Hawk Quest (78 page)

Vallon chortled. ‘A useful lesson. If a shrub can scare the wits out of us, imagine the terror the Cumans will feel when armed phantoms appear in their camp.’

He led them in a half-circle and reined in about quarter of a mile behind the headland. ‘No need to sneak up on them. They’ll assume that we’re fellow Cumans. Don’t answer if they hail us. Don’t draw your swords until we’re within striking distance. Slaughter them without mercy. None must escape.’

Wordless nods. Vallon put his horse forward. They rode up towards the headland, its rim outlined by a gauzy film of stars.

‘I see their horses,’ Wulfstan hissed.

Vallon bent low, squinting along the skyline. ‘Got them.’ He felt for his sword.

They urged their mounts into a canter. The horse shapes became clearer.

Drogo leaned towards Vallon. ‘Where are the riders?’

‘They’re close. Keep going.’

The horses had heard the raiders and turned their heads. One of them snorted. A pyramidal arrangement beside them shaped itself into three lances propped together.

‘There they are,’ said Fulk. ‘On the top to the right of the horses.’

Vallon made out figures crouching along the crest. ‘Mend the line. I’ll take the one on the left.’

The Cumans had seen them. One of them stood and waved excitedly before turning back. When Vallon swung out of the saddle, they were still absorbed by whatever drama was playing out down on the river. The one Vallon had targeted chuckled and squeezed his neighbour’s arm. Vallon cut off his chuckle along with his head. Drogo slew the second a heartbeat later. The third was beginning to turn when three simultaneous blows sheared away his life.

Vallon wasted no time on the slain men. He dropped to his haunches and scanned the black mirrored surface. It was empty. His gaze darted upstream.

Drogo laughed and barged against him. ‘Well, they died happy.’

Vallon backhanded him across the chest. ‘That’s why.’

One of the galleys lay on its side two thirds of the way down the Serpent. The rest of the fleet were quartering below the rapid, searching for survivors.

Drogo clutched his head. ‘Ah, no!’

Vallon broke the silence. ‘Tostig, Olaf, ride downriver and warn us if any riders approach.’

The search didn’t last long. Anyone on the galley who couldn’t swim would have drowned. The vessels came together and then drew into line and began to move downriver. Vallon raised his head. The stars in the east were dimming, black thinning to grey.

‘It’s going to be close,’ said Drogo.

Vallon picked up the head of the man he’d killed and studied its frozen countenance. Bold features framed by black plaits hanging behind the ears. The head wore a conical felt hat with a fur brim. Vallon removed it and put it on before tossing the head into the gorge. The man had been carrying a bow, quiver and round wicker shield. An iron-headed mace lay close to hand. Vallon removed the bow. It was of composite construction, the tips no more than four feet apart and curved forward for extra drawing power. He slung bow, quiver and shield over his back, then rolled the body after the head.

‘Strip the others and wear their weapons. In the dark the Cumans won’t look at us twice. Don’t forget the lances.’

‘My mount’s lame,’ said Wulfstan. ‘Do you think I could ride one of the nomads’ horses?’

‘You can try. You’ll find them more fiery than the nags you’re used to riding.’

The convoy had drawn level with the headland. A figure waved from one of the boats. Vallon raised an arm. ‘That’s Wayland.’

Wulfstan swore. One of the nomads’ horses galloped away. Vallon ran over. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

‘Bastard bit me,’ Wulfstan said, flexing his forearm. He was still holding on to the other two horses.

Even in the dark Vallon could see that they were superior to their own mounts. ‘Take the other one,’ he told Drogo. He handed him two lances. ‘You and Fulk know how to use these.’

They portioned out the weapons and moved off, keeping well back from the gorge. It was still too dark for the riders to see with any certainty the furthermost of their own company. The steppe began to descend. They dropped into a swale and moments later a battery of hooves hammered past to their right.

‘Control your horse,’ Vallon hissed at Wulfstan.

The Viking turned circles on his grinning mount. ‘Frisky, ain’t he?’

The hoofbeats faded. Vallon waved the raiders on. They rode up out of the swale and halted again. Two blocks of campfires marked the position of the ford. Twenty or more fires on this side of the river, half a dozen on the opposite bank. Vallon could see figures moving like termites among the flames.

He levelled his sword. ‘See that spit of land below the ford. That’s where we’ll rally after our charge. Let’s draw closer.’

They rode to within quarter of a mile of the fires. The end of the gorge lay a furlong to their left. Grey light was beginning to steal over the steppe, leaving pockets of darkness in the hollows. Tostig’s teeth rattled.

‘You won’t be scared when we get stuck into them,’ Wulfstan said.

The Icelander bridled. ‘I’m not frightened. I’m cold.’

Wulfstan laughed. ‘Not for long.’

‘Attack the archers on the bank,’ Vallon said. ‘Form a wedge behind me. Hit like a hammer, not a shower of hail. No drawn-out engagements. Strike and ride on.’

Another group of Cumans galloped into the camp to cries and countercries.

‘Hear that?’ said Vallon. ‘As far as they’re concerned, we’re just another pack of wolves arriving for the feast.’

They waited. A sulphurous thread began to unravel along the eastern horizon.

Fulk kneed his horse alongside Vallon. ‘What do we do if they don’t come through until daylight?’

‘We’ll attack anyway. It might still save the convoy.’

Wulfstan spat. ‘Ain’t nothing else we can do. It ain’t like there’s anywhere to run. Nearest Russian garrison must be a week’s ride off.’

Vallon smiled. ‘You remind me of Raul.’

Wulfstan sniffed. ‘Raul was all right. For a German.’

They fell silent, willing the convoy to appear.

Drogo slapped the flat of his sword across his thigh. ‘Blow, damn you.’

As if in answer, the Viking horns brayed. Shouts rose from the ambushers and their own trumpets blared.

Vallon hoisted his lance. ‘Advance.’

Semi-darkness still cloaked the steppe and to the nomads among their fires it must have seemed darker still. Vallon cantered into the attack. They reached the Cumans’ lines. Everyone was hurrying towards the riverbank. Faces loomed out of the dawn. Someone shouted at them.

They were in the thick of the enemy. A nomad galloped past standing in his stirrups, reins hanging loose, left hand gripping his bow with an arrow loosely fitted and four more held in his fingers. Another two between his teeth. He moved as gracefully as a centaur.

‘Here come the ships,’ said Vallon.

The galley nosed around the bend and the first volley of arrows lofted up with the sound of tearing cloth. Vallon rowelled his horse into a gallop. The riverbank was ahead, dozens of archers spaced along the water’s edge. More warriors kept riding up and throwing themselves off their horses, as agile as tumblers. He saw an officer directing the bowmen and levelled his lance. A rider cut in front, forcing him to raise the lance. As he aimed it again, the officer turned and saw him. He looked away, dismissing Vallon as just another Cuman galloping to join the action. When he next looked, the point of the lance was only feet from his chest. He was trying to raise his shield when the iron leaf struck, somersaulting him over the back of his horse. The shaft broke in Vallon’s hand. He dropped it and drew his sword. He galloped down the line of archers, reaping death left and right. He must have killed or disabled six of the bowmen before reaching the end of the line.

He hauled in his mount. Four riders galloped up to him.

‘Who’s missing?’

‘Tostig,’ Drogo panted. ‘I saw him go down.’

The convoy was halfway past the ford. The din of drums and trumpets blotted out the cries of alarm. It was still too dark to separate friend from foe and most of the Cumans had no idea that the enemy was among them. Along the riverbank the archers milled in confusion.

Vallon waved his sword. ‘One more pass.’

He hacked his way back into the fray, striking whatever targets presented themselves. A horseman crossed his path and he chopped off his jaw. A man on foot raised a sword and he sliced through his skull. The trumpets sounded a shrill note and the Cumans raced to collect their horses. One rider already in the saddle engaged him head on. One, two, three parries and his opponent slumped dead off his mount. The Cumans had realised they’d been attacked from behind and were beginning to organise. From the corner of his eye Vallon saw half a dozen nomads dragging Olaf to the ground. An arrow struck the back of his shield an inch from his hand. Another archer aimed point blank at Drogo and then dropped his bow and felt for the arrow in his chest. He swayed back and forth, as if he weren’t sure which way to fall.

Vallon fended off another attacker. The Cumans were closing around him. ‘We can’t do any more! Withdraw!’

As he dragged his horse round, Fulk grunted and pitched forward in his saddle.

Vallon galloped clear. The headland was empty and most of the convoy had passed it. The skiff was waiting about fifty yards from the bank and one of the boats hung in mid-channel behind it. Two men were kneeling in the skiff. What were they playing at? They were too far out to reach and the skiff was too small to carry all the raiders. He glanced back and saw Wulfstan whipping his horse. Behind him Drogo rode alongside Fulk, propping him in the saddle. A knot of screaming Cumans raced in pursuit.

Vallon drove his horse into the river. It stopped dead, throwing him over its neck. He found his feet and plunged towards the skiff. Wayland stood swinging an oar tied to a rope. He launched it.

‘I daren’t come any closer. The boat will pull us clear.’

Vallon ploughed through the water, grunting with effort. It was above his waist when Wulfstan surged past and grabbed him by the hair. Vallon beat at his arm. ‘Save yourself. I’ll wait for the Normans.’

He turned and saw Drogo leap off his horse and run into the river. Fulk remained mounted and at bay, fighting a rearguard action against half a dozen Cumans. Drogo stopped and looked back.

‘Fulk, come on!’

‘He’s finished!’ Vallon yelled.

He backed deeper into the river. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Wulfstan swimming towards the skiff. Wayland shouted and pointed
at the oar. It was only a few yards behind Vallon. He struggled towards it. The river was up to his neck when his hand made contact. An arrow struck the surface beside him.

He threw an arm over the oar and spat water. Drogo floundered towards him. Fulk still remained in the saddle, wafting his sword while the Cumans hacked him to pieces. A lancer speared him in the chest with enough force to punch the blade out through his back. Some of the Cumans drove their horses into the river and archers ran up and loosed arrows from hip level. One of the projectiles nicked Vallon’s shoulder.

Wayland dragged on the rope.

‘Not yet!’ Vallon shouted.

The current was pulling him out of his depth. Drogo wore armour and if he didn’t reach him soon, he was doomed. He lost his footing, went under and surfaced choking.

‘Leave him!’ Wayland shouted.

Vallon glanced behind. ‘We didn’t leave you!’

He faced Drogo and stretched out as far as he could. ‘Take my hand.’

Drogo’s face contorted with effort as he lunged forwards. Their hands made contact and they locked fingers like comrades sealing an oath.

‘Pull!’ Vallon shouted.

Wayland and the other man began to drag them towards the skiff. Arrows spat and popped in the water around them. Vallon reached the skiff and crooked an arm over the side. Wayland dropped flat, gripping him by the scruff. ‘You’ll sink us if you board. Hang on until the boat pulls us out of range.’

Yard by yard the crew drew them clear. Vallon was stupefied with cold when hands reached down and dragged him over the side. He flopped face down. Someone rubbed his limbs. He rolled over and saw several child slaves staring at him. Wayland’s face loomed.

‘You’re wounded.’

Vallon felt the warm leakage of blood from his shoulder. ‘A scratch. Help me up.’

He stood swaying, his underjaw twitching in a seizure cold. ‘Syth safe?’

‘She is, thank God.’

Valloon staggered round and almost tripped over the body of a slave girl lying with two arrows in her back. Hero sat in the stern, partly obscured by one of the Vikings. He seemed to be grinning but when Vallon lurched closer he saw from his expression that something awful had happened.

‘Richard is hit,’ he said. ‘It’s bad.’

XLIV

Hero held Richard slumped against him. Vallon barged the slaves aside to reach them. Richard breathed in shallow gasps, holding the left side of his chest. Hero gently moved him to show Vallon the arrow in his back. It had struck close to the spine and buried itself to within a few inches of its fletching. Vallon lifted Richard’s hand away from his ribcage. The arrowhead hadn’t come out the other side. Vallon cupped Richard’s chin to examine his face. His pupils were dilated and bloody sputum leaked from his mouth.

Vallon kneaded his eyes with his fingers, then looked at Hero. Words weren’t necessary. Both of them knew the wound was mortal.

‘We have to land,’ Hero said. ‘The sooner I operate, the better his chances.’

Vallon glanced at the nomads galloping against the paling sky. ‘We can’t put ashore until we’re clear of the Cumans.’

‘I can’t treat Richard on the boat. We’ll be safe on St Gregory’s Island. The nomads can’t reach it without boats.’

Its rocky snout was in sight ahead of them, the galley working down the left channel. One of the slaves shrieked and pointed at the river. Two of their companions floated on the surface with their limbs spread like stars and their white hair trailing.

‘Whose galley was wrecked?’ Vallon said.