It came as some relief when clouds built up and released a downpour that lasted all day, turning the low-lying roads along the banks into quagmires. Even under a light breeze, Jifeng maintained a good pace. At this time of year the Yellow River was at its highest, swollen by melting snows in its mountain headwaters. In places spring ice had gouged away the dikes, creating lakes twenty miles across, dark lines of willows and poplars the only indication of where the river ended and land began. Wulfstan had picked up a hazy knowledge of the river’s lower course. It should take four or five days to reach the sea.
The third day broke clear. Vallon leaned out from the bow, peering at the rising sun through the surface reflections. Each side of the river the wet green of flat farmland merged into the misty blue of distance. Waders rose in swirling clouds from sandbars. Ducks beat up from reedbeds and whistled down the sky. Bare-legged women bent over in long lines, setting seeds. A cart drawn by two oxen followed a pale ribbon of road towards a village.
Vallon had ordered the Greek Fire siphon to be mounted on the foredeck. Wulfstan had rigged up the trebuchet on the stern, reinforcing the deck against its weight and the force of its recoil. For ammunition he’d selected about forty ballast stones weighing between twenty and a hundred pounds apiece.
In the afternoon Vallon watched Hero and Wulfstan conducting experiments on Fire Drug to determine its combustible properties.
‘It’s too fierce,’ Hero said. ‘Even a spark sets it off. To be of any use against an enemy, we’d need something to delay the ignition until the right moment.’
Wulfstan rubbed his forehead with his hooked stump. ‘When I served in the Byzantine navy, we used Greek Fire to undermine city walls. To give themselves time to get clear, the sappers ignited the barrels with slow-burning tapers – a bit like Chinese incense sticks. Fuses, they called them.’
‘How do you make one?’
‘Piss. Boil a gallon of piss down to half a pint, soak a length of tow in it, let the tow dry. It smoulders without burning. Cut the tow to the size you need and you vary the time it sets off the incendiary.’
‘Get pissing,’ Vallon said.
They made a small raft. Wulfstan packed an earthenware pot three-quarters full with Fire Drug and tamped it with lint soaked in Greek Fire. Into the wadding he placed a tow wick.
‘Someone will have to light it when it’s clear of the ship.’
Vallon cast about. ‘Gorka.’
‘I knew you’d pick me.’
They tied a rope to the raft and paid it out astern. Gorka and another trooper lowered themselves into the ship’s boat and drifted down the wake until the raft came within reach. While the other trooper held onto the rope, Gorka lit the fuse. They rowed back to the ship and joined Vallon, Wulfstan and Hero in the stern. There they waited.
And waited.
‘You sure you lit it properly?’ Wulfstan said.
Gorka bristled. ‘If I light something, it stays lit.’
Vallon gave it a while longer. ‘It must have gone out. Tow it in.’
The troopers had dragged the raft back to within twenty yards when the pot exploded, showering the spectators with clay fragments.
‘I must have made the fuse too long,’ Wulfstan said.
Gorka plucked a shard from his forehead. Blood trickled. ‘Or else your piss is too weak.’
Lucas ran down to Vallon’s cabin and stopped outside, checked by the sound of his father’s easy laughter. Resentment made him wrench open the door.
Vallon looked up, one arm draped about Qiuylue. ‘You might have knocked.’
‘Wayland’s spotted ships astern.’
Vallon took his arm away from Qiuylue. Sensitive to the tensions between father and son, she slipped away. Lucas stayed where he was.
‘Yes?’ Vallon said.
‘You lied to us. The Chinese weren’t going to arrest us. You made up that story to panic us into flight.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Wayland said you’d given a lot of thought to arranging our escape. You couldn’t have organised the horses and boats at short notice. You must have planned it over days.’
‘It was the only way to keep my men together. You saw how reluctant they were to quit their billets. Given the choice, only a third would have followed me.’
Lucas gritted his teeth. ‘I raised my hand.’
‘Out of military duty rather than filial devotion, I suspect.’ Vallon rose and touched his son’s shoulder. ‘One day you’ll command a squadron. When you do, you’ll learn that it’s sometimes necessary to lie.’ He reached for his sword. ‘I’m sorry you had to leave that girl behind.’
Lucas’s laugh was bitter.
‘You’ll soon forget her.’
‘You don’t forget your first love. I left a piece of my heart when I left Xiao-Xing.’
‘I tore mine to pieces when I killed your mother.’
Hearing Vallon’s admission rocked Lucas. His eyes filled. ‘That didn’t stop you marrying Caitlin. And now you’ve taken another lover.’
‘I can’t bring your mother back. If there was only one person meant for each of us, life would be a long and lonely search. Fortunately it offers second chances.’
Lucas’s throat worked. ‘In all the months since I told you I was your son, you’ve never tried to justify your crime.’
‘It’s not my place to justify or explain the unforgivable.’
‘So you expect me to do it for you.’
‘No. I would never lay that burden on my son. The weight is all mine to bear.’
Lucas clenched his hands. ‘I’ve tried. I mean, Wayland and Hero told me how Roland betrayed you and left you to rot in a Moorish prison. I know my mother was unfaithful. It’s just that…’
‘She was your beloved mother and I killed her. Don’t torment yourself. Leave that to me. I don’t seek forgiveness. That’s why I’ve never sought a confessor.’
Lucas looked at Vallon through tear-smudged eyes. ‘I’ve kept close watch on you since we left Constantinople. Sometimes I thought you acted like a monster; sometimes I marvelled at the way you managed to slide through perils without shedding blood.’
Vallon appeared not to hear him. He buckled on his sword belt. ‘I seem to have put on weight. Let’s go up and face our doom.’
XXIII
Far behind, many miles astern, three shapes broke the flat and empty riverscape.
Vallon waited, measuring their progress. ‘They don’t seem to be gaining on us.’
‘They don’t have to press hard,’ Wulfstan said. ‘The sea’s still a couple of days away.’
By noon the enemy convoy was close enough for the Outlanders to see what they were up against. One of the ships was a four-masted three-decker twice the size of Jifeng. The second had three masts. The third vessel, more like a floating tower than a ship, had no sail at all yet was keeping station without any obvious means of propulsion.
‘I saw ships like that in the south,’ Wayland said. ‘It’s driven by paddle wheels, like the waterwheels in a mill. Some ships have half a dozen or more, each pair connected by axles with pedals sticking out like flat spokes – one set of pedals for each poor sod who has to tread them.’
‘How many soldiers are we facing?’
Wulfstan answered. ‘That four-master alone is probably carrying a hundred soldiers, and they’ll be armed with all kinds of weaponry – heavy crossbows, traction catapults, flame-throwers, incendiary grenades… One sailor I met in Kaifeng said the Chinese navy ain’t quick to grapple with the enemy. Instead they have these long poles hinged at the base and with a spiked hammer at the top. When they get within range, they drop the hammer end onto the enemy ship, holding it at a safe distance while they bombard it.’
‘We might as well give up now.’
‘What the Chinese ain’t got is a counterweight trebuchet. I can land a dozen rocks on their decks before their catapults get in range. Their incendiary ain’t a patch on ours, either. Burns hot, bur
ns fast, but it doesn’t stick and burn to the bone like Greek Fire.’
Vallon turned to the troopers. ‘Reposition the siphon at the stern.’
While they went about their task, he appraised the ship and saw how vulnerable it was to fire – a huge piece of floating kindling. ‘What happened to the hides from the rafts?’
‘Stored below,’ Wulfstan said. ‘Two hundred of them, enough to cover the entire deck.’
‘Do it.’
Evening came and the sun set behind the enemy ships, now only a mile astern. The Outlanders toiled into the night sheathing the junk in hides, draping the stern with two layers. When the skins were in place, they soaked them with water. The slat-and-cotton sails couldn’t be fireproofed and Vallon ordered his men to strike the mainsail and stow it below deck. The moon, only a day off full, shone on the Chinese warships shadowing Jifeng so closely that the Outlanders could hear the beat of drums and shouted messages between the vessels.
‘Why don’t they attack?’ Lucas asked Vallon.
‘Night attacks are risky. I’m going to take a nap. I suggest you do the same.’
‘I’m too tense to sleep.’
Vallon walked off then walked back. ‘I’d like you to stay close to me tomorrow.’
‘I don’t need mollycoddling.’
Vallon laughed. ‘I wasn’t thinking about your protection. I’m getting too old for combat. I’ll feel more secure with a strong and skilled right hand at my side.’
Lucas flushed. ‘Goodnight…’ he said, leaving a word unspoken.
Vallon stopped, his skin prickling. Say it, he prayed. There might not be another chance and if I die tomorrow I’ll quit this world more peacefully knowing that my son acknowledged me as his father.
‘Goodnight, sir.’
Vallon was back on deck in full armour before dawn, the warships still tagging in their wake, moonlight cupped in their sails. What little breeze there was blew from the south, almost at right angles to Jifeng’s progress. The moon was sinking into mist steaming off the river as the sun rose. The vapours soon burned off and the sun struck hot. The current had slowed and was so thick with silt that it resembled soup. Within a day of the sea the river seemed to have become indifferent about reaching it, branches wandering fitfully through a wilderness of reeds. Wayland, appointed sailing master, sought Vallon’s advice.
‘Which channel should we take?’
The river forked around a sand bar, the left-hand channel half the width of the right, less than two hundred yards wide and only navigable for a third of that.
‘Take the narrow stream. We draw less water than the enemy. They won’t be able to get past us without risk of grounding.’
Jifeng nosed into the channel between walls of reeds. The Outlanders waited, sweating in full armour. Vallon moved among them, exhorting them to be of good heart. He paid a brief visit to Qiuylue before taking up position on the stern deck.
Wulfstan shambled out from below, lurching from hold to hold, cowled and clad in heavy, full-length white robes like a member of some diabolical sect. Vallon grabbed him.
‘You’re drunk.’
Wulfstan hiccupped. ‘And you’re scared, but I’ll be sober soon enough.’
‘What the hell are you wearing?’
Wulfstan eyed his drapes with pride. ‘Asbestos. Hajar al-fatila, the Arabs call it – “wick-stone”, because flame can’t touch it. In these togs I could walk through hell and step out the other side without a scorch.’
‘They’re coming,’ Lucas said.
The drumbeats had quickened. War cries panicked flocks of wildfowl into flight. The four-master bore down on Jifeng, fire-pots glowing on its foredeck and the sun flaring off its iron-sheathed bow.
The first volley of heavy crossbow bolts struck.
‘Everyone take cover,’ Vallon ordered. He dropped below the stern transom with half a dozen other men.
Only the trebuchet team and steersman remained on deck, partly protected by bales and wicker screens. With his good hand, Wulfstan loaded one of the lightest stones into the trebuchet’s sling. In stepping back to check the range and aim, he tripped and fell. Vallon rushed at him.
‘I’ll kill you for this.’
Wulfstan reached up. ‘Give me a hand. This outfit weighs a ton.’
He was wearing armour beneath his fireproof drapes and it took two men to hoist him to his feet. He cracked his knuckles and squinted at the oncoming battleship.
‘Not yet,’ he crooned. ‘Wait for my word.’
A dozen men working the enemy warship’s catapult dragged down on ropes and launched the first missile. It fell well short. Wulfstan reached into the capacious folds of his robe and pulled out a bottle. He unstoppered it with his teeth and drank.
Vallon hefted his sword. ‘Wulfstan, if you survive the battle, I’m going to flog you myself.’
Wulfstan capped the bottle and turned a sleazy leer on the general. ‘Hush. You’re disturbing my concentration.’
Another stone from the enemy catapult splashed into Jifeng’s wake. Wulfstan crouched, assessing the range.
‘Wait… Wait… Launch!’
The throwing arm tilted skywards, the sling extended like a whip and the missile hurtled in a high parabola before crashing onto the warship’s stern deck.
‘Use that one next,’ Wulfstan shouted, pointing with his good hand at another stone.
Five times the team manning the trebuchet dropped stones on the warship before the Chinese catapulters came within range. Vallon flinched as a stone bounced off the deck beside him. The enemy was within a hundred yards, their commander directing teams of crossbowmen who loosed droves of bolts so heavy that they splintered through the two-inch thick transom.
Outnumbered and under-armed, the Outlander archers could only respond with snap shots before ducking back behind cover. Indifferent to the lethal darts, Wulfstan continued calling the shots between slugs of liquor. ‘Load that big bastard,’ he said, pointing at the heaviest stone in the heap.
Two men struggled to lift the boulder and one of them fell dead as he rose, pierced through by a bolt that still had enough energy to bury itself in the mainmast.
The boulder trundled down the stern deck. Gorka sprang forward and threw himself on it before it rolled off. Between him and the other loader they managed to scoop it into the sling,
‘I call this one the cuckoo’s egg,’ Wulfstan said. ‘On account of you wouldn’t want it in your nest.’ He brought down his arm. ‘Release.’
Crouched below the transom, Vallon watched as the throwing arm flicked up then slowed almost to a stop, arrested by its burden. The rope attached to the sling extended lazily before it tautened and the missile launched into space. A lob rather than a hurl. Vallon heard something terminal break on the trebuchet, but his attention was on the little black planet describing a shallow arc extending for no more than a hundred feet before it smashed through the warship’s foredeck with a hollow crack. Another crash as it tumbled through the lower deck
Wulfstan abandoned the trebuchet and crawled over to Vallon. The warship was only fifty feet from grappling and lines of soldiers were jogging onto the foredeck, packing its bow in readiness to board.
Looking along the transom, Vallon tried to encourage his men. ‘Your lives are precious to me, so don’t sell them at discount.’ He addressed the rear. ‘Archers, make every shot count.’
He slid down. Wulfstan offered him his bottle. Vallon batted it away and would have struck the sot if he hadn’t noticed the blood staining Wulfstan’s moustache.
‘You’re wounded.’
Someone shouted. It was Wayland.
‘What?’ Vallon cried.
He couldn’t hear the answer through the hubbub from the Chinese ship. The orderly commands had given way to an anxious caterwauling. He stuck his head up.
‘Hell’s teeth.’
Where only moments earlier the bow of the Chinese battleship had reared above Jifeng’s stern, it now dipped nose heavy,
sinking lower. The ship was falling back, taking in water. The soldiers on the foredeck milled in confusion.
Vallon looked down at Wulfstan. ‘Your last shot did it. Have another bottle.’
Wulfstan coughed blood. ‘I’ve taken my last drink.’
Vallon didn’t have time to find out how badly the Viking was injured. The bow-heavy battleship was steering for shore, making way for the second junk. Wulfstan clawed himself to his feet and leaned on the transom.
‘The ropes fixing the trebuchet’s axle have bust. We might just have time to prime the siphon.’
The brazier was already glowing and Wulfstan positioned it under the oil reservoir. The wind had died and both ships drifted downriver at the same speed, a furlong separating them.
‘Save your arrows,’ Vallon ordered.
A buzz of activity on each side of the enemy junk drew his attention.
‘They’re rigging oars,’ he shouted. ‘Can we do the same?’
Wayland threw up his hands.
‘My brew needs more cooking,’ Wulfstan said through stertorous breaths. ‘Tell your archers to put a crimp in the Chinese advance.’
With more time to aim, the Outlanders’ bowmen launched volley after volley at the rowers. For every man they killed or wounded, another took his place. Vallon couldn’t help but admire their courage and discipline.
‘We’re running low on arrows,’ Gorka cried.
‘Save them for the boarding party.’
The junk was gaining. Under his armour, Vallon was soaked in sweat. He’d ordered his men to take up battle stations not long after dawn and now the sun was almost at its meridian. The tank of Greek Fire clicked on a rising note.
‘How much more time do you need?’
‘I’d say it’s done to a turn. In fact if we wait much longer we’ll blow ourselves up.’
Vallon 02 - Imperial Fire Page 58