Maidensong (42 page)

One of the peacocks that strutted through the court
yard scuttled from under a bush and cried out. Its
alarm made her look up. She saw a figure disappear
into the stairwell.

Finally! He was coming and they would steal up to the roof garden together. Bjorn was carrying the stout rope they’d use to lower themselves to the street level
from the roof. Then she and Bjorn would make their
way to the Forum of the Ox, where Torvald would be
waiting with the horse. From there it would be a quick trot to the Harbor of Theodosius, where Torvald had
told Ornolf to have the
Valkyrie
waiting, ready to sail
the moment they arrived.

Rika only had to brave the dark corridor from her
door around to the stairs where she would meet Bjorn.
They would creep up to the roof garden together. She
slipped Al-Amin’s servitude documents into the pouch at her waist. She intended to give them to him the first chance she got. She glanced around the dark room that had been her home for the last half year. There
was nothing else she wanted to take. She moved the
chair and eased her door open.

The door flew back at her with unexpected force. It knocked her against the wall, her head slamming the stone and leaving her dazed. Rika’s vision tunneled for a moment and she felt rough hands on her, thrusting a cloth through her teeth to gag her. Then she was
shoved to the floor. The assailant fell upon her, his
weight pinning her down, both her hands locked in a painful grip.

Enough moonlight shafted in the open window
for her to make out her attacker. She looked up into Tariq’s snarling face.

 
“Going out for a stroll, are you? I think not tonight.” Tariq’s voice grated her ear as h
e ground a knee between her legs. “You’re not go
ing anywhere. I made sure of that. You see, I told the
master I suspected the death of your servant had un
hinged your mind, so he needed to keep you safely
within these walls.”

Rika struggled under him, trying to scream, but the
gag effectively stopped most of her voice. Tariq’s
strength was amplified by cruelty. He gathered both her wrists into a one-handed grip and rucked up her
tunic with the other.

Rika tried to knee him, but he struck her on the tem
ple with his fist. Stars exploded before her eyes.

“You can’t expect Sultana to stand by and watch you
and your bastards displace her son Kareem.”

Rika’s brows knit together. What was he babbling about?

He pressed himself against her and Rika was
shocked to feel the hardness of an erection against the
inside of her thigh.

“Oh, yes,” he said, obviously reading the surprise in
her eyes. “The stories you’ve no doubt heard about late-made eunuchs
are all true.” His face twisted into a
sadistic snarl. “But the only pleasure left in it for me is
the pain I give to you.”

He grabbed one of her breasts and twisted her nip
ple so viciously, tears sprang to Rika’s eyes.

“Oh, yes, that’s goo—” Tariq's voice was cut off as his eyes widened, then glassed over. Suddenly his body lifted and then dropped beside her. Bjorn
stood over him. She saw the glint of a blade as he
withdrew his knife from Tariq’s ribs. He
wiped the weapon clean on the eunuch’s baggy trousers.

“Are you hurt?” he whispered as he helped her out of the gag.

“No.” She sprang up into his arms, the last remnants
of fear
still
making her tremble. She buried her face in
his chest and inhaled him deeply.

“Come,” he ordered and shepherded her toward the
door. Before they reached it, the portal swung open
again. This time it was Sultana, carrying a lamp.

“Help!” She yelled down the hall. “Tariq has violated the Northwoman!”

Evidently she was unwilling
to wait for an examination to discredit Rika and would
even sacrifice her own henchman to do it. Then Sul
tana peered into the room, her eyes widening as she
saw her eunuch dead on the floor and a big Northman
approaching her, knife in hand. Sultana dropped the
lamp and bolted down the corridor, true terror punctuating her screams this time. “Murder!”

Bjorn slammed the door shut and braced it with a chair.

“We’ll never make it to the roof now. What do we do?” Rika asked.

“Change of plans.” He strode to the window and
looked down into the courtyard. Lamps were being lit all over the house and men were running up the stairwell. “They’ll be at the door soon.”

Bjorn slipped the coil of rope off his shoulder and
tied it to the metal balustrade outside the window. He jerked at the rope to make sure the knot was firm, then tossed the length of it out the opening.

“Climb onto my back and hold on.” He hunkered down.

Rika hitched up her tunic so she could wrap her legs around his waist and clasped her arms around Bjorn’s
shoulders, taking care not to choke him. He put the
knife blade between his teeth and swung a leg over the
railing. He hooked one of his calves around the rope,
then hand under hand, he lowered them down.

“They’ve broken through,” Rika cried when she heard the door give way above them.

Bjorn let the hemp slide through his fingers and
Rika knew he was burning his palms. They plummeted
in a controlled fall downward, landing in a tumble at
the bottom, but both of them sprang up. Bjorn
grabbed her hand and they sprinted toward the big
double doors. Rika’s ankle sent darts of fire up her leg with every step, but she gritted her teeth and strove to
keep up with him.

The eunuch guarding the double doors had unsheathed his sword, probably at the first cry of alarm, but he was no match for a trained
tagmata.
Bjorn feinted and rushed in over the guard’s slashing down-
stroke, plunging the knife into the eunuch’s jugular.
Blood spurted in a red fountain from his neck, and he was dead before he hit the ground.

Pounding feet flew back down the stairwell now.
Bjorn grappled with the brace that barred the doors
and threw them open, taking the brace out with him.
Once he and Rika were outside the house, they pushed
the doors closed and Bjorn wedged the heavy timber
against them.

“We haven’t much time,” he said as he grabbed her hand.

A clatter of hooves on the stone street made Bjorn pull her back into the shadows of the house. The
horseman stopped at the doorway and dismounted.

It
was Torvald.

“What are you doing here?” Rika asked, as Bjorn hefted her onto the horse’s back.

“You were late. Thought I’d see if an old man could lend a hand.” Torvald pulled his sword from its scabbard. The wooden doors trembled with the force of a
blow. The household of Farouk-Azziz was fully roused
and had found a makeshift battering ram of some
kind. “Better get going. That door won’t hold long, but this is a good defensible position. I’ll give you as much
extra time as I can.”

Bjorn clasped forearms with the old farmer, now turned back into the warrior he’d been as a youth. Then Bjorn vaulted up onto the horse behind Rika.

“No, you’re coming, too,” she wailed to Torvald.

“Not this trip, Daughter.” A smile split his
face, the first true smile Rika had ever seen on the old
man’s features. “I have another destination in mind.
Take care of each other.”

The crack of splintering wood jerked all their heads
toward the door. Years seemed to slough off Torvald and he straightened his still broad shoulders. The
pain-numbed look of a
berserkr
stole over the old
Viking’s face. Bloodlust glinted in his pale eyes and his
nostrils flared.

“Yah! Get on with you!” Torvald slapped the horse’s rump and it lurched to a gallop.

“Father!” Rika wailed.

Behind them, the door crash in pieces and Torvald’s battle cry split the night in an eerie, feral howl.

 
Rika wasn’t sure which was louder, the clatter of the horse’s hooves on the paving or the frantic thumping
of her own heart. Her fingers clenched convulsively around the horse’s mane and she clamped down
with her thighs on the rolling shoulders of the beast. Bjorn’s arm around her waist steadied her, but their
headlong flight through twisting alleys stole her breath away.

“Yah!” Bjorn bellowed. The horse laid back its ears and stretched out its neck in a full gallop across the Forum of the Ox.

Rika heard the beat of other hooves behind them.
Her gut churned. Torvald was dead then. He’d never
have let them past him otherwise.

“They’re coming!” Rika yelled. She and Bjorn
leaned forward as one and the horse beneath them re
sponded with more speed. But the animal was carrying
twice the weight of the pursuers’ mounts and, with
each pounding step, they lost ground to the household
of the Arab.

Bjorn jerked at the reins and they turned sharply into a dark lane. In that slice of a moment, Rika
glanced back to see a pack of horsemen, Farouk-Azziz
in the lead, his face twisted in fury like a hot desert
wind bearing down on them.

The path was steeper now and the stench of fish guts told Rika they were nearing the harbor. When
they burst out of the lane onto the wooden planks of
the wharf, the horse hooves’ brisk clack turned into
muffled thuds. At the end of the long pier Rika spotted
the
Valkyrie,
Jorand lighting their way with a torch.

She heard Farouk-Azziz shouting, but the words were caught by the wind. When they reached the ship, she tumbled off the horse, half falling, half being
dragged by Ornolf and was bundled onto the waiting
vessel. Bjorn pulled out his knife again and slashed the
ropes binding the craft to the dock. He shoved her off and then made a running leap into the
Valkyrie
as she
surged away from the pier.

Jorand, Al-Amin and the priest were already positioned at the oars. Bjorn joined them and they heaved away while Ornolf manned the steering oar. Rika
stood in the prow, grasping at the sides of the ship to
steady herself, delayed panic making her shake like an aspen in the wind.

Zzzt!
The air around her buzzed with sharp droning
sounds like a swarm of angry bees. Arrows sliced
through the water around them and one lodged in the
long neck of the
Valkyrie’s
prow a finger-length
from her hand.

“Rika! Get down!” Bjorn yelled between strokes.

She huddled below the curve of the hull, listening to
the spat of arrows against the wood. The Byzantine
guard had been roused against them. She’d known
Farouk-Azziz was powerful, with highly placed con
tacts throughout the city, but she never dreamed he
could mobilize the authorities so quickly.

The air was thick with shouted orders and Farouk’s outraged bellowing. The stinging missiles stopped peppering the
Valkyrie
. Since they seemed out of arrow range, Rika peeked over the side of the ship. They were making steadily for the narrow mouth of the Harbor of Theodosius. On the shore a group of guards boarded a heavy Greek vessel, while another sprinted for the harbor entrance. At the end of the land spit, men began turning a ponderous wheel, gathering up the wet links of a heavy chain.

“They’re closing off the harbor,” Rika shouted back to Ornolf. His grim face told her he’d seen it too.

“Toss over the cargo,” he growled. “Lighten the ship.”

The Greek vessel headed for them, so the rowers couldn’t be spared for even a moment. Rika heaved every crate she could lift into the black water, the gold and silver that would have enriched Sogna finding its rest instead in the warm depths of the harbor. Bales of silk and cachets of rare spices bobbed in their wake. Ornolf left the steering oar long enough to hoist the heavier loads. The now trimmer
Valkyrie
surged away from the other ship.

Rika watched the men on the Greek vessel fumbling with a bulky mass. She couldn’t tell what they were doing until a torch was lit. Then she gasped. She’d come to the harbor with Al-Amin one day and watched the demonstration of the formidable weapon that secured the safety of Miklagard. It was the scourge of pirate vessels and enemies of the Byzantine Empire all over Middle Earth’s inland sea. They called it ‘Greek fire.’