shield when the iron leaf struck, somersaulting him over the back of his horse. The shaft broke in Vallon’s hand. He dropped it and drew his sword. He galloped down the line of archers, reaping death left and right. He must have killed or disabled six of the bowmen before reaching the end of the line.
He hauled in his mount. Four riders galloped up to him.
‘Who’s missing?’
‘Tostig,’ Drogo panted. ‘I saw him go down.’
The convoy was halfway past the ford. The din of drums and trumpets blotted out the cries of alarm. It was still too dark to separate friend from foe and most of the Cumans had no idea that the enemy was among them. Along the riverbank the archers milled in confusion.
Vallon waved his sword. ‘One more pass.’
He hacked his way back into the fray, striking whatever targets presented themselves. A horseman crossed his path and he chopped off his jaw. A man on foot raised a sword and he sliced through his skull. The trumpets sounded a shrill note and the Cumans raced to collect their horses. One rider already in the saddle engaged him head on. One, two, three parries and his opponent slumped dead off his mount. The Cumans had realised they’d been attacked from behind and were beginning to organise. From the corner of his eye Vallon saw half a dozen nomads dragging Olaf to the ground. An arrow struck the back of his shield an inch from his hand. Another archer aimed point blank at Drogo and then dropped his bow and felt for the arrow in his chest. He swayed back and forth, as if he weren’t sure which way to fall.
Vallon fended off another attacker. The Cumans were closing around him. ‘We can’t do any more! Withdraw!’
As he dragged his horse round, Fulk grunted and pitched forward in his saddle.
Vallon galloped clear. The headland was empty and most of the convoy had passed it. The skiff was waiting about fifty yards from the bank and one of the boats hung in mid-channel behind it. Two men were kneeling in the skiff. What were they playing at? They were too far out to reach and the skiff was too small to carry all the raiders. He glanced back and saw Wulfstan whipping his horse. Behind him Drogo rode alongside Fulk, propping him in the saddle. A knot of screaming Cumans raced in pursuit.
Vallon drove his horse into the river. It stopped dead, throwing him over its neck. He found his feet and plunged towards the skiff. Wayland stood swinging an oar tied to a rope. He launched it.
‘I daren’t come any closer. The boat will pull us clear.’
Vallon ploughed through the water, grunting with effort. It was above his waist when Wulfstan surged past and grabbed him by the hair. Vallon beat at his arm. ‘Save yourself. I’ll wait for the Normans.’
He turned and saw Drogo leap off his horse and run into the river. Fulk remained mounted and at bay, fighting a rearguard action against half a dozen Cumans. Drogo stopped and looked back.
‘Fulk, come on!’
‘He’s finished!’ Vallon yelled.
He backed deeper into the river. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Wulfstan swimming towards the skiff. Wayland shouted and pointed at the oar. It was only a few yards behind Vallon. He struggled towards it. The river was up to his neck when his hand made contact. An arrow struck the surface beside him.
He threw an arm over the oar and spat water. Drogo floundered towards him. Fulk still remained in the saddle, wafting his sword while the Cumans hacked him to pieces. A lancer speared him in the chest with enough force to punch the blade out through his back. Some of the Cumans drove their horses into the river and archers ran up and loosed arrows from hip level. One of the projectiles nicked Vallon’s shoulder.
Wayland dragged on the rope.
‘Not yet!’ Vallon shouted.
The current was pulling him out of his depth. Drogo wore armour and if he didn’t reach him soon, he was doomed. He lost his footing, went under and surfaced choking.
‘Leave him!’ Wayland shouted.
Vallon glanced behind. ‘We didn’t leave you!’
He faced Drogo and stretched out as far as he could. ‘Take my hand.’
Drogo’s face contorted with effort as he lunged forwards. Their hands made contact and they locked fingers like comrades sealing an oath.
‘Pull!’ Vallon shouted.
Wayland and the other man began to drag them towards the skiff. Arrows spat and popped in the water around them. Vallon reached the skiff and crooked an arm over the side. Wayland dropped flat, gripping him by the scruff. ‘You’ll sink us if you board. Hang on until the boat pulls us out of range.’
Yard by yard the crew drew them clear. Vallon was stupefied with cold when hands reached down and dragged him over the side. He flopped face down. Someone rubbed his limbs. He rolled over and saw several child slaves staring at him. Wayland’s face loomed.
‘You’re wounded.’
Vallon felt the warm leakage of blood from his shoulder. ‘A scratch. Help me up.’
He stood swaying, his underjaw twitching in a seizure cold. ‘Syth safe?’
‘She is, thank God.’
Valloon staggered round and almost tripped over the body of a slave girl lying with two arrows in her back. Hero sat in the stern, partly obscured by one of the Vikings. He seemed to be grinning but when Vallon lurched closer he saw from his expression that something awful had happened.
‘Richard is hit,’ he said. ‘It’s bad.’
XLIV
Hero held Richard slumped against him. Vallon barged the slaves aside to reach them. Richard breathed in shallow gasps, holding the left side of his chest. Hero gently moved him to show Vallon the arrow in his back. It had struck close to the spine and buried itself to within a few inches of its fletching. Vallon lifted Richard’s hand away from his ribcage. The arrowhead hadn’t come out the other side. Vallon cupped Richard’s chin to examine his face. His pupils were dilated and bloody sputum leaked from his mouth.
Vallon kneaded his eyes with his fingers, then looked at Hero. Words weren’t necessary. Both of them knew the wound was mortal.
‘We have to land,’ Hero said. ‘The sooner I operate, the better his chances.’
Vallon glanced at the nomads galloping against the paling sky. ‘We can’t put ashore until we’re clear of the Cumans.’
‘I can’t treat Richard on the boat. We’ll be safe on St Gregory’s Island. The nomads can’t reach it without boats.’
Its rocky snout was in sight ahead of them, the galley working down the left channel. One of the slaves shrieked and pointed at the river. Two of their companions floated on the surface with their limbs spread like stars and their white hair trailing.
‘Whose galley was wrecked?’ Vallon said.
‘Igor’s. We didn’t find his body. We saved these four and the other boat picked up two more and one of the Russians. Everyone else drowned.’
‘Who else died at the ford?’ Vallon asked, and then grimaced.
‘Caitlin’s maid and one of the Vikings on the other boat. I don’t know how many died on the galley.’ Hero noticed Vallon’s bleeding shoulder. ‘Let me look at that.’
‘Later. Deal with Richard first.’
Wayland draped a blanket over Vallon’s shoulders. ‘You’d better get out of those wet clothes.’
The sun rose, stencilling the Cumans on a thin wash of vermilion. They were still following when the convoy approached the end of the island. Beyond it the Dnieper widened between steppeland stretching away without limits. Richard was breathing very fast, each shallow intake accompanied by a sob of pain.
Vallon returned in dry clothes.
‘This is our last chance to land,’ Hero said.
