Hawk Quest

by Robert Lyndon

  Hero laughed. ‘We still have a few days’ ride ahead of us. What does it say about our prospects?’

  Vallon studied the gemstone. ‘Bright, I’d say.’

  A stir behind the escorts drew his idle attention. A string of camels plodded past, heading for the Konya road.

  ‘Vallon!’ Caitlin screamed. ‘Vallon!’

  He jerked his reins. The Seljuks spun their horses. Through them he saw Drogo standing outside the women’s quarters, holding Caitlin with his sword across her throat, both of them stained with blood. The Seljuks were already unslinging bows and levelling lances. Boke kicked his mount into a charge.

  ‘Stop!’ Vallon shouted. ‘Tell him to stop!’

  Wayland called out in Turkic. Boke was only twenty yards from his target when he veered away.

  Vallon’s heart raced. He flung out a hand left and right at the Seljuks. ‘Nobody move. Wayland, make them understand.’

  He reached out and took a lance from one of the Seljuks. He rode forward at a walk.

  ‘Let her go, Drogo.’

  The Norman’s face contorted in a frenzy of effort as he tried to control Caitlin. She kicked and struggled and managed to sink her teeth into his forearm. He jabbed his sword hilt into her face and she sagged down.

  Vallon halted. ‘You said you’d got what you want. Walter dead, the inheritance assured.’

  ‘I changed my mind. My honour’s more important.’ Drogo’s speech was slurred, his eyes bloodshot.

  ‘You call holding a woman hostage honourable?’

  ‘The whore’s my way to revenge.’

  ‘Let her go and I’ll let you live. I’ve given Suleyman money to send you back to Byzantium. In dignity, not on hands and knees.’

  Drogo laughed and pointed his sword at him. ‘That’s what twists my guts. Your charity. I’ve suffered enough humiliation from you.’

  Vallon rode a few yards closer. ‘You won’t regain your pride by killing Caitlin. Before she falls to the ground, you’ll be skewered by arrows and I’ll still be alive to kick your corpse. Or perhaps I’ll order the Seljuks to let you live so that they can devise the cruellest and slowest way to end your life.’

  ‘I’ll release Caitlin only if you agree to fight me man to man.’

  ‘You’re drunk. Even sober you’re no match for me.’

  ‘Then you have nothing to fear.’

  ‘If you were lucky enough to strike a mortal blow, you wouldn’t have a moment to savour your victory before the Seljuks killed you.’

  ‘Then I’ve got nothing to lose.’ Drogo pulled Caitlin’s head back and pressed his sword against her neck. ‘I swear to God …’

  ‘I’ll fight you.’ Vallon looked for Wayland. ‘Tell Boke and his men not to interfere. Tell him this is a feud that can only be settled by single combat.’ He turned back to Drogo. ‘Now release Caitlin.’

  Drogo flung her aside. She stumbled away, clutching her face. Syth ran forward, gathered her in her arms and led her back.

  ‘Don’t hazard your life!’ Hero cried. ‘Leave it to the Seljuks.’

  Vallon raised a hand. ‘My word means something or it means nothing.’

  Stillness descended on the arena. Overhead in the silence a kite whistled. The sun was lifting clear of the horizon. At the margins of Vallon’s vision, Seljuk labourers spectated in scattered groups. Drogo stood about forty yards away, the ground completely open. Vallon shifted his grip on the lance and nudged his horse forward.

  ‘Get down off your horse,’ Drogo said.

  ‘We’ll engage the way we did that snowy night when we first met, you on horseback telling your men to take me downriver and cut my throat. I bested you then. Are you scared that you can’t match my skill?’

  Drogo drew his sword back. ‘Any way you want.’

  Vallon heeled his horse into a trot. Twenty yards from Drogo, he broke into a canter and levelled his lance. Drogo shuffled from side to side. Vallon had seen enough of him in action to know that he was a good swordsman, his skills honed in many battles. Unafraid and with a suicide’s disregard for his life. Vallon maintained his easy pace, the point of his lance aimed at Drogo’s chest. He was sure that his target would spring aside the instant before contact and then make an immediate counter.

  Closer and closer. Drogo was going to jump to his right. Vallon corrected, lifted in his saddle and drove the lance forward.

  Into empty space.

  Drogo had dropped to a squat and as the lance passed harmlessly over his head he sprang up and swung his sword backhanded. Vallon dropped the lance and tried to fling himself off, drawing his sword at the same time. Drogo’s blade sliced into the horse’s haunch. It screamed and spun like a snake-bitten cat, throwing Vallon completely off balance. His left foot was still trapped in the stirrup. He could feel the horse toppling over and he couldn’t jump clear. From the corner of his eye he saw Drogo jumping about on the blind side, trying to get in a killing blow, then the ground rushed up to meet him.

  He landed left hand first and heard the crack as his wrist broke. He still held his sword in his right and was trying to propel himself clear when the horse crashed on to his left leg. Something tore in his ankle, the pain so intense that he screamed. He dragged himself free and saw Drogo running towards him. Using his sword as a crutch, he clambered upright, left arm and foot useless, a standing target. He managed to ward off the first stroke by blind instinct.

  Drogo laughed. ‘No left-handed trickery today. No fancy footwork.’

  Vallon stood flatfooted, sick with pain and Drogo attacked with all his strength. Only Vallon’s superior sword-play kept him at bay. At the fifth stroke Vallon saw an opening, dropped and opened up Drogo’s left arm with a counter the Norman didn’t even see. Drogo skipped back, looked at the wound and grinned. ‘You’re good. The best I’ve crossed swords with. But not as good as me.’ He walked in a tight fast circle around Vallon, flicking his sword contemptuously. ‘Let’s see you hop.’

  Vallon had no choice. He tried putting his weight on his left foot and almost collapsed.

  ‘Hop!’

  Vallon lost his balance and had to use his sword to stay on his feet. Drogo gripped his sword two-handed, stepped round Vallon’s right side and swung at his midriff. Vallon reverse blocked and skipped back. His right foot collided with a forgotten tent peg and he sprawled full length on his back. He tried to scramble away, but Drogo was already looming above him, sword poised to strike.

  ‘I told you you’d feel my foot on your neck.’

  Vallon gathered himself and coiled forward with all the force he could muster, at the same time driving his sword upwards. It deflected Drogo’s descending blade, entered the pit of his stomach and came out through his back. Almost simultaneously, three Seljuk arrows punched into his torso. He flopped on top of Vallon, striving with his dying breaths to raise his sword.

  Hooves pounded and Drogo jerked sideways, his brains dashed out by a blow from a Seljuk’s mace. Vallon clawed hot jelly from his face and pulled himself away. People were running towards him, calling. Hero flung himself down beside him. ‘I told you not to risk your life.’

  Vallon tried to sit up. ‘That’s my job.’

  Hero pushed him back down. ‘Lie still.’

  Caitlin dashed up and dropped to her knees, her cheeks flooded with blood-and kohl-streaked tears. He reached for her. ‘Did he hurt you? You’re covered in blood.’

  ‘My maids. He burst in while I was dressing.’

  ‘Give me room,’ Hero said. Caitlin pillowed Vallon’s head on her lap while Hero examined him. He gasped when Hero palped his wrist.

  ‘It’s a clean break, thank God.’

  Wayland cut off Vallon’s boot and Hero manipulated his ankle. ‘I don’t think it’s broken. You must have torn a tendon.’ He winced. ‘Painful.’

  Vallon closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. ‘I hurt more than I’ve ever hurt before. I’ll need some doctoring before we leave.’

  ‘You’re in no condition to tr
avel. Your ankle won’t heal for weeks.’

  ‘I’m not walking to Byzantium. Strap it up and let’s get going. If we don’t leave soon, we won’t reach the tower today.’

  Hero splinted Vallon’s broken wrist and strapped his ankle. Wayland made a pair of crutches. The best part of the morning was over by the time he’d finished. ‘It’s a full day’s ride to the tower,’ Hero said. ‘Night will fall long before we reach it. Stay here tonight and rest. We’ll leave before dawn to make the journey as easy as possible.’

  Vallon looked around. The last tent had been struck and the plateau lay empty on all sides. A cohort of mounted Seljuks ringed a group of women. Drogo’s body still lay where he had fallen, curled up like a sleeping child, a burgundy stain on the bare ground around his head. ‘There’s nowhere to stay. We have enough time to reach the caravanserai before dark.’

  Hero and Wayland assisted him to his feet. Boke led a replacement mount up and Hero and Wayland lifted him into the saddle.

  Caitlin clung to his leg. ‘Take me with you.’

  ‘I told you, if I find what I’m looking for I’ll return.’

  ‘What is it that’s more important than me?’

  ‘Did you find the silver?’

  ‘The final insult. The price of a night with a harlot.’

  ‘I left it so that if you choose to travel to Constantinople on your own, you would have the means. Suleyman won’t stop you.’

  Caitlin stepped back and passed a hand over her eyes. ‘Why are you treating me like baggage? Didn’t last night mean anything?’

  ‘It meant everything.’

  Boke had witnessed enough. An attempted homicide on a man he’d been charged to protect. Now this unseemly argument with a half-dressed woman stained with blood. He shouted an order and his men hazed the foreigners’ horses away.

  Vallon looked back over his shoulder at Wayland and Syth. ‘Take care of each other,’ he called. ‘Remember us in your prayers and don’t grow too proud.’

  Caitlin ran after him. ‘Don’t leave me!’ She stooped and threw a slipper. ‘Come back, you bastard!’

  LIII

  Vallon’s injuries forced him to ride no faster than a plodding walk and it was well after dark when they reached the caravanserai. A pain-racked night and they were on their way again before dawn. They reached Salt Lake as the sun rose like a blood-filled blister on the far shore and jogged north. Vallon rode one-handed, his left foot stirrupless, unable to find any position that didn’t cause spasms of pain. The Seljuks marked time, disgusted at being put in charge of such troublesome passengers. Vallon told Boke that they could find their own way, but the man had his orders and wasn’t going to break them.

  The journey along the lake was far longer than they remembered and the light was already leaching from the sky when the bastillion came in sight. Boke detoured past it. Hero caught up and told him that Vallon couldn’t travel any further. They had to make camp now. With ill grace, the Seljuks agreed to call a halt, pointing out a stream half a mile beyond the tower.

  ‘We’ll stop here,’ Hero called. Boke said they could camp with the devil for all he cared, and led his men away.

  ‘They probably think the tower’s haunted,’ said Hero.

  ‘It probably is.’

  They studied the bastillion. A round tower about sixty feet high, tapering to its crenellated turret, surrounded by the crumbling walls of a derelict barracks.

  ‘What was it for?’ Hero asked.

  Vallon looked both ways along the lonely road. ‘It must have been a relay station and signal tower.’

  ‘The light’s going. We don’t have much time.’

  The Seljuks had hobbled their horses and were beginning to pitch a tent. ‘They’ll be suspicious if we go into the tower before making camp,’ Vallon said. ‘Collect the makings of a fire.’

  He remained mounted while Hero foraged for wood. The sun was touching the horizon when Hero returned and led him to the tower. Hero helped him out of the saddle and he flopped to the ground, his face hollow with pain. Hero felt his forehead and reached to take his pulse. ‘I knew the exertion would be too much for you.’

  ‘Never mind me. Get the gospel.’

  Hero peered in through the arched doorway. Pigeons flapped through the broken roof on clapping wings. The atmosphere was musty with their droppings. Something scurried away over the heaps of masonry covering the floor. Much of the debris had fallen from the staircase spiralling up the ancient walls.

  Vallon dragged himself in, holding on to the wall with his right hand. His gaze probed up through the gloom. ‘It’s too dim to see properly. Wait until morning.’

  … until morning, said a weak echo.

  ‘This is our only opportunity,’ Hero said. ‘The Seljuks will leave before dawn.’

  He lit an oil lamp and picked his way over the spoil towards the staircase.

  ‘I can’t help you,’ said Vallon. ‘Are you sure you can manage?’

  Hero turned a wan smile. ‘Stay here and warn me if the Seljuks come.’

  Vallon glanced at the campfire burning in the gathering dusk. ‘They think it’s a tomb. Wild horses couldn’t drag them in here.’

  Hero raised the lamp and followed its shadow up the stairway, stepping with many mutters and hesitations across the gaps. Some of the paving rocked under his weight and he dropped to a crawl. He came to a section where a dozen treads had collapsed, leaving a steep glacis of rubble. He took a shuddering breath and stepped onto the lip of the slope with his back to the drop. He shuffled up it, sliding his hands along the wall. He’d almost reached the next step when the surface rolled under his feet. He threw himself at the step and clung on. Stones cascaded onto the floor. His lamp had gone out.

  ‘Are you all right? Where are you?’

  Hero pulled himself to safety. ‘I’m about halfway up. Part of the stairs gave way.’

  ‘If you break your neck, I’ll never forgive you.’

  Hero laughed. ‘Wait until I light my lamp.’ He struck another flame and saw that he’d spilled most of the oil. He peered up. ‘That was the worst bit. The stairs above don’t look too bad.’

  Clammy with fear, he made his way upwards. A flicker of movement made him flinch. Only a bat cutting erratic paths through his light. He reached the top of the staircase and found himself on the remains of a gallery. The first bright stars of evening winked through the holes overhead. He shuffled around the gallery, moving his lamp up and down the wall. A stone carved with a lion, Drogo had said. The flame was too puny to illuminate any detail beyond a radius of two feet. He came to a gap in the gallery and held out the lamp as far as he dared. A stone bounded away into the dark.

  ‘Hero?’

  ‘I can’t see it. The light’s terrible.’

  ‘In the morning I’ll tell Boke I’m too sick to travel. That will give you enough time to search by daylight.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can summon the courage to make another attempt.’

  Hero worked his way back to the head of the stairway without finding the carving. He sat on the topmost step, placed the lamp beside him and hissed through his teeth. The gospel must be here, probably within touching distance. Walter had been in no state to invent the details about the bastillion and the carved stone.

  The lamp spluttered and the flame dwindled. Hero watched it, darkness closing in. Very carefully he tilted the lamp, holding his breath until the flame waxed bright again. He looked up with a sigh of relief and in the same moment some belated impression registered. Frowning, he slid down to the next step and ran his hand over a stone inset into the wall at knee level. He angled the lamp to pick out the chiselled relief of a lion-headed figure standing on a stone ball entwined with snakes — Mithras, the Persian sun god adopted by the Romans.

  Vallon struck a flint. Light pooled in the well below.

  ‘I’ve found the stone.’

  ‘Good. Grab the documents and let’s get out of here. This place gives me the willies.’


  The stone wasn’t part of the original construction. Walter had pushed it into the wall without mortar, leaving gaps wide enough for Hero to insert his fingers. It slid out easily, revealing a deep cavity. He reached in and contacted something smooth and cold that made him gasp and pull back his hand as if it had been burned.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Something in the hole … I have a nasty feeling …’

  He pushed the lamp up to the aperture and laid his head to the paving so that he could look in. Dull black eyes stared back at him.

  ‘Hero, what’s going on?’

  ‘There’s a snake inside.’

  ‘Christ!’

  ‘It’s curled up on a package.’

  ‘What kind of snake?’

  ‘A rock viper. Venomous. I think it’s asleep.’

  ‘Kill it and get yourself down here. Now.’

  Hero studied the viper. Its head rested on its coiled body, slitted eyes regarding him with a cold and lidless stare. He drew his knife and extended it. The snake didn’t move. Hero didn’t trust himself to kill it. He touched it with the blade and it gave a torpid stir. Placing the point behind it, he drew the snake towards him. Its tongue flickered and the coils began to unwind. He flicked it out of the hole and it hissed. With an indrawn cry, he scooped it off the step with his foot. It hit the floor with a flaccid smack.

  ‘I’ve dealt with it.’

  ‘The damn thing nearly landed on me.’

  Hero was reaching into the aperture when it occurred to him that where one snake had gone to hibernate, others might be nesting. His lamp made faint popping sounds and the flame drew down the wick. Before it went out, he grabbed the packet, held it to his chest and clamped his eyes shut.

  ‘Hero?’

  ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘Thank God. Careful how you descend.’

  Hero tucked the package inside his tunic. Not trusting his feet in the dark, he eased down the staircase on his rump, step by step — like a baby. Vallon held up his own lamp, his shadow enormous on the walls. Hero reached the top edge of the collapsed section and pawed at the rubble. Infill spilled away.