‘I’ll cut the tongue out of the next one who makes a sound.’
That didn’t stop them cursing when the drizzle hardened into a drenching shower. Vallon stood with his back to it. He was ready to admit that their night’s work had been wasted when the rain tailed off. There was no warning. The rain simply stopped and a cool draught stirred the trees.
Vallon turned to face the breeze. ‘There’s still time.’
The clouds peeled away layer by layer. The moon drifted out, bright enough to cast bars across the river and etch the trees in inky outline on the next ridge. Vallon gestured. ‘Gather around, men.’
They shuffled up, shivering and rubbing their limbs. Vallon laughed and patted backs. ‘A little exercise will set you all to rights. Nothing stirs the blood like shedding your enemy’s.’ He looked around. ‘Drogo, position your horses in the trees on the left. Infantry, form up opposite.’ He pointed at a spruce standing isolated in the wind gap, its branches spreading to the ground. ‘I’ll spring the trap from there. The moment I do, shoot a volley of arrows. Drogo, that’s the signal for your force to hit them as hard as you can. Time it well and the Vikings won’t know which way to turn.’
Some of the Icelanders didn’t understand and shrugged at each other. Vallon repeated his orders, wishing he spoke better Norse.
Drogo sniffed. ‘I’m surprised you choose to fight on foot.’
‘Without an experienced soldier at their sides, the Icelanders won’t press home their attack.’
Drogo left to make his dispositions. Most of the sky had cleared and stately white clouds drifted across the indigo gulf. Vallon stiffened at the sound of hurried footfalls.
‘Wayland’s coming.’
The sound grew louder. Vallon narrowed his eyes in concentration. Someone behind him hissed and his eyes bolted around. It couldn’t be Wayland. The footfalls were approaching from the wrong direction. The Vikings must have seen that the camp was deserted and sent a runner to warn their chief.
Vallon ran for cover. ‘Stay hidden. I’ll deal with him.’
A man padded up onto the ridge, hurdled a toppled trunk and raced on. Vallon stepped out into his path at the last moment and the Viking ran himself through the heart with his own momentum. He dropped dead to his knees and Vallon braced one hand on his shoulder to withdraw his sword. As he did so, another figure crested the ridge. He saw Vallon, flailed to a halt and began to back away.
‘After him!’
Half a dozen Icelanders sprang from their hiding places. The Viking flung himself to one side and hared off into the trees.
‘Don’t let him get away!’
Men plunged in pursuit. Vallon heard them tearing through the forest, the noises growing fainter until no sound was left except the wind sighing in the branches and his own thumping heart.
‘We should have guarded our rear,’ Drogo said.
Vallon swiped at the ground. ‘The men should have been more alert.’
He crouched over his sword hilt as the searchers straggled back, blowing hard and shaking their heads. When the last of them returned to confirm that the Viking had escaped, Vallon rose with a long sigh and rubbed his itchy brow. Drogo idly kicked the ground. Vallon let his arms flop.
‘We’d better return to camp,’ said Drogo. ‘The other two spies are probably plundering it.’
‘You go. I’ll wait for Wayland.’
The Icelanders were beginning to file away when Vallon spotted movement on the next ridge. ‘Hold it.’
A shadow flickered through black palings. Vallon lost it, then picked it up again on the downslope. Two shadows moving in a soundless glide.
‘It’s Wayland and his dog.’
Vallon waited in the open. Wayland came flogging up the hill. He swallowed one breath straight after the other and glanced in bewilderment at the company. ‘Why are you standing about? The Vikings aren’t far behind me.’
Vallon rasped his hand along his jaw. ‘The ambush has been discovered. The spies saw that we’d left the camp and sent two of their number to raise the alarm. We dealt with one, but the other got through.’
‘No, he didn’t.’
It took a moment to sink in. ‘You killed him?’
‘The dog caught him.’ Wayland shoved Vallon away from the edge. ‘Hide yourselves. They’ll be here any moment.’
Vallon came to his wits. ‘Quick! Back to your positions.’ He dragged Wayland to the ground beside him. ‘Did Raul make contact?’
‘No. He hadn’t reached the camp when I left.’
‘Damn! How many are we facing?’
‘Sixteen.’
Vallon looked for Drogo. He lay propped on his elbows a few yards away. ‘Hear that?’
‘Sixteen of them, fourteen of us. You might regret sending the raiders downriver.’
‘The horses make it even.’
The dog whined. Wayland tensed. ‘There they are. Crossing the ridge.’
Vallon made out a column filing through the trees, winding down from the ridge, disappearing into the dark sink at the bottom of the slope and then emerging again as they climbed towards the ambush. Moonlight glinted on axes and spearpoints.
Vallon gripped Drogo’s arm. ‘Direct your charge at Thorfinn. Take your timing from me. I won’t attack until they’re almost within touching distance. Be patient. Make sure the blood doesn’t rush to Helgi’s head.’
‘I hear. Now let go. The enemy’s almost on us.’
Vallon released his hold and Drogo hurried off.
‘Where do you want me to stand?’ Wayland asked.
‘With the infantry. Aim for Thorfinn. Kill him and you could settle the encounter single-handed. Keep back from the fray and direct your arrows where they’ll inflict the most harm. God spare you.’
Wayland nodded and ran off.
Vallon waited until the Vikings were committed to their path before worming back from the crest. Once he was out of sight he ran at a crouch towards the spruce. His eyes darted around, checking that everybody was concealed. He heard the slurred steps of the approaching Vikings and a muttered exchange. He pushed back into the branches and cleared a gap just wide enough to see through. He felt sick with excitement.
Up over the crest tramped the Viking leader, pale eyes roaming from side to side, breath misting. His axe rested over one shoulder and a sword hung from his hip and there was a shorter sword stuck in his belt. Lop off the serpent’s head, an inner voice urged. Vallon resisted it. He waited with his sword held before his face. His breathing had steadied. Thorfinn Wolfbreath trudged past within twenty feet of him, his helmet dangling from his waist like the trophy head of some alien foe. Vallon counted off the men as they trooped by. ‘ … eight, nine, ten … ’ He closed his eyes and kissed his sword.
Helgi’s cry, followed by thudding hooves, a dismayed shout from Drogo and the hiss of a single arrow.
Spitting with fury, Vallon pushed out round the back of the tree. Thorfinn stood unhurt, bellowing to his men. Helgi galloped towards the enemy line, spear levelled, Drogo and the other cavalrymen riding ragged behind him.
‘I’ll murder you,’ Vallon mouthed, hurtling towards the nearest enemy and all his rage directed at Helgi.
The Viking swung round gaping and took Vallon’s sword in his mouth, the impact sounding like a cleaver chopping through a rack of meat. Teeth and blood sprayed. The Viking dropped, clutching his face.
‘At them, men!’ Vallon shouted, his attention on the Viking in front of his first victim. The man swung. Vallon parried, disengaged, countered. His opponent blocked with his shield. Vallon feinted right, feinted left, left again, right, dragging the man off balance, saw the opening and slashed into it. The man dropped his sword and looked down at his arm dangling by a rope of muscle. Vallon leaped back, legs a-straddle, assessing the situation.
A mess. The Icelandic infantry still stumbling into action and Helgi prancing about with his liege men, looking for easy targets. Only Drogo and Fulk were fighting with discipline, riding against the enemy stirrup to stirrup, one hacking to the right the other to the left. Thorfinn stood swinging his axe in great arcs, roaring at his men to form
