‘I hit him,’ he said. ‘The arrow must have gone straight through his arm.’
The wounded nomad retired beyond range and his associates rode back to him and convened in a huddle.
‘What will they do now?’
Wayland wiped his mouth. ‘They’ve got us pinned down. They won’t be so rash next time.’
The nomads separated, the wounded one cantering away to the west.
‘He’s going to fetch reinforcements,’ Wayland said.
The two remaining nomads retired beyond range. The wounded horse had ceased thrashing and stood in a posture of abject misery, a barb buried in its hindquarters.
Wayland checked the sun. Past noon. The day would be well advanced before reinforcements showed up, but night wouldn’t bring a reprieve. The steppe ahead stretched flat as a rule.
Their dire situation wasn’t lost on Syth. ‘We can’t just lie here.’
‘That’s exactly what we have to do. Patience might be our best weapon.’
They lay in the bushes while the sun slid down the sky. He reasoned that while some nomads might be fabulous archers, able to bring down a goose in flight, he’d learned his skills in a far harder school than his two besiegers had known. They’d trained in sport and the occasional skirmish, while he’d depended on his bow for daily survival.
Inaction went contrary to the nomads’ instincts. They faced two opponents, one of them a woman, and perhaps they anticipated the jeers of their companions when they rode up to finish the job. They began making sallies, shooting from long range and then retiring. The wounded horse was hit again and moaned and lay on its side. Wayland took cover behind it and lobbed a few arrows aimed well short of his attackers. Syth wormed up to him.
‘What’s wrong? I’ve seen you hit more difficult targets at longer range.’
‘Unless I can be sure of a kill, I don’t want them to know I’m a match for them. It would only drive them back. Let them grow in confidence and move closer. Until then, they can waste their arrows.’
The nomads kept their distance, riding in to a range of about two hundred yards before shooting. Wayland waited. The enemy didn’t have swords and he didn’t think they’d risk close quarters combat.
An arrow buried itself in the earth a few inches in front of Syth’s face. ‘Wayland, if we don’t do something soon, we’ll end up facing a pack of them.’
He checked the sun again. How quickly it sank at this season. He calculated that the nomads had half emptied their quivers. He still had eighteen arrows left and Syth had a full quiver. He studied the western horizon for riders. It wouldn’t be long now.
He stood and held his bow above his head. The nomads stared in puzzlement. He mimed shooting an arrow, jabbed his chest and then pointed at his attackers.
Syth pulled at his leg. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Challenging them to an archery contest.’
‘What if they kill you?’
‘They won’t. One’s a boy who’s yet to develop his bow arm. The other’s an indifferent shot, but doesn’t know it. He must think my bow’s a crude weapon compared to his.’
He descended the mound and advanced towards the nomads, the sun throwing his shadow towards them. The youngster whooped and gathered his horse for a charge. His companion called him back. They watched as Wayland closed the gap. When he was about three hundred yards away, he stopped and spread his arms, inviting them to shoot.
The older of the nomads recognised the challenge and seemed to understand the rules from the start. He dismounted, handing his reins to his companion. He reduced the range by about fifty yards, drew and loosed without appearing to aim. His arrow flew in a flat trajectory and dived into the ground forty yards in front of Wayland. He reached for another arrow and would have shot again, but Wayland shook his hand and pointed at himself. My turn.
He guessed that the draw weight of his opponent’s bow was less than fifty pounds, half that of his own weapon. He selected his lightest arrow for maximum range. In conditions as calm as these, he could shoot it more than three hundred yards. He had the sun directly behind him and he lofted his arrow high, saw the nomad throw back his head to follow its flight and jerk round as it pitched not far behind him. ‘Beat that,’ said Wayland. He advanced ten paces and spread his arms again.
Again the nomad’s arrow fell short. Wayland maintained his distance and his answering shot lobbed down almost at his opponent’s feet. The boy called on his companion to abandon the contest, pointing west to indicate that reinforcements would soon be here.
Wayland’s opponent waved the boy away. He puffed out his cheeks and reached for his next arrow, committed to playing out the lethal game.
Twice more they exchanged shots, the range now down to less
than two hundred yards. As the nomad drew for the fifth time, Syth yelled.
‘They’re coming!’
Wayland looked behind and saw four dark nicks about two miles away. He stood his ground. His opponent shot again, his arrow almost parting Wayland’s hair.
The boy shouted, jabbing towards the riders. His companion – brother, cousin – looked towards the advancing force, then turned back to face the last shot and spread his arms. Wayland nocked his heaviest arrow and gauged distance and windage – a good one hundred and eighty yards, the lightest of cross breezes. He rocked back and forth, concentrating his mind, before leaning away from the bow until he was almost in a sitting position, his arrow drawn back to his ear and pointing at space. He held it anchored for a moment before loosing. The moment he let slip, he knew he’d never made a truer shot. He watched the arrow race into the sky and curve into its descent. Blinded by the sun, the nomad peered up through splayed fingers. He never saw the arrow meet its mark. He dropped as if poleaxed, transfixed through the vitals from shoulder to waist. His companion wailed and rode towards him and Wayland sprinted to close the distance for another killing shot. If he could grab one of the horses, he and Syth might still reach the river before the nomads.
The boy realised his intention and veered away, dragging the dead man’s horse behind him. Wayland ran back to Syth, untied their surviving horse, mounted and hauled Syth up behind him. The reinforcements were not much more than a mile in arrears, close enough for their wild ululations to carry across the steppe.
He kicked his horse into a gallop, but with so much weight to carry, it soon slowed to a labouring canter. The young nomad kept pace on their flank, well out of range. He had his hands full with the dead man’s horse and contented himself with screamed imprecations that Wayland understood to be promises of the cruel death he would suffer when his kinsmen caught up.
As they surely would. They were gaining with every stride. Wayland slapped Syth’s thigh. ‘You take the horse and I’ll try to hold them back.’
She pummelled his shoulder. ‘You can’t!’
She was right. ‘In that case, give yourself up,’ he said. ‘They won’t kill you.’
‘Leave you?’
Wayland hauled the horse to a stop. ‘Yes. Get down. Hold up your hands and they’ll show mercy.’
‘Never!’ She whacked him around the head. ‘If you die, we both die.’
No more time to argue. The nomads were so close that Wayland could hear their hoofbeats. He breasted a rise and the river sprang into view, a cordon of horsemen directly in front of them.
‘More of them!’ Syth shouted.
‘No, it’s Vallon!’
Seven riders cantered towards them in line abreast. Wayland screamed and lashed his foundering horse, his frantic efforts communicating to the approaching riders. They broke into a gallop and were as close to the fugitives as the nomads were when they poured over the ridge. Vallon drew his sword and his force bunched in a charge. Nine against five, one of them a stripling who’d seen two of his companions laid low by the foreign archer. The nomads scattered to a safe distance and the rescue party rode up.
Vallon halted, shaking his head. ‘You two cut it fine. Losing the falcons is bad enough, but if we’d lost you …’
‘We caught the haggard,’ Syth cried.
Wayland patted the wicker cage. ‘It’s true.’
Vallon stared. ‘Tell us your story back at camp.’ His raking glance took in the nomads. ‘Do they pose any danger?’
‘They’re good archers,’ Wayland said, ‘but they’re not soldiers. They don’t carry swords. I think they’re shepherds.’
Vallon nodded. ‘Draw back in close order,’ he called. ‘Don’t engage unless they attack.’
The nomads shadowed them all the way to the camp. The sun had set and the sky was acid blue marbled with smoky cloud bands. Vallon rode through the terrified Russian conscripts and cocked a finger. ‘Drogo.’
The Norman affected nonchalance, approaching at a saunter, Fulk beside him with his hand on his sword.
Vallon looked down. ‘Wayland says you released the falcons.’
‘He’s a liar. Do you value the word of a peasant above mine?’
‘In Wayland’s case, yes. You swore not to put our venture in jeopardy.’
‘I haven’t. Give me proof to the contrary.’
‘Only you have a motive for releasing the falcons. Without them we won’t be able to redeem your brother.’ He jerked his head. ‘Wayland, repeat your charge. Drogo, the judgement won’t be mine. I’ll let a jury decide.’
Drogo spat. ‘Kept men.’
Vallon leaned down. ‘And what are you?’
Drogo’s mouth twisted in a snarl. ‘If you’re so sure of Wayland’s accusation, test it in a trial by combat.’
‘You released the falcons at night like a thief. I won’t dignify such treachery with a trial of arms.’
‘Because you know I’d defeat you.’
Vallon switched his gaze to Wayland. ‘Repeat your charge.’
Drogo walked up to Wayland. ‘Be careful before hurling baseless accusations. Consider your own interests before hurting mine.’
Vallon waved a hand. ‘Wayland, speak up.’
Everyone had gathered to watch the trial. Wayland looked about with a hunted air. ‘I can’t be certain it was Drogo.’
Vallon wheeled in astonishment. ‘You had no doubts when you discovered the loss.’
‘My emotions were at a high pitch. I lashed out without any solid proof.’
Vallon dismounted. ‘What are you saying? That the loss was due to your own negligence.’
‘I was tired when I put the falcons to bed.’
Vallon’s eyes narrowed to slivers. ‘Wayland, I’ve seen you sick and exhausted, but no matter how feeble your state, I’ve never known you to neglect the falcons.’
‘Perhaps Syth forgot to latch the cages.’
Her eyes bolted wide. ‘Wayland!’
Vallon stepped up to him. ‘So now you lay the blame on your faithful helpmate.’ He jabbed Wayland in the chest hard enough to rock him on his heels. ‘You should be ashamed.’ He stepped back, jaw thrust out. ‘Drogo, if another falcon goes missing or dies in suspicious circumstances, I won’t wait for anyone else to lay the blame. I’ll hold
you responsible and here’s my sentence in advance. I’ll deal with you as you treated the falcons, casting off you and Fulk to prey at fortune in the wilderness.’
With a savage glance at Wayland, he strode away.
Syth clutched Wayland’s elbow. ‘How could you? You know it wasn’t me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘But why?’ She pounded his chest. ‘Why?’
Wayland moaned. ‘I had to withdraw my charge. Drogo knows something that could put my own position in peril.’
‘What is it?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘But you promised to tell me everything.’
‘And I did. All but one thing.’ He started forward. ‘Syth, come back. Please hear me.’
She’d gone and night had fallen. The white haggard’s bells jingled in her cage and out on the steppe the nomads keened for their lost son.
On they went, the river flowing so wide and slow that it seemed as if they were motionless and it was the land that was moving. Two days after the skirmish, Kolzak pointed out a flock of vultures wheeling above a bluff on the eastern shore. Igor turned and relayed the warning.
‘A Russian family farms up there,’ Hero told Vallon. ‘The pilots think something’s happened to them.’
‘Tell them to land.’
The pilots pulled in and the Rus soldiers disembarked with great trepidation and set off up a dirt track, stumbling along in bast sandals tied with coarse hemp cords. A raw breeze carried the smell of ashes and the taint of carrion. The house had been burned down to its mud walls. As they approached, a steppe fox careered off and three vultures trotted away from a half-eaten cow before getting airborne.
A family of five had lived here, said the pilots. Wayland found what remained of the man in a plot of buckwheat stubble. There was no trace of his wife and their three children.
‘The Cumans haven’t been gone long,’ he said. ‘Four days at most.’
Vallon looked at the steppe undulating in shallow folds towards the horizon. No other dwellings in sight. Not even a tree to give a sense of scale. The grasses tossed in the wind.
‘Why did they settle in such a dangerous place?’
‘The soil is rich black loam. The Cumans haven’t been this far north for some years. They took a chance and lost.’
The emptiness gave the Russians the jitters. They fairly ran back to the ships, leaving the smallholder unburied. Vallon and Wayland remained a little longer, listening to the wind in the grass, watching cloud shadows sail across the steppe. They imagined the farmer looking up from some everyday task to see the mounted warriors mustering on the skyline.
Vallon hunched his shoulders. ‘Let’s go.’
The Dnieper flowed on with unbroken calm, then the left bank began to rise and the current quickened as the river narrowed between cliffs. Since leaving Kiev they had been heading south-east. Now the river swung due south and the voyagers saw that it disappeared through a cleft in a plateau about five miles downstream.
‘
Porohi
,’ Igor shouted, pointing at the gap. ‘Rapids.’
The sun hadn’t reached full height when the pilots cut short the day’s journey at a grassy island below a tributary. No point going further today, Kolzak said. They were only a few miles above the first rapid. With the days now much shorter than the nights, it would take two days to get past all nine of them. If they started at first light tomorrow, they should be through the first five by sundown.