Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

Lucas pulled him back. ‘I don’t mean now. Not with the enemy about to attack.’

Vallon turned to face the foe. ‘You’re an excellent swordsman but you lack combat experience. Here’s my last lesson. Killing is a mortal sin, to be avoided unless absolutely necessary. But when there’s no other resort, killing is all that matters. Nothing must intervene between intention and execution — not thought, anger or conscience. The soldier who kills without hesitation will triumph nine times out of ten. Kill your enemy and leave God to do the judging.

For all that the paddle-wheeler had the grace of a privy, it was surprisingly nimble, able to change direction within its own length. It fell behind Jifeng before putting on a burst of speed that brought it level, only twenty feet separating the two ships. Vallon looked along his line of soldiers and was dismayed to see how flimsy it was.

Wulfstan staggered up. ‘I’ve got an idea. Use Fire Drug.’

‘How? We don’t have time to light it. Even if we had, it will probably blow us up.’

‘Leave that to me.’

Vallon’s eyes darted. ‘Someone fetch the barrel of Fire Drug.’

A trooper ran below and returned with the barrel. ‘Wrap it in a net and tie it to my hook,’ Wulfstan said.

While a soldier lashed the barrel to his claw, Wulfstan picked up the last keg of Greek Fire. ‘That’s the problem of having only one hand. Someone else will have to pour it over me and set it alight.’

Vallon gaped. ‘Wulfstan!’

The Viking touched a small blood-rimmed hole in his asbestos suit. ‘A bolt has stuck me through the vitals. I’m going to die whatever happens, so I might as well make my death count.’

Vallon swallowed. He looked around and his eye fell on Gorka. ‘Do as he says.’

‘Sir, I can’t.’

‘That’s a direct order. Soak his suit with Greek Fire and stand ready to ignite it.’

While Gorka was pouring the incendiary over Wulfstan, the paddle-wheeler nudged closer. A dozen crossbowmen sprang up on the bow castle and triggered darts, dropping three Outlanders where they stood.

Wulfstan coughed up a gobbet of blood and tissue. ‘As soon as they grapple, I’ll run for the stern hatch. Have your archers clear the way.’

Vallon swung round. ‘Hear that? Concentrate your aim on the two stern hatches.’

The paddle-wheeler sidled into boarding range. Vallon cleared his throat. ‘You know what I’m going to say next so you might as well say it for me.’

The Outlanders struck their shields with their sword hilts. ‘Here or in the hereafter!’

Only twelve feet separated Vallon from the snarling tigers. Ten feet… eight…

The hatches swung open and clattered onto Jifeng ’s rail. Down each ramp surged a file of soldiers wielding poleaxes and swords. Before the first one leaped onto the deck, Vallon registered his soldiers on each side dropping under a hail of bolts from the tower, Gorka holding a lamp to Wulfstan’s robes and — Vallon could hardly credit his eyes — Hauk Eiriksson and his Vikings in the forefront of the assault.

Vallon pointed his sword. ‘Traitor! Villain!’

He had no more time to consider Hauk’s treachery. The first wave of soldiers leaped onto the deck. First to confront him was a Chinese infantryman swinging a poleaxe. Vallon ducked under the blade and skewered his attacker from groin to chest. Before the man had fallen he’d withdrawn the sword and was looking for the next target. From the corner of his eye he saw Wulfstan erupt in a ball of flame and greasy black smoke. The human torch ran across the deck and paused at the rail before climbing onto the ramp. Two soldiers tumbled backwards to get out the way of the frightful apparition, and Wulfstan disappeared into the paddle-wheeler’s hull.

Vallon was embroiled in a mêlée. He sidestepped a soldier wielding a halberd and slashed down at the junction of the man’s head and shoulder. The space occupied by the dead man filled with Rorik, the giant Viking who’d defied all natural law by recovering from a gangrenous leg back in Turkestan. Vallon led him left, led him right, right again, and when the man didn’t know which way to move next, Vallon killed him with a quick thrust to his heart.

Jumping back, Vallon saw Lucas hard-pressed by two swordsmen. He dealt with one of them with one stroke and the other sprang away in search of easier opposition. Lucas’s mouth twisted.

‘Hot and heavy work.’

‘Stay close.’

One sweeping glance told Vallon that the battle was lost. Knots of Chinese infantry had closed around his Outlanders, cutting them down one by one. He saw Hauk kill Josselin the centurion, a gentle man who’d always dealt courteously with the Vikings.

‘You’ll pay for that in hell,’ Vallon shouted.

Hauk heard him. ‘I’m saving you until last.’

Vallon didn’t have time to respond. Two more men assailed him and he forgot his own injunction, so enraged that he cut the sword arms off both enemies with a single stroke. Lucas had drifted away and Vallon sprang towards him. ‘Back to back.’

A mob of soldiers forced them to give ground. Vallon thrust, swung and hacked, but for every man he killed another two stood ready to fill the space. His suspect left ankle gave way and he buckled.

‘Father!’

Vallon regained his feet. ‘Don’t worry about me.’ He fended off another attack, knowing that the next or the one after that would be the end.

‘Behind you!’ someone shouted.

Swinging round, Vallon turned headfirst into the path of a mace that smashed into his helmet. The world went white and then black.

He was sprawled on the deck, trying to regain control of his limbs when a hand wrenched the helmet off his head and he found himself looking into the smiling face of Hauk Eiriksson.

The Viking’s voice seemed to reach him from far away. ‘We never bade each other a proper farewell, Vallon the Far-Farer.’

Vallon coughed. ‘I said goodbye to you two or three times, and always you returned like a cur in want of a master.’

‘Not this time,’ Hauk said. He raised his sword. ‘So close to the grave, so far from heaven.’

Vallon was dimly aware of the clash of arms continuing around him. ‘If Lucas is alive, spare him. Spare Qiuylue.’

‘I’m on commission and can’t afford to be lenient. Lucas will join you in hell. As for your tart, we’ll use her tonight and discard her in the morning. When we’ve finished with her, no man will want to come near her again.’

‘Why so much hatred?’ Vallon groaned. ‘After all we did for you. After everything we went through together.’

Hauk stood and drew back his sword. ‘Do a proud man a favour that’s to your own advantage and you make an enemy for life.’

Vallon saw the sword fall. Everything dissolved in a roaring red light, a hurricane that smashed the universe into pieces and sent them pinwheeling into a black vortex.

From very far away Vallon heard shouting, one voice closer and more insistent than the others. Something was pulling at his hand. He blinked and saw a smoke-blackened face. It was Lucas, dragging him out from under a dead weight. He struggled free and managed to kneel. It was Hauk’s body that had fallen onto him, a jagged piece of timber sticking out of the back of the Viking’s head. Vallon used his sword to lever himself upright. The paddle-wheeler was drifting apart from Jifeng in a cloud of fumes, most of its superstructure blown open.

The explosion had taken the fight out of the Chinese. They tried to leap back onto their vessel, offering no resistance to the Outlanders, who followed up raining blows like tired drunks. The gap between the two ships was growing and many of the enemy soldiers fell short, their armour pulling them straight under.