Hereward 05 - The Immortals (22 page)

And yet, as he stared ahead, he felt unease creep over him. On the edge of his vision, beyond the left flank, he sensed movement. Another long line of dust was starting to swell. Telling himself it was nothing, he fought to keep his attention on the ground sweeping beneath his horse’s hooves. But he felt his gaze drawn back as if he had a hook in his skin.

The dust cloud was sweeping towards them. Beside him, he glimpsed Tiberius’ head jerking round. The commander had noticed it too. As Guthrinc watched the Roman’s face drain of blood, he knew what they were seeing. The scout had not lied. Roussel de Bailleul’s army was as large as they had feared, but it had been divided into two forces, for some reason he could not divine. And now they were caught between the pincers.

Tiberius roared his command until his throat was raw, but under the drumming of the hooves the words barely reached even Guthrinc’s ears. The Immortals rode on, oblivious.

By the time the ranks of Athanatoi had realized what was happening, it was too late, Guthrinc could see. The riders on the left flank tried to steer their mounts away from the approaching army, but they were too slow. Even if they had succeeded, they had lost the advantage.

With hope of escape draining away, Tiberius wrenched out his sword and stabbed it aloft. Guthrinc saw the act repeated along the lines. A battle-cry rang out, filled with defiance. There was no choice but to fight, they all knew that. And they all knew that death was close. But these were not cowards as he had feared. They would look their fate in the eye and go down fighting.

Guthrinc turned to the English on his left and bellowed, ‘Brothers! Fight as you never have before!’

His call jumped from lips to lips. Eyes filled with sparks. Axes leapt to hands.

The only hope, if hope it was, was to cut a swathe through the approaching army before the warriors at their backs fell upon them like wolves. As Tiberius leaned low, thrashing his horse on to even greater speed, Guthrinc could see this was the plan in the commander’s mind.

Soon the Normans and Roussel’s axes-for-hire were visible in the swirling dust, row upon row of some of the fiercest fighting men in this part of the world. But Guthrinc silently vowed not to be disheartened. He had stared into the faces of William the Bastard’s men while Ely burned around him – he, a simple farmer – and he had lived to tell the tale. Bowing his head, he urged his horse to keep pace with Tiberius.

When the two sides came together, it was like the waves of two great oceans crashing against each other. The air boomed. Hooves pounded like hammers on an anvil and the whinnies of rearing, terrified horses rose like screams. Steel smashed against steel. Sparks flew. Shields splintered. Throat-tearing cries ripped out.

Guthrinc felt his senses reel from the tumult. The ordered lines collapsed in an instant and chaos swirled on every side. There was no sky, only clouds of dust, hacking swords and bristling lances. No ground, only a turbulent sea of horses and men.

The world closed in. Guthrinc glimpsed only flashes as the battle heaved around him. His mouth a rictus, Tiberius stabbed his sword into the face of a shaven-headed Norman. Hengist slashed around him with his axe, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a bestial snarl, no doubt seeing the Normans who had slaughtered his kin back in England and driven him mad.

Guthrinc felt a bolt of pain in his thigh as a charger slammed into his mount sideways on and his leg was pinned. Wrenching round, he looked straight into the face of a warrior driven half mad by his battle-lust. Mouth wide open, he was laughing as he thrust his sword. Somehow Guthrinc swivelled and the edge of the blade sliced across his upper arm instead of plunging into his heart.

Pain seared into his shoulder, but it was enough to drive the confusion from his head. He would have preferred to be using a bow – that was his weapon, mastered by hunting wildfowl in the rain-soaked fens – but he was a big man, stronger than anyone he knew, and when he used his axe it counted.

His arm came down in a blur. The blade smashed through the Norman’s skull and down deeper still, almost to the centre of his chest. Guthrinc wrenched it out, spraying grey matter and blood.

Gentle Guthrinc, they had called him back in his village, and he hated what these wars had made of him. But as he looked round, he saw that his savagery had served his purpose. The Normans urged their horses towards easier victims, giving him a wide berth.

As a space opened up around him, his breath caught in his throat. The Immortals were being slaughtered like oxen for the king’s feast. Before his eyes they fell one by one, their clumsy sword skills no match for Norman warriors who had lived for battle since they were children.

The ground had become a bloody marsh, miring the horses in the bog. Eyes wide with terror, they frothed at the mouth as they tried to drag themselves free. Roman bodies, or what remained of them, lay crushed face down into the mud.

One steed galloped by in front of him, its headless rider lolling upon its back. It ranged back and forth, directionless. In that terrible sight was the sum total of the fate of the Athanatoi.

Craning his neck back, Guthrinc peered through the churning mass of bodies. The other half of Roussel’s army was bearing down upon them. Once they arrived no man stood a chance of surviving this massacre. Hengist saw it too, and in that moment all madness fled his face. The bleak sanity that settled upon him was somehow even worse.

Guthrinc felt clarity descend as the mad din of battle ebbed away. In the silence in his head, he turned this way and that until he caught sight of Tiberius. The Roman commander’s pristine armour was now clotted with gore.

Urging his horse forward, Guthrinc clutched for Tiberius’ arm. Spittle flew from the Roman’s mouth as he whirled, his axe swinging up. But the battle-madness cleared enough for him to recognize his ally.

‘If we fight on, we die,’ Guthrinc bellowed above the clamour. ‘Give the order to flee.’

‘My men will not obey me,’ Tiberius said, his face streaked red. Tears of desperation flecked his eyes. ‘I will doom them if we go.’

‘They are already doomed.’

Tiberius looked around and saw the truth. Despair crumpled his features. But for all his faults he was a good leader, Guthrinc saw, one who was prepared to shoulder the guilt for the sacrifice that was to come. ‘Ride!’ he roared. ‘Ride! Follow my lead!’

His command sped through the ranks closest to him. Digging his heels into his mount’s flanks, Tiberius rode hard through a narrow space. His sword whipped right and left to force a wider way. Raising his arm, Guthrinc snapped it forward, and as one the English swept into the Roman’s wake.

Like a knife, the remnants of the Immortals carved through the milling mass of Roussel’s force. With each spear-length that passed beneath the horses’ hooves, more of the Athanatoi followed.

Guthrinc hacked at any Norman who dared come close. But their enemies had easier prey, and they turned their attention to picking off any of the Romans who were floundering.

For a moment, a wall of warriors blocked the way ahead, making the path seem impenetrable. Guthrinc felt a pang of anguish that their last gasp had died on their lips.

But Tiberius drove on with the Immortals close behind him, and the barrier parted. The last resistance flowed away and then all that remained of Constantinople’s hope flooded out into the wide, open plain. Guthrinc sensed the palpable relief of the blood-spattered men riding beside him, but the feeling was tempered by despair. At their backs, the screams of the dying rang up to the heavens. Guthrinc felt sick to the pit of his stomach when he thought of the true meaning of the Athanatoi name: the ones who are without death. That battlefield had now become the graveyard of their arrogance.

The Immortals rode on. No one looked back.

THE CARRION BIRDS
swirled in a black cloud. Their shadows roiled over a red field, baking under the cruel sun. In the centre a ragged banner of a double-headed eagle fluttered, the blood-spattered standard of the Immortals. Among a jumble of torn bodies, its pole listed, wavering. It had been rammed into the corpse of the warrior who had no doubt carried it, the victors’ mockery of the promise it held. Reeking of iron and rot, the wind lashed across that desolate plain to the four men who stood on the high ground, taking in the haunting scene of loss.

‘Why did they not flee?’ Alexios breathed. ‘There was no need to stand and fight.’ The young warrior’s drawn face was too pale. Anyone who looked at him would think he had aged ten years or more in the time since he had left Constantinople.

Hereward narrowed his eyes, knowing there was no hope of recognizing any of his friends who might be lying among the fallen, searching none the less. He would not give in to despair. His spear-brothers had survived many a desperate battle in bygone days. ‘All that matters now is that the Athanatoi are not coming back for us,’ he said. ‘We are on our own.’

Maximos watched the birds feast. ‘We can as easily make our way back to Constantinople on our own.’

‘But not the way we came. Roussel’s army may well be hunting survivors. We would not want to ride straight into the middle of them.’

‘South, then, and cut to the west along the road from Iconic. But the Turks have driven deep into that part of the empire. Their war-bands roam wherever they choose, looting from any village they come across.’

Hereward strode back to where they had tied their horses. The beasts needed watering and resting; they had been ridden hard from Amaseia. He rested one hand on the coffer strapped to his mount’s rear with the rope they had taken from one of the villages on the way. If his men had survived, all this would have been worthwhile.

‘Maximos speaks true.’ Alexios stepped past him and stroked the flank of his own horse. Though his wit was still as sharp as a knife – no man in the Athanatoi was sharper, Hereward thought – the young man’s humour had been dulled in recent days. His worries seemed to be weighing heavily on him. ‘The emperor is too weak, too distracted by his own selfish needs,’ he continued. ‘Every day that passes while he is on the throne is another betrayal of all Romans.’

‘And you think you could do better?’

‘It is not something I desire.’

Hereward laughed without humour. ‘I cannot walk a street in Constantinople without stumbling over someone or other who thinks he deserves the crown.’ He glanced towards Maximos. The Roman was watching them both like a hawk while Zeno continued to scan the battlefield. ‘There is no love lost between you and Maximos.’

Alexios shrugged. ‘He thinks highly of himself, and less so of me. But I do not know him. I know his kin. How they fell on hard times when the Verini gained the upper hand in the rivalry that had consumed them for years. I am told that since Victor Verinus’ death, the Nepotes are once more rising up.’ He looked up to the clear blue sky where the ravens still swooped, shrieking. ‘I think Maximos now sees me as a rival, perhaps everyone. There are some who want, and some who want too much.’

‘Hold.’ Zeno’s voice rang out. When Hereward whirled, he saw the Roman pointing back along the trail edging the plain. The two men raced to his side. ‘We are not alone.’

A dust cloud billowed and the sound of drumming floated through the hot air. Men on horseback were approaching, around ten, Hereward guessed from the sound, and they were riding hard. Squinting, the Mercian watched their dark shapes emerge in the hazy distance. Warriors, there was no doubt of it.

‘Roussel de Bailleul must want us dead badly if he has sent a war-band on our tail,’ Maximos mused as the four men turned back to their weary mounts. ‘And all for a few burned tapestries.’

Hereward frowned. ‘There is more to it than that, I am sure.’ He remembered the hate in Drogo’s face when their eyes locked at the palace. If any man would track them down across the long miles, it was Drogo, he was sure of it.

‘Roussel wants his gold back,’ Zeno said. ‘Toss it aside, here, where they will find it, and they will leave us alone.’

‘Never,’ Hereward insisted. He would not sacrifice his spear-brothers’ hopes, not after all they had endured.

Eyes blazing, Zeno gripped his arm. ‘Are you mad? You would throw us all to the wolves over a little gold?’

Hereward hurled off the other man’s arm. ‘Ride on, if you must. I will not hold you back.’

‘We will not abandon a brother,’ Alexios said, adding in a hesitant voice, ‘but our horses are weary and the weight of the gold will slow us …’

Hereward leapt on to his mount’s back, his eyes flickering towards the nearing dust-cloud. ‘They have a scout, a good one. Someone who can track four men across the land with ease. All we have to do is hide our trail.’

‘Easier said than done,’ Zeno snapped. He clambered on to his own horse, simmering at being rebuffed.

‘Then it is decided,’ Maximos said with a laugh. ‘God knows, I love gold as much as any man, and if I had the chance to take a little joy from all this misery I would seize it with both hands.’ Narrowing his eyes, he looked towards the south. ‘Our horses are drained. We cannot outride these Normans. But we can use our wits. The land ahead is wild. Thick, untamed forests. Rivers and streams where we can ride along the bed and hide our tracks. Not even the greatest scout on earth can follow us through there.’

Zeno spat. ‘And there are also Turkish war-bands roaming everywhere. Once they smell gold, we will have packs of wolves bearing down on us from all sides.’ He looked around the three faces and saw there was no deterring them. With a curse, he urged his horse down the slope from the ridge towards the forest that reached out as far as the eye could see.

Maximos grinned as if this were the greatest adventure he could imagine. He followed Zeno, riding as hard as he could. While Alexios set off, Hereward glanced back towards their pursuers. He could feel his devil starting to whisper deep in his head. He would not abandon the gold for which he had fought so hard; he would not be defeated again. God help any man who tried to stand in his way.