Imperial Fire (22 page)

Lucas bristled. Gorka might be the bane of his existence, but he was a member of Lucas’s squad, and that counted for a lot. ‘Oh, yes? That’s not how I heard it. Aimery told me that Gorka rode at Vallon’s side when the general saved the emperor at Dyrrachium.’

‘You’re young and green, lad. Don’t be taken in by campfire tales.’ A long glugging sound and a sniff. ‘Damn good wine. Tell you what. If you’re too frit to leave your post, I’ll bring the wine to you. Where are you – on the bridge?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be right over.’

‘No, really. I’m on duty.’

‘To hell with you, then.’

Lucas’s face and feet grew numb. He nestled his hands in his armpits and jogged up and down. He blew like a horse through fluttering lips. Time dragged like a millstone.

He whirled, alerted by a sound. Hard to tell where it came from. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Arides?’ he whispered.

No answer. Another faint noise sent his heart into spasm. It sounded like horse harness. He drew his sword, searched behind him and gave a nervous laugh. ‘I’m wise to you, boss. You’ll have to tread more lightly if you want to catch me dozing.’

No answer and no more movement. Lucas strained through the dark. ‘Gorka?’

A crow called, heralding the approach of dawn. Lucas peered to his right. ‘Arides? I heard a sound.’ He raised his voice. ‘Arides? Where are you?’

‘Right here,’ Arides whispered, grabbing his arm.

Lucas was so keyed up that he skipped back at Arides’ touch, wrenching free. In the next instant something went
swish
and cold flame seared his forearm. ‘God,’ he said in disbelief, staggering backwards and tripping on the bridge’s logs. That slip saved his life. Another hiss cut a savage semicircle inches above his head and he knew it was a sword blade but couldn’t believe Arides was wielding it or imagine why. He scrambled backwards onto the far bank, still too choked with shock to cry out.

Arides cursed and followed him, feeling his way across the span, his sword slashing right and left. Gripping his injured arm, Lucas stumbled downriver.

‘Arides?’ another voice hissed. ‘Have you dealt with him?’

‘I don’t know. I cut him but he got away.’

‘Find him, you useless idiot.’

‘You find him. I can’t see a thing.’

‘Forget him, then. Mount up before he raises the alarm.’

‘No, we’ve blown our chance.’

‘We can’t go back now. Come on!’

Muffled hooves trembled the bridge and rancorous voices faded away upstream.

‘Enemy attack,’ Lucas gurgled. He massaged his throat, recrossed the bridge and stumbled towards the beacon at the centre of the camp. ‘To arms!’ he shouted. ‘Enemy attack!’

Voices took up the alarm and pandemonium ensued, cries and counter-cries merging with the sounds of men drawing weapons and running blind through the snow.

‘Over here!’ Lucas shouted.

Spectral figures erupted out of the dawn. One of them raised his sword and would have slashed at Lucas if he hadn’t called out his name. Troopers milled, searching for the enemy. A riderless horse galloped past.

Vallon’s voice cut through the mayhem. ‘Everyone stay where they are!’

Movement ceased. A weird silence fell. Lucas touched his right forearm and felt warm blood welling.

Torches had been lit. ‘What’s the cause of this panic?’ Vallon demanded. ‘Who raised the alarm?’

Lucas felt sick and his wounded arm ached to the bone. ‘Me,’ he croaked. ‘Lucas.’

‘Ah, Christ,’ Gorka groaned. ‘I might have known it.’

A clump of torches drew close and Vallon appeared, his face ruddy in the flames.

‘Who attacked us? Who cut you?’

‘Arides, sir. He tried to kill me.’ Lucas held up his wounded arm, the blood black and glossy on his sleeve.

‘Are you out of your mind? Why would Arides try to kill you?’

Lucas’s voice broke. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

Josselin twisted in his stirrups and fanned snow from his eyes. ‘Arides?’ he shouted. ‘Arides?’

The only sound was the sputtering of the torches. Vallon bent over Lucas like a claw. ‘If you’ve murdered Arides in some squabble, you’ll hang.’

‘On my oath, sir,’ Lucas said, close to tears.

‘Hold,’ Josselin said. ‘Someone’s approaching.’

Silent as shadows, Wayland and his dog ran back into the torchlight. ‘No trails approaching the camp. Three horses heading north. We weren’t attacked. The enemy was from within.’

Vallon sat rigid, his face writhing. ‘Deserters.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Send a squad after them. Ten solidi for each traitor. Bring one back alive.’

Josselin wrenched his horse round and disappeared. Hero stepped forward, took Lucas’s arm and examined the wound. ‘Can you move your hand?’

Lucas flexed it.

‘Good. No sinews severed. It requires attention, though.’

Supported by Gorka and Wayland, Lucas followed Hero into his tent. He dropped onto a pallet while Hero prepared his instruments. He swabbed the wound with a resinous ointment whose volatile vapours caught in the back of Lucas’s throat. ‘That will help clean the wound and dull the pain while I stitch. Are you ready?’

Lucas stretched out his right arm and gripped the edge of a camp table. Gorka pinned his wrist. ‘Typical. Your first wound and it’s inflicted by your own side.’ He made a bob to Hero. ‘Stitch away, Master.’

Hero was spoon-feeding Lucas broth when Wayland entered the tent. He acknowledged Hero before turning his gaze on Lucas. ‘Are you able to ride?’

Hero rose. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

‘I’m afraid not. Scouts report trouble ahead. Vallon wants us over the next pass before sunset.’

‘I can ride,’ Lucas said, swinging upright. Immediately his surroundings spun into a kaleidoscope and he would have collapsed if Wayland hadn’t caught him. Lucas stretched his eyes wide and blinked until his surroundings came back into focus. ‘I’m all right,’ he said, his voice reaching him from far away.

Wayland patted his shoulder. ‘You’ve got pluck. I’ll give you that.’

‘What happened?’ Lucas asked.

Wayland paused. ‘Arides and two other Outlanders deserted. They’re riding back in the hope of finding their way to the coast. Vallon’s sent a squad after them. They won’t escape. Even if they outpace their hunters, last night’s snow will have closed the pass. And if they manage to cross it, the Svans will be waiting for them.’

A flick of the tent flap and Wayland was gone. Lucas fixed his woozy gaze on Hero. ‘They’re mad if they think they can get back to the Black Sea.’

‘Hush,’ Hero said. ‘You’ll need all your strength for tomorrow’s journey.’

Long after darkness had fallen, Lucas woke in Hero’s tent to hear orders being cried and feet shuffling to attention. Then silence fell. Hero went to the entrance, looked out and returned with a forced smile.

‘Nothing that need trouble you,’ he said. ‘Go back to sleep.’

Lucas heard a voice intoning what sounded like a solemn mass. It was Vallon, his words too indistinct to make out. Lucas threw off his blankets and swung his legs to the floor. Hero tried to push him back.

‘Don’t go out there. I mean it.’

‘The scouts have caught the deserters, haven’t they?’

Hero closed his eyes briefly. ‘Yes. They killed all but Arides. They brought him back for summary trial and execution. Stay here. There are some sights a young man shouldn’t witness. In a tender mind foul weeds take root.’

Lucas shoved past. ‘I’ve witnessed crueller sights than the hanging of the bastard who tried to kill me.’

He emerged blinking against leaping flames that silhouetted a gibbet. Beneath the gallows, Arides sat astride a horse, hands bound behind his back and a noose around his neck. He grinned at the assembled company. ‘Well, comrades, we’ve ridden a long way together and now my journey is done. We’re all heading down the same road. The only difference is that when you reach the end, I’ll be there waiting for you. If there’s wine in hell, the first round’s on me.’

Someone gave a caustic laugh. ‘That will be a first.’

At an order from Josselin, two troopers lashed the horse’s rump. It plunged forward and Arides dropped from its back and swung in convulsions, feet kicking only inches from the ground. The squadron waited in silence until his body stopped twitching and dangled, rotating first one way, then the other.

‘See that,’ Vallon said. ‘Now that Arides has left us, he doesn’t know which way to turn. Let that be a lesson to you all. The only way we’ll crown our journey with success is the same way we began it – as a company loyal to each other and to your commander. The way back is more dangerous than the way forward, and grows more so with each passing day. We’re on a bridge that’s collapsing behind us. Our only hope is to advance faster than it crumbles. Dismiss.’

Lucas returned to the tent to find Hero writing in a fierce flurry.

‘Satisfied?’ the Sicilian said, without looking up.

‘He got what he deserved.’

Hero dug the point of his pen into the parchment. ‘Arides had a wife and three children. All the deserters had families. They acted out of desperation. They were convinced that Vallon was leading them to certain death.’

Lucas hadn’t given much thought to the mission. Its scale was so large that he could only absorb it one day at a time. And his obsession with Vallon’s crimes meant he’d given little thought to where they were going or what purpose the journey was supposed to serve. He felt a bit stupid.

‘Is he?’

Hero resumed writing. ‘Possibly. Probably. I’ve studied the accounts without finding any record of a party reaching China from Byzantium.’

‘But you and Vallon and Wayland made an impossible voyage to the ends of the earth.’

Hero laid down his pen. ‘I was your age when I travelled to the northlands, and though I saw friends die on that journey, I was too callow to believe death would lay its grip on me. Since then I’ve learned that death is indiscriminate, taking the young as well as the old, innocents as often as the guilty.’

Lucas stroked the soft stubble on his jaw. ‘I know how cruel life can be.’

Hero sifted sand over his page. ‘Which is why I prefer to explore it through books. Unlike our own utterances, the written word doesn’t die.’

‘What are you writing?’

‘A journal. A record of our journey.’

‘In case none of us survive.’

‘I told you that watching the hanging would plant morbid thoughts. Rest now. Tomorrow you’ll rejoin your squad. Report to me morning and evening so that I can check your wound. It’s healing well.’

Lucas allowed Hero to help him to his pallet. He managed a weak smile as the Sicilian drew the covers up. ‘That’s the second time you’ve saved my life.’

Hero laughed. ‘You exaggerate. You’re as tough as the cats that prowled the Syracuse docks where I grew up.’ He prodded Lucas’s chest. ‘Still, you’ve used at least three of your lives since we met, so you’d better take more care.’

Ten days and five passes later, Lucas trotted Aster out onto the military highway winding north to the Daryal Gorge. In dribs and drabs the rest of the column followed. They camped that night in a pine forest and spent the next day reassembling the carts. Lucas was polishing the suit of armour he’d stripped from the Greek officer when Josselin strolled by.

‘I’m looking for Aimery.’ His eye fell on the armour. ‘Good Lord, that corselet’s more splendid than the general’s
klivanion
.’

Lucas swallowed, fearful that the centurion would confiscate the outfit. ‘I don’t intend wearing it until I’ve distinguished myself in battle.’

‘Quite right. We don’t want you outshining your superiors before you’ve shed a drop of enemy blood. How’s your arm?’

Lucas flexed it. ‘As good as new, sir.’

‘No bluster now.’

‘Really, sir,’ Lucas said. He drew his sword and made a pass, cut a smart parabola and sheathed the weapon with precision. ‘See?’

The rest of his squad had drifted over. ‘Tomorrow you’ll be riding reconnaissance,’ Josselin told them. ‘About ten miles further on, the road’s guarded by a Georgian fort. Approach with the utmost caution.’

‘Are we going to storm it?’ Aimery asked.

‘Vallon hopes to creep past at night.’

‘It ain’t going to happen,’ said Gorka. ‘Too many folk have spotted us.’

Josselin ignored him. ‘The fort’s the last Georgian stronghold against invaders from the north. Once past it, we’ll be back among highlanders. Ossetians this time. Four marches should bring us to the Daryal Gorge. After that, our path makes an easy descent towards the Caspian.’

When Josselin left, Gorka took Lucas aside. ‘What did the captain say about the armour?’

Lucas extemporised. ‘He said I’ll be entitled to wear it once I’ve killed five men in battle.’

Gorka grinned. ‘That’ll be the day. I’ll have retired to a monastery by then.’

‘You in a monastery!’

‘Only because they won’t let me into a nunnery.’

Fog wreathed the trees when the squad moved out at dawn. Condensation beaded on Lucas’s clothes and face. They rode in silence, eyes panning across the forest margins. Miles floated past. Lucas’s padded corselet was soaked through when he hauled back on Aster’s reins and drew his sword.

‘Enemy ahead!’

Faces turned in anger. ‘Did you learn to whisper in a smithy?’ Gorka growled.

Two silhouettes advanced through the murk. One mounted figure lifted an outspread hand and only then did Lucas spot the dog trotting at his side.

‘It’s Wayland.’

The Englishman rode up in the company of a Seljuk. Lacking Greek, Wayland relayed his intelligence through Lucas.

‘The fort’s about a mile ahead. It’s built on a spur to the right, with no way round it except by road. I estimate its garrison outnumbers us two to one.’

‘Are they expecting us?’ Lucas said, proud to be discussing martial matters.

‘Did you meet anyone on the road today?’

‘Not a soul.’

‘There’s your answer, then. The garrison commander has cleared the route for action. I spied on the lookouts and they didn’t strike me as men twiddling their thumbs in the hope of something turning up.’

Vallon and Otia arrived, shunting Lucas into the background. They went into convocation with Wayland before Vallon squinted at the weeping sky, flapped a hand in frustration and rode back down the column.

‘What’s the plan?’ Lucas asked Gorka.

‘The weather’s too foul for us to sneak through by night. Vallon’s ordered us to lie up in the woods and be ready to advance at a moment’s notice. No tents or fires. No hot food or dry clothes.’

The squadron and its train took cover under the dripping trees and bedded down as best they could. Lucas forced down a piece of hardtack and a wodge of rancid salt pork coated with pickle. None of the muted voices reaching him through the dark spoke of the next day’s encounter. They moaned about the cold and wet, blistered feet and vile rations – anything except the possibility of meeting a violent death before another day had rolled round.

Lucas’s jaw juddered. He cowled his head in his cape and sank into an uncomfortable slumber.

A foot ground into his ribs. ‘Rise and shine,’ Gorka said.

Lucas woke shivering into soggy blackness. He coughed and groaned. The muted sounds of men arming themselves carried through the dark.

‘What’s the time?’

‘Coming towards dawn.’

Lucas rose and stretched his limbs. Turning to gather Aster, he walked into a tree. He wiped his nose, licked his fingers and tasted salt-sweet blood. ‘I don’t feel like fighting today.’

Gorka laughed. ‘That’s my lad.’

By feel and sound, the squadron formed up on the road, two-thirds of the fighting men ahead of the baggage train, the rest guarding the rear. With a collective lurch, like a sluggish beast goaded into reluctant motion, the column plodded forward.

The road could only accommodate five horsemen riding abreast. Troopers tangled stirrups or blundered onto the verges. Behind them carts creaked and rumbled.

‘Do something about that squeaking hub,’ someone said.

Blind and disoriented, the force crept on. Lucas started at the sound of footsteps splashing towards them through puddles.

‘Hold back,’ Otia said. ‘It’s a scout.’

The scout delivered his report in an intense murmur.

‘We’re almost on top of them,’ Otia said. ‘Hold your positions.’

Lucas waited. Thump, thump went his heart. Night faded to grey and the tops of the pine trees formed out of the fog, the road still an opaque channel.

Shade by shade the gloom relented until Lucas could make out the shapes of his companions. A crow cawed in the woods and a breeze shook flurries of spray from the treetops. The light grew and the fog receded as if drawn down a tunnel.

‘There they are,’ Gorka said.

Lucas’s mouth dried. A cordon of soldiers two ranks deep blocked the road where it broadened at a junction an over-ambitious bowshot ahead. Infantry in front, cavalry behind, shape-shifting in the vapours.

‘Mend your lines,’ Otia said.

Lucas found himself in the fourth rank. Vallon trotted up and studied the enemy position.

‘I put their strength no greater than ours,’ he told Otia. ‘Wayland made them twice as many.’

‘So much the better,’ said Otia.

‘So much the worse. Where are the rest of them?’

The mist rolled past in veils, offering glimpses of the Georgians and their castle perched on a promontory east of the main highway. Neither side made a move or sound.

‘Have you kept your bowstring dry?’ Gorka asked.

Lucas patted the waterproofed pocket. ‘Why don’t we attack? One charge and we’d smash through the centre.’

‘Leaving the baggage carriers to be cut to shreds. Since returning to your mates, you’ve done nothing but bitch and moan about the muleteers and wagoners. But remember that if we’re forced to abandon them, we’ll have nothing to put into our mouths come tomorrow.’

Lucas watched the enemy coming and going in the mist. A scrambling in the forest made everybody whirl.

‘It’s me,’ a voice cried, and the troopers relaxed their sword arms as Wayland and his dog came bounding down through the trees. Vallon swung out of the saddle and the two men held a discussion. When their exchanges were over, the general issued an order and two troopers spurred away down the column.

‘Hear that?’ Gorka said. ‘The Georgians have sent half their force to attack our rear.’

Flanked by two cavalrymen carrying a flag of truce, a Georgian officer on a high-stepping stallion sallied into the ground separating the opposing forces. Vallon sent Otia to negotiate.

Gorka spat. ‘Whatever deal they offer, ten solidi to a counterfeit nummus that Vallon tells them to shove it up their arse.’

Otia cantered back and went into another confabulation with Vallon.

The delay was driving Lucas mad. ‘What are we waiting for?’

Vallon separated from Otia and heeled his horse to face the squadron. ‘As I feared, Duke Skleros has found his way to the Georgians and whetted their greed with tales of the treasures we carry. His hosts offer generous terms. Hand over every last scrap of gold and they’ll grant us passage forward or back without the least encumbrance. After what we’ve been through, that doesn’t sound equable. What say you? Fight for what’s yours or submit like curs?’

Swords pounded on shields. ‘Fight!’

Vallon stilled the outburst and faced the enemy. The Georgian negotiator returned to his lines. The breeze was beginning to shred the fog.

‘Look there!’ Gorka cried. ‘It’s the duke.’

Lucas spotted the traitor, clad in furs and silks, mounted on a grey at the centre of the Georgian cavalry.

‘Spit the fat bastard,’ someone shouted

‘A long shot,’ Vallon said. ‘Three hundred paces at least. Worth a try, though, if only to demonstrate how far our bowmen outrange theirs. Bring up half a dozen of our best archers.’

Six Turkmen hurried forward and assessed the challenge. From the faces they pulled, it was clear that they judged it lay beyond them. Even though they’d shielded their weapons from the rain, creeping damp had sapped torsion from their bows and slackened the strings.

‘General, this isn’t a day for accurate bowmanship,’ said Gan, the Pecheneg archer who’d demonstrated his remarkable skills on Lucas’s second day at Hebdomon barracks.

‘Use your
sipers
,’ Vallon said.

Lucas had only seen these devices used at the practice butts. Strapped over the archer’s wrist and bowhand, a siper was a pad with a channel of bone on top that allowed the arrow to be drawn back behind the stave, increasing range. Lucas was still struggling to master the Turkish draw and hadn’t graduated to such advanced techniques. Get it wrong and you could put an arrow through your hand.

Gan fitted his siper. Not for him a leather pad and bone groove. His overdraw device was crafted from shagreen and ivory. The other archers took their timing from him and six arrows flew high to splinter on the road fifty yards ahead of the enemy.

‘Again,’ Vallon ordered.

Four times the archers bent their bows, each volley falling shorter than the one before. The enemy jeered and Duke Skleros, emboldened, rode forward to add his taunts and threats.

‘A month’s pay if you puncture that bladder,’ someone called, and another ragged flight of arrows hissed through the overcast. One of them shattered only a few feet in front of the duke, sending him hurrying back to the safety of the ranks.

‘That will do,’ Vallon said. He lifted an arm to signal the advance. Lucas’s chest tightened in excitement.

‘Let me try a shot.’

Lucas swung round to see Wayland dismount and hold out a hand to Atam. Wayland rode equipped with three bows – a light one, much knocked about, that he used for game; a short, powerful war bow designed to be shot from horseback; and a target bow crafted to his own design. It was the target bow that he drew from its protective sheath. Lucas had seen it once before and Wayland had even allowed him to handle it and marvel at its workmanship. It was a cross between a war bow and a flight bow, forming a crescent when unstrung rather than the boat shape of the weapons used by horse archers. Its composite construction – sinew on the back, wood for the core, horn on the belly facing the archer – was nothing unusual, but Wayland had selected the best and rarest materials. Instead of cow sinew, the tension face was sheathed with the sinews of an elk he had shot himself. Instead of maple for the core, Wayland had cut a yew branch in the Taurus Mountains. For the compression face he’d used water buffalo horn rather than cow horn. And to bond these materials, he’d chosen fish glue. Not any old fish glue, but glue imported from the Danube, rendered from the roof of a sturgeon’s mouth. The bow’s maker had decorated its belly with a repeat design known as ‘flower bud’, painted with pigment ground from the finest Persian lapis lazuli and lacquered with damar resin. On the back of the bowgrip he’d signed his name and inscribed a flowing motto in gold calligraphy under a flake of sea turtle.
In God not arms
.

‘How far can it shoot?’ Vallon asked.

‘Six hundred yards on a good day. This isn’t one of them.’

‘Make it quick and God guide your aim.’

Wayland’s movements were almost too fast to follow. He strung the bow with a dry silk string – the draw weight equivalent to that of a strapping youth – nocked an arrow, bobbed his head at the target like a hunting hawk sighting on prey, then tensed into a fluent draw that made bow and archer as one. Open-mouthed in admiration, Lucas knew he could never emulate such skill no matter how long he practised.

As Wayland released, a skein of fog floated across the road, hiding the target. Lucas strained, waiting for a cry to announce that the dart had bitten. No sound carried from the Georgian line and when the fog cleared, everything looked exactly as it had been before.

Everything the same until the duke toppled sideways off his horse to the mute astonishment of the officers around him.

‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ Gorka said.

The Outlanders close to Wayland pummelled his back or just touched him as if a bit of his magic might rub off on them.

‘Bravo!’ Vallon called. ‘A shot made in heaven.’

Wayland gave a sheepish smile. ‘I missed. I was aiming for the Georgian commander.’

In that moment Lucas’s respect for Wayland surged into worship.

‘Squadron advance,’ Vallon said. ‘When you reach broader ground, form ranks one squad wide. Hit the centre.’

Lucas was in motion before he was ready, trying to curb his excitement and hold back his horse. Vallon set the pace, his right hand raised.

‘Steady. Charge on my word. If we break through, turn and attack again. On no account lose contact with the supply train.’

He urged his horse into an extended canter, the squadron flowing behind him like a river gathering strength before plunging over a fall.

He dropped his arm. ‘Charge!’

Swept along in the current, Lucas saw the enemy lines surge closer. This was how he’d imagined battle. This was the real thing. In a few heartbeats he’d be one step closer to wearing the gorgeous suit of armour. It never occurred to him that within those few pulsations he might be dead.