Hereward 05 - The Immortals (35 page)

‘Now is our time, brothers!’ the Mercian yelled. ‘Never has the risk been greater, so keep your wits about you and that fire in your chests. But never has their been a chance for greater glory!’

The shield wall began to grind forward as the Seljuks flowed around it. Ahead, the camp descended into mayhem. Those hardened Normans, some of the fiercest fighting men in the world, scurried like rabbits in all directions, overwhelmed by the immensity of the force railed against them. Fear had been driven into their hearts.

A familiar battle-cry rang out – ‘Blood and glory!’ – and all the English heads snapped to the right. Grins leapt to lips. A cheer echoed. On the edge of the Turks raced Kraki, a new axe in his grasp. Black coals shone from the eyelets of his helm. His mouth was torn wide in an O of battle-lust. Beside him ran a Turk, laughing like a madman, as if he had never found such joy in his life. This could only be Suleiman, the commander of the band that had taken Kraki captive. The plan was working better than Hereward had ever dreamed it could when he and Kraki had been hatching it in that swaying boat washing back towards Constantinople. Only a bold move could provide any hope – and that was what he and Kraki had offered to Nikephoritzes: an alliance with the Turks. Hereward had feared that the cure might be worse than the disease, but that was a matter for the Romans. And when Emperor Michael had enthusiastically agreed to the plan, there was no going back.

Hereward stared over the lip of his shield, frowning. Already the Norman ranks were coming together in some order. Roussel de Bailleul was too experienced a war-leader to let his men dissolve into chaos. Over the heads of the swarming Turks the Mercian glimpsed the warlord raging along the edge of the camp, bellowing orders.

At his command, the archers turned their bows upon this new foe. Another cloud of shafts shrieked across the blue sky. Screams rang out as the arrows thumped into the marauding Seljuks by the dozen.

Hereward half glimpsed Tiberius leading the Immortals back down the slope to defend the flanks of the Turks, an unlikely alliance that he never thought he would live to see. But then his spear-brothers pressed the shield wall into the edge of the camp, and they were swallowed by the maelstrom of battling bodies. The sky itself seemed to darken. Friend and foe crashed against the shields and rolled away. The Mercian’s ears ached from the screams of the dying and the roars of the victorious, and the butcher’s yard sound of iron meeting flesh.

‘Onwards,’ he cried. ‘Let nothing slow us.’

Now everything depended upon cutting a swathe into the very heart of their enemy.

As the shield wall pushed on, Hereward glimpsed Kraki in the thick of battle. The Viking was glowering – war was a serious business. His axe hooked the side of one man. Wrenching it free, Kraki swung it into the face of another. Both went down in a red mist.

The Turks were doing their work well, as had been agreed when Kraki had ridden into the lonely hills for his council with Suleiman. They were fierce fighters, seemingly unafraid as they hurled themselves in wave after wave at Roussel’s lines.

On the edge of the camp, Hereward spotted a weakening of the Norman line. He felt his heart beat faster. That was all they needed. In the sweltering heat behind the shields, he hissed his command. The wall drove towards the place where he could see clear blue sky between the churning bodies. Every foot kept in time with the beat of Hiroc’s barked ‘Hi-ho, hi-ho’.

The Normans turned on them as they rammed their shields into the line, trying to break through. An axe crashed against Sighard’s shield. Wood splintered. A sword glanced off Guthrinc’s helm, raising sparks.

Thrusting with his spear, the Mercian ripped at the legs of the warrior in front of him. As the man went down, howling in pain, Sighard stabbed, then Guthrinc. The iron tips struck like serpents and retreated just as quickly. Back the Normans were driven, and back. But still they fought, their axes raining down like a smith’s hammers upon the shields. Hereward knew they would not be able to take such punishment for much longer.

‘To the English!’ The voice boomed out even above the deafening tumult.

Through the gap in the shields, Hereward glimpsed Suleiman ripping open faces and necks and chests with each arc of his sword. Still laughing, the Turkish commander locked eyes with Hereward and seemed pleased by what he saw. Raising his left arm, he snapped it towards the Norman line. Whooping and howling, his men leapt and danced on each side of the shield wall. Within moments, the spear-brothers’ fierce allies had opened up the Norman defences.

‘Now!’ Hereward bellowed.

The shield wall smashed through into the camp. Once they were among the tents, the English broke ranks, scattering in all directions. One shaven-headed Norman bore down on Sighard. Sweat flying from his red hair, the young warrior whirled and rammed his spear under his foe’s chin, deep into the skull. Without a second thought, he tore his weapon free and raced on.

Guthrinc jabbed his own spear into the chest of another roaming foe, oblivious of a black-bearded warrior racing to stab his sword into his unprotected back. But as the Norman neared his prey, Derman rose up as if from nowhere. His knife whisked once, twice, and Roussel’s man fell away, clutching at the crimson shower gushing from his throat.

Into the camp they ran. Every spear-brother knew what was expected of him. Weaving among the billowing tents, the Mercian found himself in surprising peace at the heart of the furious battle rolling around the perimeter. No enemy had followed them, and the spear-brothers could tear open the canvas flaps and peer into the tents unchallenged.

When a piercing whistle rang out, Hereward grinned. Sprinting in the direction of the sound, he found the rest of the English converging on a large amber tent. Herrig stood at the doorway, sweeping an arm to usher his leader inside.

Hereward tore open the flaps and stormed into the sultry interior. In the far corner John Doukas cowered, one arm thrown over his face. The English crowded into the entrance, grinning that they had found their prize. Striding across the tent, the Mercian levelled his blade at the Caesar.

‘Where is your courage now, dog?’ he growled. His thoughts burned with the memory of the Roman’s arrogant expression as he prepared to betray them to Roussel de Bailleul in the palace at Amaseia.

‘The Norman bastard forced me to denounce my emperor,’ the Caesar whined, his voice cracking. ‘Under threat of my life, he made me proclaim myself emperor, but I would never—’

‘Still your lying tongue,’ Hereward snarled, ‘or I will cut it out. I only have to drag you back to Constantinople to face justice. It matters little if all the pieces are there.’

The Caesar worked his mouth silently, like a codfish. He could see this was no idle threat. Hereward flicked the tip of his sword up and the Roman jumped to his feet.

‘I have gold,’ John Doukas said. ‘Once we are out of this camp, set me free and you will be well rewarded.’

‘The emperor has more gold, and he will want to speak to you at length about this business.’

Dipping his head, the Caesar allowed himself to be herded out of the tent with the tip of the Mercian’s sword twitching at the nape of his neck. Once outside, he ground to a halt. A row of Norman warriors waited. Blinking into the hot sun, Hereward looked into the eyes of Drogo Vavasour. Bewildered, John Doukas glanced along the row, unsure with whom to side.

‘I thought I glimpsed you skulking into the camp like a whipped dog,’ Drogo spat. He levelled his sword at the Mercian. ‘Now my brother will be avenged.’

Grabbing the Caesar by the shoulder, Hereward thrust him into Guthrinc’s hands. ‘Get him away from here,’ he whispered.

The Norman commander seemed to care little about the man who had been proclaimed emperor. That was good, Hereward thought. As he listened to Guthrinc dragging the Caesar away, he raised his own sword, ready to buy his friend time.

His men needed no order. As one, they rushed their enemies, spears thrusting. Drogo’s men broke line, using their shields to bat away the iron tips so that they could lash out with their axes. The dance rolled out among the tents.

Hereward locked eyes with Vavasour. The Norman had hungered for this moment for years. He would not back down.

‘You have left a trail of misery in your miserable life,’ Drogo said. ‘It must end now.’

‘I am wiser now than the man who took your brother’s head,’ the Mercian replied, ‘but still I would do it again. Good English folk suffered his torments. He deserved his punishment.’

Vavasour gritted his teeth, his anger burning hot. Lowering his shoulders, he narrowed his eyes and prepared to attack.

‘But you would do well to learn a lesson here,’ Hereward continued. ‘Every man is the sum total of his days gone by. They shape us for better or worse. But do not let them live on in your heart, or they will poison you.’

Drogo spat. Barely had the mouthful of phlegm hit the dust than he lunged. Hereward was ready for him. Whipping up his sword, he parried the strike. A trail of sparks glittered.

A blood-lust seemed to descend upon Vavasour and he thundered in, swinging his sword to Hereward’s neck, then low, to his side. Putting his shoulder behind his shield, the Mercian felt the storm of blows jolt deep into his bones. Even in the midst of his fury, Drogo’s skill as a swordsman was clear.

‘Once I have slain you here, and pissed on your leaking body, I will hunt down your men and slaughter them one by one,’ the Norman barked. ‘And thus will all see the true legacy of Hereward of the English – death to everyone who crossed his path.’

The Mercian felt the flames of anger rise. His father was dead, his brother gone too. He had no personal hatred for Drogo, but he would not let days long gone claim him any more. Days yet to come were his for the taking.

His eyes narrowing as if he could sense his enemy’s thoughts, Vavasour hacked down from the right as if he were felling an oak. Hereward easily blocked the stroke with his shield. He felt the throb of blood in his head turn to whispers, and without any doubt in his mind he summoned his devil. For too long it had been his enemy. Now he knew he had to make it friend. Hungry, it rushed into him, possessing him even as his vision closed in and all sounds of battle ebbed away. He saw a shadow cross Drogo’s face as he sensed what was coming. Perhaps it was fear. Hereward did not care.

He would not be thwarted again.

Wrath powered his arm. Brainbiter became a blur, the gold hilt shimmering in the hot sun.

The world turned red.

THE HEAD SWUNG
on a strip of skin. Though the eyes rolled up white, the body lurched around on drunken legs as if it refused to believe that it was dead. Glistening rubies trailing from his axe, Kraki whirled, ready for his next foe. But there was none.

For a moment he wavered, getting his bearings. Gradually the fog of battle began to lift. He had been lost in a frenzy of hacking and slicing for what seemed like an age. His right arm felt as heavy as one of the bibles the monks laboured over at Eoferwic. Every joint burned.

Looking down, he saw he was standing on a mound of bodies in the centre of a red bog, steaming in the midday heat. More corpses littered the ground from the edge of the camp to where the Turks howled as they routed the remnants of Roussel de Bailleul’s army. Shielding his eyes against the glare, he watched a stream of horses sweep across the grassland towards the horizon. The Athanatoi were hounding those enemies who had already chosen to flee rather than face the judgement of the Seljuks.

‘Ah, you make me weary, my friend.’ The deep, honeyed voice, laced with humour, dragged his attention from the scene of carnage. ‘Breathe deep. Enjoy the sun on your face.’

Suleiman sat on the grass, his sticky sword across his knees. A gash on his forehead trickled blood and his hair was matted, but he showed his white teeth in a broad grin.

With the back of his hand, Kraki wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes. ‘I will rest when the battle is won.’

‘You have done all you can, and more. To fight alongside you as a brother has made my heart sing. So much fire in your heart! Why, there must be Turkish blood flowing in your veins.’ Suleiman looked across the battlefield and his brow furrowed. ‘We have lost many good men this day. The Normans fought as hard as I feared. But the rewards are great, perhaps greater than I ever could have imagined,’ he added, his voice brightening. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them, anticipating what was to come.

‘For the emperor, there was much at stake. He would have paid any price to see Roussel de Bailleul defeated.’

‘I am happy with my lot, my friend. I will not be greedy.’ Closing his eyes, Suleiman turned his face to the sun. ‘Only one thing remains, and then our work here is done.’

As Kraki rested on his axe, catching his breath, he glimpsed fighting among the tents. Squinting, he realized he was watching the English crushing a group of men who had been pursuing them. Heaving with all his might, Guthrinc lifted a wriggling foe up on the end of his spear. Sighard rammed his own weapon through another chest. But as he looked on, he realized Hereward was nowhere to be seen. His chest tightened and he began to fear the worst.

Racing into the camp, he found Guthrinc prodding his spear at the Caesar to urge him to walk towards the last line of tents. With a frown and a shake of his head, the English oak pointed back the way they had come. Kraki spat an epithet and ran on. Finally, the Viking felt a rush of relief as he caught sight of the Mercian standing at the entrance to a tent. Red, he was, slaked in blood from head to toe. His sword hung limply at his side.

Kraki slowed his step. As if in a dream, Hereward stood unmoving, staring at a crimson mass at his feet. Only when he neared did Kraki realize it had once been a man. Worried, the Viking peered into the Mercian’s eyes, wondering if he would see the bleak stare that often haunted him after such slaughter. But for once, Hereward seemed at peace.

‘The battle is all but over,’ Kraki ventured, ‘and we have won.’