Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

Wulfstan abandoned the trebuchet and crawled over to Vallon. The warship was only fifty feet from grappling and lines of soldiers were jogging onto the foredeck, packing its bow in readiness to board.

Looking along the transom, Vallon tried to encourage his men. ‘Your lives are precious to me, so don’t sell them at discount.’ He addressed the rear. ‘Archers, make every shot count.’

He slid down. Wulfstan offered him his bottle. Vallon batted it away and would have struck the sot if he hadn’t noticed the blood staining Wulfstan’s moustache.

‘You’re wounded.’

Someone shouted. It was Wayland.

‘What?’ Vallon cried.

He couldn’t hear the answer through the hubbub from the Chinese ship. The orderly commands had given way to an anxious caterwauling. He stuck his head up.

‘Hell’s teeth.’

Where only moments earlier the bow of the Chinese battleship had reared above Jifeng ’s stern, it now dipped nose heavy, sinking lower. The ship was falling back, taking in water. The soldiers on the foredeck milled in confusion.

Vallon looked down at Wulfstan. ‘Your last shot did it. Have another bottle.’

Wulfstan coughed blood. ‘I’ve taken my last drink.’

Vallon didn’t have time to find out how badly the Viking was injured. The bow-heavy battleship was steering for shore, making way for the second junk. Wulfstan clawed himself to his feet and leaned on the transom.

‘The ropes fixing the trebuchet’s axle have bust. We might just have time to prime the siphon.’

The brazier was already glowing and Wulfstan positioned it under the oil reservoir. The wind had died and both ships drifted downriver at the same speed, a furlong separating them.

‘Save your arrows,’ Vallon ordered.

A buzz of activity on each side of the enemy junk drew his attention.

‘They’re rigging oars,’ he shouted. ‘Can we do the same?’

Wayland threw up his hands.

‘My brew needs more cooking,’ Wulfstan said through stertorous breaths. ‘Tell your archers to put a crimp in the Chinese advance.’

With more time to aim, the Outlanders’ bowmen launched volley after volley at the rowers. For every man they killed or wounded, another took his place. Vallon couldn’t help but admire their courage and discipline.

‘We’re running low on arrows,’ Gorka cried.

‘Save them for the boarding party.’

The junk was gaining. Under his armour, Vallon was soaked in sweat. He’d ordered his men to take up battle stations not long after dawn and now the sun was almost at its meridian. The tank of Greek Fire clicked on a rising note.

‘How much more time do you need?’

‘I’d say it’s done to a turn. In fact if we wait much longer we’ll blow ourselves up.’

‘How can we slow ourselves?’

Wulfstan wiped blood from his mouth. ‘Drop a makeshift anchor astern.’

Within minutes the soldiers placed two hundredweight of ballast in a net secured with a rope to the mainmast. Six men heaved it over the stern and as soon as it hit bottom it dragged, halving Jifeng ’s speed.

Something exploded on her foredeck. Fire broke out and two men howled from their burns. Their companions wrapped them in hides to suffocate the flames.

‘Quicklime,’ Wulfstan said.

The abrupt slowing of Jifeng flat-footed the commander of the junk. The oarsmen tried to back water, but the vessel had too much momentum behind it. Jifeng was almost stationary when the enemy junk slid to within ten yards and Wulfstan opened the valve on the siphon.

Crouched only ten feet away, Vallon felt the singeing heat of the incendiary as it sprayed the junk’s bow. Through the pressurised roar, he heard screams. Next moment he was thrown down as the junk collided with Jifeng ’s stern. Globules of Greek Fire sizzled on the wet hides.

Squinting through the smoke, he saw that the incendiary had taken hold on the junk’s bow. Flames ran up shrouds like fiery squirrels. A patch of foresail flashed into flame, fire feeding fire until the junk’s foredeck dissolved in an inferno.

Vallon’s eyebrows charred in the heat. Holding his breath to preserve his lungs, he slashed the anchor rope. Slowly Jifeng separated from the enemy junk, flames six feet high rising from the leather drapes hung over the stern. Wulfstan in his fireproof suit walked into the blaze and cut the hides away. They fell into the river and continued burning. Pockets of flame danced on Jifeng ’s deck. The Outlanders swatted them as if they were rats or goblins, only to see them spring back to life.

‘Use sand and vinegar,’ Wulfstan ordered.

When the fires were out, Vallon removed his helmet and splashed water over his scalded brow. The enemy junk was ablaze from bow to midships and its complement of sailors and soldiers had retreated to the stern and were stripping off their armour. Vallon saw figures leaping into the river clutching kegs and planks, anything buoyant.

Wulfstan spat blood. ‘Two down.’

Through the noxious billows of smoke the third ship came churning, froth kicking up from paddle wheels hidden behind a false hull protected by a heavy fender or bulwark. It was the ugliest and most pointless vessel Vallon had ever seen. Where a junk had a bluff bow and low tapering foredeck, this monstrosity had a square tower twenty feet high, its wooden parapet loopholed for archers and crossbowmen. Behind the tower and taking up almost the rest of the hull was a superstructure shaped like a house, with a pitched roof and walls that had no windows, only doors — a dozen of them ten feet high, each one painted with a snarling tiger.

Vallon looked for Wulfstan. ‘What the hell is it?’

Clasping his chest with his hooked left arm, Wulfstan lurched up. ‘Those doors are hatches and boarding ramps hinged at the bottom. Behind each tiger half a dozen men are waiting for the ship to come alongside. When it does, they drop the hatches and as soon as the ramps hit our side-rail, over they pour.’

‘Can you turn the siphon on them?’

‘I emptied the tank. I’ve got only one barrel left and there ain’t time to cook it.’

The paddle-wheeler took an erratic course, scooting like an aquatic insect well wide of Jifeng ’s starboard side and holding position while its invisible commander weighed up the opposition and calculated how and when to attack. The absence of any visible threat unnerved the Outlanders and they drifted back to Jifeng ’s port side, putting maximum distance between themselves and the hidden enemy.

Vallon stood at the starboard rail and bellowed at his troops. ‘Why are you hanging back like maidens at their first dance? You’re not virgins. They’re not demons. They’re soldiers the same as you, and they’ve seen us destroy two ships and kill dozens of their comrades.’ He lashed a hand at Josselin. ‘Two squads to form up in line with me. One squad of archers at the rear.’

The Outlanders shuffled into formation. Lucas approached Vallon. ‘Where do you want me to stand?’

‘My left ankle is weak. On that side if you would.’

Lucas took up position, breathing in deep but controlled gasps. Vallon glanced at him and all the fetters around his heart broke. In one quick movement he embraced Lucas. ‘Whatever our fate, I want you to know how proud I am to have my son standing at my side.’

‘I wouldn’t choose to stand anywhere else. I’ve found my place, even though the journey has been painful.’

‘How can I ease your pain? Tell me. We don’t have much time.’

Lucas hunched his shoulders. ‘Your sword. Every time I see it, it reminds me of that night.’

Vallon hissed. ‘Of course. I should have thought of it myself.’ He began to turn. ‘Josselin, fetch me another — ’