The End of the Magi

by Patrick W. Carr

  Aban caught his attention. “Have you ever seen any of us dicing with her?”

  Myrad shook his head. “No.”

  “You might want to ask yourself why that is.”

  Roshan gaped. “It’s not like we have to wager.”

  “And that’s how it always begins,” Aban said.

  Myrad forced a smile. “Perhaps another time.” After Roshan put her dice away, he pointed to the bows Aban and Storana carried. “Tell me about your bows.”

  Aban reached back with one hand to bring the weapon forward. “Why would a magus wish to know about a bow?”

  “My father told me that all knowledge is useful.” Storana gave him an approving nod. “How do you make the bow?”

  Aban held out his bow, offering it. “It took me a year to make and it’s as precious to me as you might expect. What do you see?”

  Myrad ran his hands over the weapon, noting the three different materials that had been layered together. When he said as much, Aban nodded.

  “And there you have the secret to the power of our bow. The wooden center serves as the structure to which deer sinew and horn are bonded.”

  “Why do it that way?” Myrad asked.

  Aban took back the bow, his hand stroking the outer layer. “As the sinew dries, it shrinks. When the bow is drawn, it stretches the sinew. Likewise, the horn on the opposite side resists compression. The draw is difficult, requiring strength, but the release of the arrow is like nothing the Romans ever saw before. Even riding away from the enemy at a full gallop, a Parthian bow can shoot with enough power to penetrate a Roman shield.”

  “It’s said a Parthian is most dangerous in retreat,” Storana added, “and it’s true.”

  Myrad nodded. “Is that what happened at Carrhae?”

  “Yes,” the two answered in unison.

  “When the Parthian cavalry retreated,” continued Aban, “the Roman infantry gave chase. It’s difficult for a foot soldier to run and keep his shield up at the same time.”

  A thought occurred to him. “If cavalry is so superior to foot soldiers and the Parthian bow so deadly, why haven’t we conquered the Romans?”

  “Because,” Storana said, “the Parthians spend too much of their time fighting themselves.”

  Myrad reminded himself that despite the similarity of their looks, Storana was Scythian, not Parthian.

  Aban’s eyes narrowed. “That’s true enough as far as it goes, but the whole answer is more complicated. The Romans vastly outnumber us, and while they cannot best us on the plain or the desert, cavalry is ill-suited to the forests or the mountains.” He tucked his bow back behind him. “And our weapons do not abide moisture. In the desert, the bow will last for many years, but not so in the wetter climates. We took Armenia and Israel from them decades ago, but we couldn’t keep them.”

  “So they can’t cross the desert and take our territory, and we don’t have the men and weapons to take theirs.”

  Storana nodded. “Conquering is easier than holding. Someday the horse clans will learn how to do both.”

  Conversation stilled after that. The sun burned off the cloud cover of the morning and beat down on the caravan as it tracked west until Myrad could feel his scalp burning. Roshan reached up to pat the thick turban she always wore, though now the wealth of her hair cascaded down and over one shoulder in a thick braid. The folds of cloth not only protected the top of her head from the sun but also provided her face and ears a measure of protection as well. “It wasn’t just to disguise my hair,” she told him. Since Margiana, her smile carried warmth and she took his hand in hers often.

  He dug into his pack for his spare tunic and wound it around his head.

  “You look like an unmade bed,” Roshan laughed.

  A flap of cloth flopped down over his eyes, and he smiled as he tucked it back into place. “No doubt I do.”

  The merchant’s daughter tilted her head back until she looked down her nose at him. “Don’t you care anything for your dignity, magus?”

  He turned to face her. To the east, the wind lifted another of the interminable clouds of dust. “Not at the moment, no.” His eyes drifted back to the cloud. The wind had pushed most of it to the south, yet the nearest part was still due west. He pointed. “Someone’s coming.”

  Storana twisted on her mount. “A lot of someones,” she growled. She stared at the rising cloud of dust, her gaze intent.

  “Horses!” Aban shouted to the front of the caravan.

  “Could it be just another caravan?” Myrad asked.

  Roshan’s mouth went tight. “Caravans don’t travel at such speed. It burns through camels and horses alike.”

  With deft motions, Aban and Storana placed their bows between their legs, their arms straining to bend them in opposition to their natural curve. Before Myrad could count to five, each had their bow strung. They peeled away from the caravan toward the dust cloud behind them, one looping to the north, the other to the south. All along the length of the caravan, Walagash’s men fanned out and disappeared over the horizons to the north, south, and west. Only Aban and Storana rode toward the cloud.

  “Why aren’t they all riding toward the threat?” Worry crackled through Myrad’s voice.

  Roshan shielded her eyes with both hands, peering along the horizon. “It’s the trick bandits know best. They show an attack from one quarter while the main part of their force attacks from another.” Concern pinched her face. “Let’s pray to the everlasting fire that’s not the case here.”

  “Why?”

  She pointed at the growing cloud of dust behind them. “If they have that many men to put into a feint, then we’re greatly outnumbered.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Roshan turned to him. “Do you have a weapon?”

  Myrad fumbled at the belt around his trousers and pulled free his knife. It looked pitifully small in his grip.

  “That’s not a weapon,” Roshan growled. “That’s a utensil.”

  “I didn’t know we were going to be attacked.”

  “You’re one of the magi,” Roshan shot back. “I thought your whole reason for living was to know.” She reached down and drew her sword, then thrust it hilt-first toward Myrad.

  “They have bows!” he said. “What good is a sword?”

  The thunder of hooves yanked his gaze toward a line of low hills. Seconds later, with a loud cry, Aban and Storana burst into sight and all thoughts of swords and danger fled from him. Their horses descended a low rise, noses forward, manes and tails streaming into the wind. Their hooves struck the earth in rhythm, hardly touching the ground before they were airborne again.

  A moment later, the rumble of pursuit swelled and exploded into view. Aban and Storana nocked arrows to their bows. They drew, their motions as fluid as water, bending the ends of their bows, pulling the shafts back toward their ears. Each turned smoothly and released the instant all four hooves of their mounts were off the ground. Their bows snapped back as the arrows leapt toward their pursuers. A puff of dust shot into the air with a man falling to strike the ground. Calling their war cry, Aban and Storana nocked and drew again.

  Roshan growled a curse that broke the spell. “There’s too many!” She reached for her bow, a delicate-looking weapon compared to Storana’s, and wedged it between her legs, stringing it.

  “Where are you going?” Myrad asked.

  She clutched his hand. “If they come toward you, lead them away. Aban and Storan are without equal. If we can prolong the attack, we may have a chance.” She twitched her reins, and her horse jumped into motion, galloping at an angle toward the guards.

  Walagash’s bellow followed her but then fell to the dust, unheard.

  Aban and Storana split, running their horses at angles to avoid the hail of arrows flying their way, laboring to lead the attackers away from the caravan. It almost worked. The pursuers split as well, a pair of riders pursuing each of the guards, but the main group headed toward the caravan.

  Aban and Storana con
tinued to turn and fire at their pursuers. Time slowed as one of the bandits shot, the arrow ascending to hang at its apex for a long moment before it descended and struck home. Storana wobbled, an arrow jutting from her back.

  A scream of rage cut through the sound of hooves as Roshan brought her horse alongside the wounded guard, reaching out with one hand to keep Storana on her mount. Neither of them tried to fire.

  Wind and dust flew past Myrad as he kicked Areion into a gallop. Ahead of him, Storana and Roshan’s pursuer nocked and fired. The arrow flew just wide. Roshan slapped her mount on the hindquarters to gain more speed, but Storana continued to weave, slowing them. In seconds their attacker would be too close to miss.

  But Areion was fresh and surged forward with every call of his name. The bandit drew, pulling the bowstring to his cheek. He gave no sign of being aware Myrad was mere paces behind him, but he wouldn’t miss again. Myrad screamed.

  The bandit jerked, his release spoiled, and the arrow flew high. Myrad held the sword forward, striving to close the distance between them. He pulled close enough to see the attacker search him and then smile at seeing him with nothing but a sword.

  Impossibly fast, the bandit nocked and twisted, aiming for Myrad. Desperate, he threw Roshan’s sword.

  Areion’s gallop spoiled the throw and the sword went wide. Spots filled his vision, and he wondered how much dying would hurt. Myrad’s brain screamed at him to rein in, jump from his horse, anything, but his body wouldn’t move. He sat locked into stillness, his eyes fixed on the man about to kill him.

  The soldier smiled and released.

  Impact spoiled his aim.

  Myrad saw the surprised look at the arrow appearing as if by magic in his chest. Still wearing that expression, he toppled from his horse, rolling end over end to lie still on the earth.

  Shimmering light passed him, the sun reflecting from the mail of men and horses as Yehudah’s cataphracts surged forward, wheeling to pursue the rest of the bandits to the south. Myrad reined to a stop and watched as the cavalry forced the attackers to flee into a hail of arrows. Men and horses fell until the attack withered. Caught between Walagash’s horse soldiers and Yehudah’s cataphracts, the surviving attackers retreated to the north. Before long, even the dust of their passage faded from sight.

  None of the cataphracts or horsemen pursued. Myrad watched, his breath coming in gasps that didn’t meet his desperate need for air. He felt a soft touch on his wrist and started. Roshan drew her horse near, her eyes wide. “They’re gone.”

  Panting, he couldn’t seem to make his lungs work.

  “You can give me back my sword now.”

  He nodded, but Roshan’s voice came to him as nothing more than a buzz against the pounding of his heart. When she squeezed his hand, he understood. He dismounted and retraced his steps until he found her sword lying in the dirt. When he returned, Aban cradled his wife, his hands applying pressure against a wound covering his fingers in crimson.

  “Is she . . . ?”

  “She’ll be fine,” Aban said. “The Sarmatians are a sturdy people.”

  “I was sturdier when I was younger,” Storana mumbled. “Back then a little blood loss wouldn’t have kept me from killing him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Aban said. “With an arrow in your shoulder, you couldn’t have drawn if you wanted to.” He handed her a waterskin she worked to empty.

  Aban caught Myrad’s gaze. “Thank you for going after her.”

  “That was the most singularly stupid thing I’ve ever seen,” Roshan said. “What were you going to do, cut him down from behind?”

  He nodded. “It would have worked except he was too close to miss you and I had to scream to distract him.”

  Roshan shook her head. “But why did you throw my sword? Did you really think you were going to hit him with it?”

  He lifted his hands. “He had no chance of missing me. I figured throwing the sword was better than doing nothing.”

  Aban nodded his approval. “A little chance is better than none. Even great battles have turned on the success of unlikely risks.”

  They rode at a slow walk back to the caravan with Aban and Storana riding double. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Myrad said, “the way you rode over the hill, firing backward at the bandits.”

  Aban smiled. “It feels beautiful as well.”

  “Could you teach me?”

  “What part?” Aban asked.

  He shook his head, still caught in the wonder of seeing their horses riding the wind. “All of it.”

  Aban laughed. “A dozen journeys from Margiana to Judea might be enough time, but not one.”

  They came to the caravan where Aban surrendered Storana to Walagash. Dov, his face intent, stood at the merchant’s elbow. “I’ve studied the healing arts since I was a boy,” he said. “Bring her.”

  When Myrad moved to follow, Aban caught him by the arm. “I’ve never met a healer who wanted an audience. If you want to learn the Parthian shot, perhaps we can make a start to your education. Come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “If we’re lucky, to get you a bow and some arrows,” Aban said.

  Myrad looked out across the dusty scrub, his eyes moving from one still form to another. From this distance, most of them looked like nothing more than piles of rags. He wanted to keep it that way. “We’re going to scavenge the dead?”

  “They won’t mind, I promise.”

  The rest of Walagash’s men rode out as well. When they came to the first body, Aban’s expression darkened but he said nothing. He pointed to the fallen soldier and gestured for Myrad to check for weapons.

  Myrad dismounted near the body, hanging back. What if the man wasn’t dead but only pretending? He drew his knife, the blade offering him no more comfort now than earlier. What was he doing? He knew Greek and Aramaic, not fighting. He stopped. The odd angle of the man’s neck made his death plain. Most of the soldier’s bow lay trapped beneath the body. Grimacing, he clutched the dead man’s tunic and rolled him off the weapon, avoiding the lifeless stare. Hope filled him. They’d found a bow on the first try.

  Aban dismounted and joined him. Nothing about the dead man’s body seemed to bother him. He gave the man’s bow one look before tossing it back to Myrad. “The limb tip’s broken.”

  “The what?”

  Aban took the bow from him, pointing to the end. “Here, where the string attaches to the notched end of the bow.” He flung the useless weapon away and bent over the soldier. “But it’s not a total loss.” He tugged and twisted the dead man’s thumb until something came loose. “Here.” He tossed Myrad a thick cylindrical ring made of some type of bone. “That’s a draw ring. You wear it on your thumb to protect the skin when you’re shooting. Now we just need to find a bow and a few arrows to go with it.”

  They moved from body to body. At the fourth they found a bow a dying bandit dropped before falling from his horse. Aban inspected it, his lips pursed, before handing it to Myrad with a nod. “It will be a bit heavy on the draw, but that’s any bow for a beginner. You’ll get used to it after a few months.”

  Myrad wandered over to the dead man. “This one also used a bone draw ring.” When Aban’s face darkened, he asked, “What does it mean?”

  “These probably weren’t bandits; they were professional horsemen. Not cataphracts but still likely bondslaves to someone with power.”

  “Musa’s men?”

  Aban shook his head. “There’s no way of knowing.”

  He didn’t respond, but inside, a small voice pointed out that none of Masista’s cataphracts had helped fight off the attack.

  The next few bodies yielded another bow Aban kept and a few arrows still in their quiver. The last two bodies they came to were Walagash’s men. They worked together to put each body on the back of a spare horse, then rejoined the caravan. Aban’s expression promised retribution, and he’d demonstrated that he could make good on his threats. />
  It took Dov an hour to tend Storana’s wound, but afterward she managed to sit upright on her horse. Dov pressed a full waterskin into her hands. “Drink as much as you can. You lost a lot of blood.” A thick bandage covered her right shoulder.

  Yehudah looked at Myrad and then at the bow at his side. An obscure shame came over him, as though he’d deserted his father and his beliefs by taking the weapon. Still, Yehudah’s expression held no condemnation, and soon the magus shifted his attention to the caravan master.

  With gruff commands, Walagash ordered the caravan back into motion. “The desert is unforgiving of mistakes. We’ll speak of this once we’re safely at the next oasis.”

  There was nothing for Myrad to do except resume his ride. He let Areion drift back toward the rear once more, but he couldn’t seem to find the peace he’d felt before. His neck hurt from trying to see in every direction at once and he couldn’t seem to still his hands. He realized he might throw up.

  Aban spoke to him, his voice sounding far away. “Do your insides feel like a runaway horse you can’t control?”

  Even now, his heart thundered hard enough to shake him. He jerked a nod.

  “It takes a while to calm down, especially after your first fight,” Aban said. “I couldn’t seem to wash the fear and dust from my throat no matter how much I drank.”

  Storana grunted. “My hands shook for the rest of the day after my first battle, and again after my first kill.”

  “Aren’t you afraid the survivors will bring more men and attack again?” Myrad asked.

  “We left a warning for them in the desert,” Aban said. “The only bodies in the dirt are theirs.”

  Storana nodded. “Nothing gives a warrior pause like a gathering of vultures. It still turns my heart cold every time I see them.”

  Myrad tried not to think of the dead guard he’d put on the back of a horse, a quiet man named Delshan. “Even so, we should be watching.”

  Aban laughed softly. “Your eyes are good, and right now I don’t think there’s much chance you’ll miss anything.” He pointed to the bow still clenched in Myrad’s fist. “While you’re watching, you can familiarize yourself with your bow. Finding one is not as good as making it yourself, but it will have to do. Draw it until you’re too tired to pull the string back to your ear.” He smiled as though he’d made a joke.