by Stas Borodin
I looked down and saw the wounded nomad lying on the ground. The old warrior groaned softly, a bloody arrow sticking out of his chain-mailed chest.
I lifted my spear to strike, but could not bring it down. The dying man grunted and grabbed my horse’s leg. The horse shook its head angrily, and with a swift blow of its sharp hoof, broke the wounded man’s skull. The nomad stretched out and fell silent. My horse whinnied and galloped happily, catching up with the departing scouts. Obviously, unlike myself, it had a wealth of experience in such matters.
The whole field was strewn with dead bodies. Our soldiers were taking no prisoners. Leaning out of the saddle, they skilfully picked up the weapons they liked or ripped jewellery from the corpses. Suddenly, one of the nomads jumped up and, dodging like a hare, ran away. At the same moment, arrows sang, and he collapsed bristling with arrows like a huge porcupine.
A little further on, there were piles of red flesh, decorated by protruding arms and armour. The stench was unbearable, and I was immediately sick. Breathing heavily, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
Apparently, this was all that remained of the nomads’ heavy cavalry. The might of Master Dante had turned the enemy soldiers into shapeless piles of stinking innards and heaps of raw meat. Here and there lay severed heads still in helmets, booted feet, and hands still gripping weapons. My horse made its way skilfully across the battlefield, trying not to step in puddles of blood.
It was frightening to imagine what kind of power could create such a thing. I turned around, looking for Master Dante. He was standing with one hand on his saddle, reading an unfolded map covered with coloured arrows and pencil marks. His hood was thrown back and I could see his stern face in profile. Nikos showed him something on the map and then waved in the direction from which the nomads had come. Master Dante nodded in agreement. It seemed that our mission was not over yet. Struggling with a new wave of nausea, I rested my spear against the stirrup and leaned over from the saddle.
Looking back, I saw vultures descending on the battlefield.
“Birds smell carrion from afar,” said Nikos. “It might draw the enemy’s attention as well.”
For two hours we rode in silence, looking around warily. The scouts carefully tied their booty with belts and dirty rags, so that their spoils would not rattle in their saddlebags on the move. They rewrapped their faces with black scarves, and their eyes gleamed defiantly from under the shapeless turbans.
From time to time, two riders on the fastest horses went far ahead to scout. Master Dante listened carefully to their reports and only then gave his orders.
“Our goal is a small fortified village,” said Nikos. “Our scouts returning from the steppes should wait for us there. I hope they bring us some valuable information on the enemy’s movements.”
I could not speak and just nodded in reply. My teeth were chattering and my whole body trembled as if from a fever.
Nikos smiled knowingly.
From the top of a hill we saw a village. There was no need to go down to realize that something had gone terribly wrong. Huge vultures were circling high in the sky, and other birds, heavy with food, were sitting on rooftops or lazily walking through the deserted streets. Two scouts immediately dropped their heavy saddlebags to the ground and quickly rode down to the settlement. I watched them moving away with a growing tension.
“This is bad.” Nikos pointed to the vultures. “We are too late.”
Master Dante sat in the saddle, straight as a stick. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and I could see his elaborate tattoos.
“Are those the Black Hands?” I whispered to Nikos.
“Yes,” he nodded. “They are.”
The village was surrounded by a high palisade. Gates, torn from their hinges, lay in the dust. Thick heavy boards bound in dark metal bristled with broken arrows.
A scout rode out and stopped in front of us. His face was grim. “Our aid is no longer needed.” He turned his horse. “All the townsfolk have been slaughtered. No sign of dead nomads.”
Passing through the gate, I noticed that the massive door hinges had been shattered by one powerful blow. It looked like the work of magic.
“The nomads that we met earlier had no warlock with them. Perhaps they split into two groups right after looting the village,” Nikos suggested.
“Yes. I think they took the spoils back to the main forces,” said the scout. “Slaves and cattle – nothing fancy. It was a pretty poor settlement.”
“They gonna pay for this” said Master Dante quietly.
This was the first time during the entire campaign that I’d heard the Master Sorcerer speak. As if by command, the scouts dispersed in different directions. The three of us went to the village square.
An unbearable stench hit us like an invisible fist. Crows fluttered, cawing loudly.
“We are using the same coin.” Master Dante’s voice sounded hoarse. “Only the price is different.”
The village square was filled with corpses. A terrible mound had been erected from the dead bodies, and on the very top of it sat a wooden idol with a grotesque beast’s face. A buzzing cloud of flies whirled around its bloodied wooden hands.
There was complete silence, broken only by the hum of insects and crow caws.
“I hate witchcraft,” said Nikos, jumping from his horse. “And this damn thing is pure evil.”
I tried not to breathe and not to look at the headless bodies piled up in a heap. The scouts emerged silently from the alleys and lined up in a row. Their stern faces expressed nothing.
Nikos turned to me. “Hold your horse.” We stopped a few feet away from the terrible mound. Leaning on his spear, the young sorcerer stamped his foot forcefully on the ground.
Everything trembled, the mound lurched, and the dead bodies rolled under our feet. The terrible idol banked and in a moment tumbled down too.
Disgusted, I looked at the beast’s face.
“Do not look at it!” Master Dante roared. Throwing off his cloak, he draped it over the ugly statue. “Burn it!”
✽✽✽
Soon it grew dark. Nikos set up the sentries’ routine, and I got the first watch.
I stood on a high palisade and stared into the distance. The steppe began right behind the narrow strip of cavalry-trampled fields and extended to infinity. In the rays of the setting sun, I could see the bluish grass on the far hills gently rippling and clouds of grey dust dancing on the deserted village streets. The sun descended majestically over the horizon, colouring the whole world crimson.
In the steppe the sunsets were different, not like sunsets in Lieh. The boundless horizon flashed with a universal fire, filling the whole world with crimson lava. Distant hills turned into amber lumps of melting wax, and the blue steppe grass, swaying in the wind, acquired an indescribable hue of old red gold. Every time I saw it, I was filled with joy.
For a very long time I gazed at the dying bonfire of the sunset, admiring the fading colours and the slow leisurely approach of the summer night. A round moon soon appeared in the sky, shining like my grandfather’s polished shield. The night was fairly light, and a bluish glow came from the steppe grass. I watched with admiration as the ghostly sea swayed gently in the wind and imagined that I was not on the fortress wall but on board a majestic ship carrying me to distant lands.
I must have been a bad guard. My thoughts often ran away as I remembered the events of recent days, wondering at how fast I had grown such a thick skin. Somewhere, down in the square, the mountain of corpses still stank, but I didn’t care. I climbed up on the small tower and enjoyed the fresh wind of the steppe, rich with the fragrance of herbs and of rich soil heated during the day. All the horrors of the world disappeared for a moment and I was left alone to the silence of the night and the vast dome of the starred sky spread out over the shimmering sea of the steppe.
A familiar sound pulled me out from the realm of dreams. I shivered. The sound was familiar and unpleasant, that of a midn
ight laundress slapping her wet clothes on a stone. A little further on, my fellow guard moved. I went down the rickety ladder to the wall and walked over to him.
The moonlit scout’s face looked like a wax mask. He was staring intently into the steppe. He glanced at me quickly then looked back at the shimmering horizon.
“Why is he doing that?” I asked.
The guard was silent, biting his lower lip. The silence stretched. “He punishes himself…” whispered the scout, “… otherwise, sorcery will swallow his mind…”
✽✽✽
We left at dawn, our party riding in single file, in each other’s footsteps. Nikos sent two scouts into the steppe to examine the tracks left by the nomads.
“How are you feeling, Mr Wizard?” the young the sorcerer said seriously, without ridicule.
“I’m fine.” It was true. “And how is Master Dante?”
The Master Sorcerer rode a hundred paces from us. Wrapped in a warm cloak, he sat hunched, rocking from side to side in the saddle, his head occasionally nodding to his chest, as if he was falling asleep on the move.
“The night was tough,” Nikos agreed. “We were not able to sleep. Our master will need another few days to recover from yesterday’s events. He is no longer young, you know.”
I was embarrassed, I wanted to ask the young sorcerer about many things, but I was afraid of being intrusive. And Nikos himself did not look much better than his master, with bloodshot eyes, cracked lips and shaky hands.
“Any kind of magic, and it doesn’t matter if it’s witchcraft or sorcery, requires a lot of strength,” said Nikos, as if reading my mind. “But the spell that Master Dante used yesterday was especially onerous.”
Our way lay through a lifeless valley between the round steep hills. Here and there, thorny bushes covered with tiny red flowers stuck out from cracked stone. Odd animals with long ears stood on their hind legs on the fissured rocks and carefully watched our movements.
“I already told you how dangerous sorcery is,” continued Nikos. “As you know, the most simple spells are harmless and you can use them on a daily basis. More complex will strain you much more. These are pretty dangerous, even for a trained arcanist.
“Even for you?” I asked.
“Even for me,” said Nikos. “But if you dare to use the most advanced spells you should be prepared for the worst.”
“Can they kill a sorcerer?” I asked.
“Yes, but that’s not the worst thing.” Nikos frowned. “There are things way scarier than death…”
Master Dante turned to us and put his finger to his lips. Nikos trailed off in mid-sentence.
“He heard us?” I asked, but this time the young sorcerer did not answer.
✽✽✽
That night we did not stop to rest. Nikos urged the scouts on, and we stopped only once, to relieve ourselves.
During our short journey I noticeably lost weight, but got stronger too. To spend a whole day in the saddle became something natural for me; a couple of days more and I’d turn into a centaur, like my fellow scouts. However, looking at those big strong soldiers around me, I realized that I looked like a small helpless puppy next to fierce adult wolfhounds.
From time to time, to have some fun, they started some artless game. With incredible speed they threw their spears at each other, deftly catching them in mid-air. They also threw stones picked up from the ground. Projectiles were flying so quickly that I began to worry about my own safety. Fortunately, I was excluded from these careless games. Occasionally one of the soldiers took his spare bow out of his saddlebag, threw it over his neck and started to bend it. It was not an easy exercise, because scouts’ bows were glued together from bone and dozens of layers of tendons, which gave them extraordinary strength and flexibility.
Watching the scouts, I also came up with a new exercise. My cavalry crossbow was quite small, ideal for battle on horseback. However, the steel bowstring was pulled by a small windlass, which made my arms almost useless in the fleeting equestrian combat. I usually managed to make two shots while the archers completely emptied their quivers. Speed and number of shots always gained the upper hand over power and precision.
On the first day I made my fingers bloody, trying to pull the string by hand. My back and shoulders ached terribly, but I had not made significant progress. Watching the scouts grin, I gritted my teeth tight and continued training. Realizing that the power of my hands was not enough, I decided to cheat. Resting the crossbow against the pommel of the saddle, I gripped the string with both hands. Bracing my feet against the stirrups, I leaned back, straining the muscles of my back. With a pleasing click, the bowstring caught on the trigger lock. In triumph, I raised the crossbow over my head. My small victory, of course, remained unnoticed, but I was really happy.
Practising every day, I reduced the recharge time several times over. The result was evident; however, I thought that this was not the limit. My fellow scouts were hard to impress, but in the next fight I would prove that my weapon was worth something too.
On the fifteenth day of our campaign Master Dante rode to me. “Show me your hands,” he demanded.
I obediently held out my hands forward, palms up. He looked at my torn calluses and broken nails and grunted. His black hand appeared from under his cloak. His big fist unclenched and I saw a small vial of opaque glass. Slowly, he uncorked the vessel and held it under my nose. I sniffed.
“This is a stone resin.” The smell was unfamiliar to me. Master Dante nodded. He poured a drop of viscous amber liquid on my open palm.
“Rub it in thoroughly.” He showed me how.
I rubbed the ointment in with quick circular motions. My palms did not stick to one another as I had feared. The scouts gathered around, curiously watching the scene. They slapped each other on the back approvingly, pointing at the bottle. At first, my palms went numb, but after a moment they burned like fire. I screamed and shook my hands. The soldiers laughed. A shadow of a smile appeared for a moment even on Master Dante’s face. Nodding approvingly, he spurred his horse and rode forward.
It was amazing! I raised my hands to my eyes. My palms had become smooth and soft. All the scars and calluses had miraculously disappeared, and even the broken nails had become whole and shiny.
“It looks like today is your day.” Nikos winked at me. His face shone with a wide smile. “The Master rarely condescends to mere mortals!”
I stared at my hands in disbelief. “I don’t understand, Nikos,” I said. “In a couple of days these blisters would have cured themselves. Why bother…?”
“You’re a fool.” Nikos was still smiling. “Give me your hand.”
I raised my hand without hesitation. In an instant, he drew his sabre and slashed my outstretched palm. I closed my eyes. There was no pain. My hand just hung limp from the unexpected blow. The pain would come later, I was sure of it. I would open my eyes and see an ugly bloody stump. Thoughts swept through my mind like a whirlwind. Why did he do that? Out of jealousy? Maybe he was angry that Master Dante had turned his attention to me? Maybe I did something wrong or I had offended the Master Sorcerer unintentionally?
“You can open your eyes,” Nikos grinned. “You’re still among the living.”
I obediently complied with his orders. Gathering all my courage, I raised a hand to my eyes. All my fingers were still intact. I stared at the young sorcerer in amazement.
“Such a royal gift, right?” Nikos seemed amused. “Every drop of this ointment is worth your whole weight in pure gold. It seems that Master Dante has a new protégé.”
✽✽✽
Again we rode into the night, and I could not take my eyes off the Master Sorcerer’s cloaked back. For me, it was still a mystery how I had managed to earn such an honour. It was strange, but even the scouts began to treat me differently. I felt that something had changed in their eyes, in their voices when they addressed me. It seemed that they were finally beginning to treat me as an equal, without their earlier patronizing sup
eriority.
That night I got the third watch, and I was incredibly proud. Usually the third watch was given only to experienced warriors, and greenhorns like me would only be given the first one. An elderly scout woke me up at the appointed time and we quickly gathered our gear and took the place of our weary comrades.
During our trip the moon had got much thinner, and its faint light barely silvered the distant hilltops, between which lay vast lakes of impenetrable darkness. For tonight my partner was an old scout named Mash. Raising his face to the sky, he sniffed the light south wind. His nose was very sensitive, and his sense of smell was incredible, like that of a real bloodhound.
“No smelly nomad could slip unnoticed under the cover of night,” he said. “I can smell their urine-soaked pants from a few miles away!”
I got to watch the leeward side of the hill. So I sat comfortably by a large stone, and in order not to tire my eyes, I slightly defocused my vision. It was useless to stare into the utter darkness; no matter how hard you tried, you would not see a thing. My task was to notice any movement. I had to remember the location of dark spots on the surrounding hills and to notice the slightest changes in them. It was amazing how much I had learned over these days. The life of a scout had proved to be very interesting, much more interesting than the life of an aide at headquarters.
These were countless long days under the scorching sun, the darkness of night patrols, terse tough soldiers around me, the spirit of fraternity and understanding. A very special life, totally different from my previous measured carefree existence. It was exactly what I’d wanted.
From time to time, the running clouds completely hid the moon, plunging our camp into total darkness. I knew that these moments were especially dangerous. Using our blindness, the enemy could move quietly, creeping up on our camp.
I soon noticed that a black spot on a hill on the right, which a moment ago had looked like a raven’s wing, had turned into a three-legged cat. Concentrating on the strange transformation, I noticed something weird. The spot had moved slightly to the side.