Hereward 05 - The Immortals (31 page)

‘But it is all like the mist,’ Roussel was saying. He weighed the knife in his hand, watching the way the light reflected off the blade. ‘The oak has been cut down for firewood. My father … I will never sit beside him again in this life. This is the trap of days long gone. They still shape us, even though they lie beyond the horizon, and we cannot find those places again. All we have is here, now. We must hold on to that, brother. We must make it bend to our will, live lives of joy if we can. My father’s words still stay with me. They will never go, and that must be enough.’ The warlord’s fingers closed tight around the deer-horn hilt. ‘What is gone is done. There is no going back to find another path through the forest. Only forward. Only forward. That is where our true salvation lies.’

Before Kraki knew what was happening, Roussel stepped behind him, grabbed the bonds at his wrists and hauled him to his feet. Closing his eyes, Kraki bared his throat, waiting for the blade to free his life-blood.

Instead, he felt the warlord sawing at the ropes. When they snapped free, Roussel shoved him forward. ‘Run,’ he said.

Kraki staggered a few steps, then glanced back. His thoughts tilted.

Roussel slipped his knife into his tunic and turned away. ‘Run,’ he said again.

As he grasped what had been done, the Viking felt a wave of gratitude. His judgement of this man had not been amiss. Rubbing his wrists, he lurched out into the night, scarcely able to believe that he had been given a second chance to live his life. But his legs were weak and unused to walking far, and after so long without food in his belly he had little strength for a fight.

Run, the warlord had said, and run he would.

Beyond the camp, the flames of the great fire spun a swirl of glittering sparks up towards the stars. Bursts of song still rolled out, but the jubilation he had heard earlier had all but ebbed away. Soon the feast would be over and the drunken warriors would be staggering back to their tents to sleep off their stupor.

Picking a path among the guy ropes, the Viking crept away. Barely had he gone more than a few steps when he felt his neck prickle. Looking back, he saw a mountainous figure silhouetted against the glare of the fire. With flames flickering around the outline, the shape was moving away from the feast. Here was Karas Verinus, now ready for his butchery, he was sure of it.

Kraki ducked down, hoping the night had been dark enough to cloak him. At first nothing reached his ears, no roar commanding him to stop, no thunder of feet. But at the last tent he thought he heard something, a sigh perhaps, a whisper of footsteps. When he glanced back he glimpsed a flitting shadow in the moonlight, far away. A trick of the light, he told himself, nothing more.

Beyond the camp, the flatland seemed to stretch almost to the horizon, where a dark smudge of trees lay. It was a patchwork of dusty soil, clumps of tough yellow grass swaying in the breeze and ridges of brown rock like the fins of great fish breaking through the surface of the whale road. He could see few places to hide. Yet if he could reach the forest before dawn he could find some roots and berries to assuage his growling belly, and then he would be ready for anything.

Cursing his weakened legs, he broke into a loping run. His chest was soon burning from exertion. What a ghost of himself he had become. Trussed up for too long, beaten and abused, and deprived of sound sleep. When he reached the nearest slab of rock he paused to catch his breath. Looking back towards the camp, he stiffened.

A figure was moving across the wide expanse with a steady gait, relentless, remorseless, hunting. As Kraki watched, he realized this was not Karas. His pursuer was smaller, and slight of frame. It was the boy, it could be no other, the mad, blood-crazed boy who was not a boy. The Viking cursed again. A boy! But he was too weakened to face even that savage. He was a sheep being pursued by a wolf.

Blinking the stinging sweat from his eyes, he weaved among the rocky outcroppings, hoping the lad would lose sight of him. But every time he reached another open stretch, he saw Justin closing upon his heels.

The forest seemed to draw no nearer. He imagined the boy with his knife, leaping around him. A cut here, a cut there, his blood draining away into the dust, until finally he would collapse. And then that moon-faced bastard would fall upon him.

Kraki roared his anger. All the battles he had fought, all the enemies he had defeated, and his days would be ended by a mere boy.

And then he felt his feet fly out from under him. Sweat-blinded, he had not seen the hollow. Down the slope he flew, turning in the air. With a crash that drove the breath from his lungs, he slammed into the earth, rolled and came to a halt looking up at the edge.

The boy reared up there. His blade glinted in the moonlight.

Raising his huge hands, Kraki snarled, ‘These are waiting to choke the life out of you. Feed them!’

Justin showed no fear, no emotion of any kind. Then, even as he swung up his blade, other shapes seemed to rise up from the very land around him.

The boy paused, looked around.

Kraki shook the surprise from his head. For the second time that night, he had been dumbfounded by a sudden appearance. They were Turks, he saw, each one armed with a sword.

‘God smiles upon you, my friend,’ a familiar voice boomed. Suleiman was standing on the other side of the hollow, grinning. ‘But I would not have thought you to flee from a mere stripling.’

‘Wait!’ the Viking urged as the warriors closed in on Justin. ‘Take care—’

The boy lashed out with his knife. Blood gushed from the throat of the nearest warrior. The man’s hands clutched for the wound, his wide eyes showing his disbelief that such a thing could have happened.

Roaring as one, the Turks whirled their swords, but they were too late. The beast was already gone, sprinting away into the night.

His face now grim, Suleiman helped Kraki to his feet. ‘Karas Verinus has been the bane of all Seljuks, slaughtering us like cattle whenever we dared walk on the land he claimed. It seems his foul blood has tainted the boy too.’ The commander looked towards the ruddy glow over the camp, his dark eyes glinting beneath heavy lids. ‘There will be a reckoning, make no mistake.’

‘What brings you and your men here?’

‘Since Roussel de Bailleul’s army rode out of Amaseia and Ancyra we have been watching from afar. We would know his mind.’ His grin flickered back, his eyes sparkling once more. ‘There may be some gain for us here. What say you?’

Kraki grunted. ‘Spoils aplenty, I would wager.’

‘Good, good.’ Suleiman clapped an arm across the Viking’s shoulder and added cheerily, ‘And what for you now, my friend? You have your freedom again. Do you return to Constantinople and be a running dog for the Romans? Or let God’s wind carry you to a new life?’

Kraki looked to the west. He thought of England and Acha. He thought of the peace he could find once the ache in his chest had been assuaged. And he remembered Roussel de Bailleul’s wise words. Here was the crossroads. The choice was his.

SHAFTS OF SUNLIGHT
punched through the forest canopy. Shadows flashed around them as shrieking birds took wing from the branches. Three men weaved among the trees, their breath rasping as they leapt gnarled roots. Their grim gaze was fixed on the green world ahead. At their backs, dark shapes swept through the half-light. The ground throbbed with the beat of hooves.

Sweat-slick in the baking heat of midday, Hereward grimaced. Would there never be any respite? Would the running never end?

Maximos skidded down a bank and snarled his ankle in a loop of bramble. With a curse, he crashed on to the soft leaf-mould, only to roll and come back to his feet without missing a step.

‘It is Drogo Vavasour, I tell you. He has found our trail,’ Alexios gasped as he ducked a low-hanging branch.

‘Save your breath,’ Hereward snapped. They could not keep this pace up for much longer. Their legs burned from weariness and they were near-starved.

Since they had left Malakopea-above, striking out west, only morsels had passed their lips. They had trapped wildfowl when they could, but the meat was never enough to fill their bellies. They had torn out edible roots and gnawed them, and they had begged at the only dwelling they had passed, a small farm where the wife looked terrified when they appeared at her door. A knob of bread had been the reward for their pleadings. That had been a mistake. He felt sure the woman had set these dogs on their trail. Drogo and his war-band or Turks, it mattered little. They would still end up dead.

A whistle rang out. Their pursuers had them in their sights.

Hereward’s eyes darted, but he could see only the seemingly endless forest. Nowhere that offered them any advantage.

A figure bobbed up from the wall of blackthorn ahead of him. Maximos cried out in surprise. The Mercian’s hand flashed to his sword. Before he could draw it, a voice called out, ‘Hold. It is I.’

Hereward skidded to a halt. He could scarcely believe his eyes. Maximos and Alexios slowed, then stopped to gape at the nut-brown, gap-toothed face grinning at them.

Herrig the Rat bounded out from his hiding place and snickered. ‘I have seen a wounded boar cover its tracks better than you.’

Behind them, the sounds of pursuit ebbed away. Hereward turned to the line of horsemen. Familiar faces grinned down at him.

‘Did you think we would abandon you? We roamed across these godforsaken lands for days until we found your trail,’ Guthrinc called, his face ruddy from the exertion.

The Mercian looked along the ranks, taking in Hengist, Sighard, Hiroc the Three-fingered and the rest, with a few Athanatoi taking up the rear. He was more than delighted to see they had all survived.

Slipping down from his mount, Guthrinc strode over and with a hearty laugh swept Hereward up in a bear-hug. ‘You might be a great war-leader these days, but I could still hang you upside down from the branches as I did when you were a lad.’

‘You put the fear of God in us. Is this how you greet friends – by running them down like rabbits?’

‘How many yet live?’ Alexios demanded. ‘We saw the field of battle … the standard …’

Guthrinc’s face darkened. ‘Perhaps one in every ten made it away with their lives.’ He glanced at Hereward. ‘The Romans have been humbled by this defeat, brother. It is a harsh way to learn any lesson, but in time some good may come from it.’

Hereward drew himself up. ‘The gold is gone.’ He expected to see dismay cloud the faces of the English, but only shrugs met his admission.

‘There is always more gold,’ Sighard said, unperturbed. ‘We have our heads upon our shoulders and our good fighting arms. That is enough for us to give thanks.’

The Mercian felt chastened. Never give up, that was the lesson they had all learned during the battle against William the Bastard. He had lost sight of that in the dark days. He would not do so again.

Once they had returned to the well-hidden valley where the rest of the Athanatoi were camped, Hereward looked out across the remnants of the once-mighty fighting force and felt a pang of regret. Tiberius sat by the fire, sucking the grease from a fowl bone. Ten years seemed to have passed since the last time Hereward had seen him. His face was drawn, his skin greying, his eyes hollow. When he looked up, he held the Mercian’s gaze for a long moment and nodded before returning to the remains of his meal. No words needed to be said.

At dawn, the Immortals and the English broke camp and rode west. As they skirted the forests and crossed the grasslands, Hereward looked up and saw a pall of smoke hanging over the way ahead. Soon they reached what was left of a town. Fires still glowed among the ruined buildings, and bodies were scattered everywhere.

Further west, more smoke drifted.

Silence fell across the ranks as they rode on.

Along the road, town after town, village after village, had been laid to waste, a trail of destruction leading inexorably towards Constantinople.

Then, on the fourth day, they reached the high ground overlooking the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara. The dome of the Hagia Sophia glowed under the high sun and the city spread out beyond it in all its magnificence. And yet, as he sat up on his mount, Hereward could only see the vast army of Roussel de Bailleul, waiting to lay siege to the seat of an empire.

‘So many,’ Maximos said, shielding his eyes against the sun’s glare. ‘Against an army that is not worthy of the name. The emperor has let it wither away. What hope is there of holding back the Norman tide?’

‘We have been here before,’ Hereward said. ‘The few can defeat the many, if there is fire in their hearts.’ And yet these Romans were not the English. Could they be trusted to fight to the last for all they had?

As he watched the campfires belching black smoke into the air, and the sun glinting off the armour and the weapons, he could not help but think that a slaughter was coming to Constantinople, a bloody ending into which they would all be drawn.

FIRE ROARED UP
the vast wooden cross. Black smoke billowed to the heavens and swallowed the setting sun. Across the Bosphorus, the reek of pitch and charring swept towards Constantinople. Flames flickered to life on a second soaring cross, further to the south, and then on a third. The message was clear to everyone in the City of God who cared to look to the forces massing on its eastern flank. Though it was to many the centre of Christendom in the civilized world, Constantinople could no longer count upon the Divine to protect it.

On the eastern sea wall, a small knot of men and women looked in the direction of Roussel de Bailleul’s army. Though the sprawling camp reported by the scouts lay out of view, none of them could any longer deny the brooding presence.

Alric felt his chest tighten as memories flooded him of that rain-lashed night when he looked out from the walls of Ely across the vast army of William the Bastard. But this time things were different. There seemed as many enemies on this side of the defences as there were staring them down. The English stood alone, surrounded on every side by those who wanted to destroy them.