Lord of Slaughter (Claw Trilogy 3) Read online

  ‘You said the Varangians were to blame.’

  ‘And so I believe. But this is a serious situation. The Varangians are six thousand armed fighters, and it will take time to undermine them, isolate their leaders and bring them to task for their crimes. The sky is boiling and the mob is restless. The street magicians are but two hundred jabbering men and wild women. God is angry with them. What else could this sky mean?’

  ‘But you know they’re innocent.’

  ‘I suspect they’re innocent of this, but who knows what other guilts they hide? They are enemies of Christ, and in times such as these we need only the Saviour’s friends around us. The chamberlain has opposed this action before but now he will sanction it, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’ll see to it that he doesn’t.’

  The man smiled. ‘Don’t make me your enemy, scholar Loys.’

  ‘That is not my intention.’

  ‘Our intentions matter little in life. It is what we do that counts. Just by being here you are a threat to the authority of some of the great offices of state. When people find out you are conducting this investigation – which many already have – they will think those in charge don’t trust those offices, and if those offices do not have the emperor’s confidence then they are a little less respected, a little less feared. Killing the soothsayers has a practical benefit. It restores the fear.’

  ‘At the cost to your immortal soul.’

  ‘These people consort with devils. If Christ came back today he would be the first to shed their blood. Now excuse me. What you’re looking for is within.’

  He tapped the door then walked back the way they had come.

  ‘I will oppose you,’ said Loys to his retreating back. The man stopped and turned.

  ‘You could stop me immediately if you chose.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Resign.’

  ‘That would be my death.’

  The man tilted his head, a sarcastic smile on his face. ‘So there’s a limit to your compassion and love for the low people, I see.’

  ‘I am not a martyr,’ said Loys.

  ‘Not yet,’ said the man. ‘If you need to leave this city in a hurry, stain your left-hand thumb and small finger with ink. My men will contact you. You may need us. You and your wife.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Loys felt the blood leave his face at the mention of Beatrice.

  But the man walked away, disappearing around a corner.

  Loys watched him go with the certainty that his destination, should he take up the man’s offer, would be the next world and his mode of conveyance a dagger to the back.

  Loys knocked at the door. After a few moments it was opened a crack by a eunuch, tall and old. ‘Come in, master.’

  He opened the door wide to a vision. Beatrice sat in a long dress of deep and lustrous blue. At her neck was a collar in cloth of gold and behind her a maidservant combed out her golden hair. Next to her was a table and on it a silver goblet and a plate of grapes.

  ‘Loys! You’ve been so long; they said you’d come immediately. Look at you. You’re soaked and you’re covered in dirt. Have you been attacked?’

  ‘No, gosh, no. You know me. No one crosses me and gets away with it.’ He put up his fists and gave a little growl, trying to be light, trying to reassure her.

  ‘Oh, Loys, come here and hug me.’

  He did, and as he put his arms around her felt a huge need to protect her.

  ‘Did you see the sky?’ he said.

  ‘What about the sky?’

  ‘They brought you here before it happened?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Never mind. Just bad weather.’

  ‘It was a fine day when I arrived.’

  ‘Who brought you?’

  ‘Men from the chamberlain’s office. I was afraid of them at first, but they were finely dressed and bore seals so I went with them.’

  ‘I was worried about you.’

  ‘They said you’d know I’d come.’

  ‘No matter. You seem to have settled in.’

  ‘I should say so! Isn’t it wonderful in here? It’s so lovely. The floor’s as warm as a kitten and look, they’ve laid out clothes for you. Even my father has never dreamed of luxury like this. My clever, clever, husband. I knew they’d reward you one day!’

  Beatrice gestured towards a couch. Loys too had been given a rich robe of blue, though without a collar. That was only allowed to those of royal status. He was pleased Beatrice’s rank had been recognised. There were undergarments of linen, slippers too, in fine blue silk decorated with gold brocade.

  ‘What are these?’ said Loys to the eunuch.

  ‘A badge of office, sir, the mark of the chamberlain’s men.’

  ‘You can bathe,’ Beatrice said. ‘Down the corridor there’s a wonderful heated bath. You should try it, Loys.’

  ‘I will. I’ve heard about such things but I’ve never seen one.’

  He studied the robe. Picked out in fine embroidery on its back was a picture of Christ casting out demons and sending them into a herd of swine. The message from the chamberlain about what was required was clear enough.

  ‘Can you get a message to the chamberlain?’ he said to his servant.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Can you tell him I need to see him at his earliest convenience?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Your mind is always on your labours, Loys,’ said Beatrice. ‘Look at all this lovely stuff. Think how lucky we’ve been, how clever you are to bring us all this.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, coming over to Beatrice and picking a grape, ‘let’s hope I can live up to it.’ He smiled for her benefit.

  ‘You can. I know you can, Loys,’ said Beatrice. She looked so alive, so relieved to be out of that stinking woodpile by the water. He kissed her, careless of the servant in the room.

  ‘For you,’ he said, ‘I will make sure that I do.’

  11 A Fight for Snake in the Eye

  Snake in the Eye felt strong and powerful in his Armenian armour, with his Greek sword at his side and his horse archer’s shield proudly on his back. He’d scarcely taken the armour off since he won it. The emperor had spent nearly no time at all in Constantinople and departed for Bithynia in the east almost as soon as he had finished his triumphal march. His attentions had shifted from the rebel to the threat from the Arabs.

  Arabic translators were now in greater demand than Norse ones, and Snake in the Eye found himself left with the bulk of the Varangian force, camped outside the walls, waiting for the emperor’s instructions when the great man had made an appraisal of where the Vikings might be needed. At first Snake in the Eye enjoyed his privileged status as a go-between, running from Bollason and his men to the various offices of the city to strike deals on food and supplies. The problem was that Bollason’s army was large, restless and feeling short-changed. They had been promised the gleaming streets of Constantinople, an earthly Asgard, a home fit for gods, let alone men. Instead they were camped out on a freezing shore under a black sky.

  Snake in the Eye soon found that his position – having the ear of the emperor and of Bollason – brought its own problems. Men overestimated his influence and asked him why they had not been allowed into the city, why wine was in short supply and so on. One even told him he should insist on a prettier sort of whore for the brave victors of Abydos and offered to accompany the boy to ensure he made the right choice.

  And then the rain had come in, another violent downpour like the one that had swept the field at Abydos. Warriors who had only grumbled before now began to complain bitterly, to blame even. By the time the rain passed, the campsite had turned into a mire. Snake in the Eye had been both lucky and unlucky. He was in the city securing a supply of pork for the Varangians when the flood descended. He couldn’t see five paces in the deluge and he had stayed there, a merchant allowing him to bed down in a storeroom.

  So he returned to the camp the next morning dry and clean. He made his way to t
he tent next to which his father had set up his small forge – no more, really, than a hole in the ground. A big Viking waited while the head of his axe was sharpened. Next to him stood his son – Snake in the Eye’s age but already with a wispy beard, an axe of his own at his side and a cut to his ear that suggested he knew what it was to be in a battle.

  ‘You look dry enough,’ said his father.

  ‘I got caught in Miklagard. A merchant let me bed down in his store.’

  The big Viking snorted. Snake in the Eye caught his disapproval.

  ‘You think I should have sat out in the rain?’

  The man said nothing.

  Snake in the Eye put his hand to his sword.

  ‘That is a foolish way to proceed,’ said the big Viking.

  ‘It’s a fool who looks down his nose and is too cowardly to say what he thinks!’

  ‘Cowardly’ fell loud from his lips. Its effect was like a magic spell. Around him the sounds of the camp faded. Men stopped their talk. People who had been walking past stopped to stare. A woman who had been beating out a carpet let it fall to her knees and stared at him.

  ‘The bigger fool is he that calls a man a coward for no more than a glance. You go to your Greek masters; you take luxuries that are denied to your fellows, shelter when your kin freeze and soak under Hel’s own skies. I will say nothing. Call me a coward and that moves me to correct you.’

  Snake in the Eye drew his sword. Now the man’s son had his axe free, though the Viking himself just laughed at Snake in the Eye.

  ‘You are a boy and so some foolishness is allowed. Apologise now and I will take only the compensation of free service from your smith father here. Otherwise you will die.’

  ‘An apology is in order,’ said the smith.

  ‘I will not apologise!’ said Snake in the Eye. ‘Come on, both of you, and I’ll make this a sad day for the whore you married to beget him.’

  The big Viking lunged at him. His movements seemed slow to Snake in the Eye, and it would have been easy to strike him down with his sword. But, yet again, his arm failed him; his will to fight was not there. A fist smashed into Snake in the Eye’s jaw, snapping his head sideways and putting him down.

  Snake in the Eye tried to stand and took a good kick to the chin. He recalled nothing after that until he was pulled up to sitting, a blond Viking staring into his face. Someone shouted, ‘I will kill him! I will kill him! Let me free!’

  ‘What have you done?’

  Snake in the Eye’s father lay dead on the ground, the boy with the axe too, the right side of his head caved in. Snake in the Eye’s father had clearly hit him with his smith’s hammer but had paid the price. A scrum of men held the big Viking back.

  ‘Get up, get up!’ A blond Viking he had never seen before shook Snake in the Eye by the tunic.

  ‘I want vengeance! He called me a coward and his father killed my son. He provokes a fight and backs down from it. I want vengeance!’

  The hullaballoo had the whole camp straining to see what was happening. Through the press of people a huge figure dressed all in red pushed his way forward. It was Bollason.

  Snake in the Eye felt for his sword, determined to prove himself, but the blond-haired man snatched it away.

  Bollason pointed at the corpses. ‘Explain.’

  The big Viking shouted that he had been insulted and denied justice, that his son was dead and he was owed revenge.

  ‘Calm yourself, Arnulf,’ said Bollason. ‘Justice will be done, you have my word. You, boy, what have you got to say for yourself?’

  ‘I want to fight him,’ said Snake in the Eye. He got to his feet, shaky.

  ‘Come to me then, you snivelling little bastard, and I’ll cut your throat,’ said Arnulf.

  Bollason stood in front of Snake in the Eye. ‘I hear reports of you,’ he said. ‘I hear you’re trouble. If it wasn’t for your usefulness with the emperor I’d let Arnulf here pin you to this shitty shore with his spear.’

  ‘Let him try.’

  Snake in the Eye’s head ached where he’d been punched and kicked. Why had the man only sought to hit him? Why not kill him? Because he hadn’t taken him seriously, because he held him in contempt as a boy.

  His father would never see him triumph as a famous warrior now. He had been a smith, a profession that exempted him from fighting unless in dire need, too valuable to risk putting in harm’s way. Smiths were honoured, seen as magical even, so there was no question of his father being accused of coming too slow to the fight. Yet, Snake in the Eye now felt curiously free. His grandfather on his mother’s side had been the famous killer Thiörek. Had his father’s line brought the curse of cowardice to the family?

  He would not mourn his father; he would avenge him.

  ‘Let me fight him,’ he said to Bollason.

  ‘You’re a boy. You cannot and you will not,’ said Bollason.

  ‘I am a man the same as the one who is dead on the floor here,’ said Snake in the Eye.

  ‘Do you want me to have your trousers stripped off to prove my point? You’re not yet a man and anyone can see it. You try to act like one but you fail.’ He addressed Arnulf. ‘The boy is not ready to face you in hölmgang. He is still a child by my reckoning and it would dishonour you to fight him.’

  ‘Then let him provide an uncle, or even a friend. I will have vengeance for the death of my son.’

  ‘His father lies dead.’

  ‘As does my boy. The original insult, the slur of cowardice, has not been answered yet. I demand redress. It is my right under the law.’

  Bollason shrugged. ‘He’s right. Have you an uncle who can fight for you?’

  ‘I was here only with my father.’

  ‘Do you have friends here?’

  ‘He has no friends, that one,’ said a woman. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work who has been lucky to live so long.’

  ‘Then he must face me!’ shouted Arnulf.

  Bollason shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘there’s a whole stack of trouble if we kill him. The emperor favours him and he translates our words, which we’ll need when the emperor returns. But it is dishonourable to think only of the convenience of having him here when he has deeply dishonoured you, Arnulf, and caused you so much grief. There is a middle way.’

  He pointed at Snake in the Eye.

  ‘You are banished from this camp, translator or no,’ he said. ‘You will return here only when you are a man and can fight Arnulf on equal terms or with someone who will fight for you. While you are away, try to grow up a little. The world sends us enough battles without us seeking them with each other.’

  ‘That is a shame to me,’ said Snake in the Eye. ‘I cannot stand such an injustice.’

  ‘Then I’ll gut you here and now myself,’ said Bollason.

  ‘I welcome it,’ said Snake in the Eye.

  Bollason rolled his eyes to the heavens. Then his patience suddenly snapped. The Viking leader was famous for his short temper and now it seemed he had come to the end of it.

  ‘Get your sword,’ he said, ‘and let’s you and I do the old dance together. Hedin, give him his sword!’ He roared the last words into Snake in the Eye’s face so hard that the boy took several paces backwards and everyone around laughed.

  The blond man passed Snake in the Eye his sword and he tried to strike Bollason, but the battle fetter still held him – he couldn’t make his arm do what he wanted it to. He came forward in a ridiculous way, his sword forward but his arm limp so the weapon’s point trailed on the ground. As he advanced, it caught in the mud, jolting the hilt up in his hand. Bollason, two heads taller than the boy, closed the distance in a blink and stepped on the sword with his left foot, his weight levering it out of the boy’s hand, flattening it into the mud. He shoved Snake in the Eye hard and sent him sprawling back. The Viking didn’t pause, walking forward to put his foot in the centre of Snake in the Eye’s chest, pinning him to the ground. Snake in the Eye put his hands around Bollason’s
foot but the man was as immovable as one of the statues from the Middle Way.

  ‘Like I said,’ said Bollason, his face now impassive, ‘you are a boy. Come back when you have become a man, should that ever happen, and I will grant you your hölmgang.’

  All around Snake in the Eye people laughed and pointed. Only Arnulf continued to rage. Dying did not bother the boy at all, but the scorn wounded him deeply.

  Bollason released his foot and pointed to Snake in the Eye’s sword. ‘Use that to attack me and I shall use it to spank your bottom.’

  Snake in the Eye boiled with embarrassment, his face red, his limbs stiff and tense. He picked up the sword and left the camp, heading in the direction of the city, taunts and jeers at his back. He wanted to turn and hack his mockers to the floor but knew he couldn’t. He may as well have been carrying a Byzantine lady’s fan as a sword. An enchantment lay on him, he was certain. One day he would break it and return to write his name in the blood of those who had mocked him. He just had to find out how.

  12 An Invitation

  The chamberlain had not answered Loys’ request to see him, and the scholar sat at his desk with his head in his hands. He’d heard nothing about any slaughter, and the guards on the palace doors had said no one had moved against the soothsayers. The streets were dangerous enough, purge or no purge. Venturing outdoors had become an unsettling proposition. Some were convinced the last days were at hand and had abandoned all pretence of civility, robbing and even killing. The city guard was struggling to keep anarchy at bay. In the palace, at least, he and Beatrice were safe. For the moment.

  Loys tapped at the parchment. He needed to order his thoughts. In other circumstances he might have been excited by the project. He had been sponsored to undertake a great work, to bend his mind to one of the big questions of philosophy. There was nothing wrong with investigating occult and magical practices, as long as you kept to theory, but the chamberlain wanted a working spell. Did that blur the division between the theoretical and the practical? Loys felt in his heart that it did. Christ allowed no fudge or compromise. For or against, right or wrong? Which side of that divide was he on?