‘You mustn’t move.’
‘Prop me up.’
The Vikings had built a bonfire the size of a grave barrow and laid their leader on top of it. The blaze was at its height, the conflagration so fierce that the trees around it tossed in the updraught. Pillars of sparks whirled into the sky. Vallon shielded his eyes. Peering into the sizzling core of the pyre, he saw the shrivelled and carbonised corpse of Thorfinn Wolfbreath, last of the Vikings.
XXXVI
Vallon drifted up from fevered dreams. A soft cushion pressed against his cheek. After a while he worked out that it was a woman’s bosom. His gaze tracked up across the swelling fabric and made out a creamy face framed by a copper-red aura. He unstuck his lips. ‘Caitlin?’
‘Don’t talk,’ she said, sponging his brow. ‘Your body’s burning.’
Vallon found that he was buried under a pile of furs and fleeces. He was wringing with sweat and his head thumped as if it would burst. His lips made another popping sound. ‘Where’s Hero?’
‘Asleep. He was up with you all night. He’s hardly slept a wink since the fight.’
‘Which night? How many days have passed?’
‘Three. The fever came on the second night. You’ve been delirious.’ She rocked back into sharper focus.
‘You’ve cut your hair.’
Her hand went to her head. ‘It was impossible to keep clean and the weight made my head ache.’
‘I’m thirsty.’
She cradled his shoulders and placed a cup to his lips. Some of the water chugged down his throat and the rest spilled down his chin. He gasped. ‘More.’
When he’d drunk his fill, Caitlin kept hold of him, his cheek against her breast. At last she lowered him and he lay watching treetops drifting past.
‘I’m as weak as water.’
‘You’ve wasted to skin and bone.’ Caitlin’s forefinger traced the arc of his nose. ‘Beak and talon. You look like a fierce ghost.’
‘How’s my wound?’
‘It’s healing. Hero’s changed the dressing daily and he’s pleased with progress.’
False reassurance, Vallon decided. ‘Help me up.’
‘You mustn’t move.’
Vallon groped for the gunwale. ‘I want to see where we are.’
Caitlin lifted him into a sitting position. ‘The Vikings say we’re nearly at the next lake.’
Hero lay curled up in the bow, so overwhelmed by exhaustion that it wrung Vallon’s heart. Otherwise the boat was empty. Everyone was on the banks, straining against towropes. Up ahead was the Viking longship. Everything was drained of colour. Grey trees, grey river, grey sky. Vallon had the sensation of being borne down a corridor leading into the underworld.
He sank back. ‘I don’t see Wayland and Raul.’
‘They’re scouting ahead. Drogo’s taken command until you’re healed.’
Vallon closed his eyes. Caitlin was still there when he opened them. ‘What a relief to let someone else bear the responsibility.’ He sighed. ‘People shouldn’t be frightened of dying.’
Caitlin clapped a hand over his mouth. ‘Don’t talk like that.’
‘I have to face the truth. Belly wounds don’t heal.’
‘Yes, they do. You’re not going to die. I won’t let you.’
Vallon’s bleary gaze wandered over her face. ‘You can’t be the princess. The princess wants me dead.’
Caitlin swung her head away. ‘I don’t wish ill to the man who avenged my brother’s death.’
Vallon thought about it. ‘I wasn’t avenging Helgi. I was fighting for my life.’
Caitlin turned her eyes back to him. ‘Why do you hate women?’
Vallon had no answer. Had he blurted out some diatribe in his delirium? ‘What makes you think that? I worshipped my mother, was devoted to my sister, and greeted my daughter’s birth with joy.’
‘You killed your wife.’
Vallon was forced to think about that on top of everything else. ‘I loved her, too.’
Caitlin clasped herself. ‘You hate me. I can’t blame you. I have too much pride, too much passion.’
Even in his fuddled state, Vallon thought this was a bizarre gambit.
‘I don’t hate you,’ he muttered. He wanted to sink back into his addled dreams.
‘You said I had an arse as big as a pony’s.’
A picture of Caitlin bathing in the volcanic pool flashed into Vallon’s mind. Her white breasts above the chemical blue water, her dark red hair belled out on the surface. He laughed at the memory and then broke off clutching his stomach and spewed out the water he’d just drunk.
Caitlin mopped his face, ignoring the stains on her dress. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have raised the subject.’
Vallon retched again. ‘I’m sorry, too. Can we save this conversation for another day?’
A couple of miles upriver, Raul was in a distracted frame of mind. ‘I know Vallon’s wound don’t look too bad, but I’ve seen a dozen men get cut in the belly no worse than him and I can’t mind but two that didn’t die of it.’
‘Give it a rest,’ Wayland muttered. Earlier, Raul’s chatter had spooked three black grouse the size of geese that racketed away through the treetops before Wayland could draw on them.
They went on, treading a silvery carpet of lichen. A large owl the same colour as the reindeer moss perched tight against the bole of a fir, one citron eye fixed in a conspiratorial wink. Wayland kept its secret and went on, combing the trees for prey. He hadn’t killed game for two days and if he didn’t find food today the falcons would go hungry for the first time since he’d captured them. His thoughts were drifting between Vallon’s sickness and his own worries when he stopped as if a chasm had opened at his feet. Twice they’d cut the trails of reindeer herders, but those tracks had been old. This one was recent.
Wayland examined the moist droppings and the nibbled branches.
‘Looks fresh,’ Raul said.
Wayland rose from one knee. ‘Two groups travelled this path. The first passed a few days ago. The second came through yesterday.’
He spied through the trees some kind of rudimentary architecture that turned out to be three conical tent frames made of spruce poles about twelve feet high. Inside each structure was a bed of ashes ringed by smoke- blackened stones. Wayland dug a hand into the embers. ‘Still warm. They left early this morning.’
He criss-crossed the trail, peering like a diviner working out where to sink a well. At last he straightened up.
‘How many do you make them?’
‘At least thirty. Men and women. Old and young. They’ve got dogs with them.’ Wayland looked both ways up the trail. It followed an esker raised above the bog. ‘See that?’ he said, pointing at piles of firewood stacked beside each shelter. ‘They’re expecting more to come through. Get off the trail and sit quiet. I’ll warn the others.’
‘Ah, hell. Let’s rest here until they come up to us. They ain’t far behind.’
But Wayland was already into his stride.
‘Hey, Wayland.’
The falconer kept going, jogging backwards. Raul raised a fist and then lowered it. ‘Never mind.’
Wayland waved. ‘I won’t be long.’
He intercepted the longship a mile downriver and was soon back at the spot where he’d left Raul. The German wasn’t there and fresh tracks overlaid the Lapps’ trail. Wayland cast about and soon found what he’d been dreading. He touched the ground and raised fingers spotted with blood. Everyone watched him. He set the dog on Raul’s scent and a little way downriver it checked at a patch of churned-up ground. Here there was more blood. A lot of it, pooling in hollows gouged out by struggling feet. From this spot drag marks led to the river. Wayland went
