Imperial Fire (25 page)

The trooper laughed away tears. ‘He called for his mother. I expect I’ll do the same when my turn comes.’

Wayland slumped beside Atam and cried tears from a well that seemed bottomless. Hollowed out by grief, he looked up when someone shook his shoulder.

‘We’d best be getting on,’ Wulfstan said,

The bombardment had stopped and the storm had arrived, whirling wet flakes sticking to Wayland’s face. The column drifted past, cartwheels muffled on the cold blanket.

‘I’m not leaving Atam here,’ Wayland said.

A teamster drove by, urging on his mules with shouts and lashes. Wulfstan stepped out. ‘Hold up while we load a casualty.’

The driver registered Atam, one side of his body already plastered by snow. He flicked his whip. ‘I’m overladen as it is. Let the dead look after the dead.’

Wayland sprang up, leaped onto the cart and held a knife to the driver’s throat. ‘You’ll go down among them if you don’t take the boy.’

They laid Atam on the cart and walked behind the crude hearse, leaning their weight against it to force it through the deepening snow. They were at this labour until dawn, when snow and slope relented and they stood looking down on foothills emerging under a clearing sky.

At the first camp below the Daryal Gate the officers tallied up the losses. Of the hundred troopers who’d boarded
Pelican
and
Stork
, twenty were dead, another eight injured. Wayland waited until the expedition had reached gentler ground before burying Atam. The trooper who’d watched the orphan’s life drain away joined Hero, Aiken and Wulfstan in the mourning party. Vallon didn’t attend.

‘I hadn’t realised how much he meant to you,’ Hero said to Wayland.

‘Nor did I until he was gone. I don’t know why except that he had no one else in the world.’

‘Come away now. We’ll talk later.’

‘Give me a while alone.’

He kneeled beside the grave and prayed that Atam would find a kinder existence in the afterworld. The dog whined and pawed at the turned earth. Wayland rose as the sun broke through the clouds, revealing the peaks stepping away in splendour.

On a muggy afternoon towards the end of May, Vallon stood looking across a corridor of coastal steppe to the Caspian Sea merging into the sky like a misted mirror.

Otia pointed at a tiny stain on the shore. ‘That must be Tarki.’

‘It doesn’t look like much of a place.’

‘It’s the only port between the Volga and Derbent.’

Vallon reviewed the squadron ranged along the ridge. ‘Take three squads and secure the town. Offer no violence unless necessary. Make it clear that we’ll pay for our passage.’

‘We’ll be lucky to charter a fishing smack in that back-of-beyond hole,’ Josselin muttered.

‘Mind your tongue,’ Vallon snapped. ‘I won’t have my officers voicing doubts in front of the men.’ He turned back to Otia. ‘Signal if you’re successful. The usual system.’

Vallon retreated to his tent after the force had left. Since breaking through the Caucasus he’d kept much to his own company, only communicating to his men through terse orders.

Night fell, and with it, rain. Vallon was penning a letter to Caitlin that she’d never receive when his servant announced Wayland. Not long before, the Englishman would have entered the commander’s tent without ceremony and they would have exchanged pleasantries as a prelude to business. This time Wayland presented himself with a formal bow.

‘No signal yet,’ he said.

‘I don’t expect any before morning. Keep lookout from first light.’

‘Very good, General.’

Vallon cast down his pen. ‘What’s this “General”? Even as a youth you weren’t afraid to call me by my name.’

‘I think it would be better for discipline if I addressed you by your rank.’

‘Even in private? Oh, to hell with it, then.’

At the entrance, Wayland paused and Vallon opened his mouth in anticipation. The moment passed. Wayland was gone and Vallon was alone again. He read the letter he would never send – the words no more than an outlet for the heartsickness he couldn’t confide or cure. He crumpled the letter into a ball and flung it across the tent.

He buried his face in his hands and was still sunk in that position when his servant stole in to enquire if he needed anything for the night.

‘No, nothing, thank you,’ Vallon said. ‘You can take your rest now.’

The servant noticed the screwed-up letter and stooped to retrieve it.

‘It’s not important,’ said Vallon. ‘Burn it.’

At dawn he tracked the sun rising in a baleful red swell. The pall thinned and the brassy orb bored through the haze. Still no signal from Otia’s men. Sweat trickled down Vallon’s neck. He rubbed his chapped lips. If the force failed to take the port, he had no idea which way to turn.

‘There’s the signal,’ Wayland said.

‘Where?’

Wayland jostled his horse alongside. ‘There.’

Through the overcast a mirror flashed dully – once, twice, thrice. Vallon curbed a cry of triumph. ‘They’ve taken the port. One squad accompany me. The rest follow with the baggage train.’

A ragged cheer went up and Vallon’s squad swept down to the coast. Otia rode out to meet them. ‘No casualties on either side, sir. The inhabitants are sheltering in the church. I’ve told the priest and elders that we’ll pay for anything we take.’

‘Good work,’ said Vallon, but he could tell from Otia’s expression that the capture of the port hadn’t solved all their problems.

He understood why when he rode through the settlement of daub walls and tousled thatch and saw four small fishing boats and two shabby coastal freighters riding the listless tide. One glance told him the vessels couldn’t carry all his men and freight.

He feigned cheerfulness. ‘The worst is behind us,’ he said. ‘If we can come through the Caucasus, we can cross this millpond. Organise a feast for the men.’

Vallon examined the vessels with Wulfstan. ‘How many can we pack into them?’

‘Most of the men, but that will leave little room for horses and cargo. And none of the vessels is fit for deep-water voyaging.’

Vallon surveyed the Caspian’s oily calm. ‘It’s just a big lake. Why, the tide’s so feeble there’s barely a foot between ebb and flow.’

‘It’s a lot wider than the North Sea and a storm in shallow waters can whip up waves before you can reef sails.’ The Viking pointed at one of the freighters listing like a weary drunk. ‘I wouldn’t risk sailing out of land-shot in that wreck.’

‘We need to rest and recover. There’s a good chance that a trading ship will dock in the next two or three days. Meanwhile, do what’s necessary to make the vessels seaworthy.’

Returning to camp, he had to skip aside as a gang of troopers chased a squealing pig through the muddy lanes. He shut himself in his tent while the men feasted and they were still sleeping it off when he went down to the strand next morning. Not a sail showed all day, nor did the morrow bring any relief. Vallon waited by the slopping waves, wiping sweat from his eyes, and was still scanning the horizon with his shadow lying long before him. He turned to face the blue wall of the Caucasus. Returning through the mountains meant certain death. North lay nothing but empty grassland and the marshes of the Volga delta. The only large harbours were in Georgia to the south, reached along a coastal strip that pinched shut at the Iron Gates of Derbent. Follow that corridor and in a few days they would be among Seljuks or Arabs.

Otia had been hovering and seemed to read his commander’s mind. ‘I suggest we go south, the squadron travelling by land, the baggage train staying in close touch on the ships. Derbent’s the only city where we’ll find vessels large enough to transport all the men and supplies.’

‘We’ll give it one more day.’

Vallon was trudging back to camp when Wayland called out.

‘Sails to the north-east. Two of them, close together, halfway below the horizon and bearing south.’

Vallon ran over. ‘Show me.’

‘Out there, heading away from land.’

The light was draining fast and Vallon couldn’t spot anything against the upwelling night. He knuckled his eyes.

‘Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?’

Wayland looked at him.

Vallon backed away. ‘Light a fire,’ he ordered. ‘Pile it high.’

The men ran in search of firewood. Wulfstan hurried over. ‘If you want to attract their attention, burn that.’

He was pointing at a haystack capped with a wooden roof. Vallon glanced at the settlement.

‘An inferno is as likely to repel as attract.’

‘They ain’t going to see us any other way.’

‘You’re right. Use Greek Fire to quicken the blaze.’

Wulfstan ran into the night. Stars twinkled in the east. Wulfstan returned, climbed a ladder leaning against the stack and poured incendiary compound over the hay. He sprinkled more around the base. Troopers lobbed firebrands onto the stack and flames licked into the sky.

Fifty feet away, Vallon shielded his face from the singeing heat. The fire illuminated Wayland. ‘That’s someone’s precious fodder we’re burning. I hope your eyes didn’t deceive you.’

‘They didn’t,’ Wayland said. ‘There was something odd about the sails, something…’

‘Yes?’

‘Wait until dawn. If I’m right, the blaze will have lured the ships closer. Keep a fire burning on the foreshore and have some of the men blow trumpets and act as if pirates have taken the port.’

‘Damn it, Wayland. Aren’t you going to tell me what you suspect?’

‘I’ll come for you early.’

‘Wayland’s here,’ Vallon’s servant whispered, holding up a lamp.

Vallon rubbed his eyes and threw off his bed covers. He dressed and went out. Stars outlined the Caucasus and the eastern horizon was invisible.

‘It’s still the middle of the night,’ he said, tetchy from having been kept awake by the racket of trumpets and war cries.

Wayland guided him towards the bonfire on the foreshore. Three troopers pulled themselves to attention. Wayland stationed himself at the waterline. Vallon sat beside the crackling logs with a blanket draped over his shoulders.

‘See anything?’

‘It’s still too dark.’

‘Why did you drag me from my bed, then?’

‘Because if I’m right, we’ll need to act fast.’

Vallon mouthed an oath and fell into a doze. Wayland woke him by squeezing a shoulder. Vallon still couldn’t separate sea from sky.

‘They’re out there,’ Wayland said.

Vallon stumbled to his feet and peered into the pre-dawn gloom. ‘If I didn’t know your eyes were as keen as a hawk’s, I’d swear you were making sport of me.’

Wayland’s teeth glimmered in the fireglow. ‘Cover your eyes for a time. You’ll see all the better.’

Like a child playing a game, Vallon shielded his eyes.

‘I can make them out now,’ Wayland said. ‘Not far to the south of us, about a mile out.’

Vallon probed the semi-darkness. His gaze kept returning to two motes of matter that remained dark while the world around them grew ever paler.

‘Is that them?’

‘That’s them.’

At this season of the year, the light came fast. Birds were in full song when the ships took on solid form. Vallon advanced a step, rubbed his eyes and gave a husky laugh. ‘By God, I don’t believe it.’

‘Nor did I when I first spotted them, but the cut of the sails looked familiar. It’s like when you see someone from afar. Even though you can’t make out their features, something about their posture, the way they move, tells you it’s an old friend.’

Vallon laid an arm around Wayland’s shoulder. ‘Or enemy.’

Side by side they stood looking out to sea until the sun’s first flush silhouetted two Viking longships, the carved dragons on their stem- and stern-posts rearing up in black snarls.

The entire squadron stood along the shoreline watching the Vikings watching them.

‘What do you make of them?’ Vallon said.

‘They must be Swedes,’ Wulfstan said. ‘The only way they could have reached the Caspian is down the Volga. I never heard of a Norwegian crew taking that route.’

During the night, the ships had crept to within half a mile of the coast, still well out of hailing distance. They drifted together, roped stern to bow.

‘I count only forty-two crew,’ Wulfstan said. ‘They must have lost a fair few men on the way south. From Sweden to the Caspian is more than a year’s voyaging.’

Vallon swung his arm in a come-hither gesture. ‘Call them again.’

‘Waste of breath,’ said Wulfstan. ‘They ain’t going to risk landing in the teeth of a well-armed force.’

One of the Vikings gave a loose wave and his comrades separated and began to take their positions on the thwarts.

‘They’re leaving,’ said Vallon in exasperation. ‘Well, if they won’t come to us, I’ll send someone to them. Wulfstan, you’re the man for the job. Off you go.’

Wulfstan cast a dubious look at the longships.

‘What are you waiting for?’ said Vallon. ‘They’re not going to carry off an old pirate with only one hand.’

Wulfstan spat. ‘That’s what worries me. They might just knock me on the head and drop me in the sea.’

Vallon shoved him. ‘You’re wasting time. Don’t tell them any more of our business than you have to. Say nothing about my voyage to the north.’ He pointed at a grassy spit curving into the sea half a mile to the south. ‘Tell their leader to meet us there – four in each party. Everyone else to stand well clear.’

Wulfstan ran towards the harbour. The Vikings had begun to stroke away when he took to the sea in a skiff rowed by two oarsmen. Vallon shielded his eyes against the glare. The longships slowed and stopped. The skiff came alongside in a twinkling of oars and a Viking reached out to help Wulfstan aboard.

There followed a long hot wait before Wulfstan returned to the skiff and pulled for shore. Vallon met him at the water’s edge.

‘Well?’

‘They’ve agreed to talk. They’re Swedish all right. Their leader’s called Hauk.’

‘Anything else?’

‘They’ve been in a bad scrap, but Hauk’s too proud to admit it. He doesn’t give much away. If it wasn’t for the empty thwarts and half a dozen men groaning from wounds, you’d think he was on a spring cruise.’

‘Join me for the negotiations,’ Vallon said. He addressed his centurions. ‘Remain here with the men in clear sight. Any threatening move and the Vikings will be off.’

Josselin clearly would have been happy to see the back of them. He indicated Vallon’s splendid armour, his superb sword in its finely chased scabbard. ‘With respect, sir, you shouldn’t put yourself in jeopardy. Let me go in your place.’

‘You don’t speak Norse and this won’t be the first time I’ve negotiated with Vikings.’ Vallon grinned at Wayland. ‘Do you remember balancing on a rock in a wilderness river while we parleyed with Thorfinn Wolfbreath?’

‘That didn’t turn out too well.’

‘Not for Thorfinn it didn’t. I want you at my side again.’

Hero took a tentative step. ‘And if the Vikings are carrying wounded men, perhaps my presence might be useful.’

An hour after the sun had started its descent, Vallon and his team were still standing on the promontory, blasted by heat, while the longships lolled offshore.

Hero fanned away flies. ‘Do you think he’s changed his mind?’

Wulfstan removed a pebble from his mouth and spat a fleck of white spittle. ‘He’s softening us up by letting us stew while he lounges in the shade. I’ll send for water.’

‘Wait,’ said Vallon. A stirring at the side of one of the longships had caught his attention. The Vikings lowered a skiff and four men climbed into it. ‘At last.’

The boat rowed towards them, its occupants elongating and dwarfing in the heat waves. They ran the boat aground and stepped out – three yellow- and russet-haired warriors standing half a head taller than their commander, all of them wearing woollen cloaks over rusty mail shirts, linen kirtles and leggings or trousers.

‘Hauk, you said.’

‘That’s the fellow.’

Vallon studied him as he approached. Neat of foot and well-made, clean-shaven and with sun-faded brown hair trimmed short. Small only by comparison with his brawny companions. Not a heathen either, judging by the crucifix at his throat.