An enemy’s horse screamed. An arrow had lodged in its neck. It bolted, reared up and tossed its leather-clad rider about in his saddle. The rider lost his conical helmet and his javelin as he attempted to rein in his mount. It was futile because it was catching. Other horses pursued the bolting creature, despite their riders’ efforts to control their mounts. It was only a small incident in one small section of the battle but Padar took heart. The time had come to deliver more chaos. He whipped his delicate bone pipe from its wool-lined case, hung it around his neck, placed it to his lips and gave his signal. It was followed by General Luke’s blast calling his men to fall back. Padar lifted his head and with great skill wheeled Argon around as if he were about to retreat. For a heartbeat he caught sight of a flock of geese fly southwards, crossing the blue sky in a neat formation, moving with speed, as if intent on escaping the killing field. He saw his men reaching for their missiles.
He turned forward, ducking enemy spears. Seeing his throwers spread themselves along the chaotic disentangling ranks of Cumans and Rus, before hurling their first missiles, Padar dropped his pipe, struck his flint, lit the cord that connected with the lethal, sticky mixture inside the pot and threw his fire into the heart of the enemy. As the missile exploded, the section of horsemen nearest Padar fell into panic. Horses reared as flames caught their horsemen. They bolted back through their ranks, creating more chaos as they threw their riders.
Ahead, Padar saw one rider frantically trying to beat off the flames. It was as much as he could do to keep control of his own horse. As he glanced from side to side he saw his companions courageously and systematically igniting and launching second and third missiles brought out from their saddlebags. Once these pots gained their marks it was as if lightning had descended from God’s heavens to ignite a whole section of the khan’s army. Padar’s riders created turmoil. All at once the khan’s army turned down river towards the southern bend. Commanded by experienced men, the Rus army moved forward again to pursue the Cumans forwards towards the southern bridge.
As he galloped, his sword now drawn and held forward in one hand, Padar allowed himself a glance upwards. The Wolf Tower loomed up from the river to his right. He was sure that by the battlements he could make out three mantles flapping in the wind. For the intake of a breath he could make out Gudrun with her gold hair, loosened from its plait, streaming behind her.
He felt a fierce renewal of his flagging energy. He was not only fighting for the survival of a Godwin princess, he was fighting for his own family’s survival. He was fighting for the freedom to trade along the Russian rivers and he was fighting for a future in a new land. Most of all he was fighting for Gudrun and for their girls’ birthright to live in peace. He plunged forward, but as the galloping horses in front of him approached the bend in the river where the ships were waiting, he signalled for his men to slow, fall back and let the Cumans, unhindered, approach the bridge.
Thea watched from the tower, standing alongside the governor, Michael, Anya, the patriarch, Katya and Gudrun. She saw the khan’s army wheel around and race along the far river bank, galloping towards the bend. Through the flames from the thrown missiles that stretched plumes of smoke over the river she discerned movement on the dark waters below. She leaned over the parapet, peering through the smoke barrier, trying to see more clearly. The ships were ready. She glanced up at the sky. The sun was falling and sunset was almost upon them. Vespers had passed. Soon it would be the hour of Compline.
She watched the Rus ships sneakily glide across the water. Within moments, a cloud of arrows were flying from the ships into the midst of the fleeing army. It was the usual strategy of a Steppe army to operate a feigned retreat and wheel around again into a crescent to engulf the horsemen pursuing it. She watched for this. Before the Steppe horde performed such an operation their dragon fire must stop it. She grasped hold of Anya’s hand and prayed that they could send out their Greek fire as soon as the enemy reached the river bend. Somewhere down there, on the ships, Edmund was in command. For a moment she thought she had glimpsed him. She prayed to St Theodosia. There was a gasp from Gudrun.
‘Look,’ Gudrun cried out. ‘The dragon fire.’
The patriarch lifted his great jewelled cross high and shouted up towards the reddening sky, ‘May God destroy the infidels.’
Anya’s steward, Michael, looking in the opposite direction, cried out. Thea turned about. He was pointing towards the north. Far in the distance she saw what appeared to be dust kicked up by horsemen riding along the wide river. They were so far away. She could not make out whose horsemen they were. If this was a second Steppe army, their own army would be caught in a trap. Her heart sank. Her optimism was shattered.
She turned southwards again. The Rus were falling back. Great billows of smoke rose from the fire that issued forth from the ships lined along the river. Ghastly flames of yellow belching fire had been launched from the prow heads of their ships. Within the time it took for a ragged-looking crow to flee overhead, fire appeared to be snaking along the ranks of the fleeing Cuman army. A moment later, smoke obscured the armies. Thea could hear a thunder of hoofs passing below the tower, the horses’ neighing, agonised shouts, cries of the armies as the enemy tried to turn their horses away from the flames; the clang of their weapons as they sought blindly for their Rus opponents was terrifying. Thea could smell the khan’s army burning. She watched, fascinated and terrified by the sickening noxious yellow flames that licked upwards, as if they seeped through fishing nets. She was glimpsing them through gaps in the dark smoke. The flames seemed to stretch along the length of the river. She drew her veil across her face in an attempt to escape the stink that rose up towards the very heights where she was standing. She watched the scene below obliterated by flame and smoke.
‘What must it like be down there?’ Gudrun cried, coughing and clutching hold of Thea.
‘Victory for us. Defeat for them.’
Tears were streaming down Katya’s face. Katya’s lips began moving in silent prayer. Thea knew she was praying for both Edmund and Dimitri. There were no comforting words that she could lend. She glanced towards the wooded flatlands to the north where the air was clearer. The distant horsemen appeared to have paused, but ghostly ships seemed to be moving very slowly along the wide Dnieper from the northern horizon, still too far away to completely discern. Something uncanny stirred in her breast and her heart beat faster. What if Vladimir was coming to save them? Were the Sviatoslavichi moving south towards Pereiaslavl to help the Cuman army to destroy them? She shuddered.
Below her, momentarily smoke cleared again. Despite the launch of dragon fire through the prow heads of dragons, griffons and great bear heads, the khan’s army were fighting back, launching an arrow attack on the ships. The sky that had been dark with smoke was now dark again, this time with arrows. She prayed that these arrows would not carry flames back onto their ships. If this happened the remaining siphons of dragon fire would ignite. All of hell would be loosened into a river of fire.
It appeared now that the ships were holding back the dragon fire. Instead, they were returning arrow fire. At last, the remnant of the burning army was racing towards the cut beyond the heavily defended southern bridge. Cuman ranks swerved. For a moment she held her breath. They might attempt a crescent. Suspense hung amongst the smoke. Then, the great burning army moved as one away from the river and the Cumans were galloping into the low hills to their left. Once their broken army turned into the valley, the Rus ships let loose another deadly round of Greek fire into the back of the retreating cavalry.
Smoke began pluming upwards once again. Falling to her knees on the tower’s platform, Thea prayed for the souls of their slain. Many of their own cavalry would have also been destroyed by the dragon fire’s merciless havoc. ‘Please ask our Lord to spare us, St Theodosia. If Pereiaslavl is saved, I promise that I will found my own nunnery.’ She twisted her grandmother’s ring. ‘I swear by my grandmother and on my mother’s life that I shall d
evote my life to God’s work.’
Padar made an impulsive, strange and deadly decision. When the Rus army held back, close to the southern bridge, he turned Argon’s head away from the Dnieper. Concealed by smoke, he guided his horse forward. He allowed himself a glance over his shoulder and saw General Luke still erect on his brown stallion with his sword raised high. He was urging his army back from the flames pouring out of the ships. Padar edged his horse to the right, and with as much speed as he could get Argon to make, he rode through the fleeing Cuman horsemen, leaning low over his stallion’s neck, holding on for his life. He knew it was taking a great risk but the enemy were too intent on fleeing from danger to pay attention to what appeared to be a lone horse running loose. There were so many of their own horses without riders by now. The Cuman retreat had become chaotic. In chaos danger beckoned. Padar needed to get up into the hills if he was to follow his impulsive plan to join Earl Connor. There were enemy horsemen all about him – shouts, screams, coughing and dying as many simply gave up, fell over their mounts or were enflamed. Others were intent on returning to their camp to the east. Padar cantered through many small groups of warriors who were riding forward into the valley, attempting to beat off flames, their horses maddened and uncontrollable.
Padar tore away a sleeve from below his chain mail shirt and held the cloth over his horse’s muzzle. He rode away from the fleeing horsemen and along the river valley trying to find a crossing. The tributary ran fast as he steadily worked his way down its sloping banks into its stony, fast-flowing shallows, seeking a bridge he knew lay by a corn mill. He was ahead of the fleeing horsemen by the time he found it. He urged Argon over the wooden bridge and whispering into the stallion’s ears, persuaded him up into the hills beyond the mill to where the air was clearer.
Once Padar gained the top of the hillside, he was exposed. Moments later, a small band of Cuman horsemen, who clearly had found relief by riding through water along the river, crossed by the same bridge and began to climb the hill after him. Padar thought, as glanced over his shoulder, I must be bold if I am to reach Connor alive. As the three horsemen picked their way up the slope, he spurred Argon onwards. For an intake of breath he looked back again. He had miscalculated these horsemen’s ability. They were fast gaining on him. A moment later the horsemen were reaching for their bows and within the time it took to mutter a curse, arrows were clattering and banging about him. He raised his shield to protect his head.
He desperately dropped his shield as the riders set arrows again. He spurred Argon onwards faster but his horse was exhausted. Steam poured from Argon’s nostrils. Then his stallion roared. Before Padar could create enough distance to reach for his own bow, Argon was falling, an arrow piercing his rump. Several more arrows lodged in Argon’s flesh as the horse fell with a great, heart-aching whinny. Padar threw himself off and rolled behind the stallion’s heaving body. Peering around his dying beast, he knew that he could not fend off the advancing horsemen. Nor could he outrun them on foot. He glanced up at the heavens. His hope of reaching Earl Connor with news of the fleeing Cumans now faded as fast as the last rays of today’s dying sun. Darkness was only moments away.
There were three assailants. He was but one. He would go down facing his enemy. Could he delay them until night enclosed them? Maybe he could escape. He felt for his bow. He cursed his bad luck. It had fallen and was trapped under his horse. There was no way he could dislodge it.
Drawing Gabriel from his padded leather sheath, he stumbled to his feet. With both hands clutching the sword’s leather hilt he raised Gabriel high. The Frankish sword caught the last dying light rays and flashed. His pursuers stopped and stared. The fire flames were now far behind them. He could still hear Cuman horsemen shrieking like devils as they raced along the cut. His assailants let loose another round of arrow fire. As their arrows fell all around him, he dropped low behind his fallen horse, praying for deliverance. God answered his prayer. The arrow fire paused. Taking advantage of the sudden lull Padar peered out from behind Argon.
One of his pursuers had leapt off his horse, the two others following his lead. Leaving their bows aside, they advanced on Padar, swords reaching out for him, points flicking up and down. They clearly intended to tease him just as a cat would amuse itself catching a mouse. He shuddered. His death would be slow, menacing and hideous as they tore his flesh to shreds. Yet, in that moment, Padar knew that just as he could shoot an arrow with accuracy, despite his small stature, he could also thrust his sword with precision, jump aside and outwit his enemy, except for one problem – it was one against three.
Padar raised himself up to stand facing his enemy, his sword lifted high. The riders were taken aback at this feat of courage. Padar saw this and before the three riders caught breath again, he bent his back and charged, running into the one to his right, taking him off guard. Striking with Gabriel where the man had no chain mail covering, through the legs just above the knees, Padar put all his strength into an upward thrust. With a scream the assailant dropped his weapon and fell to the turf, screaming in agony. Padar held on to his sword hilt as his enemy collapsed. He pulled Gabriel back. His sword came out covered with gore. He lifted it high again.
Immediately, the other two assailants shouted in fury and began to circle him so that he felt like an insect caught in a spider’s web. These men had deadlier swords than he. Their blades were double-edged and longer than his. The one to his right, a giant of a man with a leather helmet and blackened face, a look of fury crossing his countenance, advanced and withdrew. The other laughed, dropped and kicked away his long sword, reached for and lifted high a scimitar, nonchalantly waiting aside, ready to swipe off Padar’s head. This rider, Padar saw at a glance, wore no helmet. He was tall and blond, his hair plaited like a Viking of old, his eyes filled with deadly concentration as he approached and paused. He was casually waiting until his companion was done playing with Padar.
Padar jumped back, drawing the sword-wielding giant towards him. Their weapons met and whipped each other above his chest. Steel clashed on steel. He fought on, returning his assailant’s sword strokes with well-measured and accurate sword play of his own. He moved with speed but his arms were aching. Gudrun’s serene face momentarily flashed through his mind. In that moment he was off guard and his enemy sliced out at his sword arm. Instinctively, Padar leapt to one side but not quickly enough. Gabriel dropped onto the ground. Padar was weaponless.
The blond Cuman flew into action, bringing his scimitar closer, daring him forward. In that moment, Padar remembered something. He had been so stupid. He drew back, dropped to the ground and rolled towards the bag that hung from his horse’s saddle. He reached inside the great leather pouch and felt around. He still had one pot and he had his flint. He could have saved himself and Argon. Miraculously the last pot had not broken.
He reached over his damaged arm, held the flint in his aching wrist and sparked off flint against flint and hay. Miraculously, within a breath he had ignited the cord on the pot. He hurled it just as his assailant was almost on top of him. Pulling himself from the ground he raced along the slope, away from the huge burst of flame that enveloped both the vicious blond swordsman and his own dying horse. He heard screams of agony as the Cuman burned. He felt the heat of the fire he had thrown scorching the bastard’s leather jerkin. His nostrils filled with the suffocating odour of singing hair and cooking horse. He collapsed.
Blood obscured his vison. He smelled sulphur. This time it was suffocating like a stinking devil’s cauldron. He coughed and spat mucus as he heard the canter of horses. They were coming for him now. It is the end, he thought. By Christos, make it quick. Sweet Lord, protect my wife and children.
A familiar voice reached through the roar of smoke and fire. ‘For the love of God’s saints, Christ and all his holy angels, Padar, what are you thinking of?’ Padar could not reply. He felt water slide down his throat. Someone was wiping his face with great gentleness. Imagining Gudrun, he muttered her name. ‘Are
we in heaven?’ he heard himself say. Someone was feeling his left arm.
‘You’ll live. An arm injury but that is all, I think,’ the voice said gruffly. Earl Connor gently lifted Padar onto his own horse. ‘Hold tight until we catch you another.’ He turned to one of his men. Padar heard him order, ‘Bring me that sword over there if it is not too hot to lift.’
‘My weapon and my horse,’ he mumbled in confusion, forgetting the smell of the burning animal, hardly able to grab hold of the horse’s mane because his arm and sword hand were in agony.
He heard Connor say gruffly, ‘We have your sword. Argon is dead, burning nobly as a Viking steed should, and if we don’t hurry we will be too.’
Every bump caused Padar further agonies as Earl Connor rode furiously down the slope towards his own troops. The earl’s men had already cut off the fleeing Cuman army. As Padar regained partial sight, he saw two Cuman messengers ride forward bearing a white flag. The khan was surrendering.
Padar glanced back. Flames from his horse’s last pyre lit up the dark sky with a yellow light that obliterated the stars. A ghastly hush ensued as, surrounded by torch light, the khan rode forward from his bedraggled and defeated army to meet Earl Connor. Though he hurt terribly, Padar sat erect on the horse Connor had given him and sighed his relief.
Later, as they were returning to the city, Padar said, ‘Earl Connor, what was that secret mission?’
The Betrothed Sister Page 35