Hero threw out a hand. ‘Wait.’
The falcon stopped flapping and tried to fly downwind. The anti-carry line thwarted her, forcing her round in a circle. Relieved of her weight, the line began to slide. By the time she’d descended halfway, she’d worked out that it was easier to reach the ground by gyrating around the main line.
Wayland expected to find her exhausted and furious. Instead she seemed rather pleased to have wrestled the strange prey into submission.
Wayland returned to the nomads’ tent with a sense of fulfilment. The kite-maker agreed to come out with them every day until the contest. Before they parted, Syth whispered something to Hero and he tried to press another coin on the old man. The kite-maker clutched himself and turned away.
‘The leftover cloth is sufficient payment,’ Wayland said.
‘It’s not for the kite,’ said Syth. ‘I asked if I could buy one of the pups.’
The old man wouldn’t accept payment and told her to take any pup she wanted. She chose the one that had strayed into the tent and they rode off with it sitting upright on the bow of Syth’s saddle, alternately pricking its ears at the night sounds and squirming round to lick Syth’s face.
‘I’ve thought of a name for him,’ she said.
Word of the infidels’ bizarre training methods spread among the Seljuks and next day about twenty of them rode out to watch. That day the falcon flew to about three hundred feet and descended without drama. On her next outing the kite-maker ran out the full length of the line and she climbed to five hundred feet witnessed by a crowd of spectators.
There was more encouraging news waiting back at the Emir’s encampment. Suleyman’s rival had requested a four-day postponement
in order to sort out a clan dispute. Suleyman was within his rights to cancel the contest and would do so if the falcon’s training had shown her unequal to the task.
Wayland didn’t even have to think. ‘Tell him to agree to the new date.’
Each day’s kite exercise honed the falcon’s powers until she was climbing a thousand feet. Seljuks came out with picnics to marvel at her prowess. With three days to go, Wayland returned home – he’d begun to think of the encampment as ‘home’ – to be met by the hawk-master. Ibrahim took him into an annexe used for storage. In it stood a large wicker cage and inside the cage stood a crane with brailed wings. The hawkmaster told Wayland that every day since the contest had been agreed, he’d sent trappers out to snare a bird. Great efforts had been expended, for cranes were hard to catch, being vigilant and unapproachable. By day they fed out on the plateau and at night they roosted in the marshes around Salt Lake. This bird had been trapped in a mist net rigged on a field of cut millet. Tomorrow Wayland would fly the falcon at the crane in circumstances that would guarantee the falcon’s success.
Wayland observed the captive’s panicked eyes. ‘Let it go,’ he said. ‘The falcon doesn’t need easy game.’
Ibrahim showed dismay. Free the crane? Ridiculous. Yes, the falcon was a good flyer. What did that prove? Catching a lure tethered in the sky wasn’t the same as tackling an equally strong flier that could climb and shift and fight back. The falcon hadn’t hunted a crane before, hadn’t even seen one. What if she turned tail at the challenge? Most falcons did. Hardly one in ten would close with such a formidable opponent even when supported by another hawk.
Ibrahim wouldn’t yield. He’d appeal to the Emir if necessary.
Wayland gave way. ‘One condition,’ he said. ‘No spectators.’
Only the hawkmaster and his assistants rode out with Wayland next afternoon. They didn’t halt until the plain lay empty to the horizon in every quarter. The underfalconers placed the crane on the ground and prepared to remove its straitjacket. Earlier they’d sewn some of its primaries together to hamper its flight. If Wayland hadn’t intervened, they would have seeled its eyes. Blinded, it would have flown straight up towards the sun.
‘I’m not flying the falcon at a blind bird,’ Wayland told Ibrahim. ‘You told me how difficult it was to catch a crane. Let’s make this trial as close to the real thing as possible.’
He and Ibrahim waited about an arrow-flight downwind. The day was overcast with a light breeze from the north. Good flying conditions. The falcon was keen. If anything, she was too keen, jumping against her jesses in anticipation of a flight.
The assistants removed the crane’s bindings. One of them held its bill. He raised a hand to signal that they were ready to release. Wayland nodded at the hawkmaster. The assistants stepped away from the crane and it staggered into flight. Ibrahim shouted and waved to scare it upwind. It found its rhythm and began to climb. Ibrahim rested a hand on Wayland’s arm and tightened his grip.
‘Now!’
‘Not yet.’
Wayland waited until the crane had climbed about fifty feet before attempting to unhood. The falcon was so excited that she clawed at his hand and twisted her head. He couldn’t slacken the braces. By the time he’d struck her hood the crane had gained another hundred feet.
Wayland had often wondered how a falcon emerging from total darkness could react with the speed of thought. She flung herself off his fist and flew low and fast over the plain before beginning to climb. The crane saw her and rose more steeply. At her superior height the breeze blew more strongly than at ground level, increasing lift. Wayland chewed on a knuckle. He’d slipped too late. The falcon was pumping up on her tail, climbing twice as fast as the crane and taking a slightly different course. But she still hadn’t gained enough height to command her quarry. Any moment the crane would use its advantage to turn downwind over the falcon.
There! The crane turned and set off downwind, the falcon still a hundred feet below it. Ibrahim wailed as the crane stroked overhead, long legs trailing. He berated Wayland for not releasing soon enough. Wayland kept his gaze on the falcon. She was still working into the wind, gaining height, and he wondered if she’d even recognised the crane as quarry. Perhaps she was looking for the kite.
The crane had a huge lead when the falcon flipped round and launched her attack. She raced back over their heads with deep strokes
of her wings, still climbing at a shallow angle and still climbing when Wayland could no longer pick her out against the sky.
Ibrahim was close to tears as they set off in search. Quarry lost, falcon lost. If only Wayland had listened to him. If only the infidel hadn’t provoked fate by thinking he could master it. On and on he went until the passage of miles of empty plain crushed him into silence.
They found the gyrfalcon feeding up on the crane a league from where Wayland had slipped her. She’d already taken a good crop and she mantled as he made in to secure her. He hooded her, handed her to Ibrahim and examined her prey to work out how she’d killed it. One wing flopped loose at the elbow where she’d struck it in full flight, sending the crane spinning to the ground. Wayland checked the crane’s neck, assuming that she’d delivered the coup de grâce with her beak. But the neck was uninjured. He ruffled the feathers on the crane’s body and showed Ibrahim what he’d found. The hawkmaster exclaimed in astonishment and waved his assistants over. The falcon had broken most of the ribs on the crane’s right side, extinguishing life with one slashing blow from a hind talon.
‘
Yildirim
,’ said Ibrahim. He pointed at the sky and described a zigzag stroke of lightning, concluding with an explosive puff of breath. ‘
Yildirim
.’
‘Thunderbolt,’ said Wayland, and nodded. The bird of Thor, war god of the frozen north, wielder of the lethal hammer. ‘It’s a good name.’
On the ride back the Seljuks raised their faces to the sky and sang songs in praise of the falcon. Wayland didn’t join in. Night fell, and when he saw the fires of the encampment pricking the dark, he reined in and leaned over his horse’s neck with a sigh.
Ibrahim noticed his sombre mood. ‘Why the gloomy face?’
‘It’s nothing to do with the falcon.’
Each of them had only the haziest idea of what the other was saying. Ibrahim searched Wayland’s face. ‘You’re a strange youth. Always making things more difficult than they need be. Fate will strew your path with enough problems and heartache without you creating your own.’ He wagged a finger. ‘Don’t tempt fate by flying tomorrow. Feed the falcon a light meal without castings. Let her have victory fresh in her mind when she spreads her wings for the duel.’
The walls of the tent stirred in a light breeze. Wayland went out through the flap. A dusting of snow had settled in the night, but now the sky was clear and stars burned in the dark vault, casting a glacial light on the peaks to the south. Ibrahim knelt facing the mountains, prostrating himself in prayer. The breeze that sucked at the walls of the tented city was so faint that Wayland could hardly feel it.
Ibrahim rolled up his prayer mat and made his way back. He called down God’s blessing and Wayland repeated the formula. He squinted at the sky.
‘Ideal conditions for the sakers.’
Ibrahim flicked his hand. ‘Pah! How is the Thunderbolt?’
‘I haven’t seen her yet. I thought I’d let her sleep for as long as possible.’
‘What about you? Did you rest well?’
Wayland smiled. ‘I spent most of the night fighting the contest in my head.’
They checked on the haggard. She recognised his step at a distance and gave a
chup
of welcome. When he approached she fanned her wings in pleasurable anticipation before jumping to his fist. She wasn’t upset that it didn’t hold food. Wayland let her nibble his finger.
‘Will the Emir fly her himself?’
‘No. You carry her and slip at his Excellency’s command. If she triumphs, he will receive the credit. If she fails, you will take the blame.’
Wayland stroked the falcon’s head. ‘Well, she’s as ready as she’ll ever be.’
‘Not quite. I have a special tonic that will put fire in her blood.’
‘She doesn’t need dosing. I’ll offer her a bath. It would be a disaster if she raked away in search of water.’
The underfalconers appeared yawning and began preparing lures and carrying the saker falcons out into the weathering area. The Emir would fly them in the morning. The contest between the crane hawks would be the last event of the day.
Wayland took the gyrfalcon out to weather in the first flush of dawn. Once the sun had risen she bathed with gusto, dipping her head under the water, squatting down in it and shaking herself like a dog.
Afterwards she jumped to her block and hung out her wings before preening herself.
Wayland dressed with care in the costume provided for him. Ibrahim stood back, inspecting him. He nodded approval and placed a fur-trimmed hat on his head before leaving. Wayland sat on his bed, trying to steady his nerves. He kept coughing as if a hair were caught in his throat. He jumped up in relief when a trumpet blast announced that the day’s sport was about to begin. He hooded the falcon, mounted his horse and rode with Ibrahim and the underfalconers to the arena at the centre of the camp. Emerging into the open space, he pulled back, astonished to find a thousand armed and armoured horsemen milling across the ground. It looked more like a military muster than a hunting party.
Vallon rode smiling out of the crowd. ‘Welcome, stranger. We heard about your achievement. Not many falconers kill a crane at their first attempt.’
‘It wasn’t a sporting flight. It was bagged quarry.’
Vallon took him to one side. ‘I know the contest means a lot to you. So it should after all the work you’ve put in. But there’s more to it than that. I didn’t tell you earlier because nothing I said could have made Suleyman call off the challenge.’
‘I don’t want the contest to be called off.’
‘The night Suleyman agreed to the contest, he set conditions. Win and we ride away with a reward. Lose and you forfeit your freedom.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Lose and you’ll become Walter’s slave.’
‘I won’t be anyone’s slave. I won’t bow to any man. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t want the threat preying on your mind while you trained the haggard. I’m telling you now because I can make the Emir grant you your freedom if your falcon doesn’t claim the prize.’
‘What if he doesn’t? What will happen to Syth?’
‘You won’t be parted. Trust me. Put up your best performance, but don’t worry too much about losing. Do exactly what the Emir tells you and don’t attempt anything too ambitious.’
‘I won’t.’
Wayland was still dazed when Hero greeted him. ‘Don’t worry. Whatever the outcome, Vallon won’t hand you over to Walter.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘The night before last we had another meeting with Suleyman. It went well. He nurses more ambitious plans than beating his rival in a duel of falcons. He wants to create a sultanate in Anatolia. If you lose, Vallon will offer his services in that cause.’
‘But what about his plans to join the Varangians?’
‘His first loyalty is to his company. Now put it out of your mind and concentrate on the contest.’ Hero pointed to a knot of riders wearing uniforms emblazoned with an eagle motif. ‘See the man in the golden coat? That’s who you’re up against. His name’s Temur. It means “Iron”.’
Wayland studied the plump figure in the centre of the group. His face was as round as a dish and wreathed in a smile. ‘He looks like he’s made of butter.’
‘Appearances deceive. You recall that he asked for a postponement so that he could settle a dispute. Something to do with the theft of camels. He condemned the guilty party to be sewn into a wet hide and then left in the sun so that the hide would crush the life out of him as it shrank.’
Wayland looked around the arena and spotted Walter suited in mail with a group of Seljuk friends.
‘Why is everyone wearing armour?’
‘It’s a military exercise as well as a sporting event.’
‘Is Syth here?’
Hero shook his head. ‘Women aren’t allowed.’
The crush parted in front of them. Suleyman rode up at the head of his entourage, clad in a leopard’s skin cape over a coat of scale armour. He quizzed the hawkmaster and then he turned his cat’s gaze on Wayland and spoke to Faruq.