The Red Oath Read online

  He rushed forward, leading the crew of bloodthirsty Byzantines against Arabs who had set their own heavy spears against them.

  2

  The deck of the Byzantine ship rippled beneath Yngvar’s feet. He thought it might also snap in half like the Arab ship they had just rammed. But it was a fleeting thought, left behind like all the Byzantines who were still drawing swords or gathering spears. Yngvar would always be the first to battle. Sailors on both sides of the interlocked ships cried out in hatred across the gap.

  The gods watched him and would favor him. But if he faltered, if he doubted his sword, feared his enemy, or acted a coward, the gods would send a spear through his guts and make him a feast for the sharks waiting beneath the waves.

  Salt air filled his lungs as he shouted. He sprang from the deck across the short gap separating the two ships. A line of shocked Arab sailors stared dejectedly past him. Only when he landed among them did they rouse to the danger.

  He kicked one in his face, sending him back into the deck with his nose flattened. He needed space to board. His sword flickered to the left and hacked off the top of an Arab’s head. The blade skidded across the skull and its deflection nearly sent Yngvar off balance.

  But the Arab screamed and left the gap Yngvar needed for others to follow. He slipped off the rails onto the enemy deck.

  The Arab ship was breaking apart. Sailors who knew they were defeated were leaping off the port side. Whether they could swim or some other vessel waited below, Yngvar did not know. He was saddened to see Arab heads fleeing his blade. The battle madness was upon him now and he ranged against four men who did not seem ready to fight.

  Alasdair landed beside him, his sword too long for his short frame. Yet his arms were stronger than they seemed and his battle powers a match to any larger man’s. Out of instinct Yngvar moved to lock his shield against Alasdair’s, though neither carried one.

  “First to the fight,” Yngvar said.

  “And a sinking ship,” Alasdair added.

  The Arabs found their will, it seemed, or else realized they had missed their chance to flee into the uncaring sea. They lowered their spears and swords then charged.

  Yngvar sorely wished for a shield. Bluster could only cover so much. Now he faced real foes pressing from all sides, which he could not defend against as he had hoped.

  Then the ship shifted and an enormous crack splintered the decking up between him and the Arabs. Both sides fell away from each other.

  The ship was breaking apart. The Byzantines who had followed his boarding were now hauling their captives or spoils back across the gap.

  “Lord, the stern is—”

  Alasdair did not finish his warning before a brutal groan split the air. The stern clipped off and tipped into the water.

  The jolt flattened Yngvar against the deck. He felt as if he were being pulled toward the Arabs. Then he realized his section of the ship was turning and sinking as well.

  He raised himself with his sword, grabbed Alasdair, then ran for the widening gap. He was not alone. Arabs sought to leap ahead of him, apparently preferring slavery or execution over drowning.

  Yngvar stabbed an Arab through his back, plucking him out of the way. He shoved Alasdair into the gap.

  “Jump,” he shouted. “And I will follow.”

  Alasdair gave him a pale-faced glance, but turned to the widening gap then leapt.

  The stern plunged beneath the surface and sent waves slamming against the remnant Yngvar stood upon. It also began to tilt and Yngvar felt a pull backward. He found himself rising into the air, balanced on the shattered edge. Arabs leapt screaming but fell short, plunging into dark waters that eagerly drank the ship and its sailors.

  Yngvar steadied himself and searched for his spot on the Byzantine deck. Alasdair had cleared a place for him, shouting over the din of screaming men, cries of victory, and the slosh of violent waves.

  “Take this,” he shouted, throwing his sword across first. Alasdair caught it, but exasperation was clear on his face.

  Such a heavy blade would hinder his jump. The ship again jerked, but Yngvar had already launched himself. As he leapt into the air, he felt as if the gods held him in their hands. He was flush with victory. His Wolves would rejoin him and together they would rule the seas. He had no doubt of his landing.

  Both feet slammed against the deck. He stumbled forward into Alasdair and other crewmen. They shoved him back with curses.

  Behind him the final groan of the sinking ship overwhelmed all other sound. The Byzantine ship rocked with the violence of its demise. Yngvar turned to face the hiss and bubbles as the prow slipped into the green sea. One-Eye and his crew raised their fists and cheered. The Arab captives knelt on the deck, their dark hair and beards hiding their shamed faces. Their companions in the water shrieked for help that would never arrive. One-Eye was content to let them drown or face the monsters of the deep sea.

  “Now that made a good day’s work,” One-Eye shouted. “And the others have fled. Cowards.”

  Yngvar tore his eyes from the bubbling pools that marked where the halves of the Arab ship had sunk. Across the sparkling distance he saw the other Arab ship had turned west toward Licata. Yngvar’s ship had beached beneath Pozzallo’s tower. The tower ballista pointed at it.

  “The Arabs were wise to quit,” Yngvar said. “That ballista would break them as easily as ramming them.”

  “Only a perfect shot would,” One-Eye said. He wove among his crew and their prisoners to join Yngvar. His sword remained in hand, but had not been blooded. The fight had been too swift. “Not like that Norse ship. That’d be splinters no matter where a bolt struck.”

  “Take me to that ship,” Yngvar said. He grabbed One-Eye by his arm, perhaps harder than he should have. For the captain glared at him and pulled out of his grip.

  “Friends of yours?”

  The question was in jest, but Yngvar nodded his head. One-Eye stared at him, then gave his orders.

  “You will like these men,” he said, clapping One-Eye’s shoulder. “They hate Prince Kalim as much as you do.”

  One-Eye laughed as he shoved his men to their duties. The captives were bound and forced into two small groups separated into both prow and stern.

  Yngvar and Alasdair stood with the group in the prow, ostensibly guarding them but instead both focusing across the rolling green sea to the shore. The drummer beat an easy cadence for the tired sailors. Yngvar leaned against the rails as if he could push the ship to the shore.

  “How is it they all survived?” Alasdair asked. “It can be by God’s will alone.”

  “God or gods, it is all Fate. It was not our time to die when the Byzantines sank that slaver ship. None of us shall die until Fate has decided. Not even your god can defy this.”

  Alasdair shrugged. Ever since the debacle on that cursed island where Yngvar had found treasure and madness, Alasdair had been more forceful about his religion. Yngvar tolerated it, for he had nearly killed Alasdair in his lust for gold. Yet he would not credit the Christian god a miracle. That all the Wolves were waiting on the beach for him was a victory of the old gods.

  When One-Eye got as close to shore as his ship would allow, he dropped anchor. The crew began to lower rowboats over the high sides.

  “Come,” Yngvar said to Alasdair. “Let’s get our own boat. I don’t need these people interfering with our reunion.”

  The ship had three small rowboats prepared. With the unwitting assistance of another crewman, he and Alasdair got it over the side and lowered it into the water. Alasdair dropped down first, then Yngvar. They began to shove away from the hull while the other crewman turned to summon others to the newly lowered boat.

  They had already rowed far enough away that no other could join them. One-Eye and a handful of other crew leaned over the side and shouted down.

  “Hold on!” One-Eye commanded. “You can’t go alone!”

  “Only need two men to row. Come find me on the shore,” Yngvar ca
lled back. He smiled to Alasdair and both bent their shoulders to the task. One-Eye shouted impotently as they rocked over the waves.

  “I can see them, lord. Thorfast’s hair has grown back.”

  “And Bjorn is a giant,” Yngvar added, squinting toward the shore. “But I’m not sure about the rest.”

  The crew had assembled a shield wall on the beach. Though within bow range of Pozzallo’s walls, they did not flinch. Nor had the Byzantines shot at them, for they had to conserve their dwindling supplies for real enemies. But Thorfast and the rest would not know it.

  Once the rowboat gained the shallows, Yngvar’s pulse raced and he grew faint with anticipation. Alasdair leapt out of the ship to drag it ashore while Yngvar continued to row it to the beach. At last it thumped into the mud and settled in the low tide waves washing the beach.

  “It is me!” he shouted, standing up in the boat. He threw his arms wide overhead, waving his hands for attention.

  Alasdair stumbled out of the surf ahead of Yngvar, doubled over to rest his hands on his knees, then looked up toward the shield wall.

  The block of warriors had formed into three short ranks with Bjorn at the center. He was tall enough to be the standard everyone stood beneath. They had positioned themselves in the grass, up from their beached ship but close enough to move to defend. Yngvar would have set them in the same place.

  “Are you fools blind?” he shouted as he slogged through the warm water behind Alasdair. He jumped into the air.

  “Thorfast! Bjorn!”

  At first there was no reaction from the drab block of warriors. They were ready for any outcome.

  Yngvar stopped and stared.

  “Our swords,” he said. He patted his side, gripped the leather-wrapped handle, then drew it. Alasdair did the same with his longsword. The iron weapons hummed and sparkled in the sun.

  Bjorn howled. His throaty roar spread over the beach, overwhelming the purr of the waves behind him. He raised his ax his overhead and pumped it. Beside him, Thorfast thrust his sword into the air.

  Then he and Alasdair ran toward the shield wall.

  Bjorn and Thorfast broke from the ranks, charging them as well.

  Both sides were screaming.

  Yngvar’s heart bounced against his throat.

  His dearest companions came into clear sight. Yet his eyes were blind with tears, turning everything into a blur.

  They all dropped their weapons into the grass, then crashed together.

  He grabbed Thorfast first, a friend since childhood. They clamped together tight as lovers in a winter storm. He tried to speak, but could only choke and sob. Thorfast, who was so talented with words, did likewise.

  They danced around, slapping each other’s backs. Then Yngvar bumped into Bjorn. He looked up into his cousin’s scarred, one-eyed face. It was flushed red and streaked with tears. He tore free of Thorfast and grabbed his cousin close. Alasdair in turn embraced Thorfast.

  “Gods, cousin,” Bjorn managed to choke out. “I never thought to see us together in this world again.”

  “It is Fate,” Yngvar said. He crushed the giant man to him. He smelled of sour sweat and salt air. But never a finer scent filled Yngvar’s nose. Bjorn had been raised in Yngvar’s hall as a brother to him. This was the scent of hearth and family.

  They blubbered around in a circle, laughing and crying like children. At last, Gyna had hobbled out of the ranks. Her appearance dampened Yngvar’s celebration. Even though she smiled, her face seemed soft and puffy as if she had only recently recovered from a beating. She seemed to favor her left side. But worse still was the cast of her eyes. She was happy and tears flowed. But to Yngvar, she seemed different, as if her eyes had seen beyond what they could endure.

  “I warned Nordbert you’d all act like babies,” she said. “Now one of you needs to stop crying long enough to deal with them.”

  Gyna nodded toward the fortress. Yngvar stepped back from his friends and turned.

  The soldiers that had been recently drilling in the fortress had now assembled into a column. They were already dressed for war. Their lamellar armor gleamed and their red tunics caught the brilliance of the morning sun. They shouldered heavy spears and rectangular shields adorned with painted eagles.

  “An impressive sight,” Thorfast said. “I heard you are one of them now?”

  Yngvar gave Thorfast a sharp glance. “You’ve heard about me?”

  “There are too many stories to tell,” he said. “For now, please tell me you can deal with them. For more are coming ashore.”

  Yngvar looked toward the beach. One-Eye had only two rowboats, but he had packed both with enough men to nearly swamp them.

  “I can handle this,” he said. “Just make sure the others don’t act rashly. Does anyone speak Greek?”

  Thorfast snorted. “We’ve all been consumed with other matters than learning the language. Mostly we’ve been happy to remain alive with all our limbs attached.”

  “Well, then, I’m going to introduce you as friends. Just don’t act threatening.” Yngvar felt heat on his face. He tapped Alasdair and they both went to meet the column.

  “Looks like sixty men,” Alasdair said. “That’s half the fortress’s fighting strength.”

  “They take no chances,” Yngvar said. Once within a spear’s throw from the column, he saw Commander Staurakius leading it. He wore a plain white tunic and had only strapped on a short sword. He stood tall and thin, but radiated his authority. No one could mistake him for less than the leader of the warriors following him.

  Yngvar hailed his lord, who raised a hand to stop the column.

  “Lord,” he said, putting his fist to his chest in the salute he had been taught. The Byzantines placed great stock in these displays. Commander Staurakius inclined his head, granting permission for Yngvar to continue. He glanced hopefully at Alasdair, whose clear and smooth face seemed to glow with the golden morning sun.

  “Lord,” he repeated. His voice wavered. A ship of Norsemen was hardly a welcome sight anywhere. “These men, they are my men. My brothers have sailed here through dangers I cannot imagine. I promise you, they come in peace.”

  Staurakius squinted toward the ship and bent his mouth.

  Yngvar was tempted to look behind but knew better. Byzantine leaders demanded their lessers’ full attention at all times. So he stood still while the muscles along the commander’s thin jaw tensed. At last he spoke, his voice rich and authoritative.

  “You invoked my name and opened my gates then commandeered a ship, probably using my name again?”

  “What does that mean, lord?”

  “You took a ship without permission. You used my name to open the gates. And now I have a ratty band of Norsemen standing under my walls.” The commander’s dark eyes fixed him with a fierceness that might have quailed other men.

  “Ah, Commander Staurakius, they will look much better after a bath.”

  Staurakius’s lips tightened into a thin smile. “Now you are going to pretend you don’t understand me, when I know how well you’ve learned proper speech.”

  Yngvar bowed low. He had been so taken with the arrival of his friends and so at ease with One-Eye’s acceptance of the situation, he hadn’t planned to explain himself. He needed a moment to gather his wits.

  “But you did sink one of Kalim’s ships. We nearly got the other, but gave her something to think about on her journey home.” Staurakius’s voice grew lighter as he spoke, though Yngvar remained bowed. “You say these are your men. You would stake your life to their good conduct?”

  “Without hesitation,” Yngvar said. He straightened again, and glanced at Alasdair. He smiled with the patience of one who only generally understood the conversation.

  “Their ship has been damaged,” Staurakius said. “You know how pressed we are. I cannot offer repairs. But if your crew will behave, they can do what they may. If they prove themselves trustworthy, they can even bring the ship into dry dock to work on it. For now, they may ca
mp outside the walls. I will meet with representatives from their crew to discuss what arrangements we can make. I need replacements for the men we lost this summer.”

  Staurakius’s eyes suddenly flashed. Yngvar caught him resisting a turn to his own men. Looking at the soldiers nearest them, he saw their grave expressions. Staurakius cleared his throat and continued, raising his voice.

  “Of course we can expect resupply and new recruits soon. We will not be left under-strength for long. But these Norsemen might be useful if Kalim decides to get adventurous in the meantime.”

  “Of course,” Yngvar agreed. “They will serve you as faithfully as I have.”

  It seemed this would conclude the matter and Yngvar awaited dismissal. Yet even as Staurakius seemed about to wave him off, one of his leaders cleared his throat and spoke up.

  “Sir, is that all? The barbarian used your authority without your permission.”

  Staurakius paused and looked darkly at Yngvar.

  “I will address that later,” he said. “Do not concern yourself further, lochaghos.”

  Yngvar stared past the commander to the lochaghos. He was one of the so-called file leaders who commanded sixteen of his own men. Everyone in this Byzantine army seemed to be in command of someone, no matter how few. This file leader had made a fresh enemy out of Yngvar.

  “Sir, if I may,” the file leader continued. “It’s not just that. But that ship. I’ve seen it before. It’s the Norse ship that attacked us earlier this year.”

  3

  The commander’s war room was filled with shadowy light despite the bright day outside. Brass lamps shined orange over hide maps that showed Pozzallo and the surrounding area. Stones of various colors sat at certain points along this map. Yngvar had never seen the world as a drawing before serving with the commander. Though by now he had seen this map scores of times, even under such stressful conditions he still found his eyes tracing the markings that showed the coast. He heard the commander possessed even more of these maps showing other places. Such drawings might be useful to Yngvar’s future.