Hereward 05 - The Immortals (26 page)

‘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.

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.

‘This … this is how the Verini treat their enemies,’ he said, fixing his eyes upon Kraki. ‘These rats swarm across our land and the emperor does nothing. He is too weak. But when they came to steal what was rightfully mine, I showed them how a Roman defends what is his. And if I have to, I will kill every last one of them I can find.’

‘If a man does not have honour, he has nothing,’ Kraki said, unmoved. ‘And I see no honour here.’ If Karas was going to break his bones one by one, he would not plead. He would go to the great halls of Valhalla dreaming of Acha, and he would be happy.

‘Honour?’ Sneering, Karas strode across the tent. ‘Let me tell you of honour. Victory upon victory I achieved for the empire in battle. The bodies of my enemies lay before me to the horizon like the rocks of the earth. The emperor sits secure upon his throne because of the blood I have spilled, a sea of it. But I was not lauded for my troubles. No, I was called butcher. I was despised by the pale-skinned cattle of Constantinople.’ He fluttered a hand in the air. ‘Perhaps feared. It is good to be feared. But they would not have me among them. They wanted the safety that my butchery brought them, but they did not want to see me, or think upon the things I had done. And so I was sent far away from the city, to live out my days on a patch of miserable land in the east.’ He shook his head. ‘No more.’

Kraki craned his neck up at the general towering over him. He sensed the resentment radiating off the Roman. If the emperor only knew what he had unleashed. ‘So you ride back to Constantinople for vengeance. What will you do – slaughter every man, woman and child in the city?’

Reaching one hand behind him to indicate the red-faced, dripping boy-devil, Karas said, ‘Once my plans have reached fruition, this will be our new emperor, as my brother intended, and I will stand behind him, guiding him. The empire will be great again. And I will be praised upon high, by all.’

The Viking looked from Karas to Justin in disbelief. These Romans were all drunk on power, or mad, or both. What man in his right mind would see a monster like that boy wearing the crown? Once again he yearned for the simple days of England. There, every man knew the reason for the battles he fought. There, it all made sense.

The night breeze gusted and the torch roared. In the shower of sparks, Kraki glimpsed a figure standing just outside the entrance to the tent. It was Roussel de Bailleul. He was watching the boy standing over the torn and broken bodies.

‘What need do you have of me?’ the Viking asked.

Karas dropped to his haunches so he could scrutinize his captive. ‘Ragener the Hawk has told me of my brother’s death in Constantinople.’ The Roman turned up his nose. ‘Victor was a weak man. I had only pity for him. His hungers were … distasteful. He thought himself far better than he was, but in truth he was a failure as a general, as a warrior, as a man. Yet for all that, he was my own blood. He deserves vengeance.’ The Roman leaned down so that his cold grey eyes bored into Kraki. ‘And the Hawk told me what part you and the other English played in my brother’s death.’

‘We did nothing.’

‘You stood with the Nepotes. You are tainted by their reek. And so it is only right that you carry a message – that Karas Verinus is coming for them, and that the Verini will be restored to power.’

‘I will not speak for you.’

‘Speak? No.’ Karas grinned. ‘The Nepotes demand more than weak words. When we arrive in Constantinople, your days are done. I will cut out your heart and ram it down your throat. Then I will tear out your guts and fill that space with vipers. Once you are stitched back up, I will deliver you to those bastards in time for the serpents to eat their way out of you.’ He sniffed dismissively. ‘A message, nothing more. But they will know that I am back, and I am coming to take their heads, one by one.’

SHARDS OF GOLD
stabbed out from the rock face. As the boulder ground away from the cliff, the dark fled from the flickering light. A rush of warm air scented with spices blasted out, accompanied by the music of a plucked instrument, and singing, and the lively chatter of excited voices. The shadows of the four warriors rushed away from them as they were swallowed by a circle of illumination. Each man was gripped by the revelation of this mysterious hidden world.

Yells of triumph shattered the spell. Hereward wrenched around, looking up the narrow track leading to the abandoned town. He could not yet see any sign of Drogo Vavasour’s war-band, but from the tone of the cries there could be no doubt that they had discovered the way their prey had gone. That was no surprise. The Romans had been hammering upon the boulder for long moments, pleading and cajoling with whomsoever was in the cave behind it to admit the new arrivals to the hiding place.

For a while, there had been no response. The voices within had stilled, the sounds of life retreating into the recesses. Hereward had watched the desperation settle on his fellow warriors. They all realized this was their only chance of surviving to see another day. But finally Alexios had convinced those in hiding that he and his allies were good citizens of the Roman empire and not marauding Turks. A gruff response had rumbled out: they would be admitted, but swords and axes waited to greet them. One hint of threat, one lie, and they would be put to death there and then.