Hawk Quest

it.’ Vallon eyed Drogo with scorn. ‘I expected better from a professional soldier.’

‘I have to take Helgi’s side.’

‘Then you can take your chances with him.’

Drogo’s throat chugged. His hand drifted away from his sword and he glanced over his shoulder at the oncoming shore. ‘This isn’t the time to argue. We’re nearly there.’

XXX

Shadows were lengthening along the coast when Shearwater entered the estuary. Their lead over the longship had stretched to more than a mile. A flood tide carried them up the river and the alien shores began to close in on them. A country much like parts of Iceland for the first few miles, rolling tundra flushed with autumn, studded with bald granite outcrops. What amazed the Icelanders was the bounty of dead trees tangled in the backwaters and unharvested by any living soul. Soon they came on stands of birch and solitary spruces standing on the banks like spiral obelisks. The river had narrowed to less than a mile when they rounded a bend and put the longship out of sight. Along this reach the trees merged into a sparse forest that straggled away to the furthest ridges. No trace of habitation. Not a sign that any human had set foot in those wastes.

Darkness was beginning to settle when they broached the forest. They navigated another bend. A tributary led away to their right. They passed a scrubby island and a huge hump-shouldered animal patched out of the gloom went splashing away through the shallows. Some of the Icelanders crossed themselves.

Raul stood at Vallon’s side. ‘We’d better find a place to land while there’s enough light.’

‘Keep an eye out for a quiet inlet. If the Vikings go past us, we can slip back to sea on the ebb tide.’

Shearwater held to the centre of the river. Soon it would be too dark to pick a landing site.

‘What about in there?’ Wayland said, pointing at a backwater between wooded bluffs on the left bank.

‘We’ll take a look.’

Shearwater nosed round, still under sail, running with the tide. Vallon glanced downriver. No sign of the longship. He heard the riffling of broken water.

‘Shoal!’

Before Raul could steer away, the keel struck with a tearing squeal and heavy crash. The shock threw almost everyone down. Vallon picked himself up to find that Shearwater had run aground fifty yards from the bank.

He glared up at the heavens as if he knew where the agent of this fiasco were seated. Forget that. It was his own fault. He should have taken in sail and posted a leadsman. ‘Raul, check the damage.’

He paced and fidgeted while Raul investigated. It didn’t take long.

‘We’re holed and jammed. What makes it worse is that the tide’s nearly full. We won’t float her off tonight.’

Any moment the Vikings would come in sight. Think, Vallon told himself. Think.

‘Launch our boat. Bring the other one alongside. Row the women and other non-combatants to shore, then take off the cargo. Wayland, I’m putting you in charge. Round up as many Icelanders as you need. Raul and Garrick, get the horses out of the hold.’

People were gathering up their possessions and staring fearfully downriver. Vallon wiped his lips.

‘We must protect the ship at all costs,’ said a voice beside him. ‘Lose it and we’re dead.’

Vallon glanced at Drogo’s shadowed form. ‘Ship or no ship, none of us will escape if we’re constantly looking over our shoulders in fear of each other.’

‘Agreed. A river of blood separates us, but I’ll delay making that crossing until we’ve dealt with the Vikings.’

‘You accept my command?’

Drogo hesitated. ‘If I agree with your decisions, I’ll back them.’

‘Not Helgi, though. He’ll try to thwart me at every turn.’

‘Issue your orders through me.’

Vallon’s eyes rested on Drogo before stealing downriver again. ‘What would your strategy be?’

‘Safeguard the ship but engage the Vikings on land. We have five horses where they have none. That’s worth a dozen men.’

It had been a long time since Vallon had talked tactics with a fellow professional. ‘We’ll leave the swordsmen on board and post archers on the banks. I don’t think the Vikings will press home an attack tonight. They’re weary and must be feeling star-crossed after losing men and seeing two prizes sink.’

Wayland came rowing back. ‘That’s all the women and old folk landed.’

‘Supplies next. When you’ve finished, muster the Icelandic bowmen and station yourselves at the edge of the forest.’

Raul and Garrick had rigged a derrick to hoist the horses out of the hold. Helgi and his men herded their own mounts over the side.

Vallon turned back to Drogo. ‘Are your ribs mended?’

‘I’ll fight if called upon.’

‘On the right side, I trust.’

Every man on board watched the bend downriver. Swirls of water welled up mysteriously and subsided back into blackness. The tide had ebbed, leaving Shearwater high and dry. Deep in the forest an owl gave a funereal hoot. Weapons chinked. Mosquitoes whined. Somewhere out in the river a big fish jumped.

‘What’s keeping them?’ Fulk muttered.

‘They’ll struggle against this current,’ said Drogo. ‘They might have stopped for the night.’

‘They won’t call a halt until they find us,’ said Vallon. ‘They’re searching every bolthole. Having forced us into a dead end, they’ll make sure we don’t escape.’

A mosquito bit his cheek. He raised his hand to swat it, then stopped, arrested by the eerie illumination unfolding in the northern sky. Down from the top of the heavens scrolled a gossamer curtain of pale green, its shifting drapes fringed with bands of purple. The folds undulated with a kind of beckoning motion, fading and returning.

‘What in God’s name is that?’

‘The northern aurora,’ said Hero. ‘The Icelanders say it’s the flames of Vulcan’s forge reflected in the sky.’

In this unearthly glow the longship made its entrance, stealing around the bend with its sail reflecting the ghostly fire, pinpoints of light winking at its oars. It drew nearer and someone shouted as he caught sight of Shearwater. The Vikings rowed closer, then held station, feathering their oars. Laughter and jeers carried across the water when the Vikings realised that the knarr was stranded. The pirate chief stood at the dragon prow and bellowed a lengthy challenge or ultimatum that made the Icelanders gabble with dread.

‘They know him by reputation,’ said Raul. ‘His name’s Thorfinn Wolfbreath, a pagan feared for his cruelty all along the Norwegian coast. He eats the livers of his opponents. Eats them raw on the battlefield to feed his valour.’

The warlord shouted again.

‘What’s he saying?’

‘Surrender the ship, our trade goods and our women, and he’ll leave us to God’s mercy. If we resist, he’ll cut the blood eagle on every man he takes alive.’

‘Blood eagle?’

‘A cruel torture. I saw it performed on a thief in Gotland. They tied him face down, hacked away his ribs close to the spine, then reached into his chest and pulled his lungs out through the back. The Icelanders say he’s a berserker, a warrior who can’t be defeated by mortal means. Swords can’t bite him and he can walk through fire without being burned. He can blunt a weapon just by looking at it.’