Tolui was dancing furiously. “Show me!” he cried. Drumbeats boomed like thunder. “Show me!” He shouted again and again. The second voice shouted with him, pleading, demanding. The first voice answered, but roughly, in rejection.
“Show me! Show me!” Now a whole chorus of voices joined the shaman’s. “Show me!” Then came an angry bellow that all but deafened Gorgidas, and sudden silence after.
“Ah!” said Irnek, and at the same time, Viridovix: “Will you look at that, now!”
The two wands, one red with Arghun’s blood, the other dark and dirty, were stirring on the ground like live things. They rose slowly into the air until they reached waist height. All the Arshaum watched them tensely. Viridovix gaped in awe.
Like a striking snake, the muddy wand darted at the one that symbolized Arghun and his men. That one attacked in turn; they both hovered as if uncertain. Then they slowly sank together, still making small lunges at each other. The bloodstained one came to rest atop the other. The Arshaum shouted in triumph, then abruptly checked themselves as it rolled off.
They cried out again, this time in confusion and dismay, as the blood suddenly vanished from the red-smeared wand, which split into three pieces. Their eyes were wide and staring; Gorgidas guessed this was no ordinary divination. Then the wand representing the Khamorth broke into a dozen fragments. Several of those burst into flame; after perhaps half a minute, the largest disappeared.
Tolui pitched forward in a faint.
Gorgidas dashed to his side, catching him before he hit the ground. He pulled the mask from the shaman’s head and gently slapped his cheeks. Tolui moaned and stirred. Arigh stooped beside the two of them. He thrust a skin of kavass into Tolui’s mouth. The shaman choked as the fermented mare’s milk went down his throat, spraying it over Gorgidas and Arigh. His eyes came open. “More,” he wheezed. This time he kept it down.
“Well?” Irnek said. “You gave us a foretelling the likes of which we’ve never seen, but what does it mean?”
Tolui passed a hand over his face, wiped sweat away. He was pale beneath his swarthiness. He tried to sit, and did at the second try. “You must interpret it for yourself,” he said, shaken to the core. “Beyond what you saw, I offer no meanings. More magic than mine, and stronger, is being brewed; it clouds my vision and all but struck me sightless. I feel like a ferret who set out after mice and didn’t notice a bear till he stumbled over its foot.”
“Avshar!” Gorgidas said it first, but he was only half the name ahead of Viridovix and Batbaian.
“I do not know. I do not think the magician sensed me; if he had, you would be propping up a corpse. It was like no wizardry I have touched before, like black, icy fog, cold and dank and full of death.” Tolui shuddered. He wiped his face again, as if to rub off the memory of that touch.
Then Skylitzes cried out a name. “Skotos!” he exclaimed, and made the sun-sign again. Goudeles, not normally one to call on his god at every turn, joined him. Gorgidas frowned. He did not follow the Videssian faith, but there was no denying that Tolui’s description bore an uncanny resemblance to the attributes the imperials gave Phos’ evil opponent.
“What if it is?” said Arghun, to whom Skotos and Phos were mere names. “What business does a spirit you Videssians worship have on the steppe? Let him look out for himself here. This is not his home.”
“We do not worship Skotos,” Skylitzes said stiffly, and began explaining the idea of a universal deity.
Gorgidas cut him off. “Avshar is no god, nor spirit, either,” he said. “When Scaurus fought him in Videssos, he cut him and made him bleed. And beat him, too, in the end.”
“That’s so,” Arigh said. “I was there—that was when I met you, remember, V’rid’rish? Two big men, both good with their swords.”
“I didna stay for the shindy, bad cess for me,” the Gaul said. “I went off wi’ a wench instead, and not one to waste such a braw fight over, either, the clumsy quean.” The memory still rankled.
Irnek scratched his head. “I do not like going ahead blind.”
“Finding meaning in foretellings that have to do with battles is always chancy,” Tolui said, “though it is worth trying. Men’s passions cloud even the spirits’ vision, and dark spells surround this struggle and veil it more thickly in shadows. Soon we will not need to wonder. We will know.”
Arghun’s far-flung scouts picked up the approaching army while it was still more than a day’s ride northeast of the Arshaum. Against most foes they would have gained an advantage from such advanced warning, but with Avshar’s sorcery they were themselves not hidden.
The Arshaum turned to meet Varatesh’s horsemen, shaking out into battle order as they rode. They were, Viridovix saw, more orderly in their warfare than the Khamorth. The latter fought by clan and by band or family grouping within the clan, with each family patriarch or band leader a general in small. Though the Arshaum also mustered under their khagans, each clan was divided into squads of ten, companies of a hundred, and, in the large clans, regiments of a thousand. Every unit had its appropriate officer, so that commands passed quickly through the ranks and were executed with a precision that astonished the Gaul.
“They might as well be legionaries,” he said to Gorgidas, half complaining, as a company of Arghun’s plainsmen thundered by, broke into squads, and then re-formed. They carried out the evolution in perfect silence, taking their cues from black and white signal flags their captain carried.
The Greek grunted something in reply. He had been in more battles than he cared to remember, but always as a physician, fighting only in self-defense, relying on the legionaries for protection. The Arshaum, however well organized they were by nomad standards, had no place for such noncombatants. Even Tolui and his fellow shamans would take up bows and fight like any of their poeple once their magicking was done.
Thorough as usual, Gorgidas checked his equipment with great care, making sure his gladius was sharp, that his boiled-leather cuirass and small round shield had no weak spots, that all the straps on his horse’s tackle were sound and tight. “You’ll make a warrior yet,” Viridovix said approvingly. He was careless in many ways, but went over his gear as exactingly as the Greek had.
“The gods forbid,” Gorgidas said. “But there’s no one to blame but me, should anything fail.” He felt a curious tightness in his belly, half apprehension, half eagerness to have it over, one way or another—a very different feeling from the one he had known as a legionary physician. Then his chief reaction to battle had been disgust at the carnage. This twinge of anticipation made him ashamed.
When he tried to exorcise it by speaking of it aloud, Viridovix nodded knowingly. “Och, indeed and I’ve felt it, the blood lust, many’s the time. Hotter than fever, stronger than wine, sweeter than the cleft between a woman’s thighs—” He broke off, his smile going grim as he remembered Seirem and how she died. After a few seconds he went on, “And if your healing could find a cure for it, now, that’d be a finer thing nor any other I could name.”
“Would it?” Gorgidas tossed his head. “Then how would those cured ever resist the outrages of wicked men?”
The Celt tugged at his mustaches. “To the crows with you, you carper! Here we’ve gone and chased ourselves right round the tree, so you’re after saying there’s need for warring, and it’s me who’d fain see the end of it. Gaius Philippus, the sour auld kern, would laugh himself sick to hear us.”
“You’re probably right, but he’d think the argument was over the shadow of an ass. He’s not much for rights or wrongs; he takes what he finds and does what he can with it. Romans are like that. I’ve often wondered if it’s their greatest wisdom or greatest curse.”
A couple of companies of Arshaum trotted ahead of the main body, to skirmish with the Khamorth and test their quality. Some of the plainsmen bet that the sight of them alone would be enough to scatter Varatesh’s followers. Batbaian glowered, unsure whether to hope they were right or be angry at hearing his people maligne
d.
The skirmishers returned a little before nightfall; a few led horses with empty saddles, while several more men were wounded. Their comrades shot questions at them as the Arshaum set up camp. “It was strange,” one said not far from Gorgidas. “We ran into two bands of Hairies, outriders like us, I suppose. The first bunch fired a few shots and then turned tail. The others, though, fought like crazy men.” He scratched his head. “So who knows what to expect?”
“And a fat lot o’ good all that did,” Viridovix grumbled. “The omadhaun might as well be Tolui—or Gavras back in Videssos, come to that—for all the news we get from him.”
In the light of the campfires, the dozen naked men were spread-eagled on the ground, as if staked out; though no ropes held them, they could not move. Some fearfully, others smiling like so many wolves, the Khamorth watched them as they lay. “See the rewards cowardice wins,” Avshar said, his voice filling Varatesh’s camp. He made a swift two-handed pass; his robes flapped like vulture’s wings.
There was a rending sound. One of the helpless men shrieked as first one shoulder dislocated, then another; a louder cry came from another man as a thighbone ripped free from its hip-socket. Varatesh bit his lip as the screams went on. He was no stranger to using cruelty as a weapon, but not with the self-satisfied relish Avshar put into it.
The cries bubbled down to moans, but then, one by one, screams rang out again when limbs began to tear away from bodies. Blood spouted. The shrieks faded, this time for good.
“Bury this carrion,” Avshar said into vast silence. “The lesson is over.”
Varatesh gathered his courage to protest to the wizard-prince. “That was too much. You will only bring down hatred on us both.”
Perhaps sated by the torment, Avshar chuckled, a sound that made Varatesh want to hide. “It will encourage them,” he said carelessly. “What do I care if they hate me, so long as they fear me?” He chuckled again, in gloating anticipation. “Come tomorrow, the Arshaum will envy those wretches. The sorcery is cumbersome, but very sure.”
The scout was bleeding from a cut over his eye, but did not seem to notice. He rode his lathered pony up to Arghun and sketched a salute. “If they hold their pace, the main body of them should hit us in an hour or so.”
The khagan nodded. “My thanks.” The scout saluted again and hurried off to rejoin his company. Arghun turned to his sons and councilors. “It’s of a piece with the rest of the reports we’ve had.”
“So it is,” Irnek said. “About time for me to get back to my clan. Good hunting, all.” Several lesser khagans also rode away from the gathering under the standard of Bogoraz’s coat.
“And you, Tolui,” Arghun said. “Are you ready?”
“As ready as I was when you asked me before.” The shaman smiled. He still carried his devil-mask under one arm; the day was warm and sunny, and he would have sweltered, putting it on too soon. “I can cast the spell, that I know. Whether it will do as we hope …” He shrugged.
Dizabul said, “I hope it fails.” He mimed shooting a bow and made cut-and-thrust motions. “The slaughter will be greater if we overcome them hand-to-hand.” His eyes glowed at the prospect.
“The slaughter among us, too, witling!” Arigh snapped. “Think of your own men first.”
Dizabul bridled, but before the quarrel between the two brothers could flare again Arghun turned to the Videssian party and said quickly, “Well, my allies, does it suit you to fight this day?”
Skylitzes’ nod was stolid, Pikridios Goudeles’ glum: the chubby bureaucrat was no soldier and made no secret of it. Agathias Psoes reached over his shoulder, drew an arrow from his quiver, and set it in his bow.
Batbaian already carried a shaft nocked. “Here I hold with Dizabul,” he said. His one-eyed grin was a hunting beast’s snarl.
“And I as well, begging your pardon, Arigh dear,” Viridovix said. Shading his eyes with his hand, he stared out over the plain, grimly eager for the first sight of a Khamorth. “Plenty of vengeance to be taken today—aye, and heads, too.”
“A victory will do, whatever the means,” Gorgidas said. “If we are to assail Yezd, I’d sooner see an easy one, to keep our army strong.” He had to work to hold his voice steady. He could feel his pulse hammering; the lump in his throat was like some horrid tumor. He had heard many soldiers say there was no time for such pangs when the fighting started. He waited, hoping they were right.
Trumpets blared on the left; signal flags wigwagged. “They’ve spotted them!” Arigh exclaimed. He peered at the flags and what they showed of troop movements. “Irnek’s falling back. They must have him flanked.”
“Then their wing is exposed for us to nip off,” his father replied. The khagan gestured to his standard-bearer, who flourished Bogoraz’s caftan high overhead on its long lance. Signalmen displayed banners to swing the army west. The naccara, the deep-toned Arshaum war drum, thuttered out its commands. The drummer, in his constantly exposed position at the van, was one of the few nomads who protected himself with chain mail.
“Forward!” Arghun called, exhilarated by the prospect of action at last. Gorgidas flicked his horse’s reins. It trotted ahead with the rest. Only Tolui and his fellow shamans held their place, making last preparations and awaiting the order to begin.
Viridovix pulled close to the Greek. “Fair useless you’ll feel for a longish while,” he warned. “There’s a deal of shooting to be done or ever it comes to sword work.” Gorgidas dipped his head impatiently. He had seen the nomads practicing with their composite bows and thought he knew what they could do.
Those moving dots—friends or foes? The Arshaum had no doubts. In one smooth motion they drew their bows to their ears, let fly, and were slammed back into their saddles, whose high cantles absorbed the force of the recoil. Riders and horses ahead crashed to the ground, dead at the hands of men whose faces they never saw.
Gorgidas’ eyes went wide. Shooting at a mark was one thing, hitting moving targets from horseback at such a range something else again.
Not all the Khamorth went down; far from it. An arrow zipped past the Greek with a malignant whine, then several more. One of Psoes’ troopers yelped and clutched his leg. An Arshaum tumbled from his horse. A nomad to his rear trampled him, but with a shaft through his throat he did not know it. Gorgidas abruptly understood what Viridovix had meant. He brandished his sword and shouted curses at Varatesh’s men, those being his only weapons that could reach them.
The missile duel went on, both sides emptying their quivers as fast as they could. Now and again a band would gallop close to the enemy line, fire a quick volley of heavy, broad-headed arrows at their foes, and then dart away. For longer-range work they used lighter shafts with smaller, needle-sharp points, but those lacked the penetrating power of the stouter arrows.
Steppe war was fluid, nothing like the set-piece infantry battles the Romans fought. Retreat held no disgrace, but was often a ploy to lure foes to destruction. With their tighter command structure, the Arshaum had the better of the game of trap and countertrap. Time and again they would pretend to flee, only to signal flying columns to dash in behind the overbold Khamorth and cut them off.
Then the fighting turned savage, with the surrounded nomads making charge after desperate charge, trying to hack their way back to their comrades. Though it was on horseback, that was the sort of warfare Viridovix understood. He spurred toward the thickest action, and found himself facing a Khamorth bleeding from cuts on cheek and shoulder and with an arrow sunk to the fletching in his thigh.
The plainsman might have been wounded, but nothing was wrong with his sword arm. His face a snarling mask of pain, he cut at the Celt backhanded, then came back with a roundhouse slash Viridovix barely managed to beat aside.
They traded sword strokes. Viridovix’ reach and long straight blade gave him an edge, but the nomad’s superior horsemanship canceled it. He needed no conscious thought to twist his mount now this way, now that, by pressure of his knees, or to urge
it in close when one of Viridovix’ cuts left him off balance. Only the Gaul’s strong arm let him recover in time to parry. The Khamorth’s saber cut his trousers; he felt the flat kiss his leg.
But the plainsman’s horse betrayed him in the end. An arrow sprouted in its hock with a meaty thunk. It screamed and reared, and for a moment its rider had to give all his attention to holding his seat. Before he could recover, Viridovix’ sword tore out his throat. He toppled, horrified surprise the last expression his face would wear.
The Gaul felt none of the fierce elation he had expected, only a sense of doing a good job at something he no longer relished. “Och, well, it needs the doing, for a’ that,” he said. Then he stopped in dismay at his own words. “The gods beshrew me, I’m fair turned into a Roman!”
Not far away, Goudeles was fighting a Khamorth even fatter than he was. The nomad, though, knew what he was about and had the pen-pusher in trouble. He easily turned the Videssian’s tentative cuts and had pinked Goudeles half a dozen times; luck was all that had kept him from dealing a disabling wound.
“Don’t kiss him, Pikridios, for Phos’ sake!” Lankinos Skylitzes roared. “Hack at him!” But the dour Videssian officer was hotly engaged himself, with no chance to come to Goudeles’ rescue. The bureaucrat gritted his teeth as another slash got home.
Gorgidas raked his pony’s flanks with his spurs and galloped past cursing horsemen toward Goudeles and his foe. He shouted to draw the Khamorth’s attention from Goudeles. The plainsman glanced his way, but only for a moment; seeing a bearded face, he took the Greek for one of Varatesh’s followers, come to help finish off his enemy.
He realized his mistake barely in time to counter Gorgidas’ thrust. “Who are you, you flyblown sheepturd?” he bellowed in outrage, cutting at the physician’s head. He was a powerful man, but Gorgidas was used to fencing with Viridovix and knocked the blow aside. Then it was easy to thrust again, arm at full extension, all the weight of his body behind it. The Khamorth fought with the edge, not the point; battle reflex had saved him the first time. His eyes went wide as Gorgidas’ gladius punched through his boiled-leather jerkin and slid between ribs.
Swords of the Legion (Videssos) Page 11
