Imperial Fire

by Lyndon, Robert

  ‘Very likely,’ Hero said.

  Wayland forestalled the obvious question. ‘The reason I ask is that I think a lot about my own family, and it occurred to me that Vallon must do the same.’

  ‘Not that family,’ Hero said. ‘Caitlin and his daughters are all that matter to him now.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Wayland said. He pulled the tent flap close. ‘Don’t strain your eyes writing down the commonplace.’

  He’d gone three or four yards when the flap opened, emitting a fan of lamplight. ‘Commonplace to you,’ Hero said. ‘Rare and strange to folk who’ll sleep tonight within familiar walls.’

  A couple of days passed before Wayland crossed paths with Lucas again. Much of that time he spent in a state of somnolent stupefaction, riding into an infinity of horizontals, trotting across alkali flats as silky as talc, wading through tongues of sand that overflowed the track, the horizon fanning past in an endless wake.

  Life flourished here, though. Sand grouse flushed from waterholes in flocks large enough to obscure the sun. Tortoises dragged themselves over the desert and lizards four feet long switched their tails and bared fangs oozing venom. These reptiles hunted kitten-sized hedgehogs with soft fur and desert rats that hopped on hind legs and tails. At night Wayland checked the ground for scorpions and cobras before settling to sleep. One evening he saw a cheetah course a gazelle, hunter and hunted sprinting across the skyline in spurts of dust that steadily converged until they merged into one violent swirl.

  Herds of wild asses or kulans ranged over the desert – elegant creatures with cream and tawny-gold coats and a black stripe running from mane to tail. The Turkmen scouts tried riding them down, but the short-coupled kulans were deceptively fleet, outpacing the horses and galloping off to a safe distance before bunching up to look back. Wayland watched a couple of these fruitless chases before calling the Turkmen together and suggesting tactics. The only way to get within range was to post a screen of bowmen behind the kulans and then drive the beasts towards the ambush. They tried it next day, Wayland assessing the lie of the land for a long time before directing half a dozen men in a wide circle to a point behind the kulans’ likely line of flight.

  On the third sally they bagged two kulans and at the next attempt they killed three. Vallon was delighted. Fresh meat was a godsend to men with appetites jaded by double-baked biscuits hard enough to chip teeth, and the hunts were a fillip to morale, providing a welcome diversion for the troopers. He asked Aiken to draw up a rota that would give every Outlander an opportunity to join the chase.

  Two days later Lucas confronted Wayland after reveille. ‘When do I get my turn?’

  Wayland checked Aiken’s list. ‘Sorry, but your bowmanship isn’t good enough.’

  ‘Who says? Aiken?’ Lucas gave a scornful laugh.

  ‘Cut it out,’ Wayland said.

  ‘Look,’ Lucas said. ‘I know my archery doesn’t compare with yours, but I practise every day and my aim’s improving.’

  That was true. Every evening after the Outlanders made camp, Lucas took himself off and shot arrows until it grew too dark to see where they landed.

  ‘Shooting at a standing target isn’t the same as loosing at live prey. I don’t want to waste half a day tracking a beast you’ve wounded in the haunch.’

  ‘I know I’ve only shot at targets. That’s why I need to try my hand at a moving object. And you can’t deny I handle a horse well.’

  Wayland relented. ‘One of the troopers has an upset stomach. You can take his place.’

  Lucas flashed his teeth and strode off before stopping as if struck by a brilliant afterthought. ‘Can Zuleyka come too?’

  That was typical of him, always pushing too far. Wayland shook his head. ‘No, she can’t.’

  ‘It’s not what you’re thinking,’ Lucas said. ‘She might not know how to bend a bow, but she rides as if she’d been born on a horse.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask Vallon,’ Wayland said. ‘After her performance the other night, don’t get your hopes up.’

  In fact the general agreed to the request with the briefest of nods. ‘Just make it clear that I won’t tolerate any… any…’

  ‘Hanky-panky?’ Wayland suggested.

  He reinforced the general’s injunction by grinding a knuckle into Lucas’s sternum. ‘If you lay a hand on Zuleyka, if you so much as make eyes at her, the general will have you whipped until your backbone bleeds.’

  Lucas’s clenched fist shot up. ‘On my word.’

  Wayland watched him strut away, shoulders rolling. ‘Guy,’ he said.

  Lucas stopped as if he’d taken an arrow in the back, stood frozen for a moment then turned, his face straining for nonchalance. ‘Who’s Guy?’

  Wayland strolled up. ‘You.’

  Lucas gave a cracked laugh. ‘You’re crazy.’

  Wayland tapped him on the shoulder. ‘When are you going to tell Vallon that you’re his son?’

  Lucas blenched. ‘I’m not his son. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  Lucas flung his head about in desperation. ‘The men are ready for the hunt. Let me join them. Please.’

  The hunting party was indeed chafing to be off. ‘We’ll discuss this further on our return,’ Wayland said. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to Vallon.’

  It was late afternoon before Wayland spotted a herd of kulans grazing on an incline to the north. He assessed the situation, checking wind direction and studying the paths trodden by the animals before summoning the hunting party. He delegated eight of them to spring an ambush.

  ‘See that pass,’ he said, pointing at a shallow cup in the skyline. ‘That’s where the kulans will make for. Circle around the herd, keeping at least half a mile distant. Once you’re over the ridge, take up positions in the pass and stay out of sight. It might be some time before we drive the game within range, so be patient.’

  ‘Can me and Zuleyka join them?’ Lucas said.’ I want to be in at the kill.’ He twanged his bowstring for emphasis.

  Wayland regarded him with a jaundiced eye, then glanced at Zuleyka. She looked straight back at him – deep green irises against startlingly clear whites, her eyes framed by long black lashes. Dark as Syth was fair, she somehow reminded him of his wife – both of them not quite of this world. He’d intended to include the girl in his own party to keep her away from Lucas, but for reasons he didn’t care to examine, he decided her proximity would be too unsettling.

  He gestured at the leader of the ambushers. ‘Keep Lucas and Zuleyka well apart.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Off you go. We don’t have much light left.’

  The ambush party followed his instructions and the kulans looked up only long enough to decide that the horsemen posed no threat before they resumed grazing. Wayland winced and clutched his stomach. All afternoon he’d had to clench his sphincter against squitters. The turmoil in his guts couldn’t be checked except by a violent discharge, and he returned to his post, brow clammy, as the last of the ambushers popped over the ridge.

  When they’d disappeared, he formed the eight remaining troopers into a crescent and led them towards the kulans at a jog. They allowed him to approach within two arrow flights before tossing their heads and galloping away. Wayland followed up, not pressing too hard, giving them every chance to take the natural line of escape that would bring them to the saddle. The sun was boiling on the desert floor by the time the kulans streamed over the ridge.

  He swung his arm and his party rowelled their horses into flat-out pursuit to close the line of retreat. They emerged onto the saddle just in time to see the tailenders skeltering up a gulley on one side of the pass, chased by Lucas, Zuleyka and Yeke. They reached the skyline and dropped out of sight. The remaining troopers rode up to Wayland shaking their heads in disgust.

  ‘What went wrong?’

  One of the hunters pinched his nose and snorted snot. ‘That idiot Frank didn’t wait for the herd to enter the trap. As soon as the fir
st kulan appeared, he tried to cut it off, sending the rest stampeding up there.’

  ‘What’s he doing chasing them?’

  The trooper smeared mucus on his breeches. ‘He fluked a shot to the beast’s belly. If he thinks he’ll return in glory, he’s going to be disappointed. I’ll murder him.’

  ‘I’ll do it for you,’ Wayland said. ‘Return to camp. I’ll wait for Lucas.’

  They slouched away. Wayland waited while the desert settled into its evening hush and the sands grew cold around him. All that remained of the sun was a crimson slash. His stomach upset had left him too enervated to go chasing after Lucas. Perhaps the riders had killed and were now butchering their prey. It wasn’t until Venus flickered into life that he began to grow worried. He clicked his tongue and his horse and dog advanced to the edge of the ridge.

  Shadows flooded the world beyond. He scanned the emptiness without picking up any sign of movement. His cries dispersed into space. He told himself that the hunters must have killed the kulan in a gulley out of sight or hearing. The light had almost drained when a flame pricked the plain below the ridge. Relief turned to puzzlement. Surely the hunters hadn’t stopped to cook their prey. His mind ranged over all kinds of possibilities without fixing on anything solid.

  The flame went out. The hunters must be on their way back. Wayland waited and was still waiting long after the riders should have returned. Without further delay he set out to track them. Even in near darkness, he soon spotted the bloodstains left by the wounded kulan.

  He’d left it too late, though. Night hid the trail before he reached its end. ‘Find them,’ he told the dog.

  He followed, checking the dog when it got too far ahead. Anger at Lucas’s indiscipline shaded into concern and then deepened into dread. Something bad had happened. Perhaps the girl had tried to escape. Perhaps Lucas and the Seljuk had fought over her. Perhaps they’d raped her…

  The dog growled, bringing Wayland to a stop. He strung an arrow, slid from his horse and strained into the darkness. The idiot laughter of hyenas raised the hairs on the back of his neck. A nighthawk flitting past made him flinch. He made a swallowing sound and led his horse forward.

  He smelt the tarry tang of embers and found the remains of the fire, the branches half-burned and roughly scattered. The dog led him up a draw to the right. At the top he came upon the dead kulan, one of its hind legs hacked off. A few yards further on he found a body, sprawled face down, two arrows in the back. Wayland rolled it over and recognised Yeke’s face, his throat slit with a butcher’s precision. Wayland dropped to one knee, his eyes evaluating every surrounding shape and angle.

  ‘Lucas? Zuleyka?’

  He didn’t expect any response. His senses, preternaturally heightened in childhood, had absorbed the scents of strange men and horses.

  He lit a scrub brand and quartered the ground, building up a picture of what had happened. Then he mounted and made his way back to camp.

  A squad of troopers bearing torches intercepted him before he reached it. Vallon rode at their centre and placed a hand over his mouth when he saw Wayland’s expression.

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yeke is. Five horse archers slew him and captured Lucas and the girl.’

  Vallon turned his horse. ‘A full report back in camp.’

  Wayland washed and ate before presenting himself before the general. Vallon shook his head. ‘I should have known that allowing Lucas to join the hunt would end in disaster.’

  ‘He wasn’t to know that bandits were lying in wait. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I should have checked the site more carefully.’

  Vallon rolled his shoulders as if trying to dislodge a heavy weight. ‘The hunters told me that Lucas loosed an arrow in defiance of your instructions. As a result, one of my men – my main pathfinder – is lying dead in the wilderness. Well, Lucas and the girl can pay for their stupidity.’

  ‘Are you saying that you’re throwing them to the wolves?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lucas is a trooper in your squadron.’

  ‘Not through any wish on my part. As for the girl…’

  ‘Let me take four men and search for them.’

  ‘No. I’m not risking any more lives.’

  ‘Then I’ll go myself.’

  Vallon exploded. ‘I forbid you!’

  Wayland looked at the ground. ‘I’m going with or without your consent.’

  He’d left the tent before Vallon answered. ‘Come back, damn you.’

  Wayland exhaled all the air in his lungs before returning. He didn’t meet Vallon’s gaze.

  The general laughed without mirth. ‘Same old Wayland. Running counter to every order.’ His shoulders hunched. ‘I’ll make my decision when I’ve examined the site.’

  Two squads left the camp while it was still dark and reached the murder scene in the gloomy light of pre-dawn. Hyenas and jackals had already partly eaten the dead Seljuk and wild ass. Wayland followed the nomads’ trail before returning to report.

  ‘They met up with the rest of the clan about two miles to the north. Sixteen in total, including women and children, plus twenty horses and four camels.’

  Vallon pinched his lips and stared across the huge landscape. He flicked a hand towards the guide. ‘Ask him what’s out there.’

  The old man replied with eloquent hand movements.

  Wayland half-smiled. ‘He says nothing but djinns live in the desert.’

  Vallon’s gaze remained fixed on the awful vista. ‘There’s no need to give chase. The nomads will take them to the nearest slave market. That’s Khiva. We’ll look for them there.’

  ‘The nomads will be travelling light on familiar ground,’ Wayland said. ‘They’ll reach Khiva long before we do.’

  ‘The same holds true if you pursue them. They already have half a day’s start.’

  ‘They’ll be travelling at a camel’s pace. Horsemen can ride twice as fast.’

  Vallon squinted at Wayland. ‘You really mean it.’

  ‘I was in charge of the hunt. Lucas and Zuleyka are my responsibility.’

  The desert was already beginning to quake under the sun’s heat.

  ‘You won’t survive two days on your own. Select six men hardened to these conditions. If you haven’t caught up with your quarry by sunset tomorrow, you must return.’

  Wayland nodded. ‘Sunset tomorrow.’

  He and his men left carrying three gallons of water apiece, with more on two spare mounts. They rode as hard as conditions allowed, the trail easy to follow at first, the nomads moving at a good pace. Wayland’s hopes of catching up by nightfall were dashed when the sand ran out into gravel fields and rock shelves. All he had left to go on were scattered clues – pellets of camel dung, a saxaul branch snapped by a pannier, discarded pistachio shells. Unless the nomads eased up tomorrow, he wouldn’t overtake them before Vallon’s deadline.

  Next morning they faced a fitful headwind and went on over glazed clay pans so hard that hooves made no impression. Spurts of sand skittered over the polished surface as if gliding on ice. All day they rode, the sun glowing like a great ashen coal, the horsemen treading their indigo shadows until at last they came to the shores of a dry lake where all signs that man had passed vanished. The wind stiffened, forcing the squad to ride with faces masked, and at sunset the dust whipped up by the gusts painted the sky startling shades of rose, amber and purple.

  Wayland had no choice but to turn back. The search party had used up more than half their water and knew they wouldn’t find any more before they returned to the caravan trail. Some of the horses were lame. Wayland’s dog had worn its pads raw. On the morning following, Wayland mounted up, cast one last look over the arid wastes and led his team south.

  Six days it took them to catch up with the expedition, and if they’d had to endure a seventh, not all of them would have survived. Hero salved Wayland’s blistered face and bathed his eyes before the Englishman reported to Vallon.

  The general ass
isted Wayland onto a stool. ‘You did your best.’

  Wayland kneaded his eyes. ‘I haven’t given up all hope. As you said, the slavers will probably take Lucas and Zuleyka to Khiva.’

  ‘We’re not going to Khiva,’ Vallon said.

  Wayland stared.

  ‘I’ve changed our plans,’ Vallon said. ‘We can cut a week off our journey by aiming for Bukhara, further up the Oxus.’

  ‘You can’t just abandon —’

  Vallon’s voice was gentle yet firm. ‘I’m responsible for the lives of more than a hundred men. The Vikings grow more disenchanted with every day that passes.’

  ‘I told you not to throw in your lot with them.’

  ‘Vikings or no Vikings, I’m not in a position to divert my force. We ride for Bukhara.’

  Wayland spoke through a fog of weariness. ‘You might come to regret that decision.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Wayland opened his mouth and found that the words wouldn’t come.

  ‘Well?’ Vallon said.

  Wayland knew he couldn’t voice his suspicions. Suppose he was wrong about Lucas and the general rode to Khiva only to discover that the lad was what he claimed to be – a Pyrenean horse-breeder’s son. Or, Wayland thought, suppose he was right and Vallon journeyed to Khiva to find that Lucas wasn’t there.

  ‘Nothing,’ Wayland said. ‘I’m too tired to think straight.’

  XXIII

  Yeke had shot his fourth arrow at full gallop, bringing the kulan staggering to its knees in a gulley more than a mile from the start of the hunt. He leaped off his horse and stabbed his knife into the beast’s jugular. Blood spouted in a jet and the kulan thrashed, a horrible whistling issuing from its neck. Lucas caught up as the beast’s spasms relaxed into death.

  ‘Well aimed, Yeke, but don’t forget who lodged the first arrow.’

  The Seljuk was collecting the kulan’s blood in a leather bowl he seemed to carry for just that purpose. He jabbed his blade towards the ridge. ‘Fetch help,’ he said in his limited Greek.