Hereward 05 - The Immortals Read online

  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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  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.’

  Their resolve strengthened, the warriors watched the city fires, waiting.

  Once the sun had disappeared behind the mountains, the night came down hard. A crescent moon glowed, providing just enough light for their business. The steep-sided valley grew still.

  After long moments, a full-throated scream of terror echoed from upriver. It rose and fell, rose and fell, seeming as if it would never end. Even though the warriors had expected it, they stiffened, chilled to the bone. The sound was filled with so many agonies, they could imagine the gates of hell had been opened.

  A loud roaring erupted, not quite drowning out the dreadful cry. Away in the dark an inferno appeared, heading towards the city. The men stared, gripped by the sight of that unholy light.

  ‘It begins,’ Hereward said. ‘Raise your weapons.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE FIRE SWEPT towards Amaseia. Shards of orange light glimmered off the black water. Along the river banks the glow marched, until a blazing ship emerged from the night. Aft, the conflagration roared up from a pile of bales almost to the top of the mast, smoke billowing around it like grey sails. The scream was tearing from the throat of a man bound in the prow: a Norman scout, gripped by terror as the flames licked towards him.

  All was going to plan.

  ‘Wait,’ Sighard said, pointing. ‘That is not what we agreed.’

  Hereward squinted into the dancing glare. Now he could see a second man, strapped to the mast, another scout no doubt. His head rolled on the deck by his feet. The Mercian grimaced. ‘That is not Guthrinc and Hengist’s work. Tiberius has left his own mark upon this.’

  Across Amaseia, torches flared into life and a terrible clamour rang to the heavens. Folks rushed from their homes. The alarm sprang from throat to throat.

  The Mercian flicked his hand towards the city. Cloaked in darkness, the men crept out from the rocks and crawled down the slope. As they neared the walls, Hereward’s nose wrinkled at the acrid reek of the burning ship. A torrent of bodies flooded through the streets and out of the tent city, down to the water’s edge. So great was the din, the English could have been bellowing to each other and not been heard. Hereward grinned. This was how he had seen the night unfolding in his mind’s eye.

  When they were close enough to the quay to hear any exchange, they slipped into a copse of scraggly trees and waited. Shadows swoop
ed across the harbour. The light that chased them illuminated the faces of the gaping men trying to make sense of this disaster.

  Watermen armed with long poles braced themselves along the quayside to fend off the drifting ship so it did not ignite any of the vessels moored nearby. But Hereward could see it was already listing. Soon the hull would split and it would sink in a hissing cloud of steam.

  A handful of brave souls threw grapnels into the prow, then leapt into the water and hauled themselves up on to the deck to wrench the Norman scout free of his bonds. Together they dived back into the churning river.

  Surrounded by warriors, the dripping scout crouched on the quay, catching his breath. Hereward cocked his head, listening, as questions were barked. The response was picked up by one man and yelled to another, and then another, a chain unfurling all the way to the city gate.

  The Immortals are coming. The greatest warriors in all Constantinople.

  Grinning, Hereward and his men exchanged a triumphant look. Now they only had to wait and pray the Normans would react as they hoped.

  Loud voices surged deep into the city as news of the impending attack spread. For a while, the English and the Romans waited in the copse while the panic unfolded around them, and then Hereward stiffened. The response had been decided and the order given. Pulling on hauberks and helmets, warriors flooded out of the gate and into the turmoil of the tent city, where men were racing along the tracks between the shelters, stirring their drunken brothers. Axes were gripped, swords unsheathed. In the pens, nervous horses stamped and whinnied. Riders found their mounts and galloped out of the valley towards the plain.

  Hereward felt no pride that his plan was progressing as anticipated. Any seasoned war-leader would have known that the plain was the best place for a force to gather to defend the city.

  Sighard clawed his way forward and watched with him, his breath tight in his chest. ‘How many will they send?’ he breathed.

  Too few and their chance of escape from Amaseia would be slim, Hereward knew. They could not ghost in and out of the palace and leave no trace of their passing. At some point an alarm would be raised.

  Maximos loomed over the younger warrior as the first force rode out en masse. ‘And still they ready themselves?’ he whispered. ‘Is Roussel leaving the city undefended?’

  ‘He knows not how many ride with the Immortals,’ Alexios replied. ‘He can take no chances.’

  Unable to believe their luck, the warriors watched as the Norman forces swept away from Amaseia. Soon the tent city was deserted.

  ‘Let us not tarry,’ Hereward hissed. ‘There will still be swords and axes waiting for us. We cannot know how many warriors Roussel has kept to guard his prize.’

  Creeping out of the trees, the war-band eased into the throng bustling along the dusty track running between the river and the gate. All around, frightened faces glowed in the firelight. Their new masters had kept these people safe from the incursions of the Turks and let them go about their business in peace. Now they were wondering if it was all coming to an end.

  Maximos recognized the source of their anxiety. ‘We are the enemy here,’ he murmured. His voice hardened. ‘The emperor’s weakness has left these poor souls to seek solace in the arms of an invader.’

  The crowd was swelling. Hereward pushed through the churning bodies at the gate, hoping the confusion would be cover enough. The remaining Normans were distracted, their attention focused on the threat they feared was rushing towards them from the open plain, not on a handful of men wandering into the city in full view.

  Once they’d fought their way across the wide street by the walls, Hereward plunged into the narrow alleys winding between the houses. They were dark, deserted. The din ebbed away. Soon only the whisper of running feet followed him.

  When they reached the end of the alley opening on to the wide courtyard, the Mercian raised his hand. His men pressed into the shadows by the wall at his back. Torches glimmered in the depths of the palace. Only two guards were visible. Huddling together as they whispered intensely, they flashed glances towards the orange glow rising above the rooftops from the river.

  Grinning, Maximos cracked his knuckles. Alexios nodded in reply. Feigning worried faces, the two Romans darted out from the alley. The guards whirled, hands flying to their swords.

  ‘At the gate!’ Maximos glanced over his shoulder in seeming panic. ‘You are needed. Now!’

  The guards gaped, unsure, and that was their undoing. As soon as the two Romans were close enough, blades flashed. Maximos rammed a knife into one of the guards’ guts, wrenching upwards, then planted his free hand on the man’s mouth and forced him to the flagstones. Smaller and lither, Alexios danced behind the other guard before he could unsheathe his sword. Another short blade ripped across the Norman’s throat and he collapsed, clutching at a spray of crimson.

  A moment later, the war-band was racing across the empty courtyard to the palace. Easing through the door, Hereward looked around the deserted hall. Torches flickered along the walls. At first, all seemed silent. Then, cocking his head, he heard a faint laugh and the thrum of distant voices.

  Responding to a snap of the Mercian’s hand, the warriors ghosted across the hall in the direction of the sound and paused outside a chamber beneath the stone steps leading to the first floor. Hereward pressed his ear against the age-cracked door. Three men were conversing in the harsh Norman tongue, their voices edged with laughter. From the sound of it, they were supping and swilling back wine.

  At a glance, his men raised their weapons. Thundering one foot against the door, the Mercian crashed into the room. The guards were hunched on benches. Wooden bowls of spicy stew and cups of wine flew as they jerked round in shock. But they were too slow to react, their weapons abandoned in one corner.

  Hereward rammed Brainbiter into the chest of the nearest man. Before the Mercian had even withdrawn his sword, Sighard had fallen upon another. The third man threw himself across the chamber, clutching for his blade. Maximos cuffed him with the hilt of his sword and he crashed against one of the benches. Hereward was on him in an instant, snarling his fist in the man’s tunic.

  Yanking the Norman up, the Mercian glared into his eyes and hissed, ‘The Caesar. Where is he held?’

  The guard stuttered for only a moment before the answer gushed out of him. Once the Norman had been laid low by the flat of a blade, the war-band darted back to the hall. For a moment they paused, listening. When they were sure they had not been heard, they bounded up the stairs. Though each was fast, Herrig the Rat was fastest of all, snickering to himself as he took the steps three at a time.

  Hereward had expected the Caesar to be bound in the dank dark beneath the palace. But the chambers on the first floor where the guard said the noble was confined were as sumptuous as any king’s hall. Through one door, gold plate, jewelled caskets and gem-studded books gleamed; the riches of the Church that had been taken from John Doukas. Richly embroidered tapestries, marble statues and bolts of Syrian silk filled every space. Yet there was no order to these riches. Looted, all of them, and cast aside by a warlord who now had what he valued even more – his own empire.

  ‘Make haste,’ Hereward hissed to Sighard and Hiroc. He jabbed a finger towards a box of dark wood carved with angels.

  The two men nodded. Soon the box was stuffed with gold.

  Alexios and Maximos loomed in the doorway. ‘Is this the hour to rob?’ the younger man said, incredulous. ‘The Caesar is all that matters.’

  ‘I would not begrudge a man some coin for his pouch,’ Maximos added, pursing his lips in thought, ‘but that coffer will slow you … us … down. And it is not so much of a fortune that it is worth risking our lives.’

  ‘For us English, it will suffice,’ the Mercian replied. ‘And if you find us falling behind, keep going. But my men are strong. We will outrun you, even with a chest of gold.’

  A shadow appeared behind the two Romans. Zeno the Wolf stabbed his sword towards the Mercian.
‘Are you mad? Talking like wives at the market in the enemy camp? Come, now. Or I will take the Caesar myself.’

  Soon they were creeping towards the chamber where the guard had said John Doukas was being held. Outside, Sighard and Hiroc set down the coffer and crouched beside it while Hereward rested his fingertips against the wood of the door. At the least, he had expected heavy iron bolts, but there were none. It seemed Roussel was treating his captive with the respect his station deserved.

  The Mercian shoved and the door swung open.

  A man in an emerald tunic sat on a bench, looking out of the window to where the orange glow lit the night sky. At first Hereward thought the guard had lied and this was some monk, for the man’s hair was tonsured to show his devotion to God. But his back was straight and his chin raised with the arrogance that the Mercian had seen in all Roman nobles. He turned slowly, no doubt expecting his captors. When he saw who stood in the room, he stood up, frowning.

  ‘Is this he?’ Hereward asked.

  ‘It is,’ Maximos said with a hint of mockery. ‘Once a general, once the most powerful man in the court, and now king … of his vast lands in Thrace and Bithynia, and nothing more. But he has gold aplenty, I will give him that.’

  ‘Who are you?’ John Doukas demanded. His voice was strong and low. His pale eyes gleamed beneath dark brows.

  ‘It is I, Alexios Comnenos.’ The younger Roman stepped forward, holding out one hand. ‘You know me.’

  ‘Aye, your mother hates me and would see me dead. Is it not enough that I was sent to risk all in battle with the Normans, only to see my most trusted men betray me and flee?’ He curled his lip, implying that he had been meant to be defeated, the Mercian guessed. ‘Does your mother hate me so much that she has now sent her favoured offspring into this den of enemies to kill me?’

  ‘We have come to save you. You are to be returned to Constantinople under our guard,’ Alexios protested.