Hereward 05 - The Immortals (13 page)

Shrieking birds took wing above the green canopy as the whoops of the Athanatoi soared. The scout’s horse whinnied in response, its hooves thumping on the forest floor very close to the hollow.

Hereward let his hand fall.

The four warriors bounded from their hiding place with a roar. The horse reared up, its rider howling in shock. Thrown, he slammed into the forest floor. The English were upon him before he could shake off his daze.

Snarling one hand in the scout’s tunic, the Mercian yanked him up. ‘Lie still and your head will remain on your shoulders,’ he hissed. The other three warriors crowded around, fierce faces saying more than any raised weapon.

Swallowing, the scout nodded his understanding, and Hereward let him fall back to the ground.

Once the Immortals’ horses had trotted up, the riders leapt from their saddles, clapping each other on the shoulders and laughing as if they had ridden down a deer. There were twenty of them, enough to put the fear of God in the scout, not so many that they would struggle to pass through the dense forest. Lysas the Snake wandered up, slaking his thirst from his hide. He splashed some water on the captive’s face and laughed.

‘You English have your uses after all,’ he said, showing his teeth.

‘Aye.’ Kraki could not bring himself even to look at the other man. ‘We show you what seasoned warriors can do, if only you could learn which end of an axe to use.’

Lysas laughed without humour. ‘Bring the Norman to Tiberius. He will tell us all about Roussel before the sun has set, if he knows what is good for him.’

‘We do not answer to you,’ Sighard snapped, flushed.

‘Do as you will, then,’ the Snake replied with a shrug. ‘You will answer to Tiberius.’

As the Roman stepped back towards his raucous comrades, Kraki growled, ‘One day I will take my axe to the lot of them.’ The Viking lowered himself to balance on his haunches, staring at the ground. He seemed even more sour than Hereward had feared.

As the Mercian weighed the other man’s spirit, he realized Guthrinc was standing apart, looking deep into the forest. He had eyes like a hawk, missing nothing.

‘What do you see?’

For a long moment, Guthrinc continued to stare, his face emotionless. ‘A boar, perhaps, if they have such things here,’ he said eventually. ‘Leaves trembled. Something is there. If I could hear myself think over the din the Romans are making, I might know more.’

The Athanatoi’s laughter boomed out. Hereward cursed silently at their lack of experience. No good warrior would rest for even a moment away from his hearth-fire. Stepping beside his friend, he searched the green world. Nothing moved. But he knew better than to doubt Guthrinc. ‘Drag the Norman to the Immortals,’ he commanded Sighard. ‘Let him be their burden.’

Once the younger man had hauled the trembling scout to the Romans, Hereward turned back to the tangle of trees caught in the patchwork of sunlight and shadow. Kraki was moving across the foot of the hollow, easing from cover to cover to get a better look.

‘We are not alone,’ Guthrinc said.

The words had barely left his lips when shadows separated from the trees across the forest, scores of them. Hereward stiffened. At first he thought they were ghosts, so silent were they. But an army had waited there, hidden in plain sight, their footsteps making not a whisper. Turks, he could see now. Their faces were like stone, their eyes coals. As one, they plucked arrows from the quivers at their belts and raised their bows.

Hereward roared, an animal bellow torn from the depths. His men knew the meaning of that guttural sound, recognized it from every battlefield where they had fought shoulder to shoulder. Throwing himself on to his belly on the ridge of the hollow, he glimpsed Guthrinc and Sighard doing the same. His nostrils filled with the choking scent of peat as arrows whined over his head, hundreds of them it seemed. The screams of the shafts were punctuated by dead thuds as they thumped into trunks, and then by real screams torn from the throats of the Romans. The horses whinnied, hooves pounding. When he looked up, he saw five of the Immortals staggering around, arrows bursting from torsos and faces. Blood soaked into the sweat of their tunics.

Before he could move, rough hands grabbed him and spun him on to his back. Enveloped in the reek of strange spices, Hereward looked up into a grimacing mouth slashed through black bristles and eyes brimming with hatred. Cursing in his throaty tongue, the Turk swung up his sword.

As the blade whipped down, the Mercian rolled to one side. Kicking out at his foe’s legs, he heard the knee crack. A howl rang out. The weapon thudded into the forest floor a hand’s breadth from his head. Before the Turk could recover, Hereward hurled himself up. The top of his head smashed into the other man’s jaw. As his stunned enemy spun away into the hollow, he clawed his way to his feet and ran.

Figures flitted all around. The marauders crashed through the undergrowth, pausing every now and then to loose a shaft. Hereward felt an arrow whisk by his head. Another rammed into the ground at his feet. The Turks were trying to herd their prey, like boar to the slaughter. Weaving among the trees, the Mercian realized they had only moments to escape before the enemy had them surrounded.

His feet flew over the forest floor. Ahead, he glimpsed Guthrinc and Sighard already on horseback, both of them beckoning wildly to him. But the Athanatoi were in chaos. Scrambling and cursing in their panic, they fought to get back upon their mounts. Fear had washed away their raucous mood. All of them knew they were outnumbered, and far from reinforcements.

Bow-strings cracked. Hereward dropped to his haunches, sheltering behind his shield. Four arrows punched through the wood. And then he was running again, reaching the huddle of rearing horses. Grimly determined, Lysas had the scout at his back. The wide-eyed Norman had seemingly decided his captors were the least of his worries.

As Hereward dragged himself on to his steed, he saw the advancing Turks swarming all around. More surged out of the depths of the forest by the moment.

‘Kraki?’ he yelled to Guthrinc, who was fighting to keep his bucking horse under control. But his friend could only shake his head.

Hereward searched the confusion of Romans. The Viking was not among them. He felt desperation grip him.

As the Athanatoi fought their horses under control and began to ride away, Hereward scanned the forest. Beyond the milling Turks, he glimpsed the flash of an axe. Kraki was hacking wildly at a ring of five enemies. Though Hereward knew the Viking would never give up, he could see there were too many foes on every side. It was only a matter of time.

Kraki lashed out, even as his enemies swallowed him. A Turkish sword rose, and then plunged down.

Arrows flashed by. The Mercian raised his shield, recoiling as a shaft glanced off the rim. When he lowered it again, his spear-brother was nowhere to be seen.

Blood thundered through his head. He would not, could not, accept that the Viking had been lost. Snarling, he tried to force his horse to turn.

‘Leave him,’ Lysas shouted at his side. ‘He was dead the moment he fell behind.’

But Hereward could not accept that. He would ride back, find the man who had once been his enemy but now, grudgingly, had become a man he could trust with his life. He would find him even if a hundred Turks barred his way.

But then Lysas stabbed the tip of his sword into the flank of Hereward’s mount. The horse bolted. The Mercian felt the branches tear at his face as they hurtled between the trees. The whine of arrows fell behind. Though he felt as if a spear had been thrust through his heart, Hereward knew he had no choice but to accept the truth.

Kraki was dead.

A SHOWER OF
sparks swirled up towards the glittering stars Around the campfire, a knot of warriors sat brooding, English and Roman alike. On every side, tents stretched out across the dusty plain, the cloth cracking in the night breeze. The wind moaned, the burning logs crackled and spat. On the evidence of nights past, there should have been singing, laughter, the jubilant voices of men who believed the world bent before them. But tonight all voices had been stilled, all heads bowed.

Except one. In the distance, a bestial howl soared into the night, a terrible sound that seemed to have been wrenched from the abyss. Guthrinc was mourning his dead friend.

Hereward stood at the entrance to the largest tent, arms folded. His heart was heavier than it had been for many a day, perhaps since he had stood on the quay at Yernemuth and said farewell for ever to the land of his birth. Brooding would do no good, he knew that. But his moods gripped like a storm, and were just as uncontrollable. Inside his head he could hear the whispers of his devil, demanding vengeance, berating him for leading his men from one disaster to another. Though he clutched the sliver of relic that Alric had given him, that voice would not be stilled. He felt his blood pulse in his temples. The shadows clotted his mind, and he knew there would soon be a reckoning.

From the depths of the tent came the dull slaps of fists upon skin. In one corner, Tiberius glowered, his face ruddy from the dancing light of a torch, watching three of his men circle the kneeling scout. The Norman’s wrists were bound behind his back, his face bloody and swollen, his lips split. He mewled, pleading for mercy.

Tiberius was not a man who had mercy in his soul. The attack by the Turks had put the fear of God in him. Hereward knew the Romans were worried about the approaching battle with Roussel de Bailleul, but now they realized they were surrounded on every side by a multitude of enemies. If the Turks attacked in force, the Immortals would be wiped out in the blink of an eye. And they had brought this down upon their own heads, though no one would give voice to this harsh truth. But they could not ride back to Constantinople like whipped curs, Hereward knew. The emperor would never forgive them. They would be scorned by all; no doubt lose their standing, their gold, their land. All they could hope now was to strike against the Normans as fast and hard as they could, capture the Caesar and ride back like the wind.

Hereward gritted his teeth. This foray went from bad to worse. Hope was now thin on the ground.

‘How many men does your master have at Amaseia?’ Tiberius barked.

‘Three … three thousand,’ the scout murmured.

Tiberius threw back his head and laughed. ‘An army that great? Do you expect me to believe these lies?’

‘It is no lie,’ the scout said, his voice rising, then breaking.

A shadow crossed the Roman commander’s face. ‘No. I cannot accept that.’

‘’Tis true. Three thousand men. Seasoned Norman warriors, the fiercest fighters in the east. And axes-for-hire, bought with the gold Roussel has flowing from his coffers.’ The scout tried to hold up his head with defiance, but a shudder of pain ran through him. Hereward could see that the Norman was not lying, and he knew Tiberius must see it too.

The Roman commander turned away so his men would not see his expression. Hereward guessed what was passing through the man’s mind. Three thousand men. More than five times the numbers of the Athanatoi, and more skilled too. The Romans were riding to a slaughter.

Tiberius glanced towards him and for a moment their eyes locked. The Mercian sensed a moment of understanding between them; if they were in hell, they were there together. Turning from the tent, he walked back to the campfire. His spear-brothers looked up from the dancing flames. Hereward glimpsed Alexios among the number. The Roman seemed to spend more time with the English than with his own countrymen. The other members of the Athanatoi always fell silent when he was around, as if he could not be trusted. The Mercian guessed that it was more because they feared the power, and the vengeance, of his mother, Anna Dalassene.

‘We should have mead,’ Hiroc said gloomily, ‘and raise our cups to Kraki. He will not be easily forgotten.’

‘When I stumbled over my spear while we sparred in Ely he tossed me into Dedman’s bog, and held me under until I thought I would drown,’ Sighard murmured, his chin resting on the heel of his hand. ‘I hated him for that. But I learned my lesson.’

Hiroc cracked his knuckles. ‘I can say this: he could be a miserable bastard with a temper like an angry bull, but he would not want to see us here, squatting like old men dreaming of days long gone.’

Hengist the Mad was roaming through the shadows beyond the circle. Snarling his fingers in his long, greasy hair, he bounded up to the fire, threw his head back and bayed like a moonstruck wolf. Answering Guthrinc’s grieving howl, the cry rolled out across the tents. Hereward felt his neck hairs prickle erect.

‘You are right. Kraki would have cursed any man here who let the heart-fire dim at his loss,’ he said once the mournful sound had ebbed away. ‘When we first met in Eoferwic, he would have gutted me for daring to open my mouth. He did not make friends easily. He was boastful and his temper was like a forge. But on the field of battle, no warrior would have wanted a better man at his side. Kraki would have given his life for any of us. That is how we will remember him.’ He paced up to the fire and dropped a hand on Hengist’s shoulder. At the touch, the smaller man calmed. ‘But hear me now,’ the Mercian continued. ‘We have no mead to swill back, but when the time comes we will sing his name loud on the field of battle. We will honour him as he would have wanted, by seeing his enemies fall before us. We will spill oceans of blood. Kraki will hear us, in heaven or Valhalla, or wherever he walks now, and he will be pleased.’

The spear-brothers nodded, defiance driving the sadness from their features.

After a moment, one of the men at the back of the circle stood up. When the flames lit his features, Hereward saw it was Derman, the Silent Warrior, whom the others called the Ghost. He was tall and slim, black hair framing a face that oft seemed drained of blood. So stealthy was he, it was said that he could walk through an enemy army and not be seen. Rarely did he speak, but now it seemed he could not contain his thoughts. ‘First Turold and now Kraki,’ he said, his whispery voice almost lost beneath the crackle of the campfire. ‘Neither would now be dead if these Romans had acted with honour. They betray us by turns. I say they are our true enemy.’