‘Go home.’
‘No, let him.’ A big gruff man pointed an axe at Snake in the Eye. ‘I am Arnulf’s kin. This boy wronged us. If he wants to go to his death then we should not stand in his way.’
Another man laughed. ‘Looks like it’s your own meat you’ll be stewing, boy.’
Snake in the Eye ignored him. ‘I am ready.’ He had on his iron breastplate; his sword was in one hand, an axe in the other. What a warrior I must seem to these men.
The Vikings were divided into two groups, sheltering from the flame on either side of the passage.
Snake in the Eye stepped forward. By the light of the torch used to ignite the siphon, he saw the blackened faces of two Greek guards peering out at him. The men shouted nothing, issued no threat, but Snake in the Eye knew he would only have a couple more steps before the plunger was depressed on the siphon and a stream of clinging oily flame shot towards him. He was yet to get inside the building but he felt sure the fire would reach him if he took another pace.
There were other flames, smaller lights dancing and flickering on a riverbank wall only he could see. The guttural grunting was in his ears, but he would have time enough at the wall to do what he needed to do and run.
Many little flames flickered, but he only wanted two. He took one and snuffed it out in his fingers. The man on the siphon dropped and the nozzle of the apparatus dipped towards the ground, dripping oil. Snake in the Eye snuffed out another flame. The man with the torch collapsed and the whole apparatus ignited.
Flame erupted with a low roar from the entrance like the belch of a dragon. Snake in the Eye staggered backwards, his hair and eyebrows singeing. Inside the guards screamed and howled, burning. Snake in the Eye strode through the doorway and cut a man down as he came running down the corridor like a fire giant, his head ablaze.
‘I am death!’ he shouted. ‘I am death!’
He stepped around the fallen corpse and charged into the prison, jumping over burning bodies and hacking at those who still lived, men more occupied with the flames that engulfed them than defending themselves. Other guards were arriving from the rest of the prison but the Greeks retreated as fast as they had come before the mob of Varangians pouring in behind Snake in the Eye in a howling rush. The Greeks dived through the inner door and slammed it shut.
‘Am I not a man?’ shouted Snake in the Eye. ‘Am I not a hero?’
He saw so many lights in front of him on the wall, lights for the prisoners, lights for the guards, lights even for a piper and a dancing girl who cowered in the corner.
Snake in the Eye smiled at the girl. ‘I have no need for entertainment today,’ he said. Then he scraped his hand across the wall in his mind, knocking all the little candles to the floor.
M. D. Lachlan
Lord of Slaughter
41 Captured
Beatrice waddled in to Styliane’s chambers. The baby was terribly heavy, like trying to carry a sack of coal, but she could not let that concern her. The guards had abandoned the doors and no one stopped to question her or demand she indulge in some exhausting formality. As she passed the little chapel, she saw two guards dead on the floor. Had the Varangians got in this far already? On to Styliane’s rooms. More dead men — four of them in the scarlet livery of Styliane’s personal bodyguards.
She stepped over the bodies and into the splendid chambers. Styliane’s bedroom was empty but a fight had clearly taken place in it. Three dead guards of Styliane’s retinue and two in the chamberlain’s blue. Three ladies- in-waiting were hiding behind a bed.
‘What happened?’ Beatrice was almost breathless from running.
‘The chamberlain took her.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’
Beatrice hurried out. Men rushed everywhere and she kept a grip on her little knife in case one should attack her. The Varangians were outside, screaming and howling threats to burn down the palace.
She ran to the chamberlain’s rooms. No guard tried to stop her as she threw open the door to his chambers. The first room contained four big chests, one with a lock. He had his secrets, that man, and she was determined not to pass up the chance to discover some of them. She took a heavy candlestick and smashed off the lock. It came away at the hasp, the rivets pulling free of the wood. Inside was a bullroarer on a chain, five books, some soldiers’ clothes and a desert hood.
She picked up one of the books. It was written in Greek, full of charts and tables — A True and Faithful Record of the Magical Practices of the Ancients — The Key of Solomon. She picked up another. Night Works. This was written in Latin and the vellum was relatively new — scored by crossings out and corrections, clearly some sort of notebook. She turned a page — a chapter heading: ‘On Sacrifice’. There were sketches and drawings of the positions of the stars, a list of items offered ‘at the crossroads’ and a comment on their efficacy.
Beatrice was under no illusions about what she was reading. This was as damning a document as could be imagined. But the chamberlain had left it behind. How desperate was he? What did he intend to do?
‘Oh God!’ A man screamed in the passage outside, metal scraped on metal. A fight. She looked around the chamber. A door on the opposite side. She took the book and headed towards it, but as she put out her hand to open the door it crashed open and she leaped back.
A Varangian stood in the doorway — a tall bloody man with wild eyes. She turned to run but one was behind her. They were everywhere! She was sure she was going to die. She thought of Loys, of the future they would never have, of the children they would never raise and the peace they would never know. She was a Christian woman and would not let these pagans defile her without a fight. She raised her knife but a big hand grabbed her wrist and twisted it up behind her back. She gave a cry and dropped the weapon. The man siezed her hair with his other hand, jerking her head back.
The Varangian in front of her pointed at her with his sword. He was gaudy in appearance, as so many of the northern men were — dressed from head to foot in bright red, as if soaked in blood. ‘This one?’
‘This one.’
She couldn’t see who spoke but it was a female voice.
‘Is she going to make it where we need to go? She looks ready to drop.’
‘She will make it. It’s foreseen.’
‘Now?’
‘Have you taken the Numera?’
‘It can’t be long before we do.’
‘Then get her over there. We have no time. Put everything into capturing it.’
‘The entrance is very narrow. One man can defend it for a week.’
‘If one can defend it, one can attack it. You wanted your time to die for me, Bolli — this could be it. Take the prison. You are a hero to men. If you can’t do it no one can.’
‘We will take it.’
The man holding Beatrice’s hair released his grip a little and the big red Viking stepped aside. In front of her now was a small red-haired woman, old but quite beautiful. Her face, though, bore a terrible scar on one side.
The woman spoke to her in Norse: ‘I’m sorry.’ Then she addressed the Viking holding Beatrice. ‘Bring her with us. Don’t let her go.’
‘Yes, Vala.’ And Beatrice was shoved through the door.
42
Five men waded ashore from a boat beached behind the Varangian camp — three in the green uniform of messengers, one in the purple robes of a minor court official and one — a tall pale fellow with a shock of red hair —
