Hawk Quest (63 page)
The brimstone fumes killed the mosquitoes in their thousands. Their bodies spiralled down and Hero had to keep removing them from the wound. He took a bottle from his chest.
‘What’s that?’
‘Strong wine fortified with Venice turpentine and balsam. It fights corruption.’
Vallon recoiled from the volatile vapours.
‘I’m not drinking that. It smells like embalming fluid.’
‘It’s for dressing the wound. It will sting.’
Hero decanted some of the antiseptic into a cup, dipped a squirrel-hair brush into it and dabbed at the wound. Vallon gasped as the mixture bit into his raw flesh. Hero swabbed the wound and the surrounding skin. ‘That’s as clean as I can make it. Now I have to close it. It will be painful. You’d better take some of the drowsy mixture.’
‘Save it for someone worse hit than me. It’s only a flesh wound.’
‘Don’t be such a hero.’
‘This isn’t the first time I’ve been wounded. Jam a stick in my jaws and get on with it.’
Raul knew what to do. He cut a branch of the right thickness and gave it to Vallon and gripped his arms. ‘Wayland, you grab one leg. Drogo you take the other.’
Hero threaded a needle with gut. He clamped the edges of the wound with forceps. His hand trembled as he prepared to make the first suture. ‘I’ve not done this before. Not on a live person.’
‘Give it to me,’ Wayland said.
Raul grinned at Vallon. ‘You’ll be all right with Wayland. I once saw him stitch up his dog’s belly as dainty as you please.’
‘That’s a comforting thought.’
‘Wash your hands,’ Hero told Wayland. ‘Scrub them clean.’
Wayland washed his mitts and Hero made him rinse them in the antiseptic. ‘Sew each stitch about a finger’s width apart. That way the wound can drain.’
Wayland looked at Vallon. ‘Ready?’
Vallon clamped his teeth on the stick.
Wayland inserted the needle into the flap of muscle, pulled it through and threaded it through the opposite lip. Vallon’s abdomen cramped up and the tendons in his neck stood out. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Wayland completed the first stitch and looked at him.
‘Keep going,’ said Raul.
Twenty-one sutures were needed to sew up the wound. Vallon sobbed, rocked his head and clawed at the ground, but he didn’t call halt until the operation was finished.
‘It’s done,’ Hero said.
Vallon spat out the stick, leaned to one side and retched. His eyes were streaming, his face almost black. Gasping like a woman in labour, he arched up, stared at his navel, gave a childlike cry and fell back.
Hero applied a poultice of sphagnum moss and bandaged it with strips of linen. ‘You must avoid movement until the wound knits. No solid food until I say so.’
Vallon’s laugh terminated in a wincing cry. ‘Do I look as if I’m hungry or eager for strenuous activity?’ The blood drained from his face and his eyes flickered. ‘I think I’m going to pass out.’
Vallon woke at twilight to find Hero sitting beside him.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Sick. Sore. Like a horse had kicked me in the belly. Thirsty.’
Hero gave him some water. ‘The Vikings have accepted your conditions.’
Vallon could hear a muffled roaring. He turned and saw the trees outlined by an apocalyptic glow.
‘It’s Thorfinn’s funeral pyre,’ said Hero.
Vallon lifted a hand.
‘You mustn’t move.’
‘Prop me up.’
The Vikings had built a bonfire the size of a grave barrow and laid their leader on top of it. The blaze was at its height, the conflagration so fierce that the trees around it tossed in the updraught. Pillars of sparks whirled into the sky. Vallon shielded his eyes. Peering into the sizzling core of the pyre, he saw the shrivelled and carbonised corpse of Thorfinn Wolfbreath, last of the Vikings.
Vallon drifted up from fevered dreams. A soft cushion pressed against his cheek. After a while he worked out that it was a woman’s bosom. His gaze tracked up across the swelling fabric and made out a creamy face framed by a copper-red aura. He unstuck his lips. ‘Caitlin?’
‘Don’t talk,’ she said, sponging his brow. ‘Your body’s burning.’
Vallon found that he was buried under a pile of furs and fleeces. He was wringing with sweat and his head thumped as if it would burst. His lips made another popping sound. ‘Where’s Hero?’
‘Asleep. He was up with you all night. He’s hardly slept a wink since the fight.’
‘Which night? How many days have passed?’
‘Three. The fever came on the second night. You’ve been delirious.’ She rocked back into sharper focus.
‘You’ve cut your hair.’
Her hand went to her head. ‘It was impossible to keep clean and the weight made my head ache.’
‘I’m thirsty.’
She cradled his shoulders and placed a cup to his lips. Some of the water chugged down his throat and the rest spilled down his chin. He gasped. ‘More.’
When he’d drunk his fill, Caitlin kept hold of him, his cheek against her breast. At last she lowered him and he lay watching treetops drifting past.
‘I’m as weak as water.’
‘You’ve wasted to skin and bone.’ Caitlin’s forefinger traced the arc of his nose. ‘Beak and talon. You look like a fierce ghost.’
‘How’s my wound?’
‘It’s healing. Hero’s changed the dressing daily and he’s pleased with progress.’
False reassurance, Vallon decided. ‘Help me up.’
‘You mustn’t move.’
Vallon groped for the gunwale. ‘I want to see where we are.’
Caitlin lifted him into a sitting position. ‘The Vikings say we’re nearly at the next lake.’
Hero lay curled up in the bow, so overwhelmed by exhaustion that
it wrung Vallon’s heart. Otherwise the boat was empty. Everyone was on the banks, straining against towropes. Up ahead was the Viking longship. Everything was drained of colour. Grey trees, grey river, grey sky. Vallon had the sensation of being borne down a corridor leading into the underworld.
He sank back. ‘I don’t see Wayland and Raul.’
‘They’re scouting ahead. Drogo’s taken command until you’re healed.’
Vallon closed his eyes. Caitlin was still there when he opened them. ‘What a relief to let someone else bear the responsibility.’ He sighed. ‘People shouldn’t be frightened of dying.’
Caitlin clapped a hand over his mouth. ‘Don’t talk like that.’
‘I have to face the truth. Belly wounds don’t heal.’
‘Yes, they do. You’re not going to die. I won’t let you.’
Vallon’s bleary gaze wandered over her face. ‘You can’t be the princess. The princess wants me dead.’
Caitlin swung her head away. ‘I don’t wish ill to the man who avenged my brother’s death.’
Vallon thought about it. ‘I wasn’t avenging Helgi. I was fighting for my life.’
Caitlin turned her eyes back to him. ‘Why do you hate women?’
Vallon had no answer. Had he blurted out some diatribe in his delirium? ‘What makes you think that? I worshipped my mother, was devoted to my sister, and greeted my daughter’s birth with joy.’
‘You killed your wife.’
Vallon was forced to think about that on top of everything else. ‘I loved her, too.’
Caitlin clasped herself. ‘You hate me. I can’t blame you. I have too much pride, too much passion.’
Even in his fuddled state, Vallon thought this was a bizarre gambit.
‘I don’t hate you,’ he muttered. He wanted to sink back into his addled dreams.
‘You said I had an arse as big as a pony’s.’
A picture of Caitlin bathing in the volcanic pool flashed into Vallon’s mind. Her white breasts above the chemical blue water, her dark red hair belled out on the surface. He laughed at the memory and then broke off clutching his stomach and spewed out the water he’d just drunk.
Caitlin mopped his face, ignoring the stains on her dress. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have raised the subject.’
Vallon retched again. ‘I’m sorry, too. Can we save this conversation for another day?’
A couple of miles upriver, Raul was in a distracted frame of mind. ‘I know Vallon’s wound don’t look too bad, but I’ve seen a dozen men get cut in the belly no worse than him and I can’t mind but two that didn’t die of it.’
‘Give it a rest,’ Wayland muttered. Earlier, Raul’s chatter had spooked three black grouse the size of geese that racketed away through the treetops before Wayland could draw on them.
They went on, treading a silvery carpet of lichen. A large owl the same colour as the reindeer moss perched tight against the bole of a fir, one citron eye fixed in a conspiratorial wink. Wayland kept its secret and went on, combing the trees for prey. He hadn’t killed game for two days and if he didn’t find food today the falcons would go hungry for the first time since he’d captured them. His thoughts were drifting between Vallon’s sickness and his own worries when he stopped as if a chasm had opened at his feet. Twice they’d cut the trails of reindeer herders, but those tracks had been old. This one was recent.
Wayland examined the moist droppings and the nibbled branches.
‘Looks fresh,’ Raul said.
Wayland rose from one knee. ‘Two groups travelled this path. The first passed a few days ago. The second came through yesterday.’
He spied through the trees some kind of rudimentary architecture that turned out to be three conical tent frames made of spruce poles about twelve feet high. Inside each structure was a bed of ashes ringed by smoke-blackened stones. Wayland dug a hand into the embers. ‘Still warm. They left early this morning.’
He criss-crossed the trail, peering like a diviner working out where to sink a well. At last he straightened up.
‘How many do you make them?’
‘At least thirty. Men and women. Old and young. They’ve got dogs with them.’ Wayland looked both ways up the trail. It followed an esker raised above the bog. ‘See that?’ he said, pointing at piles of firewood stacked beside each shelter. ‘They’re expecting more to come through. Get off the trail and sit quiet. I’ll warn the others.’
‘Ah, hell. Let’s rest here until they come up to us. They ain’t far behind.’
But Wayland was already into his stride.
‘Hey, Wayland.’
The falconer kept going, jogging backwards. Raul raised a fist and then lowered it. ‘Never mind.’
Wayland waved. ‘I won’t be long.’
He intercepted the longship a mile downriver and was soon back at the spot where he’d left Raul. The German wasn’t there and fresh tracks overlaid the Lapps’ trail. Wayland cast about and soon found what he’d been dreading. He touched the ground and raised fingers spotted with blood. Everyone watched him. He set the dog on Raul’s scent and a little way downriver it checked at a patch of churned-up ground. Here there was more blood. A lot of it, pooling in hollows gouged out by struggling feet. From this spot drag marks led to the river. Wayland went to the bank and saw that the trail continued into the forest on the other side. He looked round at the company. ‘They’ve got Raul.’
‘Is he alive?’ Hero asked.
‘He was when they took him across the river. They bound him. He killed a couple of them.’ Wayland pointed to where he’d found the first blood. ‘He shot one of them back there and then tried to flee. They caught him here and he killed another.’
Richard held a fist to his mouth. ‘What are we going to do?’
Wayland stared across the river. ‘I’ll go after them. No sense anyone else coming. If we press them too hard, they’ll kill Raul and scatter into the forest.’
‘They’ve probably killed him already,’ Drogo said. ‘We should reach Lake Onega before nightfall. We’ll wait for you there until tomorrow night. If you haven’t returned by then, I’ll assume you’re dead.’
A voice spoke from behind. ‘You’re assuming rather a lot, aren’t you?’
Vallon stood supported by Garrick. He looked like a corpse risen from the slab, his eyes flinty shards sunk in mauve sockets.
Drogo pulled himself straight. ‘I was acting in the interests of the party.’
Wayland began cladding the dog in its leather armour.
Vallon’s deathly gaze remained fixed on Drogo. ‘Give him your mail.’
Drogo stepped back in amazement. ‘Let a peasant wear my armour?’
Wayland shook his head. ‘I don’t want it. The lighter I travel, the faster I’ll catch up.’
‘You’ll catch up with a horde of Lapps who think we’re slavers.’ Vallon turned back to Drogo. ‘Lend him your armour.’
Face all knobbled, Drogo thrust the suit at Wayland. The falconer took only the hauberk with its gashed bodice crudely repaired.
‘You’ll need a sword,’ Vallon said. ‘Drogo, I won’t ask you to part with yours.’ His gaze drifted towards Tostig, one of Helgi’s men. ‘Give Wayland your sword.’
At the first peep of protest, Caitlin tore into Tostig with a fury that made him cock an elbow over his ear. He undid his sword belt and Wayland strapped it on.
‘What’s your plan?’ Vallon asked.
‘Trade for Raul’s life.’
Vallon snapped his fingers. ‘Arne, you’ve dealt with the Lapps. What do you think would be sufficient restitution?’
‘Iron and colourful cloth are the goods they desire most. Iron above all. A knife, an axe and two yards of linen might be enough.’
A scurry of activity produced the reparation. Wayland packed the goods in his back-pack together with bread and fish. He held Syth by both hands, then he crossed the river and soon was lost among the trees.
A child could have followed the Lapps’ trail. They were moving fast, a dozen men dragging Raul, pulling him this way and that as he struggled against his bonds. The clouded sky offered few clues as to time or direction. Wayland judged that twilight wasn’t far off and that the Lapps were heading east. They kept to the winding ridge and he guessed he’d run about six miles when the dog stopped and tested the air. Wayland assumed that the Lapps would have posted men to watch for pursuit and he was hoping to initiate negotiations with this rearguard, rather than coming up on the main party. From the way the dog growled and cast fierce looks to each side, Wayland knew that they were watching him and that some of them had fallen in behind.
He went on. The light was beginning to fail when the forest opened out into a natural avenue. At the far end of the corridor, two spruce trees had been bent over and anchored by ropes to form an arch. From the apex hung a dark bundle. It was Raul, suspended twenty feet above the ground, tied between the trees by his arms and legs.