Hereward 03 - End of Days Read Online Free

his gaze. The Viking grinned and said to his men, ‘Get to work.’
    As the English looted the treasure, Kraki prowled around the Normans. He was uneasy. Sly words were not his strength. He only truly felt comfortable when he was swinging an axe. But he had to play the game, for it was the sole reason they were there, risking their necks to rob one of the most feared Normans in the east, a man who had the king’s ear.
    Remembering the words he had discussed with the others at their council in Ely two nights gone, he said, ‘Hereward sendshis greetings. He yearns for the day when he will meet you in the flesh. At the end of a sword.’
    Kraki cursed silently as he saw all his men glance up at the abbot’s face, though they had been warned to pretend they were engrossed in their tasks. But Turold seemed not to notice.
    ‘If your leader was as brave as his words, he would face me this day,’ the Norman abbot said with contempt. ‘Instead, he hides away with the women and children at your camp.’
    Turning away, Kraki kicked amongst the treasure so that the other man would not see any emotion play on his face. He had discovered what he needed to know: the invaders had not killed Hereward. Nor did they hold him prisoner. Turold would not have been able to contain his mockery if that were the case. He recalled mad Hengist’s words at the council: ‘Hereward is the English rebellion in the eyes of the Norman bastards. The king’s men would have overrun Ely by now if they knew our leader was gone.’ Now there was no doubt.
    Kraki knelt to pretend to examine a goblet. He felt no jubilation at this news. If Hereward had not been taken by their enemies these six weeks gone, where was he? Drowned in a bog? The Mercian was no coward, that was certain. He would never have fled, no matter how great the odds. Kraki tossed the goblet to Guthrinc. ‘This should buy us a few more axes-for-hire,’ he said. He nodded to Turold. ‘Your greed has made your work harder still. Our army grows by the day. Soon we will be coming for you. Take that message back to the snakes you call your friends.’
    ‘I am no go-between,’ the abbot roared. His sword flashed out of its sheath faster than Kraki could have dreamed. The cutting edge blurred towards his neck. His axe swung up without a thought, driven by instinct honed on a hundred battlefields. A stream of sparks. The ringing of iron. An impact jarring deep into his shoulder, forcing him back a step.
    With some Norman epithet that Kraki didn’t understand, Turold threw himself forward. This was madness, Kraki thought. Surely the churchman knew he would be cut downin an instant. He had thought the abbot cleverer than that.
    Kraki wrinkled his nose at the stink of strange spices as the Norman slammed into him. It was like being attacked by a bear: big and strong, with a ferocious, unrelenting attack. With skilful flourishes, the sword hacked towards the few areas of exposed flesh on his body, neck, arms, calves. Kraki grunted, keeping a cool head. The priest was trying to make sure he didn’t have time to think.
    He swung his axe up in front of his face and hurled himself into the path of the dancing sword. The blade clanged against his weapon, more by luck than design. But he had his opening. Kraki rammed his helm into the abbot’s face. He heard the Norman howl as cartilage burst. Hot blood splashed across his cheek.
    With a yell, Kraki swung his axe up. He was ready to cleave Turold’s head in two, the opportunity to send a message back to the king be damned. But as his weapon wavered at the apex, Turold let his sword fall to his side. Kraki glimpsed the ghost of a smile on the man’s lips. He heard the sound of pounding feet in the undergrowth. One of the monks who had accompanied Turold was racing away into the woods. The fight had been a distraction. He cursed himself.
    Thrusting Turold aside, he launched himself in pursuit of the darting figure. Guthrinc and Hengist crashed into