Hawk Quest (61 page)
Hero glowered upriver before turning back to the woman. She paid no heed to the mosquitoes crawling in her thin white hair. ‘Vallon will make sure they return the money. In any case, you don’t need silver to come with us.’
‘That’s kind, but what then? I won’t last long in this filthy forest. Even if I lived, I don’t want to end my days as a pauper in a strange land. No, here I stay.’
‘You’ll perish of cold or hunger. Wolves and bears will devour you.’
She smiled and patted their hands. ‘You’re nice young men. You’d better be going. It will be dark soon. Your friends will be starting to worry about you.’
Raul came jogging through the trees. ‘Vallon wants every man pulling.’ His eyes were on the woman.
‘She says she won’t leave him. You try reasoning with her. I don’t
know why, but sometimes your coarse logic works where finer reasoning fails.’
Raul formed his features into the benign goofiness of someone dealing with a half-wit. ‘Now then, mother, you come along with us.’
Her face set. ‘Go away.’
Raul laughed, gripped her under her shoulders and began to lift. She gave such a shriek that he set her back down. ‘All right, mother. Have it your own way.’ He scooped Hero and Richard out of the old woman’s hearing. ‘You’re wasting your time. She’s made up her mind. Now come away. We have to get clear of the rapids before dark.’
‘We can’t just leave her to die.’
Raul pulled off his cap and slapped it against his thigh. He stared into the sky. ‘You’re right. Talk to her again. Soothe her.’
Hero held the old woman’s hands. He couldn’t remember what he said and never finished saying it because Raul stepped behind the woman, raised his crossbow and shot a bolt into the back of her neck.
Another day’s rowing and dragging brought them to the first of the three lakes sketched by Thorfinn. One glance at the empty horizon told Vallon that they could only cross it by boat. He ordered Raul to supervise the building of a raft large enough to carry the horses and most of their cargo. With the raft in tow, they headed away from land next morning, the boats loaded to the gunwales. They were on the lake for two and a half days and several times came close to foundering. All the time they were aware of how vulnerable they were to attack from the longship.
From the southern shore their route took them through waterways separated by raised bog which the shore party crossed like flies caught in honey.
It turned bitter cold. At night the wind moaned through the trees and wolves howled in the distance. Black ice webbed the ponds at dawn and at noon the dark sun bored down through corridors of fog. The monotony of the forest and the constant discomfort frayed their nerves. Tempers gave way under the strain. A clumsily wielded oar, the refusal of wood to burn, the upsetting of a dish – the slightest irritant was enough to bring men to blows.
Food ran short and the Vikings suffered most because the salmon they’d caught rotted for lack of salt. Smoked elk and salt fish, together
with mushrooms and berries, kept Vallon’s party going, while the Vikings and their prisoners were thrown back on stockfish so putrid that it turned their bowels to flux.
The Icelandic baby died and was buried on the riverbank with scant ceremony. Then one of the Vikings disappeared. He’d gone foraging and strayed from his companions. They searched until dark before giving up. The missing man had been one of the Viking hostages and Wayland agreed to track him. The falconer picked up his trail about a mile from the river and read the man’s increasing desperation as he circled, backtracked and finally wandered off into a swamp. Wayland followed for as long as he dared and then made his way back to report that the Viking was dead.
A day later another Viking met with a fatal calamity. A gale was blowing from the north. The longship had reached a fork that Thorfinn swore hadn’t been there on his last expedition. He sent men upriver to scout for the right channel. Wayland and Raul accompanied one of the parties, pushing through wind-lashed thickets of alder and willow. The trees thrashed with a violence that drowned all other sounds.
Emerging into a clearing, the dog stopped in mid-stride, one foot crooked to its chest, its tail sticking up.
Ahead of them one of the Vikings was parting a tangle of shrubs. ‘Back!’ Wayland shouted.
‘What?’ cried the Viking.
A blast of wind carried away Wayland’s response. The Viking forced himself into the thicket and a huge dark ogre heaved up and flattened him with a blow too quick to see. The bear crashed away into the raging forest. When Wayland reached the stricken man, he saw that something was terribly wrong with his face, and then he realised that the man had no face at all.
His companions half-led, half-carried the victim back to the longship and set him down against a tree. He rocked back and forth, screaming and clawing at his bloody mask. Thorfinn paced with a face like thunder, then he ran at the man, kicked him over and brought his axe down into his chest.
Freezing rain fell all next day and it was well after dark before Vallon’s company managed to get a fire going. They sat shivering around the
hissing flames, replaying the trials of that day’s journey, knowing they would have to do it all again.
Raul spat into the fire. ‘Fuck it.’
Vallon looked up, his face all edges in the fireglow. ‘Something you want to share with us?’
‘It ain’t just the shitty journey. Thorfinn’s going to make his move soon. He ain’t going to see his men starve while we go to bed with tight bellies.’
‘He’ll attack before we reach the next lake,’ said Wayland. ‘The one called Onega.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Because once we cross it, we’ll be in Rus.’
‘The Vikings say it’s as big as a sea,’ Raul added. ‘There ain’t no way we’ll get everyone across in our boats. Either we have to beg Thorfinn to take some of the Icelanders or we have to capture the longship.’
Vallon placed a log on the fire. ‘Let me get this straight. Right now we’ve got what the Vikings covet – food, treasure and women. They’ve got what we need – a ship. And if we take it, we can find our own way to Rus.’
‘That’s it.’
Vallon patted the ground and stared off.
Raul shuffled towards him. ‘How are you going to do it, Captain? You want me and Wayland to set an ambush?’
Vallon formed his words carefully. ‘The Viking hostages didn’t seem too happy with Thorfinn’s leadership. Hero, you formed the same opinion.’
‘Yes, sir, but if it came to a fight, they’d face us as one.’
All of them watched Vallon coming to a decision. He scooped up a handful of litter and tossed it into the fire. ‘Light a torch. It’s time to pay a call on Thorfinn.’
Wayland wrapped tow around a branch, doused it in seal oil and dipped it into the flame. By the light of the torch he led the company towards the Vikings’ camp. Drogo and Fulk hurried up.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To challenge Thorfinn.’
The Vikings’ fire appeared across a swathe of wind-toppled trees.
‘Thorfinn!’
Shades darted across the firelight. ‘Frankish!’
‘The truce is over. It’s time to settle our differences.’
‘How?’
‘By combat. You and me. Daylight tomorrow. Winner takes all.’
‘Where?’
‘Here.’
‘I’ll be there. Sweet dreams, Frankish.’
Vallon took himself away from the camp and made up a bed under a spruce. He didn’t think about the fight. A calm and empty spirit is the right frame of mind for combat. That’s what his swordmaster had drummed into him all those years ago. He could remember his exact words. ‘You’re showing too much emotion. Don’t let your mind influence your body or your body influence your mind. Got that?’ Vallon smiled. His swordmaster had been one of the most peppery characters he’d ever known.
The rain stopped and a hard frost set in. Snug under layers of furs and fleeces, Vallon slept the night through. Raul and Hero crept up at dawn. ‘Look at him,’ Raul whispered. ‘Usually he sleeps like hellhounds are on his trail, and then on the eve of combat he slumbers sound as a babe.’
Vallon was smiling at some pleasant memory that fled when Hero’s hand touched his shoulder. He yawned and blinked around. The hoary shapes of the trees floated through freezing mist. The ground was stiff with frost. Steam rose from the basin that Hero offered him. He splashed water into his face.
‘I’m glad you passed a restful night,’ Hero said.
Vallon stretched his shoulders back like a rooster heralding daybreak. ‘I would have slept sounder if the Vikings hadn’t been making such a racket.’
‘Arne told me that they always get drunk before going into battle.’
‘Amateurs.’
‘Can I bring you anything to eat?’
‘God, no.’
Vallon saw a boiling cauldron slung from a trivet above the campfire.
‘Hot water and clean cloths,’ said Hero. ‘In case you’re wounded.’
Figures drifted from the camp. Drogo stepped forward bearing his armour and helmet on his shield. He held them out with his eyes averted. ‘You’ll need these.’
‘I thank you,’ said Vallon. ‘I’ll try to return them in the same condition.’ He knew that the armour wouldn’t offer much protection against Thorfinn’s axe.
‘Have you decided your tactics? The Viking must have a foot advantage in reach.’
Vallon scratched the back of his neck. ‘I’m not going to slug it out with him. I’ll keep moving and hope to wear him down until an opening presents itself.’
‘Watch your footing on this surface. One slip and it could be all over.’
‘Drogo, this isn’t my first sword fight.’
‘I wish you’d let me challenge him.’
‘I’ve never doubted your courage. It’s who you direct it at that I question.’
Vallon addressed his company. ‘If I win, we’ll try to persuade the Vikings to accept my command. It shouldn’t be too difficult to bring them over, judging by what we’ve learned during our passage.’
‘If the fight goes against you,’ said Raul, ‘I’m not serving under Thorfinn. Wayland says the same.’
‘Of course not,’ Vallon said. ‘Have your crossbow ready and kill him before he can cry victory. Wayland should be able to spit a couple more before they can use their swords.’
‘And Fulk and I stand ready with Helgi’s men and the other Icelanders,’ Drogo said.
‘Good.’
Hero frowned. ‘Then why fight Thorfinn? Let Raul kill him the moment he shows himself. That way you can direct the battle.’
Vallon smiled. ‘I must observe the conventions even when dealing with a savage. There’s another reason. If the day is mine, only one man needs to die. If we take on all the Vikings, some of us will be killed. Who knows? We might lose.’
‘Who takes command if Thorfinn kills you?’ Drogo asked.
‘You do. Exercise it well.’
Caitlin ran forward and seized Vallon’s wrists. Her eyes glittered. ‘Avenge Helgi.’
Vallon inclined his head.
Father Hilbert stepped up. After blessing Vallon, he ordered him to kneel and make his peace with God. Vallon stayed on his feet and told Hilbert that he wasn’t at war with his Maker.
Flanked by Wayland and Raul, Vallon made his way to the arena. Frost flowers bloomed in the puddles and thick rime furred the trees. The clearing was about fifty yards square, created by a storm that had ripped trees from the ground and left them strewn with their roots clutching plates of earth. Through the frigid haze Vallon saw the Vikings ranged on the far side of the clearing.
He stopped at the edge. ‘Hero, help me dress. The rest of you leave us.’
He shrugged on the cold metal hauberk over the padded undercoat and cinched his sword belt to take up some of the weight of the armour. He decided not to wear the mail leggings. The fight might be a long one and he would have to stay nimble to avoid Thorfinn’s attacks. When he was ready, he dismissed Hero, cloaked himself in a blanket and sat on one of the fallen trees. While he waited, he honed his sword with a whetstone, admiring the edges in the growing brightness.
Dawn had given way to leprous daylight when Thorfinn lurched belching from his tent. He undid his breeches and stood leaning one-handed against a tree while he took an interminable piss. When he’d finished he blinked sottishly around the clearing. Dead drunk, Vallon thought. Then he remembered Thorfinn’s play-acting on the river.
‘Over here.’
Thorfinn’s smoking eyes found Vallon.
‘Couldn’t you sleep, Frankish? Have you been up all night?’
Vallon rose. ‘Only a fool lies brooding over his problems. When morning comes he’s tired out and his problems are the same as before.’
Thorfinn laughed. ‘Spoken like a Viking. Well, your worries will soon be a thing of the past. Before the sun melts this mist, I’ll chine you from neck to buttocks. Die bravely and you might earn a place in the hall of slain warriors.’
Vallon shrugged off his blanket, pulled the mail coif over his head and donned the helmet. He gripped his shield and hefted his sword.
‘To the death.’
Vallon could tell if he faced a dangerous opponent just from the way the man stood and held his sword. Most men he’d met in battle fought like Helgi, wielding their swords like they were cudgels with sharp edges. They committed themselves to a position too soon, and because they were reluctant to leave their bodies open, they held their swords too close to their side, reducing the power of their blows and exposing their sword arm to attack.
Vallon suspected that Thorfinn had no finesse, but his sheer size and strength called for respect. By training and temperament, Vallon was an offensive fighter. The attacker has an inherent advantage in that he moves first, forcing his opponent to defend or counter. A skilled offensive fighter moves fluently, always ready to exploit his opponent’s errors. The good offensive fighter creates mistakes; the defensive fighter can only react to them.
Against Thorfinn, though, Vallon suffered from several disadvantages. As Drogo had pointed out, the Viking outreached him. Vallon was tall, but Thorfinn was a giant. His axe was at least six inches longer than Vallon’s sword and three or four times heavier. If Vallon parried that massive blade, it would shatter his sword to smithereens. The same applied to Vallon’s shield. It was designed to block a sword-edge, not an axe delivered with the force of a sledgehammer. His best tactic would be to stay out of Thorfinn’s reach until the Viking began to flag or dropped his guard. Vallon guessed that Thorfinn’s contests rarely lasted long. Most of his fights would be won before they’d begun, by sheer bladder-voiding intimidation. A roar, a rush, a sweep of that massive blade, and in most cases it would be over before the terrified opponent offered a stroke.
