Hereward 05 - The Immortals (34 page)

Finally, he glimpsed the door that led out to the front of the palace. A sleepy-eyed guard waited beside it. Wrenching it open, Alric tumbled out into the rosy sunlight. As he sprawled across the flagstones, he heard the jubilant cries of his pursuers rise up at his heels. But he felt only relief.

Rolling over on to his back, he drank in the startled expressions of Falkon’s men as a row of warriors stepped in to confront them.

‘Stay back or lose your heads, your choice,’ Deda said, levelling his sword at the nearest rogue. Salih ibn Ziyad stood beside him, his cruel silver knife glinting. They were flanked by Guthrinc, Sighard, Hiroc the Three-fingered, Derman and six others of Hereward’s men.

The soldiers’ grins faded. Uneasy eyes searched those flinty faces and saw that these men meant business.

‘Tell your master the monk escaped,’ Salih said, as he prodded his knife towards another cut-throat. ‘You will feel the edge of his tongue, no doubt, but you will live to fight another day.’

Alric felt a flood of relief. He had survived the part of the plan that he had dreaded most. A hand closed on his arm, and he looked into the face of the girl, Ariadne. ‘You are as much a warrior as any other here,’ she whispered, as she helped him to his feet.

With a curt nod, the one who seemed to be the leader of the soldiers turned and the others followed him back into the palace. Ariadne slipped in beside Salih, looking up at him with wide eyes. ‘Your wisdom is great,’ she murmured, ‘and I am proud of you. This is the right path.’

‘This day,’ he replied, but the monk saw that his smile was fond. ‘And now?’

‘Now,’ Deda said, ‘we wait.’

But Alric knew he could not. He felt the weight of the warriors’ stares upon him as he pushed past them and walked back into the palace. The stakes here were high and became higher by the moment. Doubt flooded him as he climbed the stone steps to the first floor, but he pushed it aside. He had faith.

The corridor stretched out before him, and he began to count the doors as he had been instructed. Ahead, he heard voices, one calm, one strained. Anna was leading Nikephoritzes to the destination. The eunuch shook his fist and clutched at his head and cursed, a man who could feel doom fast approaching. When Anna opened the door, she caught sight of the monk and smiled, leaving it open so he could slip in behind them.

The chamber was long, with tall windows that looked out on the azure sea. Bathed in the sweet scent of mullein flowers, two sweat-reeking earth-walkers stood in a shaft of low sunlight. Even stained with the filth of the road, Hereward looked like a great leader. His hand rested on the golden hilt of Brainbiter and his chin was raised. He looked Nikephoritzes in the eye, demanding the eunuch’s attention. Beside him, Kraki glowered, refusing to show any respect.

‘You bring me to these dogs?’ Nikephoritzes exclaimed. ‘The world is crumbling around our ears and you waste my hours with this?’

‘We are not dogs,’ Kraki spat. ‘We are the ones who will save all your necks.’

Nikephoritzes snorted and turned back to the door.

‘Heed them,’ Anna told him. ‘There may well be salvation here, if only you will listen.’

‘You have a rival emperor waiting to take the throne and a vast army of the fiercest fighting men in Christendom,’ Hereward said, his tone measured. ‘Your own army is little more than mist. You will be overrun before you have even raised your swords. Hope for you, for the emperor, for Constantinople, is fading fast.’

‘Doom is coming,’ Kraki said, nodding. The Viking seemed to be enjoying himself.

Alric watched Nikephoritzes grit his teeth as a rage born of desperation built inside him. ‘You are dogs, both.’

Hereward narrowed his eyes. ‘Then heed the barking of these dogs. For here lies your last hope.’

THE STANDARD FLUTTERED
in the light breeze. Any man could see it was pristine, the golden double-headed eagle glistening against the red background, the wooden pole polished to a shimmer. Beneath it, warriors craned their necks up, their faces glowing with pride. Here was a fresh start, a chance for redemption. They would seize it, even if it cost them their lives.

In contrast to the standard, these fighting men had seen better days. Their once-gleaming armour was now dulled by the dirt of the road, dented, scratched and streaked with the brown of blood and rust. Beards and hair had grown wild. Yet they were rested now, their eyes shining with purpose, their horses fed and watered. The Immortals were ready for what would no doubt be their final battle.

Beyond the ranks, two men watched lips moving in silent prayer. For a long moment, they drank in the peaceful view, reflecting on what had been and the horrors of what was to come.

‘These are not the warriors who rode out from Constantinople,’ Tiberius said.

‘Battle changes a man,’ Hereward agreed. ‘When you have seen a friend fall, when you have been soaked in the blood of a brother, the world can no longer touch you.’

‘The emperor would be proud of them.’ Tiberius nodded, pleased at what he was seeing. Hereward thought how the commander of the Immortals had changed too. The slaughter outside Amaseia had cut the legs out from under his arrogance, as it would have any war-leader’s. In the end, he was responsible for every life lost that day.

‘The standard?’ the Roman continued. ‘We have you to thank for choosing to bring it to us?’

‘These fighting men have earned it. They are reborn.’

‘They would make amends for their failings.’ Tiberius cast a sideways glance. ‘And I too.’

Hereward felt a pang of recognition. Sometimes he wondered if he would spend the rest of his days making amends for the failing of his younger self. ‘Your courage will not go unnoticed. After this day, the Athanatoi will live on. Nikephoritzes has given his word. The Immortals will be at the heart of the new army he is building.’

Tiberius raised his eyes to the blue sky and smiled with pride.

Bands of cloud marched across the grasslands. The sun was high. It was almost time. ‘Prepare your men,’ Hereward said. ‘I will gather the English.’

Beckoning to Guthrinc, the Mercian strode up the slope to the top of the ridge. At the summit, he shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun and looked out over the land rolling down to the blue-green sea glinting in the distance.

Word of the invaders had spread through the streets like the plague. Before he had taken the boat to the eastern shore, he had seen the dark expressions and heard the prayers. But though Nikephoritzes had tried to dampen talk of the rival emperor, word of that too had begun to make its way through the marketplaces. For many, those broken down by Falkon Cephalas, or crushed by near-starvation and rising prices, it seemed like hope. Nikephoritzes had been right to be worried.

Lowering his head, Hereward let his gaze trail back over the sprawling camp of Roussel de Bailleul. Banners flapped in the breeze over tents of crimson and amber and ochre. From numerous smouldering campfires, lines of smoke twirled up to the heavens. In their pens, the horses swished their tails, lazy in the heat. Hereward could see little other movement. Warriors dozed in the shade. Others squatted around the embers, or whittled with their long knives.

The warlord could afford to bide his time. Let worry gnaw away at his enemies. Let dissent rise behind the walls, and let Karas Verinus and the other vipers work to undermine the authority of those in power. He was clever, that Norman. When he finally chose to attack, the blow would come like a hammer.

‘We have been seen,’ Guthrinc said, pointing.

One man, probably the lookout, was pointing and shouting. Another raced to the horses.

‘It matters little now,’ Hereward replied. Raising his arms, he half turned and hailed his men. With their shields on their arms and spears in hand, they raced up the slope.

‘Today we fight as we have never fought before,’ the Mercian said, looking into each face in turn. He was proud to see no fear there. Still, he wished Kraki were there at their side. ‘There are ten of them for every one of us. But we have the high ground. Let them come to us, and we will show them hell.’

At the foot of the slope, the Immortals were now all mounted. All eyes were on Tiberius as he sat high, his sword stabbing towards the sky. ‘We are the Athanatoi, the ones who are without death,’ he boomed, his voice carrying over the swaying grass to the top of the ridge. ‘Never has that been more true. For even should your days end here, your names will live on for all time. A warrior who is remembered in the hearts of many can never die.’

Hereward nodded. Good words. For a moment, he watched Tiberius urge his mount up the incline, with Isaac Balsamon, the Boar, and the snake Lysas Petzeas close behind. Then the ground began to throb, as a multitude of hooves rumbled as one.

‘Shield wall,’ the Mercian commanded.

From the edge of the Norman camp, three scouts began to gallop towards the interlopers. Ignoring them, Hereward felt his blood begin to pump. His men dropped into formation, their shields slotting into place. Spears nestled in the crooks of arms, tips pointed down ready to thrust at anyone who dared venture near the wall. At his command, the English marched over the crest, each step in perfect time so that the wall held solid.

Within moments, the rattle of their mail-shirts was drowned out by the thunder of the Immortals. Over the lip of his shield, Hereward watched the scouts turn tail as the fear of God descended on them.

The camp erupted. As one, warriors raced for weapons and shields and armour. When he saw that frantic movement, Hereward thought of a disturbed ants’ nest. He sensed Sighard tense beside him, as he took in those swarming numbers.

‘We are strong,’ Hereward said. ‘We are ready.’

The Immortals swept down towards the camp in two lines. They had the upper hand, for now, but the Mercian imagined how the attack must look to those rallying Norman warriors: a handful of English sheltering behind a shield wall, and an unkempt Roman force, few in number. He thought he could hear the laughter even above the rumble of the hooves.

Roussel’s army stormed out of the camp. The Athanatoi did not slow as they tore into the first wave. Swords hacked down. Horses reared up, their hooves like hammers. Warriors fell on every side. But the Normans were not fools. Only a madman would send a foot soldier against a mounted foe. Row upon row of bowmen nocked shafts and the air turned black with whining arrows. The Romans threw up their shields in time. The sound of bolts thumping into wood was like thunder. Some riders were unlucky or slow, the shafts skimming the edges of their shields and slamming into faces and chests. Horse after horse went down.

Tiberius’ cry rang out. The Athanatoi wheeled as one, storming back up the slope, ready for another turn. Bodies littered the edge of the camp, Normans and Romans both. The churned earth was already turning into a ruddy swamp.

Hereward blinked away the stinging sweat dripping from the edge of his helm. The Immortals were brave, of that there could be no doubt. But any man could see that this would soon turn into a slaughter. Even the high ground was not enough of an advantage.

‘I have seen worse,’ Guthrinc said at his side.

A few men laughed. Hereward grinned, but only for a moment. With a full-throated battle-cry, a horde stormed up the slope towards them, a great wave of steel poised to smash them into the ground. And at their head, the Mercian saw, was Drogo Vavasour. His face was contorted with righteous fury. Somehow he sensed that his hated enemy lurked behind that row of shields, and finally, after all the miles he had tracked across, he was determined to have his vengeance.

‘Now would be a good time,’ Guthrinc murmured as he eyed the wall of swords and axes hurtling towards them.

‘Aye, now,’ Hiroc muttered.

Hereward gritted his teeth. Had he wagered everything and lost?

But then Drogo and his men began to slow, and then stop. The Mercian grinned once more as he watched a shadow cross their faces. Their eyes looked up, over the shield wall and past the English.

Hengist begin to snicker. ‘Death comes for us, and then it comes for them,’ he sang in a reedy voice.

Drawing himself upright, Hereward glanced back up the slope. A roiling cloud rumbled along the length of the ridge.

The Turks had come.

THE WAVE OF
Seljuk warriors crashed down the slope towards Roussel de Bailleul’s camp. Like thunder booming overhead, a throat-rending battle-cry drowned out the din of war. Their cavalry rode as if hell was at their backs. Their bows were already in their hands, as if they had no need to guide their steeds. Snatching arrows from the quivers at their leather saddles, they nocked them. A black cloud of shafts whined down towards the rooted Norman army.

Over the ridge they swept, in a seemingly never-ending flood. The very ground seemed to shake. Swordsmen surged from the left and right flanks where they had been slowly building their might in the deep, hidden valleys.

Hereward watched, amazed. Never had he seen such numbers. This was not any army that he understood. There seemed to be no generals, no leaders of any kind, or perhaps there were a hundred separate leaders. But somehow this collection of disparate tribes came together as one.

His face twisting with fury, Drogo Vavasour lashed a hand in the air to drive his men back to the camp where there would, at least, be some safety in numbers. And not a moment too soon. The battle-serpents rained down. Arrows ripped through the ranks. A hundred Normans died in one moment, screaming. Swords slashed. Heads flew like ripe fruit at harvest time. The blades hacked into shoulders, tore across spines. The fleeing warriors went down, the Turks trampling them underfoot as their shrieks spiralled up in even greater intensity.

Hereward grinned. The Normans had been too confident. Their scouts had been watching for attacks from the front, from Constantinople, not from the flanks where they knew no Roman forces waited.