Hereward 05 - The Immortals (20 page)

The noise in his throat rustled out, barely audible. The sea wolf frowned, unable to tell if this was assent. ‘Speak up!’ he yelled. ‘Are you so afraid of me?’

This time Kraki moved his lips, but no sound came out.

Ragener smiled in triumph. ‘Now you know what it is like to live with fear,’ he hissed. Leaning in, so he could revel in Kraki’s croaked plea, he let the knife fall away.

Kraki’s teeth clamped on the sea wolf’s cheek. The blade clattered to the floor as Ragener clawed the air, howling. But he could not pull free. The Viking felt blood bubble in his mouth, tasted iron, but still he held on. When he finally wrenched his head back, a chunk of cheek came with him. He spat it across the cell, a feast for the rats.

Ragener reeled as the agony stole his wits for a moment. Seizing his chance, Kraki rammed his head into the ruined face. The sea wolf spun back. But the Viking did not stop there. Shuffling on his knees until he loomed over his victim, he hammered his forehead into Ragener’s face time and again until the flesh was pulped.

When he sat back, blood streamed down his scarred features. ‘I have a thick head, half-man. You know that now,’ he murmured. Falling back, he fumbled around until his fingers closed on the sea wolf’s knife. His best chance now, he knew, was to use the confusion upstairs to his advantage. Pushing himself up the wall, he lumbered to the door and nudged it open with his nose. He nodded, pleased. The din from the main hall had grown even louder.

Gritting his teeth as he twisted the knife to saw at his bonds, he stepped out into the long corridor that ran the length of the palace and stalked towards the steps leading to the halls. Chambers led off on either side. Stores for wine and food, he thought, wrinkling his nose.

Then he winced, and all but cursed aloud. The blade had sliced into his wrist and blood was trickling over his fingers, but he could not stop, not now that he had been given one slim chance to escape. He felt a touch of elation, and unease too. All hinged on the next few moments.

But as he reached the foot of the steps, he juddered to a halt. Perched on a step halfway up the flight was the strange moon-faced boy, no doubt waiting for the sea wolf. Kraki tried to find words that would reassure, but he had never been good with children. For a moment, the lad stared at him, unblinking, and then he put his head back and made a keening sound, like the gulls on a grey winter’s day.

‘Quiet, damn you,’ the Viking snarled.

Too late. Thunderous footsteps raced at his back as if a bull were bearing down on him. Half turning, he glimpsed a mountain of muscle and bone racing towards him. It was the Roman, Karas Verinus.

‘You are the key to winning the throne, and by God you will not escape me,’ he snarled. His huge fist slammed down like a hammer upon an anvil, and Kraki knew no more.

‘
I WILL BRING
you back his head!’

The words throbbed in the void, almost lost beneath the pounding of blood. Kraki blinked once, twice. As the darkness ebbed away, he realized he was lying on cold stone amid the reek of charred wood. Pearly curls of smoke wafted through the air. He glimpsed arches and tapestries and knew he was in the main hall of the palace. At his back, a drone of low voices and the grinding of objects being dragged across the floor told him the fire had been extinguished. A blast of cool night air from the open door washed over him.

But he found his attention drawn to the man who had spoken with such passion. Drogo Vavasour was like a madman. His hands clutching at the air, he ranged around Roussel de Bailleul. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes staring at horizons far beyond that chamber. ‘Ten men, that is all I need,’ he spewed, spittle flying.

Roussel, though, was calm. Arms folded, he watched the prowling warrior, a fixed smile on his lips. His demeanour suggested that he thought the other man was less than sane, Kraki thought. ‘Take them, and do not return until he is dead,’ he said, placating.

‘I will follow Hereward of the English to the ends of the earth, if that is what it takes.’

‘Hereward?’ Kraki jerked up, his head ringing.

‘Your friend was here this night,’ Drogo spat, ‘trying to steal the Caesar from under our noses. He failed, and we ran him out of here like a rat.’

Kraki gritted his teeth. To have come so close! If Hereward had known he was captive here, he would now be riding back to the Athanatoi, his life his own once more.

Drogo strode forward and made to vent his frustration upon the captive with a kick to the gut.

‘Leave him,’ Roussel commanded. ‘He has his uses, yes?’

From behind Kraki, the towering bulk of Karas Verinus stepped forward. ‘He has his uses,’ he said, looking down at the man he had battered into unconsciousness.

Roussel turned to Drogo and said, ‘Our plans have of necessity been brought forward a day or two at most, but we are ready. We will ride tonight and join our army on the plain. Once you have sated your blood-lust, find us. You know where.’

Vavasour nodded. Animated, he snapped his fingers at the one-eyed warrior Kraki had seen earlier, and a few others. They trailed after him out into the night. Kraki felt his heart sink. If any man could track down Hereward, it would be Drogo Vavasour. His hatred for the Mercian made him a relentless enemy.

A tonsured man in an emerald tunic wandered over, a goblet of wine held loosely in his hand. He raised his cup in a toast.

Roussel nodded. ‘You did well to raise the alarm, John Doukas. If my men had not been half asleep, our enemies would be dead now.’ He shrugged. ‘It matters little. They are fleas upon a dog.’

Pushing himself up, Kraki studied the Caesar. Something was amiss here. The warlord had said
our enemies
, and John Doukas seemed not to be a captive at all.

As if he could sense the Viking’s thoughts, Roussel smiled. Crouching so he could look his prisoner in the eye, he said with a confident smile, ‘The Romans sent you out here to die, Viking. Do you trust your new masters?’

‘I trust no one.’

‘Wise words.’ He nodded. ‘You will be well treated, do not fear.’

‘I am not afrit of any Norman. I killed enough of you bastards in England.’

‘I have heard the stories of Hereward of the English and his rebels. Brave men all. Still, we share blood, you and I.’

‘You are not my kin.’

Roussel laughed silently. ‘You have not heard the tales of days long gone, then. Vikings from the cold north found a new home in Normandy. We are fierce folk, both. We should not be enemies.’

Kraki glowered. ‘Any man who learns his ways from William the Bastard will always be my foe.’

‘Is that what they tell you?’ Roussel chuckled. ‘I am no William the Bastard, Viking. I would not slaughter babes in arms and old men, as he did in the English north. I believe in honour above all. But I like the gold he has in his coffers, and the land that spreads out before him, I admit.’ Standing, he looked around the hall. ‘There is much to be said for being king.’

Kraki shrugged. He had no quarrel with this man. In other times, he may well have liked him. They were brothers of the field of battle. But the Viking stared past the warlord to where Karas was lurking in the shadows. The Roman was a different matter. He reeked of threat, as did his dog Ragener, aye, and the moon-faced boy too. It was only fitting that they travelled together. Why they had come to the warlord, he did not know, but he sensed that here there were plots within plots.

Leaning down, Roussel caught Kraki under the arm and hauled him to his feet. ‘You will soon get some food in your belly, and wine too. I would wager you would not say no to that?’ He laughed, slapping the Viking on the back. ‘But first we must put some miles behind us.’

With a gentle shove, he urged Kraki towards the door. Accompanied by a knot of warriors, they crossed the town and passed through the gates. In the east, a pink sliver edged across the horizon. Kraki came to a halt, looking around in surprise. The tent city of the warlord’s army was empty. Silence hung over the once bustling town. Nearby, horses had been readied and carts were laden with provisions.

‘You need all your men to hunt down Hereward? Or to crush the Athanatoi?’ the Viking asked.

Roussel grinned. ‘Aye, crush them we will.’ He looked to the lightening sky. ‘They may well be already lying in their own blood. They will have found a surprise waiting for them. But that is not all, Viking.’ Leaping on to the back of his mount with the skill of a seasoned horseman, Roussel waved a hand to command his men to throw Kraki into the back of one of the carts. ‘My army will not be returning this day. No, today we leave Amaseia behind.’

IT WAS THE
hour of dawn. Around the dome of the Hagia Sophia, a halo was forming. The rooftops were limned with gold, and the whitewashed halls were starting to emerge from the night like ghosts. But in Constantinople’s lonely streets the shadows still swelled. As the first birdsong trilled, a faint beat echoed. Footsteps clattered nearer. Two children raced from the dark, faces flushed, wide eyes darting as they searched for a place to hide.

‘We were too confident,’ Leo Nepos gasped. He glanced over his shoulder as he ran. The men at their backs were drawing closer.

‘If you would live a life without risk, be a farmer.’ Ariadne Verina narrowed her eyes. They were close now. There was still a chance they could escape by the skin of their teeth. But then she too looked back. Shapes moved in the dark, four, perhaps five of them. Her voice deepened, her face growing harder. ‘Do not be afraid. Should they catch us, we will gut them like deer. This is the vow of al-Kahina.’

Clasping her companion’s wrist, she yanked him to the right, down a filthy alley where the light had still not licked. Her head spun with thoughts, memories of the woman she would be, she believed herself to be: Meghigda, warrior-queen of the desert tribes, a woman who would never show fear, never be beaten like a cur, never die.
The spirit of Dihya burns in my breast
, she repeated silently in her head; a prayer, a spell.

For a moment, she stumbled over shards of shattered amphorae and discarded sacks until she found the pile of rotting fish guts, tossed out by one of the merchants, where she had come across it the other day. Leo gagged at the foul stink. Pressing a finger to her lips, she thrust the lad down on the other side of the heap and crushed in close to him. The blush of his skin warmed her cheek and she felt her heart trip faster.

Ariadne’s breath burned in her chest as the crack of footsteps rattled past the end of the alley. She counted the passing bodies, then pushed her head up just as the final pursuer ran by. She glimpsed a sword, glinting in the first light.

‘Are we safe?’ Leo breathed.

Ariadne glanced at the lad fondly. He was weaker than she. He could never survive the hardships she had endured. Yet she understood his yearning to be something more: to gain respect, and, perhaps, power. Without respect he was nothing, and no one could bear to be that way. When her father died, she had been left with no value in this cruel city. But she had found some worth through Salih ibn Ziyad, and some purpose too. And she had found her power in Meghigda. ‘For now,’ she said. ‘But they will be searching for us. We will wait here until the merchants arrive, and then lose ourselves in the crowd.’ She fumbled for his hand and gave it a squeeze. After a moment, he responded.

Ariadne thought back to earlier that night: her desire to escape the confines of the house of Anna Dalassene had made her too reckless. Once she had found Leo she had persuaded him to join her in spying on Falkon Cephalas, the architect of all her misery. After following Nikephoritzes and his closest advisers from the Boukoleon palace, they had eventually found themselves at the back of a filthy tavern not far from the Petrion Gate on the north side of the city. More of his men had gathered there, spies it seemed, far away from prying eyes. Talk had been unguarded, and Ariadne and Leo had heard too much. When they had been discovered by a drunken rogue stumbling out into the night to drain his bladder, Falkon could not let them escape with what they now knew. His dogs had been loosed, a host of bloodthirsty warriors, hunting them through the streets with a relentlessness that told Ariadne she would never be able to rest easy again.

‘Why did I follow you?’ Leo moaned, hugging his arms around his knees.

‘To find the truth. Falkon Cephalas will come for your own kin soon. You must know that. He seizes any that he feels threatens the emperor, never mind if they are noble. It is said that he has a chamber deep beneath the Boukoleon palace where he tortures them until they plead for death. The cries that rise from that place would chill the blood, they say.’

‘Who say?’

‘People.’

Leo turned up his nose. ‘He would not dare come for the Nepotes.’

Salih ibn Ziyad would lash her with his tongue if he knew that she was in the company of one of the hated Nepotes. If only he could see that Leo was still an innocent. The boy could not be blamed in any way for the death of Meghigda, queen of the Imazighen and the woman Salih had loved above all others. No, that stain was upon the soul of Maximos Nepos alone. But her teacher believed that vengeance should follow blood. In his eyes, all of the Nepotes must pay.

For a moment, Leo’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head, puzzled. ‘Why do you help me? Your kin have been rivals of the Nepotes since before we were both born.’

‘I have no kin,’ Ariadne snapped. Catching herself, she forced her voice to soften. ‘My father cared only for his sons. He treated me worse than a dog, forcing me to crawl beneath the table waiting for scraps from his meal, locking me in the dark for days at a time, beating me till I bled … beating me, and worse …’ She choked on the words, the memories burning her mind. ‘I am glad the Nepotes murdered him.’ She spat into the pile of fish guts. ‘But the Verini live on. My uncle, Karas, is worse by far than even my father. He too is ruled by his lust for power, a hunger that will make men do aught to gain what they want.’