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.
