexios insisted, knowing full well what the Mercian planned. ‘Drogo Vavasour will be along soon enough with the rest of his men. We must be away.’

Ignoring him, Hereward pulled the coffer free from its strap. With a grunt, he heaved it on to his shoulder. When he turned back to the others, the young Roman was staring at him incredulously.

‘You have already killed one horse,’ Zeno snarled, scowling. ‘Will you not rest until we are all at the mercy of our enemies?’

‘Leave the gold,’ Alexios said. ‘You must see we will not live if we are weighted down.’

‘Ride on,’ Hereward said. ‘I will walk.’ He began to stride through the long grass, one arm crooked around the chest. His actions were as mad as the other men believed, but he would risk anything for his spear-brothers.

Maximos threw back his head and laughed even louder. ‘You and Hengist are of a kind,’ he roared. ‘Both moonstruck. Here, I will take the gold. You ride with the Little General.’

‘Have you lost your wits too?’ Zeno spat. ‘When your horses both die under you, I will not look back.’

‘You are a sour man, Wolf,’ Maximos said. ‘Our days are dark enough as it is, and the chance of us seeing another dawn over Constantinople is thin. Find a little joy in your heart.’

Snorting with contempt, Zeno urged his horse away.

Once Maximos had strapped the coffer to his mount, and Hereward had climbed behind Alexios, they rode after him towards the west.

‘Maximos finds light where there is none,’ Alexios said, his mood grim. ‘That is his way. But Zeno speaks true. We cannot outride Drogo so burdened. You must see reason.’

‘I will walk back to Constantinople alone, if need be. But the gold stays with me.’

Alexios cursed. ‘This truly is madness. What man places gold above his own life? Do you hear me? If you try to take this gold back, you will die.’

‘I am not afrit of death.’

Realizing there was no point in talking further, Alexios leaned forward in brooding silence. With two men upon its back, the horse could barely canter. Maximos’ mount, too, struggled under its burden. Soon, Zeno was little more than a smudge in the hazy distance.

When the wind fell, they paused on a ridge above the grassland and looked back. Once again Hereward could hear the sound of hooves rumbling across the heat-seared landscape. He had hoped they would have been able to put more miles between them before Drogo picked up their trail. Glancing ahead, he saw the high land was wilder, with scrubby brush and jagged chunks of rock poking from the earth.

‘Cappadocia,’ Maximos said, surveying the landscape.

Cocking his head, Hereward thought he could hear water. A river.

‘Set me down,’ he said.

‘I will not see you die,’ Alexios replied.

‘And I will not see you end your days. I have chosen this path for myself. It is not your burden.’ Slipping to the ground, he took the chest from Maximos and set it back on his shoulder. ‘I can pick a way through this land where horses will find it hard to follow,’ he said. ‘If you find the river, you may have another chance to hide your tracks.’

Maximos looked down at him, his dark eyes glinting. No humour softened his face. ‘You have not eaten. You have not slept. This sun is a harsh mistress. She will suck the rest of the life from you before night falls.’

‘Go,’ Hereward said. He looked across the sun-drenched wastes, but in his mind’s eye he only saw the English fenlands, sodden after the rains, and his spear-brothers marching away from their kin to follow him into battle. ‘Go,’ he murmured, lost to his memories. ‘I must walk this road.’

Alexios was frowning as he scrutinized the Mercian. He sensed that this was about more than gold. But no more words would change things. Without another glance at his two companions, Hereward trudged down the slope and into the wild country.

When he glanced back, he saw the two riders silhouetted against the silver sky, still watching him. But then the wall of thorny brush closed behind him and he plunged down among huge outcroppings of rock into an empty land of stones and dust.

Nothing moved. The wind had dropped and the sun was fat and high. Suffocating waves of heat seemed to rise up from the rock to envelop him. Squinting into the shimmering middle distance, the Mercian eyed an arduous route among the sharp brown rocks. He would find it slow going, he knew, and dangerous to negotiate, but not even the best horseman would find it easy to follow him.

His shadow marched ahead of him, growing shorter as each mile fell under his feet. Blood seeped from his torn palms and knees where he had clambered over the jagged rocks. Soon his hide was as dry as his throat. He had hoped to find the river, or one of the many streams that must feed it, but he had come across nothing to replenish his supply.

As the ground began to rise up again, he sheltered in the shadow of a boulder that was as big as a hall. Shielding his eyes against the glare, he glanced back over the waste. At first he could see only the strange formations and the black brush. But then he thought he made out dark figures picking a path towards him. He blinked, unsure. It could have been Drogo and his men, but he could no longer trust his own eyes. He felt near-delirious from the heat and the thirst and the exhaustion.

As he carried on, the coffer crushed down upon his shoulder, seemingly growing heavier by the moment. Yet he would not, could not, set it aside.

And the sun beat down.

Once his shadow moved behind him, he thought he saw figures emerging from the rocks on every side. His father, Asketil, was there, grey-haired and hunched in old age, but his hands still sticky with the blood of his wife, Hereward’s mother. In the corner of his eye he glimpsed his brother Redwald, walking beside him, whispering how he had cut off the head of Turfrida, Hereward’s wife.

And others, shades of days long gone, haunted memories of suffering and death and harbingers of miseries yet to come. However much he ran, he could never escape what had been. Like his devil, Death walked with him always.

‘I will not abandon the gold!’ he yelled, shaking his fist at the shadows. And on he trudged.

Twilight fell, but the heat barely seemed to ease. His exhausted limbs trembled, demanding rest. But he knew that if he lay down he would sleep too long, too deep, and then Drogo Vavasour would be upon him and the chest would be snatched from his grasp.

And then night came down hard, and though he squinted into the gloom he seemed to be wading through a black sea. Feeling his way, he edged up rising ground along what seemed to be a soaring cliff face. Once, twice, he crashed down to his knees, his legs scarcely able to carry his weight. After a moment’s respite, he forced himself up and took another shaking step.

When he looked up at the few stars sprinkled overhead, he realized he could no longer remember where he was.

A moment later, he had crested yet another ridge. He could feel the ground falling away under his feet. The hard rock had given way to small stones that seemed to shift like water. Leaning back, he tried to dig his heels in to slow his progress, but the pebbles rushed away from him, and he felt himself dragged along with them.

Down he flew, and down, going faster and faster, until he was spinning head over heels. The coffer flew from his shoulder. In the scream of cascading stones, he heard it crash and splinter and he thought,
No! I cannot fail you!

And then his head slammed against rock and he knew no more.

THIS TIME HIS
mother’s face floated in front of him. She was holding out her hands, imploring him, but though she mouthed passionate words he could not hear them. In the deep dark, Hereward realized that when his mother was speaking was the only time he didn’t hear the dim whispers of his devil.

He struck out from the depths, rising upward through the black waves. When he felt a gentle swaying, he thought he was being tossed around on the surface of that great dark ocean. But his fingers brushed across soft warmth and he heard a steady beat. Hooves. He breathed in the musk of the horse that carried him, thrown across its rear.

Hereward opened his eyes. Rocky ground was moving beneath him. The light was thin. Had dawn already come?

In the rush of his returning wits, he realized Drogo Vavasour must have captured him. Steeling himself, he felt the life slowly returning to his limbs. When finally he was ready, he hurled himself backwards. Crashing on to the rough ground, he rolled and launched himself into the deepening gloom.

Laughter rang out, accompanied by a familiar voice. ‘A madman, I tell you!’

Whirling, Hereward saw the horse that had carried him belonged to Maximos. Alexios rode behind, his expression sullen. Zeno was some way ahead, glancing back with contempt.

‘We could not let you kill yourself,’ the young Roman said.

‘We found you with your skull all but bashed in,’ Maximos added, leaning down, ‘your lips as dry as the desert. A little water poured down your throat saved your life. You may thank me later.’

Hereward looked around. The landscape was still rocky, but he could see the dark outline of trees in the thin light. ‘Where are we?’

‘You slept for a day,’ Maximos said. ‘We feared you might never wake.’

Alexios slipped down from his horse. ‘Your plan had some value. In the wild lands we lost Drogo Vavasour for a while—’

‘But not long enough,’ Zeno snapped. ‘His men are now closer than ever. These two dogs have damned us all by trying to save your miserable life. They should have let you end your own days, as you seemed to want.’

Hereward listened. The throb of hooves echoed dimly through the dusk.

‘Come,’ Alexios urged, grabbing Hereward’s arm. He glanced back along the track as if he could pierce the gathering dark. ‘We cannot tarry—’

‘Where is the gold?’

Hereward watched the shadow cross the young Roman’s face. But then Alexios raised his chin in defiance. ‘The gold was killing you as surely as any axe. It had stolen your wits and it would have taken your life. I threw the chest away.’

Hereward heard no more. Blood thundered into his head. Thrusting Alexios to one side, he took three steps back along the road. ‘We must recover it.’

‘That was a day gone,’ Maximos said. ‘It will be in Drogo’s hands by now.’

Wrenching out his sword, Hereward spun round and thrust the blade towards Alexios. Jabbing the blade against the younger man’s throat, he fought with all his will to stop himself taking Alexios’ head there and then.

‘Do you know what you have done? With that gold, my brothers could have bought their way into the Varangian Guard. They are good, brave men. They sacrificed all to fight against the Norman bastard in England … their kin, their homes, their friends, aye, their wits too. That battle drove Hengist mad.’ Spittle flew from his lips. Alexios had fallen to the ground – the Roman might be dead for all he knew. Instead the faces of his spear-brothers floated in front of his eyes, those still suffering and those long dead. ‘I am their protector. I promised them victory, and when I could not give them that, I promised them a new dawn, gold and glory. But here in Constantinople, you Romans have treated them worse than dogs. They have been beaten down, lied to, spat upon. They are heroes, all of them, and now you have damned them to a life of suffering that they have never deserved.’

A pang of pain stabbed into his heart as sharp as any sword. He had failed them again. He was no better than Asketil, his father.

Drawing back Brainbiter, his hand shook as he prepared to strike.

‘Yes, kill him.’ Maximos’ droll voice cut through the haze that filled his head. ‘Slay the Little General and all your worries will be over.’

The sword wavered.

‘Your men will thank you for this great act of vengeance.’

Blinking, Hereward felt his vision clear. He looked round at Maximos. Making no effort to restrain him, the Roman sat on his horse, feigning a concerned expression. The Mercian felt a rush of revulsion. Stepping back, he wiped one shaking hand across his mouth and sheathed his sword. He had lost everything, and in his weakness he had almost killed an innocent man. This was the Hereward of old, one ruled by his passions. What he would not have given to have Alric there, his friend, to guide him, to tell him what he needed to do to be a good man. But this was the path he had chosen.

‘We will talk of this further,’ Alexios said, clambering to his feet. ‘But not here, or we will be talking when an axe cuts through us. Agreed?’

Hereward nodded.

‘Ride with me,’ Alexios said, climbing on to his horse without a backward glance.

As they set off into the night, the beat of hooves at their back had grown louder. Hereward knew – as they all knew – that they had reached the end of their journey. Now it was only a matter of finding a place to make a stand.

As they crested a ridge, the well-used road broadened. Peering ahead, Hereward could just make out shapes darker than the night. Houses, by the look of it. The Mercian felt a glimmer of hope in his heart. If they could find Romans who would stand with them, they could drive Drogo and his war-band away, perhaps even inflict a defeat upon them.

But as he looked around, he saw that no light burned in any window, and when he breathed in he could smell no wisps of smoke in the air.

Soon after, they entered a moderately sized town. Stone halls lined the road, as ancient as every residence Hereward had seen in that part of the world. But the place was still. There was no chatter, no women singing to their babies, no drunken men laughing; the only sound was the wind whistling among the buildings.