Hereward 05 - The Immortals Page 20

  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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  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 inn
ocent 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.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ Alexios murmured, unsettled.

  The four men leapt down and threw open doors. The halls were deserted, the home-fires cold. Hereward could see no signs of battle, but every house was stripped clean of anything of value. When he plunged into barns, he found no grain, no olives, no wine. There were no dogs, no horses, no cattle, pigs or other livestock. It was a town of ghosts.

  ‘What happened here?’ Alexios whispered.

  A crash echoed behind them. When they ran back to their horses, they found Alexios’ steed lying on its side, eyes rolling, breathing shallow.

  ‘No more riding for you,’ Maximos said. His eyes darted back along the road. The rumble of hooves had reached the high ground now.

  Zeno leapt back on to his horse. ‘We must go for help,’ he said to Maximos. ‘Find the people of this place and bring them back here.’ The horse stamped skittishly, sensing his anxiety.

  Maximos looked to the west, where the last rays of the dying sun glimmered on the edge of a deserted landscape. ‘You will find no aid.’

  Zeno flashed him a look. Hereward could see that the Wolf knew Maximos was right. His words were only designed to offer an excuse. He was saving his own neck.

  Maximos slapped the last horse on the rear, and it cantered away. ‘I am sick of riding. And sick of running from battle. We will make our stand among these empty houses, fight to the last.’ He nodded to Hereward. ‘As we did in Sabta.’

  Hereward nodded in return. Perhaps he had misjudged Maximos.

  Zeno’s mocking laughter rolled out. ‘You coddle yourself with dreams, like children. Drogo is a bloodied war-leader. Do you think he will let you pick his men off one by one? He will set the town alight, or starve you out, or ride you down like deer. If you stay here, you die.’

  ‘When you reach the first tavern, set aside a cup of wine for me,’ Maximos said. ‘Ride fast now.’

  With a snort, Zeno urged his mount away.

  The last of the light died.

  As the sound of the Wolf’s horse ebbed, the booming of the approaching war-band carved through the stillness of the town. Hereward drew his sword, his eyes searching the narrow tracks between the houses.

  ‘They may ride by,’ Alexios suggested, unsheathing his own sword.

  ‘Aye, and it may rain gold,’ Maximos replied, looking around. He kept his voice bright, but Hereward knew he too believed the end was near. With a firm nod, the Roman reached a decision. Resting one hand on the Mercian’s shoulder, he pointed to where the cluster of houses rose up on an area of higher ground. ‘Let them come to us. We can—’ His words died on his lips. Hooves beat the ground behind them.

  The three warriors whirled, only to see Zeno riding back to them at speed.

  ‘Follow me,’ he barked, breathless. ‘I have found …’ His voice tailed away. It seemed he did not know what he had found. And yet Hereward could sense his excitement. He turned his horse round, and the three of them raced after him. Behind them, the Mercian could hear the cries of Drogo’s men as they entered the town. They scented blood.

  On the edge of town, a narrow track wound down a steep incline, littered with boulders and scrubby brush. Hereward, Alexios and Maximos skidded down the path in Zeno’s wake. Thorns tore at their skin. One wrong step would send them spinning into oblivion. But they had nothing to lose.

  At the top of the incline, in the town, they could hear the shouts of their pursuers as they began to search. The path would not stay hidden from them for long. At the bottom, Zeno waited for them before riding along the side of a sheer rock face.

  Alexios caught Hereward’s arm and pointed. ‘Do my eyes deceive me?’

  Away in the dark a thin line of light glowed in an arc.

  The Mercian frowned, unsure of what he was seeing.

  Maximos pushed ahead. ‘Listen,’ he hissed. ‘I hear voices.’

  And now Hereward could too, dim, rustling, as if emerging from the depths of a deep well.

  The three warriors prowled towards the light. When they reached the glimmer, they found that Zeno had dismounted and was pressing his cheek against the rock, listening. As Hereward’s vision adjusted, he saw that the illumination was leaking out of the gap around a large boulder.

  Alexios shook his head. ‘What is this place?’ he whispered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  THE TORCH GUTTERED in the night breeze blowing through the open tent flap. Shadows danced across the billowing cloth as the two Turks knelt, heads bowed. Their muttered prayers were almost lost beneath the cracking of the guy ropes. In the ruddy glare, fear-sweat gleamed on their bare backs. Their wrists were bound, and their ankles too. They knew what was coming. There was no escape for them.

  In the far corner of the tent, Kraki watched. His own wrists were lashed with rope, as they had been much of the time since they had left Amaseia. The guards let him flex his muscles a few times a day, but all there had heard what he had done to Ragener and they knew how dangerous he could be. No chances would be taken.

  There was no escape for him.

  A moon shadow swept across the entrance, and Karas Verinus strode in with his brother’s son, Justin, at his heels. The Turks began to whimper. It seemed that they knew this towering oak of a man, or knew his reputation. His pale eyes flickered with a cold fire as he glanced over. This display was for his benefit, Kraki knew, but whether warning or threat he was not sure.

  The two captives had made the mistake of wandering too close to the camp as they spied on the Normans, trying to discover for their masters why this army strayed so far from its fortress. Roussel and his men had cared little. They were good friends with the Turks, both groups happy to carve up the empire to their own advantage while the emperor hid away in Constantinople.

  But Karas Verinus had been driven into a rage by the bravado of the dark-skinned scouts. He had ridden out into the wilderness alone, with only his sword for his defence. Within an hour, he had returned with the two spies stumbling and falling and howling, tied to his horse.

  The Turks started to babble in their strange tongue, no doubt pleading for their lives. Kraki grunted. They should hold their tongues and face death like warriors. A man like this Roman would never be moved to mercy. Kraki had seen enough of him to know that. On the journey from Amaseia, Karas had treated the Normans who travelled with him with disdain. He always held his chin high, like a king surrounded by slaves, never joining in the laughter, never talking. Even Roussel de Bailleul tolerated his behaviour. The warlord showed no man fear,
but Kraki had seen him eye Karas as if he were a mad dog.

  ‘Pay heed,’ the Roman called across the tent, as if he could read the Viking’s mind. ‘Feast your eyes on how a hero of the empire treats his enemies.’

  From his tunic, he pulled out a long-bladed knife of the kind that hunters used for gutting deer. Pointing one finger at the nearest captive, he held out the weapon on the palm of his other hand. The boy took it.

  Kraki watched the lad, trying to read in his face what he intended to do next. But those features were like a still lake at midnight. Justin stared at the Turk, unblinking.

  When the attack finally came, Kraki jerked in shock. The lad had been unmoving one moment, a blur of hacking the next. A frenzy settled on him. Though most of his face remained as calm as ever, his lips pulled back from his teeth and his empty eyes widened, luxuriating in every instant of that butchery.

  The screams of both Turks ripped out, spiralling up into a chorus that reached to the heavens. Kraki imagined every warrior in that camp cowering, refusing to investigate, all of them afraid to consider what could draw such a sound from a man’s throat.

  The blood sprayed. A fine red mist settled around the victim and his killer. On Justin’s face, speckles merged into streaks that became one crimson mask.

  Now Kraki understood the boy’s true nature. Perhaps there was something in all the Verini, in the blood itself, that set them apart from normal folk.

  Karas watched as if revelling in a student’s fine work. Then he rested a hand on Justin’s shoulder and the lad fell still in an instant. What had once been a man lay unmoving at his feet.

  Though he was sickened to the pit of his stomach, Kraki refused to look away. That was what Karas wanted.

  The other Turk continued to wail. Stepping behind him, Karas hooked a hand in the captive’s bonds and lifted him as if he weighed no more than a babe. With a flick of his wrist, he swung the screaming man so he could grasp his legs and then he smashed him down across his knee. The Turk’s spine shattered with the sound of a breaking branch. Karas tossed the remains aside without a glance.