‘Wayland,’ Raul called in a voice from deep inside. ‘I appreciate you coming after me. Appreciate it. You’ve done more than any comrade can ask for, so I’m begging you to save yourself. There ain’t much time and I’ve got one last thing to ask.’
Wayland’s face knotted to squeeze back the tears. ‘Ask away.’
Raul dragged in a whistling breath. He couldn’t expand his chest and was slowly drowning. ‘You know how I bragged about going home with a swag of silver. You used to smile and swing your head like you knew I’d blow it away. Well, looks like I ain’t going to get the chance to prove you wrong.’ Raul fell silent for a moment and his head sagged. ‘I ain’t complaining. I got to tell you, Wayland, these last few months have been as good as I’ve known.’ Raul strained against the ropes to relieve the pressure on his lungs. ‘It ain’t for my benefit, but if there’s any silver coming my way, can you make sure it finds its way home? I know Vallon said we were on profits, but I don’t think the captain will begrudge me a few coins. He ain’t a mean man.’
Wayland couldn’t speak. He shook his head.
‘I know you can’t take it yourself. But me and old Garrick were talking and he said that if he made it to Novgorod, he was planning on heading home. I told him to look in on my family and said that if he was thinking about going back to farming, there was some good land to be had. I told him about my sisters and said he might do worse than take one of them to warm his bed.’
Wayland swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘I’ll do that, dear friend, but it isn’t over yet.’ He wiped his hands on his thighs.
Raul gave a lacerated laugh. ‘All the years I’ve known you and that’s the first time you called me “friend”. Pray for my soul, Way land.’
Wayland took one more step. A horn blew and the Lapps shot a volley. At least three arrows struck Wayland, but the nomads’ bows were light and their bone-tipped arrows splintered against his armour. He dashed back to his weapons, while the dog rushed forward in a series of terrifying bounds that made the Lapps tumble back. He glimpsed a shaft sticking out of its leather suit.
He scooped up his bow in his left hand, the sword in his right and ran yelling towards the Lapps guarding the ropes that tethered one side of the arch. Before he reached it there was a twang — another twang — and the two trees straightened up with a swishing sound. Wayland saw the ropes binding Raul spring taut.
‘No!’
Black against the sky, Raul seemed to fly upwards, then he flung his limbs wide and there was a rending and a popping and the two halves of his body dragged apart and swung against the swaying trees. Blood and innards rained on Wayland. Something warm and wet choked off his scream. Loud ululations rose from the Lapps. They charged in and Wayland sprinted for the end of the avenue, knowing it would close before he reached it. Another arrow struck him in the ribs and its point pierced his mail. A youth sprang into his path, jabbing with a spear. Wayland took the point on his chest and hacked the pole away. The impact and his counter-thrust threw him off-balance. He staggered into the ground. Fighting for purchase, he saw a pair of feet plant themselves in front of him. He glanced up to see a man poised to strike with a stone axe. He rolled aside and swung his sword through a half-circle. It connected with his attacker’s ankles and the axeman screamed and fell.
Wayland regained his feet and winnowed through his assailants. Most darted back, yelling as if assailed by a force not human. One man seemed mesmerised and Wayland clubbed him aside. He broke clear and the dog rushed up alongside him, two arrows in its leather trappings and its jaws all gory. It turned its eyes on him in a way that seemed to say, ‘Now what?’
He flared away from movement ahead of him. A herd of reindeer. Hundreds of them, plunging away in grey and brown streams. He accelerated to keep pace with the stampede. Half a mile further on the reindeer veered to the right. As the tailenders passed him, he ran left.
A backward glance showed no one in pursuit. The reindeer had obliterated his tracks. Raul’s death might be enough revenge for the Lapps, and the injuries he’d inflicted must have taken the fight out of them. He slowed, nursing a stitch.
The dog whirled. Wayland turned and saw a pack of dogs bounding towards them, led by a pale wolf with blue eyes. The wolf-dog closed without hesitation and the dog met it head on and drove it to the ground in a whirl of fur and jaws. When the dog broke away, its attacker moved spastically. The pack streamed in, but instead of attacking Wayland, they fell upon their crippled leader.
Shapes flitted through the trees. A line of Lapps about a hundred yards wide. Wayland’s dog rushed up to him, bloody slobber dangling from its jaws. The Lapps reached the pack and drove it apart with whips and boots.
Wayland hadn’t taken flight. He planted the sword in front of him and readied his bow. The dog snarled. ‘Enough killing,’ he shouted. Tears of rage and frustration blurred his vision. ‘Please. I’m sorry Raul killed some of your people, but we’re not slavers. Nobody’s hunting you.’
The Lapps looked along their line, taking courage from their numbers, and then they brandished their weapons and charged again. Wayland shot and didn’t wait to see where the arrow went before haring off. He was running wild now, taking whatever course seemed most open. The sounds of pursuit faded. He ran on.
To get back to the river, he’d have to run in a great circle. He checked the sky. Not long until dark. He settled into a lope. The hauberk must have weighed thirty pounds, but he’d have been dead without it.
He thought he’d put himself in the clear when the sight of reindeer tracks brought him up sharp. Had he run in a circle? No. It was the trail of the group that had left camp that morning. They couldn’t be far ahead. His eyes switched about. A horn blew from behind and then, closer and in front, an answering note sounded. Blocked. He struck out at a right angle.
He could manage no more than a weary jog and he was a long way from safety. The Lapps would track him and they would watch all the paths leading back to the river. He reached a bog that slowed progress to a cautious plod. Soon it would be dark. The dismal sky offered no clues to the direction of sunset. From the way the lichens grew on the trees, he guessed he was heading north.
Dusk deepened to dark, the night as black as night could be. Even with the dog’s guidance, he couldn’t plot a course through the ponds and bogs. After sinking to his knees for the third time, he knew he’d have to wait for the clouds to break or the sun to rise. He felt his way into a clump of alders and found a perch of dry ground. Somewhere in the forest a hand drum pattered. From a different quarter came an answering tattoo. The drums tapped out their messages and then fell silent.
‘They’re laying plans for tomorrow,’ Wayland told the dog.
He shared out the food and resigned himself to sitting out the night. He was soaked to the waist and very cold. The chainmail sucked the warmth from his body and he took it off. He felt the arrow wound in his side. Only a puncture, but painful. The dog shoved its head into his chest. He laid his face on its craggy skull and stroked its ears, whispering a lullaby his mother used to sing.
He passed a hellish night and woke from a doze sick and shivering. Still pitch black. He forced himself to his feet and bent and stretched until he’d got his blood circulating. He watched the sky. When a crow cawed, he knew it was time to go. In the wildwood he’d learned that the first crow flight was the true herald of day. He put on the hauberk then, holding the dog with one hand, he groped across the bog. If he could travel a mile before the Lapps resumed their hunt, he might be out of the vicinity before they closed a circle around him.
Light when it came rose sourceless, like a grey mist. No hint of sun to give him bearings. Scattered trees loomed into being. Only the trees closest to him had solid form; the rest were dull phantoms.
Daylight found him still picking his way across the bog. Water squirted out under his feet and every step produced a sucking sound. He stopped often to survey his path, the ground wobbling beneath him. In one place it gave way
and he plunged up to his groin. If the dog hadn’t been there to lend its strength to his efforts, he might never have got out.
Eventually he learned that the trick was to skate across the surface, not resting his full weight on one spot. He went on at a faster rate and saw pine trees marking drier ground. As he made for it, a woodpecker’s whistling cry rang through the still air. He paid no heed until another and more grating call sounded. He stopped and tried to locate the cries. The first bird called again, behind and to his left. The second bird answered, also from the rear and over to the right. Wayland had seen the birds that made these cries. They were twice the size of the woodpeckers he knew from home and their calls had become familiar. He’d never heard them delivered in duet. At the third exchange, he knew they weren’t made by birds.
‘They’ve found our trail.’
He hurried towards the firm ground, the calls passing back and forth behind him. He reached the ridge and examined the ground. He hadn’t come this way yesterday and the earth carried no prints of men or reindeer. He patted the dog. ‘Looks like we got out of bed earlier than them.’
He broke into an easy run. The signals behind grew faint and Wayland allowed himself the hope of striking the river without further drama.
Another birdcall from ahead stopped him as if he’d come up against an invisible barrier. He stalked forward, peering through the sketchy trees. The dog’s hackles were up, a low rumble building in its throat.
Wayland nocked an arrow and drew his bow. ‘I know you’re there.’
Silence.
He scanned the treescape. ‘You’d better get out of my way. You’re not dealing with a lost Viking.’
The trees loomed in grey and spectral shapes. Behind him the maddening birdcalls drew closer. He slung his bow and took out the sword.
‘I’m coming through and I’ll kill anyone who tries to stop me.’ He pulled the coif over his head and hoisted the sword. The dog watched him, tongue lolling.
‘Go!’
He was at full sprint when a figure stepped from behind a tree and hurled a hissing rope so deftly that it seemed like an extension of his hand. Wayland dodged, glimpsed another coil snaking towards him from another direction. The third loop he didn’t see at all. It dropped over his shoulders and yanked tight, converting forward motion into a violent reverse that whisked him off his feet and slammed the breath out of him. He sat up. Head awhirl, he saw two men pulling on the rope and then he saw them abandon it as the dog smashed into them.
Wayland’s crash had deadened his left side from thigh to shoulder. He regained his feet only to be dragged back to earth by another lasso. A second loop fell over his sword arm and almost wrenched the weapon from his grip. He was bayed and trammelled and if the dog hadn’t been with him he would have gone the same way as Raul. Trappings bristling with arrows, it charged each rope holder in turn, knocking them over, slashing with its jaws, panicking them into flight.
Wayland was still snared but he hadn’t lost his wits or his sword and when the last rope dropped away he hurtled forward as if he meant to throw himself from this world into the next. The shouts of his ambushers faded. Without breaking stride, he pulled off the ropes and threw them aside. He knew where he was. He was on the path he’d followed from the river. He aimed a smack at the dog. ‘We’re through!’
The dog threw itself down, arched itself into a bow and gnawed at its belly.
Wayland ran back. ‘What’s wrong?’ He took the dog’s head in both hands and pulled it away from its midriff. ‘Oh God!’
A broken arrow shaft jutted from the dog’s abdomen. He couldn’t tell how deep the head had penetrated. The dog lay on its side as though inviting him to deal with the wound. He reached for its head and the dog gave him a quick lick and stared away. He took hold of the shaft and gave a tentative pull. The dog uttered a low whine. ‘Ssh,’ he whispered. He pulled harder, feeling solid resistance, and the dog whimpered and clamped its jaws around his wrist. Gently he undid them. The arrow was barbed and had penetrated deep. The dog lay panting, its topaz eyes fixed on some faraway place. With swimming eyes Wayland looked about for some remedy or inspiration. There was none to be found — only the sight of Lapps running at him through the trees.
He pulled the dog to its feet. ‘Come on. I’ll deal with the arrow when we’re back at the boat.’
The dog matched him stride by stride for about a hundred yards. Then it stopped again and gave a piteous whine such as Wayland hadn’t heard it utter since it was a pup. It looked at him. The Lapps were getting closer. ‘Come!’ he ordered, clapping his hands. ‘We’re nearly at the river. Hero will have that arrow out in a trice. Come!’
The dog looked at him, its meaning so plain that Wayland groaned. There was no cure for the wound. The barbed arrow was buried so deep in its guts that no surgeon could have removed it.
The Lapps were only fifty yards away. Wayland stumbled back. ‘Come! Please!’
The dog looked at him for the last time. It turned towards the Lapps, shook itself and hurled itself towards them. He saw it bowl over one of the attackers and then it disappeared, swallowed up in a crowd of axemen and spearmen. The frenzy of hacking and stabbing stopped and the Lapps squatted in a busy cluster, doing things with ropes and branches. When they rose, they carried the dog’s carcass strung under a pole. It took four men to bear its weight. They shouldered their trophy and hurried away into the forest.
Wayland found the river and followed it upstream. The clouds shredded and the sun broke through. It was going down in a dim red ball when he caught up with the longship on the north shore of Lake Onega. His companions rose as he limped into camp. They opened their mouths to frame questions, then saw the answers plain on his face and held their tongues. Syth ran and threw her arms around him. He held her to his chest and stroked her hair.
Vallon limped over. ‘The dog, too?’
Wayland nodded.
‘I’m sorry. Are you hurt?’
‘A prick from an arrow and some bruises. Nothing serious.’
‘So you say. I want Hero to look you over. After that, food and sleep.’
Wayland shoved past. ‘I can’t sleep while the falcons starve.’
‘I fed them,’ Syth said. ‘Vallon had one of the horses killed. There’s enough meat to keep the falcons until we reach Rus.’
Vallon nodded in confirmation. ‘I told you I wouldn’t let them go hungry.’
*
Wayland woke in the longship, one shore a faint haze, the other invisible. It took four days to cross the lake, and the only thing he remembered of the passage was the geese passing overhead in ragged streamers, tens of thousands of voices raised in lamentation.
XXXVII
A broad river called the Svir flowed from Onega to Lake Ladoga and the land of Rus. Empty huts began to appear in clearings slashed into the forest. The dwellings were the summer quarters of hunter-gatherers. After weeks of sleeping rough, the travellers were grateful for the shelter offered by the simple lodgings. It was now early October and winter was treading at their heels. Each day the numbers of wildfowl passing overhead grew fewer. Each night the cold gripped tighter. Two more Icelanders had died, starved beyond recovery despite Vallon ordering the slaughter of the remaining horses.
His wound had knitted cleanly. He kissed Hero and told him that without the Sicilian’s physicking he would have died a slow and suppurating death. Hero was trying to take satisfaction from that as he and Richard plodded one morning along the riverbank ahead of the longship. It was the only comfort he could dredge from their situation. Still days from Novgorod, the food almost gone, many of the travellers sick. Wayland was restored and spent most of the daylight hours hunting, but without the dog’s help he couldn’t kill enough to satisfy the falcons’ appetites. All of them had lost so much muscle that their keels stuck out like knives, and one of them screamed for food from dawn to dark.
The Vikings and Icelanders couldn’t understand why the falcons should receive any meat
while they themselves were forced to boil moss for soup and chew on horse hide to dull their hunger pangs. The previous day, when Wayland and Syth returned from a hunting trip with a hare to show for their efforts, the Vikings and Icelanders had crowded round demanding that the carcass be handed over. Vallon had forced them to back off, but it had been close. If they didn’t find food in the next day or two, a violent breakdown was inevitable. After that, barbarism and worse. The weak left behind to die, cannibalism …
Richard seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Drogo takes care to stand back, but have no doubt, he’s waiting for the moment when he can move against Vallon.’
Hero sighed and shook his head. The sky, heavy with clouds the colour of ploughshares, mirrored his mood.
They trudged on. Grey spots floated past Hero’s eyes. He rubbed them and saw that snow was falling — big downy flakes already beginning to settle.
Richard stopped. ‘We’d better go back.’
‘There’s a path,’ said Hero, pointing to a winding depression highlighted by the snow. ‘It probably leads to a cabin. We might not spot it from the ship.’
Soon the snow obliterated all trace of the path and only the sound of the river gave them their direction. Hero was about to step around a stunted bush when it jumped up and shouted. More shouts and vague figures darting through the snow. An arrow whizzed past his head.
‘Peace! Pax! Eirene!’
The commotion stilled. Through the feathery whiteness he made out figures crouched behind dark bales. Three men with arrows trained on him stalked forward. They were dressed in pelts, their eyes narrowed in hostile squints. One of them jabbered in Russian.
‘We’re merchants. Travelling to Novgorod.’
The Russians understood ‘Novgorod’. Their spokesman jabbed behind Hero, asking how many were with him.
He counted thirty on his fingers and the Russians yammered at each other.
The drakkar’s dragon stem slid out of the snow with Vallon at the prow looking like death warmed up and Drogo beside him in his mail coat and iron helmet.
Hawk Quest Page 51