‘Igor’s. We didn’t find his body. We saved these four and the other boat picked up two more and one of the Russians. Everyone else drowned.’
‘Who else died at the ford?’ Vallon asked, and then grimaced.
‘Caitlin’s maid and one of the Vikings on the other boat. I don’t
know how many died on the galley.’ Hero noticed Vallon’s bleeding shoulder. ‘Let me look at that.’
‘Later. Deal with Richard first.’
Wayland draped a blanket over Vallon’s shoulders. ‘You’d better get out of those wet clothes.’
The sun rose, stencilling the Cumans on a thin wash of vermilion. They were still following when the convoy approached the end of the island. Beyond it the Dnieper widened between steppeland stretching away without limits. Richard was breathing very fast, each shallow intake accompanied by a sob of pain.
Vallon returned in dry clothes.
‘This is our last chance to land,’ Hero said.
‘If we stop, the galley will go on without us,’ Drogo said.
‘Richard’s your brother!’
‘And Fulk was my closest comrade. I couldn’t save him and you can’t save Richard.’
Hero made a last appeal to Vallon. ‘Please. I’m begging you.’
Vallon stood shivering, supporting himself on the empty horse stall. Wulfstan and the other Vikings watched him from the other boat, their oars resting.
‘Row for the island,’ he said. ‘Tell Kolzak to wait while we treat a wounded man.’
They propped Richard against a giant oak that had given shade to the first Vikings to travel the Road to the Greeks. Deals had been struck under it, treaties signed and broken, sacrifices offered. From here one of the early Rus rulers had launched a thousand ships against Constantinople. Here Grand Prince Sviatoslav had stayed one winter before the Pechenegs killed him and mounted his skull with gold and drank fermented mare’s milk from his brain pan.
The Vikings stood around, shaking their heads in grim finality as Hero cut away Richard’s tunic. The arrow had struck at a shallow angle, entering between the third and fourth ribs and penetrating the left lung. It would have flown right through him if the head hadn’t struck the ribs on the other side, below the left armpit. A contusion showed where the arrowhead was buried. Hero led Vallon out of Richard’s earshot.
‘The point’s below the ribs. I think I can get it out.’
‘How? The arrow’s barbed.’
‘I have an instrument designed for removing barbs, but in this case the arrow’s too deep to draw without inflicting mortal damage.’
‘There’s only one method of dealing with a wound like that. Saw off the arrow close to the entry point and hammer the head through the ribs. Brutal, but I’ve seen it work.’
‘The shaft will break. Either that or the head will sever a major blood vessel. No, I have to cut it out.’
‘Hero, Richard’s almost certain to die whatever you do. Let’s direct our efforts at making his last hours as painless as possible.’
Kolzak yelled and pointed at the Cumans. They were separating, one group riding back to the ford, the other heading south, red dust trailing in their wake. ‘It’s too dangerous to remain here.’
‘Wait until I’ve treated Richard,’ Hero shouted.
‘You’re not the only ones with wounded men. We have to leave before the nomads set another ambush.’
Ignoring Hero’s pleas, the galley began to draw away, Kolzak shouting and pointing downriver.
‘What’s he saying?’ Vallon demanded.
‘If we don’t catch them up, they’ll wait for us at the estuary.’
‘No, they won’t,’ Drogo said. ‘Kolzak’s already lost his brother and half the slaves.’
Vallon spun towards the Vikings. ‘Wulfstan, stop them. Use force if necessary.’
Wulfstan’s gaze latched onto his, and Vallon knew what would happen next and could do nothing to prevent it. Wulfstan ran towards his boat. ‘Follow me, lads. There’s our booty getting away.’
The Vikings sprinted to the riverbank and shoved the boat out. Everything unravelled. Drogo grabbed Caitlin and dragged her after the Vikings. ‘Wait for me!’
The Vikings hesitated. Drogo reached the river and plunged in, towing Caitlin behind him. She broke free and Drogo lunged for her. He managed to seize one arm. With the other she whacked him across the face, knocking him backwards. She thrashed back to shore and Vallon caught her and held her while he aimed his sword at Drogo.
‘Go with the Vikings.’
Drogo turned, but it was too late. The Vikings were rowing after the galley like maniacs, and from the way the Russians redoubled their
own efforts, it was clear they knew what fate awaited them if the pirates caught up. Vallon watched the Vikings overhaul the galley and storm aboard, hacking aside the feeble opposition. One of the conscripts toppled into the river and the Viking warhorn blew.
Wulfstan ran to the stern and cupped his hands to his mouth.
Vallon strained to hear him. ‘What’s that?’
Wayland stood beside him, his bow trained on Drogo. ‘He says it’s nothing personal.’
Vallon watched the galley draw away downriver. Drogo watched it, too, and then shook his head and began trudging to shore.
Wayland glanced at Vallon, waiting for the command to shoot. But right now, Drogo was the least of their worries. Without a sea-going ship, they were done for even if they reached the estuary.
Drogo stopped and managed a sick grin. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Vallon. You’d have done the same.’
‘Kill him,’ Caitlin whispered.
Vallon reached for Wayland’s bow and moved it aside. ‘I’ve seen enough death for one day. Now it’s time to look out for the living.’
Richard was breathing as if he’d run a mile, each intake accompanied by a mew of pain. He was still propped against the oak. In any other position, he couldn’t breathe at all and his heart went into alarming palpitations.
Hero stroked his face. ‘Can you hear me?’
Richard opened glazed eyes. ‘I feel like I’m drowning. And it hurts. God, it hurts.’
‘The arrowhead’s behind your ribs. Just here. Will you let me remove it?’
‘Will it make any difference?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ll give me some of your drowsy potion.’
‘Enough to dull the pain. Your heart is stressed and your lung is full of blood. If I send you to sleep, you might not wake up.’
Richard whimpered.
‘To reach the arrowhead I’ll have to make a cut about an inch deep.’
Richard’s face contorted. ‘Do what you have to. It can’t hurt any worse.’
Hero laid out his instruments. Caitlin heated water on a fire. When everything was ready, Hero gave Richard a spoonful of the drowsy mixture. He coughed it up together with a cupful of blood. Drogo stood watching in a baleful trance. ‘Lend a hand.’
Hero selected a scalpel and knelt at Richard’s side. Vallon gripped Richard’s shoulders. Syth lifted his left arm as if it were a broken wing. Drogo held his brother’s legs.
Hero didn’t know in which plane the arrowhead was lying. His hand trembled as he laid the blade against the skin. He had to be decisive. His hand steadied. He cut down hard and made an oblique incision centred on the middle of the bruise. He felt the blade nick bone. Blood sprang. Richard’s body bucked.
Hero held out a hand. ‘Water.’
Caitlin passed him a cloth soaked in cold river water. He applied it repeatedly, but the blood kept welling.
‘Another.’
At last the bleeding almost stopped. Hero pulled apart the lips of the incision, sponged it and saw the gleam of a rib before blood covered it again. He did this several times and then looked up.
‘There’s a fracture in the rib. The arrowhead must be directly behind it.’
‘Can you see the head?’
‘No. I’ll have to probe for it.’
He inserted the tip of the scalpel between the ribs to the left of the fracture and drew the blade to the right. He hadn’t cut deep enough and he had to make a second attempt. Blood covered his hands. This time he felt resistance.
‘I think I’ve found it.’
He made another probe, this time from right to left until the blade stopped. He felt a leap of hope.
‘The head’s jammed between the ribs.’
‘How will you reach it?’
‘I’ll have to prise the ribs apart.’
Vallon winced. ‘The pain will be unbearable. Let me try working it through from the other end.’
‘Be careful. The shaft is in the lung. It will snap if you push too hard.’
Vallon gripped the arrow close to the entry wound and pushed,
gently at first, then with increasing force. Richard cried out like a beast under torture.
‘It’s not moving.’
Hero washed away the blood. ‘Try twisting slightly.’
Richard uttered another pitiful cry.
‘I think it’s coming,’ said Hero. ‘Keep twisting. The edges of the arrowhead are probably bent over.’
Vallon sat back. ‘Damn!’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The shaft’s come loose of the head. I can turn it freely.’
‘Don’t move it any more,’ said Hero. He drenched the incision and saw a tongue of iron protruding between the ribs. ‘Part of it’s through. Enough to get purchase on. I’ll have to make another cut.’
He made the second incision parallel to the ribs. He wiped sweat from his eyes and selected a pair of forceps. He cleaned the cuts again, clamped the hooks on the point and pulled. The pincers slipped off. He tried half a dozen times but couldn’t get a proper grip. With each tug, Richard screamed.
‘I can’t get a firm purchase.’
Vallon held out his hand. ‘Let me try.’
Hero held apart the wound to reveal the iron point. He sluiced blood away to let Vallon align the forceps.
‘I’ve got it,’ said Vallon. His jaw trembled with effort. He pulled and Richard shrieked. He pulled so hard that he tumbled backwards when the forceps slipped. ‘I felt it shift.’
When Hero inspected the wound, half the arrowhead was clear of the ribs.
‘Oh God!’ Richard cried. ‘Let me die!’
Hero mopped Richard’s brow. ‘It’s nearly out. One more effort.’
Vallon clamped the forceps again and this time he tore the arrowhead out, ripping through muscle and blood vessels. Arterial blood spurted and it seemed like Richard’s life essence would drain completely before the cold-water dressings staunched the flow. He’d fallen unconscious and his heart fluttered like a bird’s. Vallon withdrew the shaft from his back and another spout of blood gushed and ebbed. Hero turned the buckled arrowhead in his hands.
‘You’re a braver man than me,’ Vallon said. ‘And so is Richard.’
*
They were back on the river when Richard recovered consciousness. He breathed a little easier and could drink water one sip at a time. They camped that night on another island and took it in turns to support him in the position that caused him the least severe pain. In the morning the Cumans had gone. Hero changed the dressing on Richard’s wound. He’d left it open so that it could drain. In the dull light, Richard had the pallor of a corpse two days dead, his dark eyes sunk in his skull.
They drifted through empty steppe. The next day Richard was able to take a cup of broth. The surgical wound hurt him less than the internal pain. At each breath, it felt like a stitch was being pulled tight inside his lung. Cupping the wound afforded some relief, allowing him snatches of sleep. After three days Hero dared to hope of recovery. Morning, evening and night he changed the dressing. There was some suppuration, but that was to be expected, and the lips of the wound were beginning to granulate.
Hero’s fragile hopes were crushed on the fourth day, when the cupping treatment produced a copious effusion of foul-smelling pus. By evening Richard had a high fever and was delirious. The next morning gas was bubbling from the wound, enveloping the boat in stinking purulence.
On the sixth day they reached the mouth of the Dnieper and landed on the island of St Aitherios, more than a mile from either shore. It was about half a mile long, flat and featureless except for a few grave-barrows. The travellers knew it was deserted even before they went ashore and found the remains of recent campfires and a freshly dug grave. No trees grew on the island and they propped Richard against a Viking runestone erected to commemorate another traveller who’d perished on the Road to the Greeks. They ate supper in a morbid silence while Hero sat with Richard, waiting for him to die.
In the middle watch Richard recovered consciousness. ‘Hero?’
‘I’m right here.’
‘It doesn’t hurt any more.’
‘That’s a good sign.’
‘I won’t live to see tomorrow. Don’t weep. Remember the happy times we’ve shared. Think of what I would have missed if I’d stayed at home. I’ve lived a lifetime in the last eight months. I’ve seen so much,
learned so much and learned how much more there is to know. I’m still a fool, but I’m a fool who can ask questions that ten wise men can’t answer.’
In the starlight his eyes were dark pools of shadow.
‘I wish I’d reached the sea.’
Hero held him. ‘We
have
reached it. Look at the clouds. See how the light from the sea reflects against them.’
‘I don’t want to be buried here. It’s full of ghosts. They talk to me. I don’t want to be with them. Cast my body into the river.’
Those were Richard’s last words. His breathing grew increasingly feeble. Drogo came over and laid a hand on Hero’s shoulder.
‘I want to speak to him.’
‘He can’t hear you.’
‘It’s what I have to say that matters.’
Hero went to the shore and squeezed his skull between his hands. Waves sighed on the bar. He could hear Drogo murmuring, his monologue broken by many pauses, as though he had to dredge the words from deep inside. At last he stopped. Hero stood and watched him approach.
‘He’s gone.’
‘I should have been there when his soul departed.’
‘I wanted to make peace with him.’ Drogo’s mouth quivered. ‘He was a better man than I gave him credit for, but when you grow up in a family like mine … ’ He swung round, his body shaking.
‘It’s not too late to make your peace with Vallon.’
Drogo whirled. ‘Richard never did me any harm. But Vallon … ’ Drogo shot out a hand. ‘That man has taken everything I have.’
In the morning they wrapped Richard in a shroud and laid him in the skiff and consigned him to the sea. A cold wind raised whitecaps and a flock of pelicans stood on the shore facing a window of light in the grey sky. After the others had left, Hero remained, watching the boat drifting away.