Imperial Fire

XXII

In the brief cool after dawn, Wayland was out hunting game on a badlands ridge when he spied a swirl of dust to the east. A rider approaching hard, kicking up a cloud that trailed back in a long plume. Wayland scrambled down to the track and the horseman pulled up in a squirt of gravel. It was one of the Turkmen trailblazers, unrecognisable beneath a carapace of grime, his eyes red wounds and his lips like roasted leather.

‘Yeke?’

‘Good news, my friend, blessings be upon you. We found the caravan trail after two days and reached wells a day later.’ Yeke struck his chest. ‘Didn’t I say I’d find water?’

‘I never doubted you,’ Wayland said. He lobbed up his water bottle and Yeke swallowed half its contents before emptying the rest over his head. The runnels carved through the dust made him look like a disinterred ghoul.

‘Where are your companions?’

‘Back at the encampment, eating, drinking and making eyes at the lovely ladies. I left them yesterday evening and rode all night, so keen was I to bring the news to Lord Vallon.’

Wayland stroked the exhausted horse’s neck. ‘Don’t expect much rest after your long ride. Vallon frets to be on his way.’

Yeke punched his left shoulder with his right fist. ‘Pah! A Seljuk doesn’t need a bed if he has a saddle.’

His horse turned beneath him and Yeke, only half-conscious, began drifting back the way he’d come. Wayland took the horse’s bridle and steered it in the right direction. He had to shake Yeke awake when they entered the camp.

On receiving the Seljuk’s report, Vallon ordered a night march that set out as the sun squatted on the Black Lake’s horizon. Turning their backs on that sunset, none of the men thought that this might be their last sight of the sea. Even if such an intimation had crossed their minds, there was no way of forecasting which of them would survive the coming months to stand in wonderment on the shore of an ocean across the other side of the world.

Each trooper carried water for three days and a week’s reserve slopped in the casks aboard the wagons. Wayland jogged along at the head of the column, invigorated by being on the move again, dreamy in the small hours as the landscape floated past in a mist of starlight.

At night the temperature fell close to freezing. Dawn came up in steely blues before the sun rose in a molten ball and the horizons began to wobble. When the landscape dissolved in white heat, the column halted to seek shelter under skeletal saxaul shrubs. When the sun touched the contours again, the men rose to face the next stage with resignation leavened by coarse humour and flashes of fantasy.

‘Imagine if we were to ride over that next ridge and find ourselves looking down at a splendid city surrounded by vineyards and orchards and pleasure gardens.’

‘Why stop there? Imagine it’s a city without men, ruled by Amazons who yearn for bold soldiers with big dicks.’

‘That rules you out on both counts.’

‘Let a fellow dream. Did I tell you that in this city they serve wine that transports you to paradise, where every wish comes true?’

‘I’d settle for a bath house and a clean bed.’

‘Don’t listen to Lucien. He’d bitch if he was seated in heaven at the right hand of the archangel Gabriel.’

‘Not much fornicating while Gabriel’s got his eye on you. Anyway, it’s not sex I crave. It’s decent food. What does this city have to make my mouth water?’

‘Ambrosia, my friend. Food for the gods.’

Wayland drifted past this exchange and others like it, the troopers acknowledging his passing with lofted hands, looking after him with speculative expressions.

‘He’s a strange one,’ a soldier said. ‘Comes and goes like a ghost.’

‘Be grateful he rides with us. You saw how well he shoots a bow, and he can read the trail of man or beast better than the Turkmen. As a child he ran wild with wolves. Don’t take my word for it. Ask Hero.’

‘He’s another odd chap. Blinks and bumbles and mutters like a man in his dotage.’

‘Hey, I won’t hear a word against Master Hero. He salved a boil in my bum crack and didn’t turn a hair. I’ll never forget it.’

‘Now you’ve shared that image, neither will I.’

‘He’s a proper surgeon, not the usual sawbones. Teaches at the university in Salerno. God knows why he gave up such a cushy berth to join this adventure.’

‘Don’t be fooled by his gentle manners. He’s as tough as whipcord. They say he drew an arrow from a friend shot through the lungs.’

‘Did the fellow live?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Speaking personally, though I’ve spilled a fair amount of blood in combat, I could never wield a surgeon’s knife. Hell, I come over faint if I cut myself shaving.’

‘Well, here we are on the ridge and there ain’t no city nor gardens nor maidens lining up to greet us.’

‘Next one, or the one after that. On a journey as long as ours, we’re bound to strike it lucky sooner or later. Stands to reason.’

‘You want to bet?’

The column crawled through a clay desert eroded into fantastic shapes before entering a region of sand dunes. Rain was only a fading memory, but around brackish waterholes the land still grew green, the oases criss-crossed by the slots of gazelles and the pads of the lions and wolves that preyed on them. Humans dwelt here, too. Several times the troopers saw shining dust palls stirred up by nomads driving their flocks away from the invaders.

It took four days to reach the caravan trail. Wagons had broken down, their axles snapped or their hubs ground to wonky ovals. Vallon wouldn’t abandon them and ordered the mechanics to carry out makeshift repairs with iron sleeves, leather washers and wooden wedges.

Wayland was first to spot the nomad encampment — a score of yurts along the shore of a dried-up lake surrounded by groaning camels and three flocks of bawling sheep guarded by dogs and youngsters.

One of the Turkmen outriders galloped out to greet the column. ‘We’d almost given up on your coming.’

‘Where’s the water?’ Wayland said, scratching the back of his neck where the rubbing of his filthy collar had produced sores.

The Turkman wheeled his horse and cocked his hand.

Wayland rode into the camp, breathing in the bitter-sweet smell of dung fires. Dogs flew at him and Wayland’s hound locked jaws with one in a brief tussle before driving it away cowed and bleeding. Moments later the hound stood wagging its tail in front of a nomad child.

The herders had observed the hound’s imposition of its dominance with curiously inert expressions, as if their struggle with nature had taught them that it was pointless to take sides. The men wore goat-hair caps and cotton robes over baggy trousers. The women appeared to be either young and sappy or old and withered — no middle age.

A nomad guided the advance party to a well rimmed with paving stones. Wayland peered into the black bore. He dropped a stone into it and waited for it to hit the bottom. Not a sound. The nomad grinned and lowered a leather bucket attached to a braided wool rope with its free end coiled in a stack three feet high. Grinning all the while, he paid out the rope, a process that took so long half the force had ridden in before the rope went slack. Gathering up the free end, the nomad tossed it over a wooden crossbar and tied it to a camel. A boy drove the beast away with a stick and both were small in the distance before the bucket rose swaying from the depths with its load of bitter water. Hero had joined Wayland and in the spirit of curiosity he paced out the length of rope.

‘More than seven hundred feet,’ he said. ‘How did they sink a well so deep without engines or proper tools?’

On receiving the question, the nomad looked at both foreigners as if they were simpletons and made energetic digging gestures.

‘Good Lord,’ said Hero. ‘It must have taken decades. Imagine sitting in a cradle hundreds of feet below ground, chipping away with bits of flint and iron.’

The nomad pointed north-east and Wayland translated. ‘He says some wells are sunk more than a thousand feet.’

Hero shook his head in wonder. ‘I must set down these particulars while they’re fresh in my mind. Why are you laughing?’

For a few bolts of cloth and a bag of faience beads, the expedition purchased half a dozen sheep which they roasted in firepits over glowing beds of saxaul branches. After feasting, the troopers sat talking quietly under the stars until a three-man orchestra drawn from their company struck up an impromptu tune on syrinx, flute and zither. Well fed, pleasantly drowsy, Wayland flicked a finger in time to the melody.

The music faltered and the audience stirred. Wayland opened his eyes to find Zuleyka occupying the space in front of the ensemble. Since landing, he’d kept out of her way, but she hadn’t stayed out of his thoughts. She took the flautist’s instrument and blew an air that seemed to have been playing in Wayland’s head all his life. She handed back the flute, spread her arms wide and tapped one foot while the musicians struck up. She looked at the ground, nodding until they’d found their tempo, and then tossed back her head, clicked her fingers and went into a rapture.

Wayland rose and so did every other man. It was as if the music travelled up Zuleyka’s body. First her feet seemed to levitate, then her hips shivered before the current reached her arms. They waved in graceful articulations, suggesting all manner of images, sacred and profane. She dropped her arms to her side and swayed like a flame, her shoulders performing a dance of their own. A sharp cry from her, a lover’s exhortation, quickened the music and Zuleyka’s movements grew more ecstatic.

She wore only a pair of thin bloomers and a top cropped below her breasts, leaving her midriff bare. She began to rotate her belly, at the same time fluttering her hips. Both gyrations settled into voluptuous undulations that left nothing to the imagination.

Outlanders and Vikings both drew closer like moths to a lamp.

‘Imagine a night with her,’ said a trooper. ‘She’d suck out your soul.’

Wayland shot an angry glance at the speaker. Zuleyka’s performance amazed him more than it aroused. How could she move one part of her body independently of the rest?

The audience beat time, more than a hundred warriors exhorting Zuleyka to a climax.

‘She’s looking at me,’ said a man to Wayland’s right.

‘No, she isn’t. Her eyes are fixed on the Englishman.’

Wayland’s skin tightened. The gypsy girl’s eyes were indeed looking in his direction.

‘Stop this obscene display!’

Vallon strode into the circle, rigid with anger. The music ceased and a sigh went up from the audience. Zuleyka relaxed, sucked in breaths and walked away on quick feet, the dog appointed to protect her virtue ambling at her side with its tail wagging like a banner.

‘Get to your beds,’ Vallon ordered. His gaze scoured around and settled on Wayland. There could be no doubt who he blamed for this assault on discipline, this flagrant undermining of the Outlanders’ moral health.

With so many men and beasts to be supplied from a single source, the drawers of water were still labouring next morning to replenish the expedition’s vessels. Vallon negotiated for a dozen camels and their drivers to accompany the force as far as the Oxus, with more beasts and helpers to be recruited along the way. Their guide was an old man who told the general, his voice whistling around a single tooth, that brigands infested the trail, falling on caravans as wolves descended on sheepfolds.

So the expedition’s next encounter with the inhabitants came as a benign surprise. On a track beaten out of nowhere a wedding party passed from the opposite direction, a dozen two-humped camels shuffling along draped with flatweave trappings and harness jingling with bells of beaten silver, the women’s faces hidden under horsehair veils, the bride crowned with a magnificent silver headdress, her long black tresses hanging to the end of her camisole. The Outlanders drew aside to let the procession pass and watched it diminish and disappear into the shrivelled landscape.

That evening Wayland was resoling a shoe in the sun’s last radiance when a tall silhouette passed across the light.

‘Vallon,’ he said, pulling a stitch tight. ‘I’ve been thinking about arranging a hunting party.’

The figure stopped and for a moment Wayland thought the general had taken offence at his casual address.

‘Are you speaking to me?’ Lucas said. There was no one else within earshot.

Wayland shielded his eyes and laughed. ‘The sun was in my eyes. At first glance I took you for the general.’

‘I never thought eyes as sharp as yours could trick you,’ Lucas said. He seemed to be pinned to the spot.

Wayland rose smiling. ‘Actually, there is a resemblance. Something about the jawline, your nose. I don’t know. Something.’

Lucas scrubbed his hand down his face. ‘My nose is bust. I don’t look anything like the general.’

If he’d walked away then, Wayland would have forgotten the minor embarrassment. As it was, Lucas remained transfixed and had to wrench himself round by conscious effort. When he’d walked some distance, he stopped, shoulders tense, before hurrying on his way.

Wayland’s forehead furrowed. No, it couldn’t be, he told himself. Yet his eyes rarely deceived him. From a mile off he could distinguish a pigeon from a hawk, and if it were the latter, he could tell by the rhythm of its wings whether it was cruising or hunting.

Not long after this encounter he happened upon Gorka grilling skewered mutton over a fire.

Wayland massaged his hands in the heat. ‘Lucas,’ he said. ‘I believe he’s from your part of the world.’

Gorka grew guarded. ‘What’s he done now?’

Wayland dropped to his haunches. ‘Nothing as far as I know. I’m just curious why a lad from the back of beyond would travel all the way to Byzantium to take military service.’

Gorka turned the skewer. Fat flared into flame. ‘Plenty of recruits have travelled further. For a lad who wants to get on in life, there ain’t many opportunities in a place like Osse. I should know. I grew up two valleys away.’

‘Is Osse in Aquitaine?’

Gorka spat. ‘It’s Basque, whatever the Duke of Aquitaine says.’

Wayland straightened. ‘Enjoy your supper.’

Most evenings he dropped in on Hero and talked over the day’s events while the Sicilian wrote up his journal. Both men found the chats pleasant, cementing the bond they’d established over many months on the northern voyage. After exchanging news, Wayland rose with a yawn before pausing at the entrance.

‘Vallon had three children by his first wife, didn’t he?’

Hero continued writing. ‘Yes. Two boys and a girl if I remember right. The eldest would have been about five when — ’ He laid down his pen.

‘Do you know what happened to the children? Has Vallon tried to make contact with them?’

Hero rubbed his eyes. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never asked.’

‘But his children — some of them — could still be alive.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You don’t happen to know their names.’

Hero shook his head. ‘Vallon never told me. He wouldn’t even speak his wife’s name. I asked him on our flight from England and he made it plain that so far as he was concerned, she never existed.’

‘Before Vallon fled France, he had a rank and title — Guy de Crion. A Frankish commander with hopes of advancement might have passed on his name to his first-born son.’

‘Very likely,’ Hero said.

Wayland forestalled the obvious question. ‘The reason I ask is that I think a lot about my own family, and it occurred to me that Vallon must do the same.’

‘Not that family,’ Hero said. ‘Caitlin and his daughters are all that matter to him now.’

‘You’re right,’ Wayland said. He pulled the tent flap close. ‘Don’t strain your eyes writing down the commonplace.’

He’d gone three or four yards when the flap opened, emitting a fan of lamplight. ‘Commonplace to you,’ Hero said. ‘Rare and strange to folk who’ll sleep tonight within familiar walls.’

A couple of days passed before Wayland crossed paths with Lucas again. Much of that time he spent in a state of somnolent stupefaction, riding into an infinity of horizontals, trotting across alkali flats as silky as talc, wading through tongues of sand that overflowed the track, the horizon fanning past in an endless wake.

Life flourished here, though. Sand grouse flushed from waterholes in flocks large enough to obscure the sun. Tortoises dragged themselves over the desert and lizards four feet long switched their tails and bared fangs oozing venom. These reptiles hunted kitten-sized hedgehogs with soft fur and desert rats that hopped on hind legs and tails. At night Wayland checked the ground for scorpions and cobras before settling to sleep. One evening he saw a cheetah course a gazelle, hunter and hunted sprinting across the skyline in spurts of dust that steadily converged until they merged into one violent swirl.

Herds of wild asses or kulans ranged over the desert — elegant creatures with cream and tawny-gold coats and a black stripe running from mane to tail. The Turkmen scouts tried riding them down, but the short-coupled kulans were deceptively fleet, outpacing the horses and galloping off to a safe distance before bunching up to look back. Wayland watched a couple of these fruitless chases before calling the Turkmen together and suggesting tactics. The only way to get within range was to post a screen of bowmen behind the kulans and then drive the beasts towards the ambush. They tried it next day, Wayland assessing the lie of the land for a long time before directing half a dozen men in a wide circle to a point behind the kulans’ likely line of flight.

On the third sally they bagged two kulans and at the next attempt they killed three. Vallon was delighted. Fresh meat was a godsend to men with appetites jaded by double-baked biscuits hard enough to chip teeth, and the hunts were a fillip to morale, providing a welcome diversion for the troopers. He asked Aiken to draw up a rota that would give every Outlander an opportunity to join the chase.

Two days later Lucas confronted Wayland after reveille. ‘When do I get my turn?’

Wayland checked Aiken’s list. ‘Sorry, but your bowmanship isn’t good enough.’

‘Who says? Aiken?’ Lucas gave a scornful laugh.

‘Cut it out,’ Wayland said.

‘Look,’ Lucas said. ‘I know my archery doesn’t compare with yours, but I practise every day and my aim’s improving.’

That was true. Every evening after the Outlanders made camp, Lucas took himself off and shot arrows until it grew too dark to see where they landed.

‘Shooting at a standing target isn’t the same as loosing at live prey. I don’t want to waste half a day tracking a beast you’ve wounded in the haunch.’

‘I know I’ve only shot at targets. That’s why I need to try my hand at a moving object. And you can’t deny I handle a horse well.’

Wayland relented. ‘One of the troopers has an upset stomach. You can take his place.’

Lucas flashed his teeth and strode off before stopping as if struck by a brilliant afterthought. ‘Can Zuleyka come too?’

That was typical of him, always pushing too far. Wayland shook his head. ‘No, she can’t.’

‘It’s not what you’re thinking,’ Lucas said. ‘She might not know how to bend a bow, but she rides as if she’d been born on a horse.’

‘I’ll have to ask Vallon,’ Wayland said. ‘After her performance the other night, don’t get your hopes up.’

In fact the general agreed to the request with the briefest of nods. ‘Just make it clear that I won’t tolerate any… any…’

‘Hanky-panky?’ Wayland suggested.

He reinforced the general’s injunction by grinding a knuckle into Lucas’s sternum. ‘If you lay a hand on Zuleyka, if you so much as make eyes at her, the general will have you whipped until your backbone bleeds.’

Lucas’s clenched fist shot up. ‘On my word.’

Wayland watched him strut away, shoulders rolling. ‘Guy,’ he said.

Lucas stopped as if he’d taken an arrow in the back, stood frozen for a moment then turned, his face straining for nonchalance. ‘Who’s Guy?’

Wayland strolled up. ‘You.’

Lucas gave a cracked laugh. ‘You’re crazy.’

Wayland tapped him on the shoulder. ‘When are you going to tell Vallon that you’re his son?’

Lucas blenched. ‘I’m not his son. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Yes, you do.’

Lucas flung his head about in desperation. ‘The men are ready for the hunt. Let me join them. Please.’

The hunting party was indeed chafing to be off. ‘We’ll discuss this further on our return,’ Wayland said. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to Vallon.’

It was late afternoon before Wayland spotted a herd of kulans grazing on an incline to the north. He assessed the situation, checking wind direction and studying the paths trodden by the animals before summoning the hunting party. He delegated eight of them to spring an ambush.

‘See that pass,’ he said, pointing at a shallow cup in the skyline. ‘That’s where the kulans will make for. Circle around the herd, keeping at least half a mile distant. Once you’re over the ridge, take up positions in the pass and stay out of sight. It might be some time before we drive the game within range, so be patient.’

‘Can me and Zuleyka join them?’ Lucas said.’ I want to be in at the kill.’ He twanged his bowstring for emphasis.

Wayland regarded him with a jaundiced eye, then glanced at Zuleyka. She looked straight back at him — deep green irises against startlingly clear whites, her eyes framed by long black lashes. Dark as Syth was fair, she somehow reminded him of his wife — both of them not quite of this world. He’d intended to include the girl in his own party to keep her away from Lucas, but for reasons he didn’t care to examine, he decided her proximity would be too unsettling.

He gestured at the leader of the ambushers. ‘Keep Lucas and Zuleyka well apart.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Off you go. We don’t have much light left.’

The ambush party followed his instructions and the kulans looked up only long enough to decide that the horsemen posed no threat before they resumed grazing. Wayland winced and clutched his stomach. All afternoon he’d had to clench his sphincter against squitters. The turmoil in his guts couldn’t be checked except by a violent discharge, and he returned to his post, brow clammy, as the last of the ambushers popped over the ridge.

When they’d disappeared, he formed the eight remaining troopers into a crescent and led them towards the kulans at a jog. They allowed him to approach within two arrow flights before tossing their heads and galloping away. Wayland followed up, not pressing too hard, giving them every chance to take the natural line of escape that would bring them to the saddle. The sun was boiling on the desert floor by the time the kulans streamed over the ridge.

He swung his arm and his party rowelled their horses into flat-out pursuit to close the line of retreat. They emerged onto the saddle just in time to see the tailenders skeltering up a gulley on one side of the pass, chased by Lucas, Zuleyka and Yeke. They reached the skyline and dropped out of sight. The remaining troopers rode up to Wayland shaking their heads in disgust.

‘What went wrong?’

One of the hunters pinched his nose and snorted snot. ‘That idiot Frank didn’t wait for the herd to enter the trap. As soon as the first kulan appeared, he tried to cut it off, sending the rest stampeding up there.’

‘What’s he doing chasing them?’

The trooper smeared mucus on his breeches. ‘He fluked a shot to the beast’s belly. If he thinks he’ll return in glory, he’s going to be disappointed. I’ll murder him.’

‘I’ll do it for you,’ Wayland said. ‘Return to camp. I’ll wait for Lucas.’

They slouched away. Wayland waited while the desert settled into its evening hush and the sands grew cold around him. All that remained of the sun was a crimson slash. His stomach upset had left him too enervated to go chasing after Lucas. Perhaps the riders had killed and were now butchering their prey. It wasn’t until Venus flickered into life that he began to grow worried. He clicked his tongue and his horse and dog advanced to the edge of the ridge.

Shadows flooded the world beyond. He scanned the emptiness without picking up any sign of movement. His cries dispersed into space. He told himself that the hunters must have killed the kulan in a gulley out of sight or hearing. The light had almost drained when a flame pricked the plain below the ridge. Relief turned to puzzlement. Surely the hunters hadn’t stopped to cook their prey. His mind ranged over all kinds of possibilities without fixing on anything solid.

The flame went out. The hunters must be on their way back. Wayland waited and was still waiting long after the riders should have returned. Without further delay he set out to track them. Even in near darkness, he soon spotted the bloodstains left by the wounded kulan.

He’d left it too late, though. Night hid the trail before he reached its end. ‘Find them,’ he told the dog.

He followed, checking the dog when it got too far ahead. Anger at Lucas’s indiscipline shaded into concern and then deepened into dread. Something bad had happened. Perhaps the girl had tried to escape. Perhaps Lucas and the Seljuk had fought over her. Perhaps they’d raped her…

The dog growled, bringing Wayland to a stop. He strung an arrow, slid from his horse and strained into the darkness. The idiot laughter of hyenas raised the hairs on the back of his neck. A nighthawk flitting past made him flinch. He made a swallowing sound and led his horse forward.

He smelt the tarry tang of embers and found the remains of the fire, the branches half-burned and roughly scattered. The dog led him up a draw to the right. At the top he came upon the dead kulan, one of its hind legs hacked off. A few yards further on he found a body, sprawled face down, two arrows in the back. Wayland rolled it over and recognised Yeke’s face, his throat slit with a butcher’s precision. Wayland dropped to one knee, his eyes evaluating every surrounding shape and angle.

‘Lucas? Zuleyka?’

He didn’t expect any response. His senses, preternaturally heightened in childhood, had absorbed the scents of strange men and horses.

He lit a scrub brand and quartered the ground, building up a picture of what had happened. Then he mounted and made his way back to camp.

A squad of troopers bearing torches intercepted him before he reached it. Vallon rode at their centre and placed a hand over his mouth when he saw Wayland’s expression.

‘Dead?’

‘Yeke is. Five horse archers slew him and captured Lucas and the girl.’

Vallon turned his horse. ‘A full report back in camp.’

Wayland washed and ate before presenting himself before the general. Vallon shook his head. ‘I should have known that allowing Lucas to join the hunt would end in disaster.’

‘He wasn’t to know that bandits were lying in wait. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I should have checked the site more carefully.’

Vallon rolled his shoulders as if trying to dislodge a heavy weight. ‘The hunters told me that Lucas loosed an arrow in defiance of your instructions. As a result, one of my men — my main pathfinder — is lying dead in the wilderness. Well, Lucas and the girl can pay for their stupidity.’

‘Are you saying that you’re throwing them to the wolves?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lucas is a trooper in your squadron.’

‘Not through any wish on my part. As for the girl…’

‘Let me take four men and search for them.’

‘No. I’m not risking any more lives.’

‘Then I’ll go myself.’

Vallon exploded. ‘I forbid you!’

Wayland looked at the ground. ‘I’m going with or without your consent.’

He’d left the tent before Vallon answered. ‘Come back, damn you.’

Wayland exhaled all the air in his lungs before returning. He didn’t meet Vallon’s gaze.

The general laughed without mirth. ‘Same old Wayland. Running counter to every order.’ His shoulders hunched. ‘I’ll make my decision when I’ve examined the site.’

Two squads left the camp while it was still dark and reached the murder scene in the gloomy light of pre-dawn. Hyenas and jackals had already partly eaten the dead Seljuk and wild ass. Wayland followed the nomads’ trail before returning to report.

‘They met up with the rest of the clan about two miles to the north. Sixteen in total, including women and children, plus twenty horses and four camels.’

Vallon pinched his lips and stared across the huge landscape. He flicked a hand towards the guide. ‘Ask him what’s out there.’

The old man replied with eloquent hand movements.

Wayland half-smiled. ‘He says nothing but djinns live in the desert.’

Vallon’s gaze remained fixed on the awful vista. ‘There’s no need to give chase. The nomads will take them to the nearest slave market. That’s Khiva. We’ll look for them there.’

‘The nomads will be travelling light on familiar ground,’ Wayland said. ‘They’ll reach Khiva long before we do.’

‘The same holds true if you pursue them. They already have half a day’s start.’

‘They’ll be travelling at a camel’s pace. Horsemen can ride twice as fast.’

Vallon squinted at Wayland. ‘You really mean it.’

‘I was in charge of the hunt. Lucas and Zuleyka are my responsibility.’

The desert was already beginning to quake under the sun’s heat.

‘You won’t survive two days on your own. Select six men hardened to these conditions. If you haven’t caught up with your quarry by sunset tomorrow, you must return.’

Wayland nodded. ‘Sunset tomorrow.’

He and his men left carrying three gallons of water apiece, with more on two spare mounts. They rode as hard as conditions allowed, the trail easy to follow at first, the nomads moving at a good pace. Wayland’s hopes of catching up by nightfall were dashed when the sand ran out into gravel fields and rock shelves. All he had left to go on were scattered clues — pellets of camel dung, a saxaul branch snapped by a pannier, discarded pistachio shells. Unless the nomads eased up tomorrow, he wouldn’t overtake them before Vallon’s deadline.

Next morning they faced a fitful headwind and went on over glazed clay pans so hard that hooves made no impression. Spurts of sand skittered over the polished surface as if gliding on ice. All day they rode, the sun glowing like a great ashen coal, the horsemen treading their indigo shadows until at last they came to the shores of a dry lake where all signs that man had passed vanished. The wind stiffened, forcing the squad to ride with faces masked, and at sunset the dust whipped up by the gusts painted the sky startling shades of rose, amber and purple.

Wayland had no choice but to turn back. The search party had used up more than half their water and knew they wouldn’t find any more before they returned to the caravan trail. Some of the horses were lame. Wayland’s dog had worn its pads raw. On the morning following, Wayland mounted up, cast one last look over the arid wastes and led his team south.

Six days it took them to catch up with the expedition, and if they’d had to endure a seventh, not all of them would have survived. Hero salved Wayland’s blistered face and bathed his eyes before the Englishman reported to Vallon.

The general assisted Wayland onto a stool. ‘You did your best.’

Wayland kneaded his eyes. ‘I haven’t given up all hope. As you said, the slavers will probably take Lucas and Zuleyka to Khiva.’

‘We’re not going to Khiva,’ Vallon said.

Wayland stared.

‘I’ve changed our plans,’ Vallon said. ‘We can cut a week off our journey by aiming for Bukhara, further up the Oxus.’

‘You can’t just abandon — ’

Vallon’s voice was gentle yet firm. ‘I’m responsible for the lives of more than a hundred men. The Vikings grow more disenchanted with every day that passes.’

‘I told you not to throw in your lot with them.’

‘Vikings or no Vikings, I’m not in a position to divert my force. We ride for Bukhara.’

Wayland spoke through a fog of weariness. ‘You might come to regret that decision.’

‘Meaning?’

Wayland opened his mouth and found that the words wouldn’t come.

‘Well?’ Vallon said.

Wayland knew he couldn’t voice his suspicions. Suppose he was wrong about Lucas and the general rode to Khiva only to discover that the lad was what he claimed to be — a Pyrenean horse-breeder’s son. Or, Wayland thought, suppose he was right and Vallon journeyed to Khiva to find that Lucas wasn’t there.

‘Nothing,’ Wayland said. ‘I’m too tired to think straight.’