Tolui barked laughter. “True. Just another proof the Hairies—” He used his people’s contemptuous nickname for the heavily bearded natives of Pardraya. “—hardly rate being called men at all.”
“Tomorrow we will hunt,” Arghun declared, sitting by the campfire and spooning up the last of his miserable meal of curds and water. A few of his men still hoarded a bit of sausage or smoked meat, while others had knocked over hares or other small game while they traveled; but most were reduced to the same iron rations he carried, or to blood.
“About time. This Pardraya is a paltry place,” said Irnek, a tall nomad who led the Arshaum of the Black Sheep clan, next most numerous after the Gray Horses of Arghun and sometimes rivals to them. Puzzlement dwelt in the Arshaum’s eyes; he was a clever man, confused by what he was finding. He went on, “It should not be so. This land draws more rain than our Shaumkhiil and ought to support rich flocks. Not from what we’ve seen, though; I begin to forget the very look of a cow or sheep.”
Angry growls of agreement rose from the plainsmen who heard him. They had counted on raiding the herds of the Khamorth as they traversed Pardraya on their way to Yezd, but since they crossed the Shaum those herds were nowhere to be found. They took the occasional stray cow, goat, fat-tailed sheep, but came across none of the great flocks that were as vital to the nomads as a farmer’s crops to him.
For that matter, they had seen few Khamorth, not even scouts dogging their trail. The Arshaum took that as but another sign of cowardice, and joked about it. “What do the Hairies do when they see us coming?” to which the answer was, “Who knows? We never get the chance to find out.”
The men who traveled with them worried more. Viridovix knew from bitter experience that Avshar could track him by his blade. No magic would bite on it, but that very blankness made it detectable to the wizard-prince. “Sure and it’s no happen-so we’ve not had greetings from the spalpeen. Belike he’s brewing somewhat against us.”
“A greater concern,” Pikridios Goudeles said, “is why no great number of Khamorth have gone over to us. Living under Avshar can scarcely be pleasant.”
“A good point,” said Gorgidas, who had wondered the same thing.
“Two reasons,” Batbaian answered in his labored Videssian. “One, he rules through Varatesh, who is outlaw, yes, but from family of a khagan. He makes a good dog.” The plainsman’s eye narrowed in contempt.
“That one’s more than Avshar’s hound,” Viridovix disagreed. The time he had spent in Varatesh’s clutches made him thoroughly respect the outlaw chieftain’s talents.
“I say what I say,” Batbaian declared flatly. He stared at the Gaul, challenging him to argue further. Viridovix shrugged and waved for him to go on. “All right. Other reason is that most Khamorth worse afraid of Arshaum than of wizard. I was, so much I did not think of them till you say they might be help in revenge. May be lots of rebels hate Avshar but fear us here, too.”
“Something to that,” Skylitzes said. “He’s also had the winter to deal with uprisings. A lesson or two from him would make anyone thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful, forsooth!” Goudeles said. “Are you in a contest of understatement with me, Lankinos? Shall we go on to style this hateful winter just past ‘cool,’ Phos’ High Temple ‘large,’ and Erzerum ‘hilly’?”
Skylitzes’ mouth twitched in the grimace he used for a smile. “Fair enough. We could call you ‘gassy,’ while we were about it.”
The bureaucrat spluttered while his comrades laughed. Gorgidas made them serious once more when he asked, “If Avshar does assail us, how are we going to be able to resist him?”
“Fight him, crush him, kill him,” Batbaian growled. “Stake him out on plains for vultures to eat. Why else did V’rid’rish bring me here to join you?”
“Crush him, aye, but how?” the Greek persisted. “Many have tried, but none succeeded yet.”
Batbaian glared at him as he would have at anyone who questioned the certainty of vengeance. Skylitzes said, “These Arshaum are better warriors than the Khamorth, Gorgidas—and both sides think that’s true, which helps make it so.”
“What of it?” Gorgidas said. “Avshar need not have the finest soldiers to win. Look at Maragha, look at the battle on the steppe here last fall against Batbaian’s father. In both of them it was his magic that made his victory for him, not the quality of his troops.”
A gloomy silence fell. There was no denying the physician was right; he usually was. At last Viridovix said, “Very good, your generalship, sir, you’ve gone and named the problem for us. Are you after having somewhat in mind for solving it, or is it you want the rest of us grumpy as your ain self?”
“To the crows with you,” Gorgidas said, nettled at the teasing. “What do I know of ordering battles and such? You were the great war-chieftain back there in Gaul—what would you do?”
Viridovix suddenly grew bleak. “Whatever the unriddling may be, I dinna ken it. For fighting the whoreson straight up, I was, and see how well that worked.”
Cursing his clumsy tongue, Gorgidas started an apology, but Viridovix waved it away. “It was a question fairly put. The now, the best I know to do is find my bedroll and hope some good fairy’ll whisper me my answer whilst I sleep.”
“Fair enough.” The Greek’s eyes were getting sandy, too.
When morning came Viridovix was still without his solution. “Och, it’s no luck the puir fairies ha’. They must wear out the wings of ’em or ever they get to this wretched world, the which is so far away and all,” he said sadly.
His disappointment was quickly forgotten, though, in amazement over the Arshaum hunt. “Not ones to do things by halves, are they now?” he said to Gorgidas.
“Hardly.” The entire Videssian embassy party made up a small part of one wing of the Arshaum army which, led by Arghun, spread out in a long east-west line across the steppe. The other half of the force, under Irnek’s command, rode south. Sometime near noon they would also spread out, and then move north as Arghun’s followers came down to meet them, the two lines trapping all the game between them.
The Khamorth did not stage such elaborate hunts; Batbaian was astonished to watch the Arshaum deployment. “This might as well war be,” he said to Arigh.
“Why not?” the other returned. “What harder foe than hunger? Or do you enjoy the feel of your belly cozying up to your backbone?” It took a good deal to make the grim young Khamorth smile, but his lips parted for a moment.
When Arghun saw his line in position and judged Irnek had taken the rest of the nomads far enough south to shut in a good bag of game, he raised the army’s standard high above his head. Fluttering on the end of a lance was Bogoraz’s long wool caftan, all that was left of the treacherous ambassador. Like the Videssian party, he had sworn an oath to Arghun’s shamans that he meant the khagan no harm and walked through their magic fire as surety for it. When he broke his pledge, the fire claimed him.
With the lifting of the standard, the line rolled forward. The Arshaum who had them pounded on drums, tooted pipes and bone whistles, winded horns. The rest yelled at the top of their lungs to scare beasts from cover.
Trotting along with the rest, Viridovix threw back his head and let out the unearthly wailing shriek of a Gallic war cry. “I don’t know about the bloody animals,” Gorgidas said with a shudder, “but you certainly frighten me.”
“And what good is that, when you’re nobbut skin and bones? Och, look, there goes a hare!” An Arshaum shot the little creature at the top of its leap. Backed by his potent bow, the arrow knocked it sideways. It kicked a couple of times and lay still. The plainsman leaned down from his saddle, grabbed it by the ears, and tossed it into a sack.
Viridovix howled again. “Something worthwhile for me to do, then; it’s no dab hand at the bow I make, not next to these lads.”
“Nor I,” the Greek replied. He flapped his arms, bawled out snatches of Homer and Aiskhylos. Whether or not it was his antics that flushed it, another r
abbit broke cover in front of him. Instead of running away, the panicked little beast darted straight past his horse. He cut at it with his sword, far too late. The nomad next to him shook his head derisively, mimed drawing a bow. He spread his hands in rueful agreement and apology.
Something went “Honk! Ho-onkk!” a couple of hundred feet down the line. Gorgidas saw a shape running through the grass, a couple of plainsmen in hot pursuit. Then it suddenly bounded into the air, flying strongly on short, stubby wings. The sun shone, metallic, off bronze tail feathers and head of iridescent red and green. “Pheasant!” Viridovix whooped. A storm of arrows brought the bird down. The Gaul fairly drooled. “Age him right, braise him with mushrooms, wild thyme, and a bit o’ wormwood to cut the grease—”
“Remember where you are,” Gorgidas said. “You’ll be lucky if he gets cooked.” Crestfallen, Viridovix gave a regretful nod.
A nomad shouted and his horse screamed in terror as a furiously spitting wildcat sprang at them. It clawed the horse’s flank, sank its teeth into the Arshaum’s calf, and was gone before anyone could do anything about it. The cursing plainsman bound up his leg and rode on, ignoring his comrades’ jeers. Gorgidas reminded himself to look at the wound when the hunt was gone. Untended animal bites were almost sure to fester.
More arrows leaped into the sky as the hunters splashed through a small, chilly stream and sent geese and ducks up in desperate flight. Viridovix greedily snatched up a fat goose that had tumbled to earth with an arrow through its neck. “I’ll not let anyone botch this,” he said, as if challenging the world. “All dark meat it is, and all toothsome, too. O’ course,” he went on with a pointed glance Gorgidas’ way, “I might enjoy the sharing of it, at least with them as dinna mock me.”
“I’m plainly doomed to starve, then,” the Greek said. Viridovix made a rude noise.
Goudeles said, “If it’s praises you seek, outlander, I’ll gladly compose a panegyric for you in exchange for a leg of that succulent fowl.” He struck a pose—not an easy thing to do on horseback for such an indifferent rider—declaiming, “Behold the Phos-fostered foreigner, magnificent man of deeds of dought—”
“Oh, stifle it, Pikridios,” Skylitzes said. “You’re still fatter than the damned bird is, and slipperier than goose grease ever was.” Not a bit offended, the bureaucrat went right on, the course best calculated to annoy Skylitzes.
“I wish we could bag more of these birds,” Gorgidas said. “Too many are getting away.”
“We will,” Arigh promised, “but there aren’t enough to be worthwhile this time.” He pointed. “See? Tolui is ready when we come on a big flock.”
The shaman was not wearing his usual garb, which differed not at all from that of the rest of the plainsmen: fur cap with ear flaps, tunic of sueded leather, heavy sheepskin jacket—some wore wolf, fox, or otter—leather trousers, and soft-soled boots. Instead, he had donned the fantastic regalia of his calling. Long fringes, some knotted to trap spirits and others dyed bright colors, hung from every inch of his robe and streamed behind him as he rode. A lurid, leering mask of hide stretched over a wooden framework hid his face. Only the sword that swung at his belt said he was human, not some demon’s spawn.
Skylitzes followed Arigh’s pointing finger, too. The Videssian officer made Phos’ sun-sign against evil, muttering a prayer as he did so. Gorgidas caught part of it: “… and keep me safe from heathen wizardry.” Unafraid of worldly dangers, Skylitzes had all his faith’s pious suspicion of other beliefs.
Gorgidas gave a wry laugh; he was in no position to sneer at the soldier. He mistrusted magic, too, of every sort, for it flew straight against the logical set of mind with which he had faced the world since he was a beardless youth. That he worked it himself made him no more easy with it.
He must have been thinking aloud, for Viridovix turned his head and said, “Sure and this is a new world, or had your honor never noticed, being so busy scribbling about it and all? Me, now, I take things as they come, the which is more restful nor worrying anent the wherefore of ’em.”
“If you’re pleased to be a cabbage, then be one,” the Greek snapped. “As for me, I’d sooner try to understand.”
“A cabbage, is it? Och, well, at the least you credit me for a head, which is kindlier than you’ve sometimes been, I’m thinking.” Viridovix grinned impishly; just as Goudeles’ bombast made Skylitzes growl, his own blithe unconcern irritated Gorgidas more than any angry comeback.
A herd of onagers galloped away from the oncoming riders. The small-eared wild asses could almost have been miniature horses, but for their sparsely haired tails and short, stiff, brushy manes. Three wolves coursed beside them, not hunters now but hunted, fleeing before the Arshaum as from a fire on the steppe.
However hardened they had grown to the saddle, neither Viridovix nor Gorgidas could endure with the Arshaum, who rode as soon as they could walk. The long, hard ride chafed the physician’s thighs raw and left the Celt’s fundament sore as if he had been kicked. They both groaned as their horses jounced over a low rise and pounded toward another stream.
The drumming thunder of hoofbeats sent a cloud of waterfowl flapping skyward—ducks, geese, and orange-billed swans, whose great wings made a thunder of their own. Birds fell as the nomads started shooting at long range, but again it seemed almost all would evade the arrows.
Gorgidas saw Tolui’s devil-masked face turn toward Arghun. The khagan made a short, chopping motion with his right hand. The shaman began to chant; both arms moved in quick passes. He guided his horse with the pressure of his knees alone. A rider in the Greek’s world would have been hard-pressed to stay in the saddle thus, but stirrups made it easy for the Arshaum.
Black clouds boiled up over the stream as soon as his spell began, come from nowhere out of a clear sky. A squall of rain, a veritable curtain of water, pelted the escaping birds. It had been only seconds since they took flight, now the sudden deluge smashed them back to earth. Gorgidas heard squawks of terror through the sorcerous storm’s hiss.
As quickly as it had blown up, the rain stopped. Water birds lay all along the banks of the stream, some with broken wings, others half drowned, still others simply too stunned to fly. Raising a cheer for Tolui, the plainsmen swooped down on them. They clubbed and shot and slashed, grabbing up bird after bird.
“Roast duck!” Goudeles cried with glee as he bagged a green-winged teal. He thumbed his nose at Viridovix. “You’ll not hear that panegyric now!”
“No, nor miss it either,” the Gaul retorted. Skylitzes gave a single sharp snort of laughter.
They splashed through the muck Tolui’s storm had made. With a glance at the westering sun, Arghun picked up the pace. “We will need daylight for the final killing,” he called. His riders passed the word along.
Then Gorgidas heard cheers from the far left end of the line, where scouts stretched out ahead of the main band of hunters. A few minutes later they sounded from the right as well—Irnek’s half of the army was in sight. Moving with the smooth precision experience brings, the horsemen on the flanks galloped forward from both parties to enclose the space between and finally trap all the animals in it.
That space grew smaller and smaller as the two lines approached. The beasts within were pressed ever more tightly: wolves, foxes, wildcats, rabbits bouncing underfoot, deer, wild asses, sheep, a few cows, goats. The nomads relentlessly plied them with arrows, pulling one quiverload after another from their saddlebags. The din, with the yelps and screeches and brays of wounded animals mixed with the frightened howls and lowing of those not yet hit and with the hunters’ cries, was indescribable.
Driven, hunted, and jammed together as they were, the terrified creatures’ reactions were nothing like they would have been in more normal circumstances. They ran this way and that in confused waves, seeking an escape they could not find. And some were desperate enough to surge out against the yelling, waving riders who ringed them all around.
A stag sprang between Gorgidas a
nd Viridovix and was gone, bounding over the plain in great frightened leaps. Arigh whirled in the saddle to fire after it, but missed. Then he and everyone around him cursed in fury as a hundred panicked onagers made a shambles of the hunting line. Other animals of every sort swarmed through the gap.
Agathias Psoes’ horse was bowled over when a fleeing wild ass ran headlong into it. The Videssian underofficer sprang free as his mount crashed to the ground, then leaped for his life to dodge another onager. Only the knowledge he had earned with years on the steppe saved him. He frantically laid about him, yelling as loud as he could to make the stampeding beasts take him for an obstacle to be avoided and not a mere man ripe for the trampling. It worked, they streamed past him on either side. When an Arshaum rode close, he clambered up behind the nomad.
Guiding his pony with a skill he had not thought he owned, Gorgidas managed to evade the onagers. He was congratulating himself when Batbaian shouted a warning. The Greek turned his head to find a wolf, a huge shaggy pack leader, bounding his way. It sprang straight for him, jaws agape.
His months of weapon drill proved their worth; before he had time to think, he was thrusting at the snarling beast’s face. But his horse could not endure the wolf’s onset. It bucked in terror, ruining his stroke. Instead of stabbing through the wolf’s palate and into its brain, his gladius scored a bloody line down its muzzle, just missing a blazing yellow eye.
The wolf bayed horribly and leaped again. An arrow whistled past Gorgidas’ cheek, so close he felt the wind of its passage. It sank between the wolf’s ribs. The beast twisted in midair, snapping at the protruding shaft. Bloody foam started from its mouth and nostrils. Two more arrows pierced it as it writhed on the ground; it jerked and died.
“Good shot!” Gorgidas called, looking round to see who had loosed the first arrow. Dizabul waved back at him; he too was busy fighting to keep his mount under control. The Greek tried to read the expression on the prince’s too-handsome face, and failed. Then Dizabul caught sight of a gray fox darting away and spurred after it, reaching behind him for another arrow to fit to his bow.
Swords of the Legion (Videssos) Page 6
