The hawk-faced man loomed closer to his prey.
Hereward bellowed again, and this time Vadir heard. As he spun round he swung his axe to deflect Hoibrict’s thrust with ease. Faced by the towering warrior, the nobleman recoiled in shock. For a moment, the Fleming hovered, unsure. His eyes flickered between Vadir and his approaching rival.
‘Seek your revenge face to face like a man,’ Hereward yelled.
Hoibrict turned and ran. A moment later another man joined him, the two of them bounding like rabbits towards the village.
‘That bastard.’ Hereward glanced around at the dying battle. ‘Something stinks here even worse than you.’
‘Then let us ask what it is… with the help of your sword and my axe.’ Vadir laughed loudly, whisking his weapon in the direction of the fleeing men.
Leaving the clash behind, Hereward and Vadir raced across the ramparts. As they skidded down the final slope to the edge of the houses, the two warriors could hear running feet ahead.
‘The coward tries to hide.’ The big man stooped to peer between the buildings. ‘You take that side, and I’ll go this way. Between us, we’ll surprise him.’
Hereward nodded, pressing one finger to his lips. He kept low as he edged past a barn and a plot where herbs grew. He felt a simmering anger at Hoibrict’s cowardice. The Fleming betrayed his knightly status and shamed his own bloodline. Better to die under a hundred axes than to flee honest combat. On the other side of the village, the dog began barking again. The nobleman had revealed his position and it would cost him dearly, Hereward thought with contempt. He sprinted silently past one house and to the lee of the next one, keeping one eye open for the man who had accompanied Hoibrict.
When he passed the third house, a shout rang out, and another — Vadir, he was sure. The clang of iron upon iron resounded across the rooftops.
Hereward ran. His friend must not have all the fun.
Following the hound’s barking, he charged on to a green next to the church. Hoibrict waited there with the second man, who had drawn an arrow from a pouch on his back. This time the Flemish nobleman was grinning as he unsheathed his sword. A poor trap, Hereward thought, already searching for cover from the arrows. It was then that he saw Vadir. Beyond the church, on the edge of the village, his friend lay on the turf, blood seeping from gaping wounds on his arms and neck. Hereward felt his thoughts burn slow as he struggled to comprehend the scene and the identity of the man standing over his fallen friend.
Harald Redteeth.
As the Viking raised his axe over his head for the killing blow, he began to sing a jaunty song. He paused when his weapon reached its highest point and grinned at Hereward. The Mercian could almost read his enemy’s thoughts. I have travelled across land and sea with only the heat of my yearning to drive my legs on. I have hunted through wild woods and empty grassland, past rushing rivers and in the reeking depths of towns to find your trail. And now that I have found you I will take my revenge — by stealing the life of your friend as you took the lives of my men. By driving guilt into your heart as you brought shame to mine.
Guilt, Hereward thought, because he had let down Vadir: he couldn’t reach his friend in time to prevent the fall of the axe.
If only he had realized the lengths Harald Redteeth would go to achieve his vengeance. If only he had watched the path behind him instead of the road ahead. If only he had killed his enemy outright when he had the chance.
Hereward refused to submit to this destiny. He hurled himself at the archer with a roar. The man loosed his arrow, but his arm trembled in shock at the ferocity of the attack and the shaft sped by. Hereward drove his sword through the archer’s gut so hard the tip ripped out of his back. Snatching up the bow and arrow, the English warrior cast one lowering glare at the advancing Hoibrict. Whatever the Flemish man saw in that look, his features drained of blood and he turned and ran.
Harald Redteeth grasped the badly wounded Vadir’s hair and yanked it up, exposing the man’s neck. Holding his axe high, the Viking cast one final taunting look towards his hated rival.
Hold steady, Hereward thought, trying to calm the blood rushing through his head. Be strong. He notched an arrow, took aim and fired. Harald Redteeth stared back at his enemy, unruffled.
The shaft sped past its target by a hand’s width.
Cursing, Hereward flashed back to the wasted moment on the snowy field outside Saint-Omer when Vadir urged him to learn to use the bow.
You may need this skill one day.
Sickened, he drew another arrow.
Harald Redteeth swung his axe down.
Silence closed around the Mercian, and filled his head. It rang with regrets. With trembling hands, he let the bow fall.
The Viking was laughing and dancing, a comical, soundless performance. And from his raised left hand, Vadir’s head swung by the hair, dripping blood. Once, twice, the wild man swung the thing around his own head, and on the third circuit he let go. Vadir’s head landed on the thatch of the nearest house, bounced and rolled down to fall in the dirt.
Hereward felt overwhelmed by a rush of grief so powerful he thought his legs would fail him. Vadir had been more than friend, more than guide; he had felt almost kin. In an instant, fury supplanted the grief, a long- suppressed rage that drove all civilized thoughts from his head. Hurling the bow and arrow aside, he ran towards the Viking. Harald Redteeth braced himself, whistling that unsettling tune as he gripped his weapon.
As the Mercian neared his prey, he glimpsed movement on either side. Ahead, he saw the Viking’s expression darken. Victorious in battle, the remnants of Robert’s men were sweeping into the village. Redteeth sensed any advantage he might have had was gone, and he turned on his heel and ran from the village. Consumed by passion, Hereward pursued him, over the ramparts and across the fields to the trees lining the hillside.
Nothing could have stopped him, not mountains, nor sea. His vision closed in on the fleeing Viking, and only death would free him from the bloodlust that now gripped him.
On the edge of the shadowy woodland Vadir’s killer slowed and glanced back. His satisfied grin sprang back to his lips when he saw that only one pursued him, the man who had haunted his thoughts for nigh on five years.
Tearing off his helmet and throwing it aside as he ran, Hereward drew his sword without slowing his step.
His pupils so wide and black they appeared to be tunnels into his head, Harald Redteeth swung his axe with a grunt. With a yell, Hereward clashed his sword against the Viking’s weapon, for a moment fearing his blade would shatter. The impact threw both men off their feet. The Mercian scrambled up first and launched himself at his enemy. His head rammed into the Viking’s stomach and both warriors pitched down the slope. Initially they rolled in unison, bouncing off outcropping rocks and careering off trees. Gathering speed, they flew apart. Hereward cracked his head, saw stars, but somehow kept hold of his sword. Skidding through fern, he glimpsed blue sky ahead.
Bursting from beneath the verdant canopy, his legs swung over the edge of a cliff. The grey sea churned far below. One hand caught hold of an exposed tree root, almost wrenching his arm from its socket. For a moment, he dangled above the dizzying drop, and then his leather shoe found purchase and he eased his way back up to solid ground.
Dazed, he drew himself upright. A flash of reflected light dazzled him. Harald Redteeth burst from the shadows beneath the trees, his axe already in flight.
Instincts afire, Hereward threw himself back, but not far enough. The axe ripped through his mail into the flesh of his chest. The force of the blow propelled him back over the cliff.
Wind tearing at his hair, he felt guilt that at the last he had failed Vadir, and he had failed himself. The final thing Hereward saw was the Viking’s grinning face before the cold sea claimed him.
CHAPTER FORTY — TWO
