“It’s good you’re not trying to go beyond yourself,” Viridovix said. “If you learn enough to stay alive a while, sooner or later a mate’ll rescue you, the which would do a dead corp no good at all, at all.”
But after a while he grew bored with an opponent who would not take the fight to him. His own strokes grew quicker and harder, and when Goudeles, retreating desperately now, threw up his saber in a counter, the Gallic longsword met it squarely. The pen-pusher’s blade snapped clean across; the greater part flew spinning into the fire. Taken by surprise, Viridovix barely managed to turn his sword in his hand so he did not cut Goudeles in two. As it was, the Videssian fell with a groan, clutching his left side.
Viridovix knelt by him, concerned. “Begging your pardon, indeed and I am. That one was not meant to land.”
“Mmph.” Goudeles sat up gingerly. He hawked and spat. Gorgidas saw the spittle was white, not pink-tinged—the bureaucrat had no truly dangerous hurt, then. Goudeles looked at the stub of his blade. “I did not realize I was facing you with a weapon as flawed as my own skill.”
“Not flawed!” protested the trooper from whom he’d borrowed it. He was still young enough for his beard to be soft and fuzzy; his name was Prevails, Haravash’s son, testifying to his mixed blood. “I paid two goldpieces for that sword; it’s fine steel from the capital.”
Goudeles shrugged, winced, and tossed him the broken saber. He caught the hilt deftly. “Look!” he insisted, showing everyone that what was left of the blade had the suppleness befitting a costly weapon. Once he had satisfied himself and his comrades of that, his eyes slowly traveled to Viridovix. “Phos, how strong are you?” he whispered, awe in his voice.
“Strong enough to eat the pits with the plums—or you without salt.” But despite the gibe, the grin stretched thin across Viridovix’ strong-cheekboned face. Gorgidas could guess his thoughts. There were times when his sword and Scaurus’, spell-wrapped by the druids of Gaul, were far more than ordinary blades in this world where magic was real as a kick in the belly. Usually it took the presence of sorcery to bring out their power, but not always.
The Celt sat cross-legged by the fire. He drew that strangely potent sword, studied the druids’ marks that had been stamped into the metal while it was still hot. They meant nothing to him; the druids guarded their secrets well, even from the Gallic nobles.
For a moment the marks seemed to glow with a golden life of their own, but before Gorgidas was sure he had seen it, Viridovix resheathed his blade. Some chance reflection from the firelight, the Greek thought. He yawned and sighed at the same time, too tired to worry about it long.
He also ached. Swordplay, like horsemanship, called on muscles he rarely used. He knew he would be stiff come morning. Ten years ago I would have been fine, he protested to himself. The internal answer came too soon: ten years ago you weren’t forty-one.
He gnawed at a rabbit leg, washed down some of the tasteless nomad-style wheatcakes with swigs of kavass, and fell asleep the moment his feet reached the end of his bedroll.
* * *
Varatesh tested the night breeze with a spit-moistened finger; out of the south, as he had expected. The wind came off the sea in spring and summer, bringing fair weather with it. In fall it would shift, and not even a man born on the plains relished a steppe winter. Every year the shamans begged the wind spirits not to turn, and every year found themselves ignored. Foolishness to waste good prayers thus, the renegade thought.
He had counted on a south wind when he led his little band across the track of the man he sought and his companions. They had ridden on after dusk to catch up with the larger party, using as their guides the stars and Avshar’s talisman; in the darkness its orange smoke glowed with a glowworm’s pale cold light. Now their quarry’s camp lay straight north, the embers of its campfire a red smudge against the horizon.
Luckily there was no moon, or sentries might have seen Varatesh’s men approach. But in the faint starglimmer they were so many shadows sliding up, and they moved as quietly as any shades. Varatesh’s feet chafed in his boots. He was not used to walking any distance, but he had left the horses behind with one of his men; even muzzled, they were too likely to give themselves away.
“What now?” a nomad whispered. “From the trail the filthy pimps’ sons left, they’ve got twice as many as we do, and then some.”
“Much help they’ll get from that,” Varatesh replied. He checked the wind; it would not do to have it shift now. It was steady. He grunted in satisfaction, reaching inside his leather tunic for the second of Avshar’s gifts. The jar was veined alabaster, eggshell-thin, with a wax-sealed silver stopper. Even unopened, it had the feel of magic to it, a magic like the wizard-prince’s crystal, subtler and somehow more dangerous than the familiar charms the shamans used. Varatesh’s men backed away from their leader, as if wanting no part in what he was about to do.
He cut the sealing wax with a hard thumbnail, stripped it off, and threw it away. Though the jar was still tightly shut, he smelled the faint, sweet odor of narcissus. That was dangerous; he held his breath as a wave of dizziness washed over him, hoping it would pass. It did. Moving quickly now, he yanked the stopper free and tossed the little jar in the direction of the camp a few hundred yards away. He heard it shatter, though the throw was gentle. He did not think the noise would be noticed in the camp, but no matter if it was; any investigator would only meet Avshar’s sorcery the sooner.
Varatesh hurried back to his comrades upwind; together they drew back farther, taking no chances—as they had been warned, this was not a magic that chose between friend and foe. “How long do we wait?” someone asked.
“A twelfth part of the night, the wizard said. By then the essence will have dispersed.” Varatesh looked west, studying the sky. “When the star that marks the Sheep’s left hock sets, we move. Be watchful till then—if they have a sentry posted far enough off to one side, he may not be taken by the spell.”
They waited, watching the star creep down the deep-blue bowl of heaven toward the edge of the earth. No outcry came from the camp ahead. Varatesh’s spirits rose; all was just as Avshar had foretold.
The white spark of light winked out. The nomads rose from their haunches and walked toward the camp, sabers ready in their hands. “My legs hurt,” grumbled one of them, no more comfortable on foot than his leader.
“Shut up,” Varatesh snapped, still wary. The outlaw glared at him. He was sorry for his hard words as soon as they were out of his mouth; it hurt him to have to use men so. Back in his own clan, he thought, a simple headshake would have conveyed his meaning. But he rode with his clan no more, and never would again, unless he came one day as conqueror. These oafs with whom he was forced to share his life paid soft manners no mind. Often even curses would not make them listen, and obedience had to be forced with fists or edged steel.
“Look here!” a nomad said, pointing to one side. The huddled shape was a sentry, now curled on his side in unnatural sleep. Varatesh smiled—it was always good to see a magic perform as promised. Not that he doubted Avshar, but a sensible man ran no risks he did not have to. An outlaw’s life, even an outlaw chief’s life, was risky enough as it was.
The five plainsmen came into the fire’s circle of light. Almost as one, they exclaimed at the strange sight of strings of fallen horses, flanks slowly rising and falling in the grip of Avshar’s spell. Varatesh laughed nervously. It had not occurred to him that the sorcery would fell animals along with men.
A dozen men lay unconscious by the fire. With the caution of a beast of prey, Varatesh examined their horses’ trappings. He frowned. From the look of things, fifteen of the beasts were being ridden. Counting the sentry he had already seen, that left two men unaccounted for. He trotted back into the darkness. If the sentries spaced themselves in a triangle round the fire, a good sensible plan, the missing ones would be easy to find—unless Avshar’s magic had somehow missed them, in which case, he thought, there would be arrows coming out of th
e night.
The missing guardsmen were close to where he had expected them to be. A drop of sweat ran down his forehead nonetheless; the sorcery’s success had been a very near thing. From the awkward way one of the men had fallen, he had been walking back toward the campsite when sleep overcame him. Perhaps he thought he was taken ill and, like a good soldier, headed in for a replacement—as luck would have it, the worst thing he could have done. He had headed straight into the spell instead of away from it.
When Varatesh returned, he found one of his men bending over a sleeper, a thin chap with the scraggly beginnings of a pepper-and-salt beard. The chieftain’s foot lashed out, kicking the outlaw’s saber away before it could slice the fellow’s exposed throat.
The nomad yelped. He cradled his injured right hand in the other. “You’ve gone soft in the head,” he growled, resenting the spoiled kill. “Why ruin my sport?” The other three outlaws, who had been looking forward to the same amusement, grouped themselves behind him.
“Denizli, you are a cur, and the rest of you, too!” Varatesh did not bother to hide his disgust. “Slaying the helpless is women’s work—it suits you. If you take such delight in it, here!” His hands well away from sword and dagger, he turned his back on them.
They might have jumped him, but at that moment one of the supposedly ensorceled men by the campfire sat up not six feet from Varatesh and demanded in sleepy, accented Videssian, “Will you spalpeens give over your yattering and let a tired fellow sleep?” His hand was on his sword hilt, just as it had been when he dozed off; he faced away from the outlaws and must have assumed from their Khamorth speech that they were members of his own squad of horsemen arguing among themselves. He did not seem alarmed, only mildly annoyed.
The would-be mutineers froze in surprise; they had thought the members of the embassy party as insensate as so many logs. But Varatesh was more clever than his followers, and knew more. If Avshar’s quarry owned a blade that defeated the wizard’s magics, why should it not also defend him against this one? Reasoning thus, Varatesh had equipped himself with a bludgeon. He pulled it out now, took two steps forward, and struck the complainer, who was no more than half-awake, a smart blow behind the right ear. Without so much as a groan, the man fell flat, once more as unconscious as his comrades.
The Khamorth chieftain whirled, ready to face his men’s challenge. Their uncertain stances, the confusion on their faces, told him they were again his. As if nothing had happened, he ordered them, “Come turn this chap over so we can see what we have.” They obeyed without hesitation.
To this point, things had gone as Avshar had predicted, but when Varatesh got a good look at the man he had stunned, he suddenly felt almost as befuddled as his companions had when the fellow sat up and spoke.
Avshar’s description of his enemy had been painted with the clarity of hate: a big man, blond, clean-shaven, but otherwise of a Videssian cast. The man at Varatesh’s feet was big enough, but there the resemblance to the sorcerer’s picture ended. He had blunt features and high, knobby cheekbones; true, he shaved his chin and cheeks, but a great fluffy mustache reached almost to his collarbones. And while his hair was light, it was more nearly fire-colored than golden.
The outlaw scratched his beard, considering. He still had one test to make. He drew forth Avshar’s crystal and held it close to the unconscious man. Though he waited and waited, no color appeared in its depths; it might have been any worthless piece of glass. The absence of magic was absolute. Reassured, he said, “This is the one we seek. Denizli, go out and fetch Kubad and the horses.”
“What for? And why me?” the nomad asked, not wanting to walk any further than he had to.
Varatesh swallowed a sigh, sick to death of being cursed to work through men unable to see past the tips of their beards. With such patience as he had left, he explained, “If we bring the horses here, we won’t have to carry this great hulk out to them.” He let some iron come into his voice, “And you because I say so.”
Denizli realized he would get no backing from his companions, who were all relieved Varatesh had not chosen them. He trotted clumsily away, pausing once or twice to rub at his blistering heels.
Donkey, Varatesh thought. But then, it seemed even Avshar’s wisdom had its limits. When he had time, he would have to ponder that.
The man he had clubbed moaned and tried to roll over. Varatesh hit him again, a precisely calculated blow delivered without passion. It would not do to strike too hard; he remembered the sentry in his father’s clan. No, no, he told himself for the thousandth time, the fellow had only been knocked cold. Still, he was more careful now.
Hoofbeats in the darkness heralded Kubad’s approach. Denizli with him looked happier on horseback. At least he had the wit to remount, Varatesh thought. Kubad looked around the campfire with interest. “Worked, did it?” he remarked economically. “Can we plunder them?”
“No.”
“Pity.” Of the five Varatesh had with him, Kubad was far the best. He slid down from his horse, walked to the side of his chief, who was still standing over the red-haired man. “This the one the wizard wants?”
“Yes. Get one of the remounts over here; we’ll tie him aboard.” They slung the unconscious man over the horse’s back like a hunting trophy, bound his hands and feet beneath the beast’s belly. Varatesh took his sword.
“How long is your charm good for?” Kubad asked. “You don’t want to butcher these sheep—” Denizli had been talking, then. “—so likely they’ll come after us when they wake. And there’s more o’ them than there is of us.”
“We’ll have a day’s start, from what I was told. That should be plenty. Smell the air—the night’s clear, aye, but rain’s coming before long. What trail will they follow?”
In the crimson glow of the campfire, Kubad’s smile seemed dipped in blood.
Viridovix awoke to nightmare. The driving pain in his head left him queasy and weak, and when his eyes came open he groaned and squinched them shut again. He was facing directly into the rising sun, whose brilliance sent new needles of agony drilling into his brain. Worse even than that was the work of some malevolent sorcerer, who had reversed sky and horizon and set both of them bobbing like a bowl of calf’s-foot jelly. His sensitive stomach heaved. Only when he tried to reach up to shield his face from the sun did he discover his hands were tied.
His moan alerted his takers to his returning awareness. Someone said something in the plains speech. The jouncing stopped. Very carefully, Viridovix opened one eye. The world was steady, but still upside down. He let his head hang loosely. Gray-brown dirt swooped toward him; a sharp stem of grass poked up to within a couple of inches from his forehead. There was a brown, shaggy-haired leg on either side of him. I’m on a horse, he told himself, pleased he could think at all.
After more talk in the Khamorth tongue, one of the nomads came over to him. In his undignified posture, Viridovix could only see the man from the thighs down. That was enough to send alarm shooting through him, for alongside a saber the plainsman bore the Gaul’s sword.
Viridovix had learned only a few words of the plains language, none of them polite. He used one now, his voice a ghastly croak. Almost instantly he realized his rashness; his captor could enjoy revenge at leisure. He tried to gather his wits so he could take a blow manfully, if nothing else.
But the nomad only laughed, and there seemed to be no menace under the mirth. “I will cut you loose, yes?” he said in good Videssian, with only a trace of his people’s guttural accent. His voice was a surprisingly light tenor, a young man’s voice. He went on, “Please do not plan any folly. There are two men with bows covering you. I ask again, shall I cut you down?”
“Aye, an you will.” The Celt saw no point in refusing; trussed as he was, he could do nothing, even without the pounding in his head. The Khamorth bent beneath the horse’s barrel. His dagger bit through the rawhide thongs that lashed Viridovix’ wrist to his ankles.
The Gaul tumbled to the ground
, limp as a sack of meal. His nausea abruptly overwhelmed him. As he spewed, the Khamorth held his head so he would not foul himself, then gave him water to clean his mouth. The kindness was in its way more frightening than brutality would have been. To brutality, at least, he would have known how to respond.
After two or three tries he managed to sit. He studied his captor as best he could, though his vision was still blurred and went double on and off. The Khamorth was young, likely less than thirty, though the great bushy beard he wore after his people’s custom helped obscure his youth. He was a bit taller than most plainsmen and carried himself like one used to leading. His eyes, though, were strange; even when he looked straight at Viridovix, they seemed far away, peering at something only he could see.
Fighting dizziness, the Gaul turned his head to see what allies the nomad had. As promised, two plainsmen had nocked arrows in their short bows. One drew his shaft back a few inches when Viridovix’ eyes met his. He had a most unpleasant smile.
“Hold, Denizli!” the chief said in Videssian for the Gaul’s benefit, then repeated the command in his own speech. Denizli scowled, but did as he was told.
There were three more Khamorth simply relaxing on their horses. They watched Viridovix as they might a wildcat they had ridden down, a dangerous beast who should get no chance to use his fangs. The lot of them were typical enough plainsmen, if on the hard-bitten side. It was their leader who put trepidation in the Celt’s heart, the more so because he did not seem to belong on the steppe. He had more depth than his followers and, with his beard trimmed, would not have been out of place at the imperial court. Finesse, thought Viridovix, that was the word.
In his pain and confusion the Gaul took a bit of time to notice that none of his comrades had been taken. When he did, he burst out, “What ha’ ye done wi’ my mates, y’blackhearted omadhaun?”
Legion of Videssos Page 12