Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome Read Online Free Page A

‘Victory for the last of the English!’ he called to his crew. ‘Hengist has listened to the wind!’ He watched the light begin to burn in the eyes of his men. They were wet and cold and their stomachs growled for the next meal. The terror of the sea tugged always at the back of their thoughts. But they trusted Hengist, for he spoke with God and gods. And if they were to go to the bottom this day, it would be with a fire in their hearts.
    The storm loomed at their backs with towering cliffs of black thunderheads. Yet it did not advance. Perhaps God had smiled on them, Hereward thought. He watched Alric kneeling on the deck as salt water washed around his legs, hands clasped, eyes clamped shut, face contorted in desperate prayer.
    The Mercian beckoned to Guthrinc at his place in the centre of the front bench. His old friend levered his huge frame up and cracked his knuckles.
    ‘Put those hawk’s eyes of yours to good use,’ Hereward said.
    Guthrinc wiped the spray from his face and peered towards the approaching vessel. ‘I see shields along the side. I see the glint of axes, and helms, and bodies hunched over oars, speeding the ship towards us.’
    Death, then. Death like a winter storm.
    ‘Has the king recanted and sent his dogs to drive us to the deep?’ the tall man added.
    ‘The king is a butcher and a bastard, but he has honour. He said we could leave with our lives, and he would not go back on his word.’
    ‘Sea wolves, then.’
    Hereward nodded. ‘They think us merchants, our ship laden with goods for the hot lands to the south.’
    Balancing on the balls of his feet, he peered across the water as he made his way aft. The red sail glowed in the half-light. It had seen better days, he could now tell. The bottom edge was ragged, and it had been patched here and there. The paint on the shields was old and worn, the wood showing through. On one, a skull stared out with hollow eyes. Now the vessel was close enough for him not to need Guthrinc’s sharp gaze to discern the outline of the dark figures crowded on deck. They heaved on the oars, adding to the force of the wind. Their ship sped towards their prey like an arrow.
    ‘Wait,’ Hereward growled to his men. ‘Wait.’ If the dogs did not fear resistance, any archers aboard would not waste shafts. ‘Now. Ready yourselves,’ he rumbled.
    Hands ducked down for spears and axes. Guthrinc had his bow, though even his skill with an arrow would be tested on those heaving waves.
    Hereward cast one furtive glance over his shoulder. The red-sailed ship was barely a spear’s throw away. It had not slowed or deviated from its course. He saw the helms, and the leather armour the rowers wore, despite the heat. Ready for battle. He saw pale skin, too. These were not the swarthy, dark-haired people who lived along this coast. These warriors came from colder climes.
    When he looked back towards the prow, a booming rose up above the sound of the ocean. At first, he thought it was more thunder. But it was too rhythmic, and soon it was accompanied by a low, steady chant. The curs were hammering out the war-beat with their feet upon the deck, and they were singing open the gates of hell, as the Norman bastards always did before battle.
    He cocked his head and listened. Words reached his ears above the moan of the wind. English, it was, he was sure. They sang of bones and blood and gold and glory.
    In the prow, a warrior stood, his axe raised high. Hereward could see why this man had taken to a life on the whale road. Women and children would find it hard to rest their gaze upon him, so fearsome was his appearance. His nose was gone, sliced off in some fight or other. Two holes remained, so that at first glance his face had the look of a death’s head. Both ears were missing too, and part of his hair had been torn out or burned away. His bottom lip was split in two. His eyes were sunken, one of them milky. What remained of his features seemed little more than a mass of