Imperial Fire (46 page)

The leader of the Luri troupe called out. Zuleyka squared her shoulders and walked away.

‘That song you sang to the troopers in the Kara Kum,’ Wayland called. ‘Does it have a name?’

Zuleyka sniffled, half-crying, half-laughing. ‘It’s called “When we meet”.’

‘Sing it as you go, will you?’

He watched her hurry down the hill, so fleet of foot, so graceful. The leader of the troupe lifted her onto the mule. She looked up at Wayland, raised her hand to him and faced the road ahead. The musicians took up their instruments and struck up the air that had so captivated Wayland.

The dog lifted its head and howled.

‘You can go with her if you want,’ Wayland said.

The dog looked at him and ran forward a few yards before stopping and looking back, its tail wagging uncertainly.

‘Go on,’ Wayland said.

The dog bounded down the hill and streaked after the Luri. Wayland listened as the song grew faint with distance, climbing up the hill to keep the cavalcade in sight. The music faded away and Zuleyka rode around a bend in the road, out of his life and into memory.

Early November found Vallon’s expedition deep in the Tsaidam, a salt marsh basin extending for hundreds of miles to the Chinese border. The wells were brackish, and though the Sogdians rendered the water more potable by boiling strings of dough that absorbed much of the salt, the men suffered from perpetual thirst.

The days grew shorter and colder, the nights longer and freezing. The caravan had taken to leaving at midnight and travelling until noon, giving the camels enough daylight to forage. Disease had claimed three men. Aimery, Lucas’s squad leader, had been one of the victims, dying in a pool of foul black effluent. Vallon’s servant had also died. Hero had treated the sick as best he could, heedless of picking up the contagion himself.

These were grim days. One night march blurred into the next, Vallon riding in a haze of weariness, guided along a faint dappled track by bleached bones that lined the way like a tidal wrack. For two nights they rode through a waste of clay dunes eroded into bizarre shapes like grave barrows or giant termite mounds or the hulls of upturned boats. Each time Vallon nodded off in the saddle he was jerked awake by his horse reacting to an unpredictable drop or an unforeseen rise.

With lacklustre eyes he saw at daybreak a squat excrescence emerge from the drab and empty horizon. It was the next caravanserai, still almost two stages away. By morning next day he could make out the walls of a lonely fort. A detachment of cavalry galloped out from its gate. Vallon ordered his men to look to their arms and waited for the riders to approach.

Faced with a strong military force, they drew up short. One of them leaned forward, ordering them to go back.

‘He says there’s no room in the fort,’ Shennu said. ‘It’s already occupied by two camel trains.’

‘Tell him to kick them out. Why should they squat in comfort while we famish and thirst?’

‘They refuse to leave. A gang of bandits menaces the road a few days to the east. They massacred the last caravan that tried to cross their territory.’

Vallon rode forward. ‘Tell the fool that we’re on a mission to the imperial court and won’t be delayed by frightened merchants or a band of cut-throats.’

The Chinese cavalry, wretchedly equipped, gave way before force of arms and galloped back to the fort. Set on a stony plain stretching like a rule to every horizon, it didn’t serve any strategic purpose that Vallon could think of. During the time it took the Outlanders to enter the fortifications, its garrison had suffered a change of heart, falling on the foreigners as if they were saviours come to relieve a siege.

Every space was occupied by camels and their handlers. More than two hundred men, women and children had taken refuge behind the walls, and after two weeks the yards were heaped with filth. There could be no doubting their fear, and the garrison commander told Vallon that their terror was justified. This was no ordinary bandit gang that terrorised travellers into handing over their possessions, perhaps slaying a few souls to speed up the transaction. It was led by a Chinese deserter called Two-Swords Lu, a former arms instructor who’d recruited a hundred Tangut tribesmen. Lu was a monster, a drinker of blood. Booty seemed to be of secondary interest to him. He killed for pleasure, sparing no one, his followers raping young and old of either sex before putting them to the sword or worse.

‘Why doesn’t he eradicate the vermin?’ Vallon asked Shennu.

‘His garrison numbers less than eighty, mainly criminals who chose military service on the frontier rather than execution. He doesn’t even have enough horses to mount them. He’s sent a message imploring help from the provincial governor at Lanzhou, but troops won’t arrive until spring. Even if they come, he doubts they can destroy the bandits. They dwell in mountain caves to the south, venturing out only when they scent prey. Lu has spies in the staging posts who alert him to the passage of a caravan.’ Shennu cocked his head, listening to the commander’s next words. ‘He says Lu is protected by charms and can’t be killed by mortal means.’

Vallon looked at the commander across the globe of lamplight. The man was on the edge of a breakdown, fingering a rosary and staring at the general in frenetic expectation.

‘I know what’s coming next.’

‘The garrison is running out of food. Unless the camel trains leave within the next few days, everyone in the fort will starve. He begs you to escort the caravans east.’

Vallon spoke softly. ‘Tell him I sympathise with his plight. Tell him I can’t help him. If I’d answered every plea for armed assistance, I’d still be back in Khotan.’

He rose and the commander stood and put hands together before reeling away.

‘You were his last hope,’ Shennu murmured. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends his shame tonight.’

‘It doesn’t sway my decision. We have to reach Kaifeng before winter freezes us in our tracks.’

‘If you won’t escort the caravans, I will,’ said a voice behind him.

Vallon turned as Hauk pushed off from the wall he’d been leaning against.

‘You enticed me into this adventure by telling me what profits I could make by hiring out my men’s sword arms.’

‘You’ve accumulated enough wealth by trade.’

‘Not enough and not of the right kind. In Khotan I paid good money for fake jade. In Miran I ended up with a pile of forged religious paintings.’ Hauk rubbed thumb and forefinger together. ‘Silver and gold is the only currency I trust.’ He cocked a thumb at the window of the commander’s billet. ‘Down there are two hundred souls in fear of their lives. How much do you think they’d pay to a man who would lead them to safety? You suggested the price yourself. One tenth of all their wealth.’

‘I forbid it.’

‘That’s the other thing you forget. We agreed I would follow your commands only when they coincided with my own interests. For the last three months you’ve acted only in your own interests. It’s time I redressed the balance.’

‘You heard the garrison commander. The bandits outnumber your Vikings by three to one.’

Hauk made a contemptuous sound. ‘They attack plump meat, not firm muscle.’

‘Don’t be so sure. Their leader is a former officer. The last caravan had an armed escort, and it didn’t save them.’

‘Join forces with me, then. Our camels walk no faster than theirs. If you want to speed your march, get rid of the catapult and fire siphon.’

‘I’m not worried by the merchants slowing us down. You’re right about the bandits avoiding a well-armed force. On our own we’ll probably get through unscathed. Attach ourselves to the caravan and we become a target that can’t be ignored.’

‘Scared of fighting?’ Hauk said. ‘Since we joined the Silk Road you’ve wasted weeks haggling with petty chieftains and greedy officials, squandering precious gold on broken-down camels instead of speeding our passage with some judiciously spilled blood.’

Vallon touched his sword. ‘Careful what you say.’

Hauk was beyond caring what actions his words might provoke. He and his men were sick of this soul-sapping journey.

‘Allow me to speak,’ Hero said. ‘If we travel on our own, my relief at avoiding the brigands would soon be overtaken by guilt at the knowledge we condemned every other traveller in this fort to death.’

Vallon’s temper broke. ‘If the positions were reversed, those traders would abandon us without a backward thought. You’ve seen how they treat their camels, loading them so crudely that their saddles dig maggot-filled holes, then lighting fires under their haunches to goad them on before finally leaving them in the desert for the wolves. Not even kind enough to give the beasts they depend on a swift death.’

‘I agree with Hero,’ Aiken added.

The stench from the multitude below filled the room.

‘Trapped between an irresponsible pirate and two tender consciences,’ Vallon snarled. He stalked towards the door. ‘Summon the commander before he slits his wrists. Tell him we’ll take his human baggage.’ Vallon whirled and pointed at Hauk. ‘That’s the last concession I’ll make. When we reach China, our partnership is dissolved.’

From a high pass between the Tsaidam and the Hexi Corridor, Lucas looked north-east into a depression occupied by a lake blurring into the horizon. To the south weak sunshine lit a monochrome backdrop of mountains. A steely wind nagged. Lucas sniffed and blew into his hands.

Vallon and Shennu rode up. ‘Koko Nor,’ Shennu said, indicating the lake. ‘It means “Teal Sea”. A community of monks live on an island. They have no boats and can communicate with the world only in winter, when the lake freezes over. It’s salt, of course.’

Vallon rubbed his cracked lips. ‘I’m tempted to join them.’

Lucas heard him speak without feeling any connection. Worn down by the journey, he no longer thought of Vallon as his father in anything but abstract terms. If anybody had been a father-figure on this voyage it had been kind and quiet Aimery, unofficial chaplain and confessor, who each evening said grace before the squad ate supper. His death had taken something out of Lucas. He looked at Vallon, wondering dully why God let the wicked thrive and allowed the good to die.

The sun blazed in a clear sky when the Outlanders made their first camp by the lake. Under bright light the waters were a deep and transcendent blue. Across them beat a squadron of swans, flying so low that Lucas could see their breast muscles flexing and hear the neck-prickling song created by the wind soughing through their pinions. Whether they were flying home or leaving home didn’t matter. Lucas wished he was going with them, and by the way the other troopers turned and watched the formation beat south until their cries faded, he wasn’t the only one.

Snow squalls interrupted the rhythm of the march, forcing the caravan to camp overnight by a creek dribbling into Koko Nor. Vallon ordered the Outlanders to pitch their tents in a defensive square around the horses and baggage, leaving the camels and the two merchant trains unprotected. The horses were left saddled and pickets posted. Lucas’s squad stood the last watch.

Sometime in the small hours the snow stopped and freezing mist fell. Lucas shivered in his cape, pulled the hood down and willed away the hours until dawn. The light when it came was opaque, rising from the ground like a cold emanation. Lucas couldn’t even see Gorka posted twenty yards to his right.

‘You still there, boss?’

‘I ain’t sure. I couldn’t find my dick in this fog.’

Lucas drew his sword. ‘I thought I heard something.’

Gorka spat. ‘Relax. A wolf doesn’t attack guard dogs when it has a pen of sheep at its mercy.’

The light grew without illuminating anything solid. Fatigue conjured up phantoms in the mist. Peering into the whiteout, Lucas fancied he could see figures of vaguely human form – two of them, advancing at a bandy-legged trot and then halting. Lucas stared at the apparitions without really believing in them. Behind him the horses began to whicker and tread.

‘Gorka…’ he said on a rising note of apprehension.

With a scream that froze his blood one of the figures sprang at him. He raised his shield just in time to block the bandit’s sword. His assailant didn’t pause to engage. Both bandits ran past into the camp.

‘Get after them,’ Gorka shouted. ‘They want the horses.’

Lucas set off in pursuit and gained on the bandit who’d cut at him. Sensing his presence, the bandit turned and skidded on the snow, falling to one knee. Lucas hesitated and the bandit sprang up, his face cruel beyond measure, a braid of hair hanging from the back of his otherwise shaven pate. He seemed to grin and his sword flicked out, probing for an opening. Lucas darted back.

The bandit followed up, hissing, his sword flickering.

The fear clogging Lucas’s brain cleared. This was what he’d trained for. He parried the bandit’s lunge, smashed his shield into the man’s face and kicked him as hard as he could in the groin. The bandit went down in a heap. Lucas hefted his sword, held it at full height.

‘Don’t just fucking stand there,’ Gorka bellowed. ‘Kill him.’

Lucas brought his sword down as if he were trying to split a log and hacked halfway through the bandit’s skull. Brain spilled out, steaming in the icy air. Lucas skipped back as if he feared being engulfed in a tide of blood.

‘I’ve just killed a man,’ he said.

He took one last look at the dead man and ran towards a scene of utter confusion at the centre of the camp. Shouts and screams, strangely muffled by the mist, mingled with the whinnying of horses and the blast of trumpets. Pale figures milled in the mist and Lucas couldn’t tell if they were friend or foe until he was within a sword’s length.

A horse galloped towards him – one of the Ferghanas that Vallon had bought in Bukhara. Lucas threw himself in front of it and lunged for its reins as it dashed past. Still holding his bloodied sword, he managed to get a one-handed grip and clung on while he was dragged twenty yards before bringing the horse to a halt. He heaved himself into the saddle as two more mounted bandits galloped past. One of the horses carried two riders – a bandit clutching in front of him a figure with a pale face that turned towards Lucas before the horse bore him away.

‘Aiken!’ Lucas shouted. ‘They’ve got Aiken!’

No one responded. In the clamour of battle no one heard him, or they were too fiercely engaged.

Lucas wheeled the Ferghana in pursuit, the two horses already indistinct. The land sloped up from the river and the higher he climbed the lighter it grew until he broke out of the mist to see the riders only a hundred yards ahead, galloping towards a line of horses the other bandits had left tethered and untended before creeping into the camp.

One of them, directly in Lucas’s path, was haring back on foot towards the mounts. Either he didn’t hear Lucas’s approach on the snow-covered ground or he assumed the rider was a companion. He paid no notice until the thudding hooves alerted him to danger, and then he cast a backward glance. He must have had just enough time to register the blade swinging down before it sliced through his neck in a welter of blood.

Lucas fixed his gaze on Aiken’s captor and drubbed the Ferghana’s flanks. The two mounted bandits swept past the tethered horses. The one holding Aiken shot a glance over his shoulder. Encumbered as he was, he knew Lucas would outpace him and he called out to his companion. Both spun to meet the threat and the unhampered rider screamed and set his horse in a headlong attack.