Chapter 388 - 274: Grasp the Longsword, Warrior

Priest John tended to the wounded. None of the injuries were severe, though two men had been killed. One was a Pisa Crossbowman. The other, a Danish man, had been the best in the shield wall. Tragically, a dying cavalryman grabbed his long spear, and it pierced through his already injured nose bridge—he had lifted his helmet’s nose guard to keep it from rubbing against the old wound.

"He never had any luck with that nose," Lagman said gloomily.

They found Faisal beneath a pile of six bodies, life already gone from him. A look of shock was frozen on his face, with a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. His neck was broken, his head twisted to the side as if looking back at the life he once had. The Shepherd Boy spat on him, then kicked him.

Eric let them loot for a short time. As experienced plunderers, they knew the importance of speed and that it was pointless to strip heavy armor and haul away weapons. Of course, a few Knights seeking a good suit of armor wasted no time in swapping their own for some of Arabian make.

While they were searching for coins and ornaments, Eric and Priest John began to pile wood from the ruined buildings around the deepest pile of corpses. The others eventually took notice and, ashamed, joined in the work.

Then Eric placed the bodies of the two fallen men on top of the pile and burned them along with all the rest. It was the old way, the way of the Eastern Norths people, which Lagman said was better than a traditional ship burial.

They departed the place swiftly, placing the wounded who couldn’t walk on three captured Arabian horses. Two heavy sacks of caltrops were thrown onto another.

Heading in the direction of Katorlevkara Village, which the Shepherd Boy had told them about, all that remained to mark where the Norman Knights had been was a greasy pillar of smoke from the pyre.

The Shepherd Boy sat there staring at Eric, unblinking as a cat. Even when you weren’t looking at him, you could feel his gaze.

......

At noon the next day, Eric and his men stopped in the lee of a slope, sheltered by a row of pine trees. Water laughed softly as it slid over stones. Everyone chewed on cold mutton and flatbread, speaking only in low grunts when they spoke at all.

Hook Eye returned from his reconnaissance. He had been scouting over the ridge, watching the small village of Katorlevkara.

"There are armed men there," Hook Eye reported. "About fifty of them. They have shields, long spears, and swords, but no armor—just black headscarves. But they have bows and arrows, Lord Gloucester. They could shoot us down as we cross the open ground."

"Horsemen?"

Hook Eye shook his head. "No sign of any horsemen. The men we fought didn’t come here."

Normally, they would have ridden directly to Faruk to report what happened, not known so quickly where the Normans would strike next.

"There are other people there, too," Hook Eye said, sucking on a shred of mutton to soften it for chewing.

"And?" Eric pressed.

"Women and children, too, their faces veiled with cloth. That’s not a Greek custom, is it?" Hook Eye stroked the corner of his mouth, a look of greed spreading across his face. This meant they were fair game for looting.

Apparently, this Faruk was no simple bandit. He was likely one of the lords of Cyprus who had decided to stay and fight, bringing all his people with him. Now, with a town and several villages under his control, he had become a real threat.

The Knights began to mutter about it, but Eric left the topic behind. He had another problem: what to do with the severely wounded.

One was already trembling with wound fever. Another’s hamstring had been severed; he would never walk properly again, though he could still ride.

The man with the fever was a familiar Man Island Warrior from Iceland named Ophig, one of Lagman’s Oath-Takers.

His abdomen had been slashed by some weapon.

The wound wasn’t large, but it had come to this after a day and a half. Yes, there might have been poison involved. By the time Eric noticed, the antidote was no longer effective.

Brother John sat beside him, placing a wet cloth on his forehead and murmuring a healing prayer, making the sign of the cross and clasping his hands. "I pray to the earth and the high heavens, to the sun and Saint Mary and the Lord God himself, grant me a healer’s hand and a healing tongue, to cure Ophig of his fever...

...from his back and chest, from his body and limbs, from his eyes and ears, from any place where evil might enter him..."

It would make no real difference. Lagman knelt on the other side. Ophig opened his eyes and managed a weak grin, sweat seeping from his body like whey from a ripe cheese.

"I’d hoped for a prettier Valkyrie, my lord," he said, fully aware of his coming fate.

Lagman nodded gravely. Not that any Valkyrie was pretty. They rode wolves to drag away the chosen dead, cruel and merciless—but there was always time for a kind lie.

"There is one waiting for you," Lagman said, his voice as soft as a newborn lamb’s. "Her hair is like red-gold, her bosom like pillows, and she has eyes only for you, wondering what’s taking you so long."

His rough hands gripped Ophig’s forehead. Ophig stiffened—then another tremor seized him.

"A good journey to you, my friend, Ophig the Bear-Slayer."

Lagman quickly thrust a longsword into Ophig’s hands, helping him grip it tightly.

The light faded from Ophig’s eyes, and his arm fell.

One who dies with a sword in hand is considered a valiant warrior. The Valkyries will carry him to Valhalla to drink mead with the Thunder God Thor.

......

By nightfall, Eric and his men had reached the village. It huddled at the edge of a ridge, and if you tilted your head up slightly, you could see the silhouettes of the buildings, the dome of St. Michael’s Church, and the yellow-orange glow of lamps and fires. Their light made the night wind seem colder, the darkness blacker.

When the blotchy moon began to cast a shadow between the dark clouds, Eric gave the signal. The Knights rose, stooping low as they started down the slope, moving as fast as beetles. The sound of their footsteps and clanking armor made Eric frown, worried someone might hear, but no alarm was raised. Then they were over the first rickety fence and into the gardens behind some houses.

Belem turned and grinned at Eric. Eric saw he had a Roman Nail in his mouth—one of the metal spikes he used to mark out dueling grounds—and was gnawing on it like a dog on a bone. His teeth clamped down hard, preventing him from letting out a war cry before Eric gave the signal. Saliva dripped from the nail. Eric nodded.

Belem spat the nail into his hand, then threw his head back and howled like a mad wolf. The cry erupted from all their throats, and then they charged into the houses.

Eric pushed forward, running toward the Church, hearing panicked screams and sharp shouts as the Oath-Takers tore the village apart. He passed cottages and houses, hearing the crash of axes on doors, the heavy thud of boots, and more screams.

A man in a robe scrambled around the side of a building, colliding with a mud wall before glancing back. Then he turned, saw Eric, spun around, and ran back the way he came—straight into a lunging long spear.