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.
