Hawk Quest

XLI

It was twilight when they reached the rendezvous at Vitichev. Vallon studied the place from mid-channel. Under the lacklustre sky the stockaded settlement presented a glum and shuttered air. Scores of ships crammed a dock, some of them half-submerged and others in the process of being cannibalised. A pair of small galleys that had seen better days lay moored along the quayside, each carrying three horses. Fyodor’s slaves and soldiers were waiting on shore. In the dusk the slaves’ faces looked as pale as winding sheets. Fyodor waved. The only other people in sight were four dim figures surrounding a horseman at the far end of the quay.

‘Hero and I will go,’ Vallon said.

They climbed a ladder to the quay. The slaves were of an uncannily pale race, with blanched complexions and hair as white as swans. All of them were children, the oldest barely pubescent and some as young as four or five. They squatted in huddles, hugging their shoulders, racked by croupy coughs, staring at the strangers with eyes that held neither curiosity nor hope. The soldiers were scarcely less apathetic. They gave the impression of slovenly and unwilling conscripts, their clothes shabby, their weapons second rate.

‘Call those soldiers?’ Vallon said in disgust. ‘I thought it was supposed to be a valuable cargo.’

‘Welcome, welcome,’ Fyodor called. ‘Welcome.’

‘How did you come by the children?’ Hero asked him.

‘My agents purchased them from their parents.’

‘Their parents sold them?’

Fyodor’s mouth turned down. ‘Last year’s harvest was a poor one. They would have starved if I hadn’t rescued them.’

‘They look half-starved now.’

Fyodor flapped a hand. ‘If I fed them any more, my expenditure wouldn’t be commensurate with income.’

Hero lips curled in detestation. ‘What will they be used for?’

‘Angels.’

‘Angels?’

‘Isn’t that what they look like? Most of the boys will serve as eunuchs in the imperial court. The girls … ’ Fyodor widened his eyes and hunched his shoulders.

Vallon had been watching the figures in the gloom at the end of the quay. ‘Who’s the horseman?’

Fyodor pretended he hadn’t been aware of the rider and his entourage. ‘Ah, yes. That is a very important man in Kiev.’

‘What’s he doing here?’

Fyodor considered his response. ‘He owns the ships.’

‘The slaves too,’ Vallon told Hero. ‘We’ve been taken for a ride. Tell the fat fraud to start loading.’

Fyodor kicked one of the soldiers and they set about herding the slaves into the galleys. The merchant took Hero’s hands and gazed at him with moist sympathy. ‘I feel for you, dear brother. That captain of yours is a cruel man.’

They put the town behind them, navigating by the lines of tarnished silver that marked the shores. They slept in the boats and woke exhausted. Three days’ rest wasn’t enough to restore reserves of energy run down by three months’ travelling. Three weeks wouldn’t have been too much.

Before noon they passed the tributary leading east to Pereiaslav, the last city in Kievan Rus. Below the confluence there were no more towns, only isolated farms scratched out of the sandy soil and scattered pines. Then even these petered out and night after night passed when there was no sound to be heard anywhere along the river and their fires were the only pricks of light in the darkness.

The dingy yellow current carried them through the steppe. Weird rock formations where hermits had lodged flanked the west bank. On the flat eastern shore a wilderness of reeds fringed empty grassland and sand dunes. Rus didn’t have a clearly defined southern frontier, the pilots said. It shifted according to the movements of the horse nomads.

Wayland had purchased a score of pigeons and chickens as a food reserve for the falcons. He had to start using it sooner than he’d expected because most of the wildfowl had gone, flown to the south. Now he counted himself lucky if he killed a brace of game a day.

Returning one morning empty-handed, he made his way over to the falcons’ cages on the riverbank and stopped short, staring dumbfounded.

Vallon noticed. ‘What’s wrong?’

Wayland ran towards the cages. Two of them stood with doors ajar. He flung one open. Empty. He checked the other one. Empty. He knelt in stunned disbelief. ‘They’ve gone.’ He turned. ‘Two of the falcons have gone.’

The other travellers hurried up. ‘Are you sure you shut them securely?’ Vallon said.

Wayland stared at him and it was Syth who answered. ‘Of course we did. We always check each night.’

‘And this morning? Did you check then?’

‘It was still dark when we left to go hunting.’

Wayland rose. ‘Someone released them during the night.’ His gaze settled on Drogo and Fulk and his features contorted. ‘It was you!’ He ran at them. ‘You released them!’

Drogo drew his sword. ‘Don’t blame me for your sloppy husbandry.’

Sword or no sword, Wayland would have hurled himself against Drogo if Vallon hadn’t pulled him away. ‘We’ll establish where the blame lies later. Which falcons have we lost?’

Wayland stood panting, casting desperate looks around. ‘The white haggard and one of the eyases — the screamer.’ He gave a despairing laugh. ‘Drogo knew how much the haggard meant to me, and he was always complaining about the eyas’s racket.’

‘Is there anything to be done?’

Wayland stared across the river, trying to think straight. The reed beds on the other side harboured wildfowl. If the falcons were hungry, that would be the logical place for them to go hunting. But the chances of finding them in that maze of marsh and inlets were next to none. He turned to face the empty steppe. A dirty wind blew from the south-west, hazing the boundary of earth and sky. He fought for calm.

‘Trained falcons often return to the spot where they were released. I’ll wait close by with live lures. Send everybody you can spare into the steppe. If they spot a falcon, they must ride back as fast as they can.’

‘We’ll use all the horses and send parties on foot to search up and down the river.’

‘If we haven’t found her by midday, it means she’s left the area.’ By ‘her’ Wayland meant the haggard. The eyas had never known liberty and was too weak to cope in the wild. She’d either been blown miles downwind or had pitched into the grass somewhere, an easy meal for wolf or jackal.

Wayland and Syth rode out into the steppe carrying a basket holding two live pigeons. They stopped about a mile from the river and watched the seven horsemen fanning into the distance. Soon they were alone, the riders gone into the immense sea of grass. Every time Wayland thought of the haggard, he felt her loss like a punch in the gut.

It was a long and miserable wait before the first of the Vikings returned. ‘Didn’t see a living thing,’ he said.

The other riders rode back with equally dismal news.

Vallon cantered in last. ‘I had one moment of hope when a large bird flew overhead. It was too dark to be one of your falcons. I think it was an eagle.’

Wayland gathered his reins. ‘I’ll search for her.’

‘By now she could be a hundred miles away. You don’t even know which side of the river she’s on. If by some miracle you caught up with her, you won’t be able to call her down. She hasn’t been made to the lure.’

‘I trapped her wild, didn’t I? If I find her, I’ll bring her to hand.’

Vallon looked back into the distance. ‘The steppe goes on for ever, the horizon always retreating before you. Don’t let it take you too far from the river. Nomads rode this way not long ago. I saw the trails left by their sheep and passed one of their campsites. Make sure you return by evening. We still have enough falcons to meet the Emir’s demands.’

‘This wouldn’t have happened if you’d left Drogo in Novgorod.’

‘Save the recriminations until you get back.’

‘I’m coming with you,’ said Syth.

He almost rejected her company. Searching for a lost hawk could be a long, tedious and soul-destroying undertaking.

‘Take her,’ Vallon said. ‘Take a sword, too. It’s a lonely world out there.’

They rode off, Wayland heading across the wind.

Syth galloped alongside. ‘How will you know where to look?’

Wayland had only one tenuous hope. In England he’d searched for lost hawks many times and discovered something that flew in the face of the lore peddled by Olbec’s keeper of falcons. This man, ageing and unimaginative, insisted that lost hawks always made their way downwind. That might be true of unfit birds, but Wayland had flown only confident and well-muscled hawks, and when he’d lost them, he’d usually found them upwind of the place where they’d disappeared. It was only logical. A fit falcon in hunting mode flies into the wind to gain height. Once she’s reached a high pitch, she tends to circle across the wind, covering the sky with minimum effort.

As Wayland rode, he looked for the telltale signs that a falcon was in the vicinity. Back home rooks towering into the sky often betrayed a hawk’s presence. Crows or magpies protesting in a tree sometimes marked where a hawk fed on a kill. Here on the steppe there were no signs to be seen, nothing but endless vistas of wind-bent grass, the occasional bush or stunted tree. Occasionally he put up a hare, and once they surprised a herd of gazelle that fled like a cloud shadow. Of birds he saw only a few and they had no tale to tell. A flock of cranes making a late passage south. A harrier quartering the grass. A raven that mocked them with its croaks.

His eyes processed hundreds of square miles of sky. The wind played tricks on his mind, drawing him on after the imagined sound of the falcon’s bells. He rode an eccentric course, diverting to every rise where he stopped and swung a lure, shouting until his voice grew husky. The light began to go and the faint hope of finding the haggard sank into the sickening certainty that he would never see her again.

Syth rode up, pale with fatigue. ‘It’s growing dark. We’d better return.’

Wayland looked back and realised that he was lost. ‘We won’t reach the river before dark. We’ll keep searching as long as there’s light to see.’

The ground beneath their feet was almost invisible when he called a halt in a hollow that offered some shelter from the wind. He left Syth to scavenge brush for a fire, working his way up a ridge. He reached the crest. Far away but not far enough another wilderness traveller had lit a fire, its flames the only light in the universe. He put down his load of fuel and felt his way back to Syth.

‘I couldn’t find any wood.’

They ate biscuits and cold meat, then Wayland drew a blanket over them and clutched Syth close for warmth. She shivered in his arms.

‘She’s gone, isn’t she?’

‘Yes. Gone for good.’

‘What will we do?’

Wayland trembled with anger. ‘I’ll kill Drogo.’

Syth gripped tight. ‘Let Vallon deal with him.’ She hesitated. ‘I meant what will happen to us if we don’t deliver four falcons.’

Wayland had never let himself imagine that prospect. ‘I don’t know.’

Syth began to weep. ‘It’s not fair. After all our hard work, all we’ve been through … it’s not fair.’

Wayland held her close. ‘Hush.’ He kissed her brow. ‘We’ve still got each other.’

Long after Syth had fallen asleep, Wayland lay agonising over the haggard’s loss, wondering where she was, worrying about whether she’d eaten. He imagined her flying back to the arctic, winging north above the clouds, steering by the stars.

In the night the wind dropped and the clouds slid away, uncovering a sky frigid with stars. Wayland rose while it was still dark and climbed the ridge. The fire still burned to the west. He made his way back to Syth and shook her. ‘Wake up. We have to leave.’

She sat up in his arms, limber as a sleepy child. ‘Why the hurry?’

‘We’re at least twenty miles from the river. If we don’t start now, we won’t reach it until gone midday.’

Wayland took his bearings from the stars. Greying sky ahead showed that he was travelling in roughly the right direction. The horizon bled and the sun rose on the frozen steppe, each grass stem glazed with ice crystals that collapsed into powder at a touch. Wayland searched the sky and every so often he glanced behind.

The sun was well up, the river not yet in sight, when a gamebird erupted under his horse’s feet with a startled cry. He struggled to control his mount. The bird rose on rattling wings, its panicked take-off a signal for a hundred others to flush. They were larger than grouse, with longer wings that drove them through the air arrow fast, their pinions producing an extraordinary whistling sound. Wayland watched the flock stream away and lifted his gaze in slim hope. If the haggard was aloft, she would have seen the game rise from miles away and might fly over to investigate. He marked the path they took and saw them set their wings and glide to earth beyond a distant ridge.

Syth rode up. ‘What were they?’

‘Some kind of bustard.’

He waited. The sky remained empty. He shook his head and rode on.

He’d almost reached the ridge when high in the heavens he saw a point of light — gone at first blink. He kept his eye on the spot and had almost given up when it appeared again. A tiny flicker brighter than the glacial blue, at an eye-straining distance.

‘What are you looking at?’

Wayland dismounted carefully and pointed. ‘There’s a bird up there, miles away and very high. It’s circling and only shows at a certain point in its … ’ He stopped, concentrating on the intermittent flicker.

‘Can you see it yet? It’s heading towards us.’

Syth stared blindly into the blue. ‘Do you think it’s her?’

‘It’s a bird of prey, but the chances of it being the haggard …’

The bird was still circling, each circuit bringing it closer. Its path carried it close to the sun and Wayland blinked, lost sight of it and couldn’t pick it up again.

‘It’s gone.’ He thumped his thigh in frustration.

Syth pointed. ‘There!’

The bird was sweeping towards them in a fast glide. Wayland took in the anchor profile, the silvery sheen. ‘It’s her! Fetch the pigeons. Hurry!’

Syth scrabbled to untie the basket. Wayland kept his eyes on the falcon. She came overhead at an immense height and he cried out and swung the lure. She didn’t know what it was and didn’t slow or alter her course. She skated past and was almost out of sight when she checked and swung around.

Wayland shot an impatient glance at Syth. ‘What’s taking you so long?’

‘Here,’ she panted, passing him one of the pigeons.

Wayland seized it without taking his eyes off the falcon. She was dawdling about half a mile to the west, probably two thousand feet high.

‘Do you think she knows it’s us?’ Syth asked.

Wayland vented his tension with a laugh. ‘Oh, yes. She knows.’ With shaking fingers he felt in his hawking bag and took out a length of light cord with two loops at one end. ‘Secure this to the other pigeon’s legs.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’ll throw out one of the pigeons when she’s still too far away to catch it. That should attract her attention and bring her over us. Then I’ll toss out the tethered pigeon.’

The haggard held position, cutting lazy circles, occasionally hanging stationary in a breeze unfelt on the ground. Wayland called, held up the pigeon and let it flutter its wings. The falcon drew closer.

Wayland found it hard to measure how far off she was. He lowered his gaze to get a sense of scale, took deep breaths before looking skyward again.

Timing was critical. Release the pigeon too soon and the falcon would ignore it as uncatchable. Release too late and she might take it and carry it off.

She drew on, maintaining her pitch. She was about a quarter of a mile off when he flung the pigeon in the opposite direction. He glimpsed it flying away strong and true and saw the haggard shoot forward in a pumping stoop. Wayland thought he’d waited too long. Wings flashing, she passed overhead and he had to shield his eyes against the sun to keep her in sight. Half a mile away she set her wings and curved up into the sky, hanging like a daytime star.

Wayland groped out with his hand. ‘Quick! Give me the other pigeon!’

‘I’m trying. I can’t get the loops … ’ Syth broke off with a cry. Wayland heard a flutter and spun in horror to see the pigeon flying off untethered. A glance upwards revealed that the haggard hadn’t even noticed the bait.

Syth turned to him, appalled. ‘Don’t be angry. My hands were cold and the pigeon struggled and … Oh, Wayland, I’m sorry!’

Wayland was too stunned by the enormity of her blunder to be angry. Through dazed eyes he saw the haggard work her way back and hold station overhead, waiting to be served. The perfect position. Wayland’s gaze darted towards the east.

‘We still have a chance,’ he shouted, and ran towards his horse.

‘How?’ Syth cried.

He leaped into the saddle. ‘The bustards. Follow me.’

He galloped towards the ridge the bustards had crossed. The trouble was that in this wilderness of endless receding planes, no landmarks stood out with precision. Turn a few degrees either way and the spot you’d marked so carefully would have merged into the landscape when you turned back.

He rode with one eye on the haggard. She seemed to be following, but it was hard to be sure. When he reached the ridge, he jumped off his horse and handed the reins to Syth. ‘Keep watch on the falcon. Don’t lose sight of her. Let me know if she drifts away.’

He studied the terrain ahead and his heart sank. Flat steppe with knee-high grass for as far as the eye could encompass. He’d been right in the middle of the flock of bustards when they’d flushed and if his horse hadn’t almost stepped on one he would have passed through with no idea they were there.

He waded through the grass. Last seen the bustards had set their wings to put in, but gamebirds usually landed further away than expected and then ran on to deceive any watching predator. He checked the sky. The haggard turned small and attentive circles overhead. Her menacing profile would keep the bustards clamped to the ground. He stalked through the grass, his eyes raking in all directions. If only he’d had the dog with him.

He broke into a run, quartering the area in the hope of flushing the bustards. At first he covered the ground methodically, but as time passed his movements grew random and desperate. Syth called out and he saw that the falcon had gained height and was beginning to drift out of position. Sobbing with frustration, he dropped to his knees and surveyed the grass at eye level. With every upward glance, the falcon was higher and further away, barely visible.

Something flicked into sight. Over to the left. He trained his gaze on the spot. There it showed again — a bustard craning up its head. He must be right in the middle of the flock.

He looked skyward and couldn’t see the falcon. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t make her out. He turned towards Syth, spread his arms, pointed into the sky. She spread her arms, too, signalling that the falcon had gone.

Wayland clutched his forehead in despair and lurched a foot to his left, almost treading on a bustard crouching invisible in the grass. It flushed and again the huge flock sprang up into noisy flight. He watched them grow small in the distance and groaned.

A faint disturbance in the air made his nape tingle. The sound grew, a long yearning sigh that gathered into a ripping tear so fierce it sounded like the canopy of the universe was being torn apart. Wayland’s gaze shot up in time to see the white haggard stooping like an ice comet, descending at a speed that annihilated distance. She flattened out directly above him, adjusting her teardrop profile to correct her line of attack. One moment the bustards were quarter of a mile ahead of her, the next she was cutting through them, the tailenders spilling away from her path. She ignored them. She’d singled out her target the instant it rose and nothing could deflect her.

Wayland was too far away to hear the impact as she struck her quarry. It shot forward and tumbled to the ground trailing a coil of entrails. The falcon rebounded more than a hundred feet before winnowing down to her kill.

Wayland signalled at Syth to stay back. Even now the odds of recovering the falcon were against him. He guessed that her prey weighed no more than two pounds — light enough for her to carry with ease.

He ran in until he judged he was close to the kill site, then slowed to a cautious stalk, mouthing fatuous reassurances. In the long grass he didn’t see the haggard until he was within fifteen yards of her. She looked up from plucking her prey and stopped him with a stare.

One clumsy move and she’d be off, and once spooked, she’d be almost unapproachable. He sank to his haunches and waited, pretending to look at anything but her. The longer she remained on her prey, the better his chances. He waited until the grass around her was strewn with her victim’s feathers and then he lay on his side and dragged himself towards her. She continued pluming, casting the occasional dark glance at him. He was beginning to think the impossible was almost in his grasp when she left off plucking and fixed her gaze on something behind him. He turned and couldn’t believe it. Syth was leading her horse towards him. ‘Get back!’ he mouthed.

She sank down and mouthed a warning of her own, stabbing one hand in the direction of the ridge. Wayland’s blood ran cold. There was only one thing that could mean. Syth had spotted nomads, and if she’d seen them, they’d seen her.

No time now for caution. The haggard had finished plucking and was beginning to break into the bustard’s breast. As smoothly as he could, he wriggled towards her. He was within arm’s reach when she uttered a cry of alarm and leaned back. He grabbed the bustard. She struggled to carry it away, lost her grip and retreated a couple of feet. He waggled the prey. ‘Come on,’ he pleaded.

She eyed him with wild suspicion. Syth cried out, flapping her arms in terror.

Heart pounding, Wayland wriggled forward, pushing the bustard towards the haggard. She ignored it. Syth cried out in desperate appeal. Last chance. He moved the bustard closer to the haggard. Eyes fixed on his face, she shot out one foot and gripped her prey. One of her jesses had flicked within reach. Wayland closed fingers around the strap, grasped it and hoisted falcon and quarry off the ground.

She hung screaming and flapping from his fist. Syth had seen him secure her and was galloping towards him.

‘Give me her cage!’

She pushed it at him and he bundled the haggard into her wicker prison. He flung himself on to his horse.

‘How many?’

‘Three.’

‘Close?’

Syth nodded violently.

Wayland smacked her horse’s rump and pointed. ‘I’ll catch you up.’

He slung the cage from his saddle. Wailing protests from within. After such rough treatment, she might never trust him again. He kicked his horse into a gallop, the wind stinging his face. He’d covered less than half a mile when the nomads rose up on the ridgeline behind him.

He whipped his mount to draw level with Syth. ‘How far to the river?’ she called.

‘I don’t know. Too far.’ Even if they reached it ahead of the nomads, their course had been so erratic that they’d strike it miles from the camp. Each time he looked back, the nomads were closer. At this rate they’d overtake within a mile. They were better riders on faster horses and if half the stories about their bowmanship were true, there was no chance of fighting them off at full gallop.

‘We have to make a stand.’

‘Where?’

He saw over to their right a low mound, a tumulus crowned with patchy scrub. ‘There.’

They reached the hummock with the cries of their hunters shrilling behind them. Wayland threw himself off his horse and hitched its reins to a bush. Syth did the same. He unshouldered his bow and pulled a fistful of arrows from his quiver. Syth fumbled with her own bow, the nomads little more than a furlong distant.

He pulled her down. ‘Lie flat.’

The nomads spread out, one to the left, one to the right and the third charging head on. Two were young men, about the same age as Wayland or a little older. The third was only a lad. Their double-curved bows must have been two feet shorter than his own weapon, designed to be shot from horseback. He knelt to the rear of his horse, grabbing great breaths. The headlong attacker held his bow and reins in one hand, the arrow loosely fitted. Wayland ignored the other nomads and bent his bow. His target pounded closer and now he could see his eyes, his wind-glazed cheeks. He aimed for the midriff.

The nomad dropped his reins and snatched into a draw with his bow held above his head. He lowered it and released as his horse rose with all four hooves off the ground. Wayland loosed almost in the same instant. He heard an arrow fizz and strike and his horse screamed and bucked beside him. He thought he’d missed, then the nomad lurched left and clasped his bow arm. Another arrow lashed past Wayland’s head and he saw the rider to his left already stringing another dart.

‘I hit him,’ he said. ‘The arrow must have gone straight through his arm.’

The wounded nomad retired beyond range and his associates rode back to him and convened in a huddle.

‘What will they do now?’

Wayland wiped his mouth. ‘They’ve got us pinned down. They won’t be so rash next time.’

The nomads separated, the wounded one cantering away to the west.

‘He’s going to fetch reinforcements,’ Wayland said.

The two remaining nomads retired beyond range. The wounded horse had ceased thrashing and stood in a posture of abject misery, a barb buried in its hindquarters.

Wayland checked the sun. Past noon. The day would be well advanced before reinforcements showed up, but night wouldn’t bring a reprieve. The steppe ahead stretched flat as a rule.

Their dire situation wasn’t lost on Syth. ‘We can’t just lie here.’

‘That’s exactly what we have to do. Patience might be our best weapon.’

They lay in the bushes while the sun slid down the sky. He reasoned that while some nomads might be fabulous archers, able to bring down a goose in flight, he’d learned his skills in a far harder school than his two besiegers had known. They’d trained in sport and the occasional skirmish, while he’d depended on his bow for daily survival.

Inaction went contrary to the nomads’ instincts. They faced two opponents, one of them a woman, and perhaps they anticipated the jeers of their companions when they rode up to finish the job. They began making sallies, shooting from long range and then retiring. The wounded horse was hit again and moaned and lay on its side. Wayland took cover behind it and lobbed a few arrows aimed well short of his attackers. Syth wormed up to him.

‘What’s wrong? I’ve seen you hit more difficult targets at longer range.’

‘Unless I can be sure of a kill, I don’t want them to know I’m a match for them. It would only drive them back. Let them grow in confidence and move closer. Until then, they can waste their arrows.’

The nomads kept their distance, riding in to a range of about two hundred yards before shooting. Wayland waited. The enemy didn’t have swords and he didn’t think they’d risk close quarters combat.

An arrow buried itself in the earth a few inches in front of Syth’s face. ‘Wayland, if we don’t do something soon, we’ll end up facing a pack of them.’

He checked the sun again. How quickly it sank at this season. He calculated that the nomads had half emptied their quivers. He still had eighteen arrows left and Syth had a full quiver. He studied the western horizon for riders. It wouldn’t be long now.

He stood and held his bow above his head. The nomads stared in puzzlement. He mimed shooting an arrow, jabbed his chest and then pointed at his attackers.

Syth pulled at his leg. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Challenging them to an archery contest.’

‘What if they kill you?’

‘They won’t. One’s a boy who’s yet to develop his bow arm. The other’s an indifferent shot, but doesn’t know it. He must think my bow’s a crude weapon compared to his.’

He descended the mound and advanced towards the nomads, the sun throwing his shadow towards them. The youngster whooped and gathered his horse for a charge. His companion called him back. They watched as Wayland closed the gap. When he was about three hundred yards away, he stopped and spread his arms, inviting them to shoot.

The older of the nomads recognised the challenge and seemed to understand the rules from the start. He dismounted, handing his reins to his companion. He reduced the range by about fifty yards, drew and loosed without appearing to aim. His arrow flew in a flat trajectory and dived into the ground forty yards in front of Wayland. He reached for another arrow and would have shot again, but Wayland shook his hand and pointed at himself. My turn.

He guessed that the draw weight of his opponent’s bow was less than fifty pounds, half that of his own weapon. He selected his lightest arrow for maximum range. In conditions as calm as these, he could shoot it more than three hundred yards. He had the sun directly behind him and he lofted his arrow high, saw the nomad throw back his head to follow its flight and jerk round as it pitched not far behind him. ‘Beat that,’ said Wayland. He advanced ten paces and spread his arms again.

Again the nomad’s arrow fell short. Wayland maintained his distance and his answering shot lobbed down almost at his opponent’s feet. The boy called on his companion to abandon the contest, pointing west to indicate that reinforcements would soon be here.

Wayland’s opponent waved the boy away. He puffed out his cheeks and reached for his next arrow, committed to playing out the lethal game.

Twice more they exchanged shots, the range now down to less than two hundred yards. As the nomad drew for the fifth time, Syth yelled.

‘They’re coming!’

Wayland looked behind and saw four dark nicks about two miles away. He stood his ground. His opponent shot again, his arrow almost parting Wayland’s hair.

The boy shouted, jabbing towards the riders. His companion — brother, cousin — looked towards the advancing force, then turned back to face the last shot and spread his arms. Wayland nocked his heaviest arrow and gauged distance and windage — a good one hundred and eighty yards, the lightest of cross breezes. He rocked back and forth, concentrating his mind, before leaning away from the bow until he was almost in a sitting position, his arrow drawn back to his ear and pointing at space. He held it anchored for a moment before loosing. The moment he let slip, he knew he’d never made a truer shot. He watched the arrow race into the sky and curve into its descent. Blinded by the sun, the nomad peered up through splayed fingers. He never saw the arrow meet its mark. He dropped as if poleaxed, transfixed through the vitals from shoulder to waist. His companion wailed and rode towards him and Wayland sprinted to close the distance for another killing shot. If he could grab one of the horses, he and Syth might still reach the river before the nomads.

The boy realised his intention and veered away, dragging the dead man’s horse behind him. Wayland ran back to Syth, untied their surviving horse, mounted and hauled Syth up behind him. The reinforcements were not much more than a mile in arrears, close enough for their wild ululations to carry across the steppe.

He kicked his horse into a gallop, but with so much weight to carry, it soon slowed to a labouring canter. The young nomad kept pace on their flank, well out of range. He had his hands full with the dead man’s horse and contented himself with screamed imprecations that Wayland understood to be promises of the cruel death he would suffer when his kinsmen caught up.

As they surely would. They were gaining with every stride. Wayland slapped Syth’s thigh. ‘You take the horse and I’ll try to hold them back.’

She pummelled his shoulder. ‘You can’t!’

She was right. ‘In that case, give yourself up,’ he said. ‘They won’t kill you.’

‘Leave you?’

Wayland hauled the horse to a stop. ‘Yes. Get down. Hold up your hands and they’ll show mercy.’

‘Never!’ She whacked him around the head. ‘If you die, we both die.’

No more time to argue. The nomads were so close that Wayland could hear their hoofbeats. He breasted a rise and the river sprang into view, a cordon of horsemen directly in front of them.

‘More of them!’ Syth shouted.

‘No, it’s Vallon!’

Seven riders cantered towards them in line abreast. Wayland screamed and lashed his foundering horse, his frantic efforts communicating to the approaching riders. They broke into a gallop and were as close to the fugitives as the nomads were when they poured over the ridge. Vallon drew his sword and his force bunched in a charge. Nine against five, one of them a stripling who’d seen two of his companions laid low by the foreign archer. The nomads scattered to a safe distance and the rescue party rode up.

Vallon halted, shaking his head. ‘You two cut it fine. Losing the falcons is bad enough, but if we’d lost you …’

‘We caught the haggard,’ Syth cried.

Wayland patted the wicker cage. ‘It’s true.’

Vallon stared. ‘Tell us your story back at camp.’ His raking glance took in the nomads. ‘Do they pose any danger?’

‘They’re good archers,’ Wayland said, ‘but they’re not soldiers. They don’t carry swords. I think they’re shepherds.’

Vallon nodded. ‘Draw back in close order,’ he called. ‘Don’t engage unless they attack.’

The nomads shadowed them all the way to the camp. The sun had set and the sky was acid blue marbled with smoky cloud bands. Vallon rode through the terrified Russian conscripts and cocked a finger. ‘Drogo.’

The Norman affected nonchalance, approaching at a saunter, Fulk beside him with his hand on his sword.

Vallon looked down. ‘Wayland says you released the falcons.’

‘He’s a liar. Do you value the word of a peasant above mine?’

‘In Wayland’s case, yes. You swore not to put our venture in jeopardy.’

‘I haven’t. Give me proof to the contrary.’

‘Only you have a motive for releasing the falcons. Without them we won’t be able to redeem your brother.’ He jerked his head. ‘Wayland, repeat your charge. Drogo, the judgement won’t be mine. I’ll let a jury decide.’

Drogo spat. ‘Kept men.’

Vallon leaned down. ‘And what are you?’

Drogo’s mouth twisted in a snarl. ‘If you’re so sure of Wayland’s accusation, test it in a trial by combat.’

‘You released the falcons at night like a thief. I won’t dignify such treachery with a trial of arms.’

‘Because you know I’d defeat you.’

Vallon switched his gaze to Wayland. ‘Repeat your charge.’

Drogo walked up to Wayland. ‘Be careful before hurling baseless accusations. Consider your own interests before hurting mine.’

Vallon waved a hand. ‘Wayland, speak up.’

Everyone had gathered to watch the trial. Wayland looked about with a hunted air. ‘I can’t be certain it was Drogo.’

Vallon wheeled in astonishment. ‘You had no doubts when you discovered the loss.’

‘My emotions were at a high pitch. I lashed out without any solid proof.’

Vallon dismounted. ‘What are you saying? That the loss was due to your own negligence.’

‘I was tired when I put the falcons to bed.’

Vallon’s eyes narrowed to slivers. ‘Wayland, I’ve seen you sick and exhausted, but no matter how feeble your state, I’ve never known you to neglect the falcons.’

‘Perhaps Syth forgot to latch the cages.’

Her eyes bolted wide. ‘Wayland!’

Vallon stepped up to him. ‘So now you lay the blame on your faithful helpmate.’ He jabbed Wayland in the chest hard enough to rock him on his heels. ‘You should be ashamed.’ He stepped back, jaw thrust out. ‘Drogo, if another falcon goes missing or dies in suspicious circumstances, I won’t wait for anyone else to lay the blame. I’ll hold you responsible and here’s my sentence in advance. I’ll deal with you as you treated the falcons, casting off you and Fulk to prey at fortune in the wilderness.’

With a savage glance at Wayland, he strode away.

Syth clutched Wayland’s elbow. ‘How could you? You know it wasn’t me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘But why?’ She pounded his chest. ‘Why?’

Wayland moaned. ‘I had to withdraw my charge. Drogo knows something that could put my own position in peril.’

‘What is it?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘But you promised to tell me everything.’

‘And I did. All but one thing.’ He started forward. ‘Syth, come back. Please hear me.’

She’d gone and night had fallen. The white haggard’s bells jingled in her cage and out on the steppe the nomads keened for their lost son.