Lord of Slaughter (38 page)

In the aftermath of his murders it had seemed so easy to command the runes. Symbols was too weak a word for these beings. They were more than just the scribbles of the Norsemen. Were they truly demons in a strange form?

He tried a further symbol, willing it to obey. Othala – again the name in Norse. Were the runes trying to tell him something? He put his hand out, as if to touch the symbol, to use it as he had once used it to secure influence for his family and friends, to bring Styliane to the court and have her adopted by a rich family, to blind people to his sorceries and love of the old religion. It seemed to shy away from him.

He finally stopped the blood from his nose. More shouting, more sounds of torment out in the city. More deaths. He could not see what was causing them. He had performed the rite of divination, mixed dead man’s blood with myrrh and bay leaves to spread as a tincture on his eyes. He had said the words to command the goddess:

‘By the sound of the barking dog, I call on you.

By the hanged who are holy to you,

By those who have died in war,

By this blood, violently taken,

I call on you to grant me revelation.’

The runes inside him had moaned and shifted but nothing had come, no insight into the terrible events. Was this the end of the world? Was this Hecate’s victory over the realms of light?

The chamberlain called on one more rune, the one that burned like a single torch. It was shrouded now, as if seen through mist or the gritty black drizzle that had fallen since the comet had been seen. He tried to concentrate, to make it clearer, but he knew the symbols would not be commanded. They were things that appeared in dreams, in the moment between waking and sleeping, things of the threshold between the physical and the supernatural world. Or rather, they would be commanded, depending on the sacrifices he was willing to make. He remembered his mother’s words:
Nothing is won without effort
.

‘No.’

It was as if he spoke to the rune, answering a suggestion it had made. But the rune had made no suggestion, given no insight. The chamberlain spoke to himself.

He had thought he had raised Styliane up out of a sense of guilt, as a sign he was not entirely without pity or decent feeling. She was his sister and he felt guilty he had robbed her of any family but himself, and in the days when the magic in him had been easier to use, he had worked to help her.

He saw more. The magic had known what it needed. Shock. He was a man, a poor vessel for such powers. His castration had helped tie the magic to him, but the bonds that had been formed between him and the symbols in the blood light of the well needed renewing. He had let them wither, preferring the comfortable life to sacrifice.

He
had
sacrificed, of course – the black lambs and the goats and sheep his goddess demanded – but the magic could not be sustained by such meagre offerings. He knew what it wanted – pain, revulsion, a horror to shake the sanity from its everyday existence, to jettison the mind’s clutter and leave it free to understand the fundamental relations of the universe as expressed in the runes he had taken from the waters to plant in his head.

Something moved at the edge of his vision. He wheeled about, searching for it, but there was nothing there. He sensed a presence, though – bitter and angry. His dead sister. Was her spirit doing this? Could her anger enable her to break the bonds of death? She was a priestess of Hecate, goddess of the dead. She had died at the most holy place, where the three waters met. Had the goddess granted her the right to return? Was she sending the symbols mad inside him, loosening his control, letting them pull from him to kill and cause chaos in the city?

He sensed this to be true. He had gained control and insight once, power even. If he was to regain it, he needed a sacrifice equivalent to his first.

Styliane. He had kept her there, his one connection to a life of love, of tenderness and familial feeling. He had bound himself to the runes in the well once and done great things. He needed to be bound again.

Across the city lights flickered, buildings burned, people screamed. What had he unleashed? He mouthed the words of the dedication to Hecate.

Goddess of depths eternal
,

Goddess of darkness
,

Come to my sacrifices
.

I am burning for you some dreadful incense
–

Goat’s fat dappled, filth and blood
,

The heart of one untimely dead
.

Your greatest mystery, goddess

Who opens the bars to the lands of the dead
,

Who makes light useless and plunges the world

Into premature night
.

He’d thought the words were just an acknowledgement of the goddess’s power, not a description of something that might actually happen.

Again, a movement, a thickening of the air in his lungs.

‘You’re here, aren’t you, Elai? Sister?’ said the chamberlain out loud.

A dog howled in the distance.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘you need disturb yourself no more on my account.’ He dabbed the cloth against his nose.

‘I shall come to visit you,’ he said.

Far off on the walls, someone cried out in anguish. He heard distant voices, the screams of battle. Just visible, a mass of torches streamed through one of the lower gates – not the one that burned. Norsemen.

He guessed what had happened. Death in the streets, civil disorder, the incident with the wolfman. It had all become too much for the emperor. Reports had reached him in the east. He had sent his seal and ordered a gate opened to allow the Varangians to do as they had requested – replace the Hetaereian guard. That would not be accomplished without a fight.

It was a move against him. Basileios had trusted the chamberlain with everything, freeing himself up for his campaigns, but if the chamberlain could not keep order or subdue the magic assaulting the city then he would destroy his power by removing his loyal Hetaereia and replacing them with foreigners. It would have been obvious to the chamberlain had he not been so preoccupied with magic. The threat spurred him to action.

‘Get me messengers here now,’ he said to his servant, ‘and send in the new master of post.’ The servant left the room, leaving the chamberlain alone. He put his head into his hands and said, into nothing, ‘This is not the end time. I will endure. Whatever it takes, I will endure.’

38
Revelation

The dark again and the damp again and the sounds of torment and the stink of men rotting alive in their shackles.

The Numera had multiplied its horrors since Loys last visited. The messenger service had filled the prison with anyone at all who was suspected of sorcery, anyone who had ever had a seditious thought and anyone with whom they had a score to settle, which was a multitude.

So many had been crammed in they had run out of manacles, and on the bottom level men had even ventured – or blundered – into the lower caves in search of space to uncoil their cramped limbs. They did not go far down. The tunnels were too tight, too jagged and dark for anyone to risk going into them without a light, a rope and pegs to mark the way out.

Loys and the Varangians had to shove, push, bully and threaten their way to the caves. Vandrad and his fellows cracked a few heads, and though the prisoners vastly outnumbered the northerners, no one attacked them. These men, thought Loys, had lost their will. The party pressed through the last of the prisoners and clambered up a rockfall. From here it was a belly crawl into the bigger caverns beyond, Loys knew.

‘You can’t keep people like this,’ said Vandrad. ‘Kill them as a man kills his enemies or let them go. There can be no glory in this death.’

Loys knew the messenger service wasn’t seeking glory. They wanted power, to terrify their enemies.

‘It’s a sacrifice,’ said Loys, ‘made by fear to fear.’

‘I know that I hung on that wind-racked tree, pledged to Odin, myself to myself,’ said Vandrad.

‘I was talking about human evil, not your pagan idol,’ said Loys.

‘Odin is human evil. Odin is fear,’ said another Varangian, ‘and he sacrificed himself to himself as your god Christ did.’

Loys couldn’t be bothered to argue with the man. He was too keen to get into the tunnels and away from the mob of dying men at his back.

‘Let’s press on,’ said Loys. ‘I want this wolfman taken alive.’

‘Might not be possible,’ said Mauger.

‘I pay double for a living wildman,’ said Loys.

‘You mean you will show me the fountains of the palace twice?’ said Mauger.

Loys almost laughed. He had forgotten that Ragnar – as he knew the northerner – was alone in not working for pay.

‘If you catch him I’ll bath you myself in one,’ said Loys.

Loys led the way, holding the lamp before him. He knew it was important to appear brave to the northerners. The first section was incredibly tight and he had to wriggle his way in. He was glad he had employed smaller men.

He emerged on top of another pile of rubble, looking out on the broad cave where Azémar had taken on the messengers. Things had moved so quickly since then he hardly had time to think about how strange it was that his friend had struck down so many enemies after his long ordeal. Perhaps Azémar feared being sent back to the prison. Men could fight like wolves when they were afraid, Loys had often heard it said.

Loys’ mouth was already dry with dust as he lowered himself onto the cavern floor. He took up his lamp. The bodies of the Greeks Azémar had killed were still there. He tried not to look at them.

Vandrad came bumping down and then the rest behind him. Six men now in the cave. Loys couldn’t help thinking eight men had already died in there, to his knowledge. Never mind, he had to go on. The wolfman had the answers he wanted, Loys was sure.

Here the passage was tall enough for them to walk without stooping. They went on, their progress somewhat hampered by the uneven floor, but in the next cavern great slabs of rock protruded precariously from the ceiling. Loys and his men had to sidle around them. No one dared touch them for fear of triggering a collapse. The way was obvious at first, but as they descended other possible routes emerged. A black crack in the floor made Mauger pause and wet his finger to detect the movement of air. Another fissure, halfway up a wall, bore signs of dried blood just inside it. Mauger again licked his finger but this time rubbed it on the rock and tasted it. He climbed a little way up inside but came back to report the route was blocked by a decayed corpse. No one had been up there in years.

They went further down the biggest tunnel until a rockfall barred their progress. ‘What now?’ said Loys. ‘There were other tunnels – should we try them?’

Mauger glanced at him to silence him. The northerner spent a long time padding about on the rocks. Then he climbed the rockfall and began clawing away rocks at the top.

‘Careful,’ said Vandrad. ‘You don’t want this down on us.’

‘No chance of that,’ said Mauger. ‘These rocks are loose.’

After some time only Mauger’s feet were visible, and he had to wriggle to pass out the rocks he was removing. Then his feet disappeared.

‘Pass me through a lamp,’ said his voice.

Loys climbed up with a lamp and squeezed in himself. Mauger took the lamp and Loys crawled through. He was in a cavern quite unlike the ones above. This was damp, the walls shiny with moisture. The floor was more even too, with fewer loose rocks, and smooth, the rock rippled in layers as if it had lain on the bed of a river.

The Vikings came through to join them.

‘Those men above would dearly love to know this place existed,’ said Vandrad. ‘You could live licking the water off these walls.’

‘It would be impossible to find in the dark,’ said Mauger.

‘How did you know the rocks were loose?’ said Loys.

‘I didn’t know,’ said Mauger; ‘they just looked wrong. The ones that had fallen lay differently. The ones on top had been placed there.’

‘Someone’s trying to cover his trail,’ said a Varangian.

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Mauger. ‘Nothing makes a man easier to follow.’

‘I’ll leave a mark on the rock to help us on our return,’ said Vandrad. He scratched at the wall with his knife.

‘What’s that?’ said Loys.

‘Thor’s hammer.’

‘You don’t need a sky god down here,’ said Mauger. ‘Best call on Odin – he finds people’s way in the dark.’

Loys glanced at the Norseman. He wore a rough wooden cross at his neck but here, underground, in the old dark earth, he reverted to his heathen ways.

‘Then Odin,’ said Vandrad. He carved a strange symbol of three interlocking triangles on the wall. Loys was too concerned to get in and out of the tunnels to reproach him for his idolatry, but the symbol sparked his scholar’s curiosity, despite his unease.