The water roared through the defile, growing, reaching for them. Myrad dismounted, gripping the reins, struggling to pull Areion higher up the side of the ravine. But each time he planted his right foot, he slipped farther back. His ankle wouldn’t bend.
Then the water hit him, knocking him from his feet. He slipped beneath the flood clutching at the reins. The rush of water threw him against a tree and he grasped at the trunk with his free hand, clawing at the rough bark until his head broke the surface. He sucked air into his starving lungs. Areion still stood, but the water continued to rise.
“Hi-ya!” he screamed, but the animal didn’t move.
He could either cling to his horse and try to make for higher ground or let the animal loose while he tried to climb the tree. The water surged higher. In moments it would reach Areion’s belly, sweeping them both away. He’d begun unwrapping the reins from his hand when his gaze fell on the wrapped bundle of his bow and his pack with his father’s calendar in it. The flood would take everything from him.
“No.” He raged at the storm. “NO!”
Using his horse as an anchor, he pulled himself hand over hand up the reins until he stood at the horse’s head. “HA!” he yelled, pulling the horse forward and upward. Areion scrabbled to find purchase on the rocky ground beneath the water. When the animal stilled, Myrad used the reins to pull himself even, then repeated the process.
They didn’t escape the rising waters, but inch by excruciating inch they managed to keep pace with them. Then Areion stopped, lungs heaving, refusing to move any farther. A wall of jagged rock rose above them, blocking their way.
Peering into the downpour, Myrad could see no end to it. It ran as far along the ravine as he could see in either direction, looming twenty feet above him. It might as well have been a hundred.
“Is this how it is?” By way of answer, the water continued to rise. “I should have expected as much.” Yet the instinct of survival refused to let him surrender, and he worked to get Areion as close to the rock wall as possible. Pushing and shouting commands, he turned his horse so that it faced the flood, keeping the rushing water from hitting him broadside. He fought his way until he stood in front of his horse and angled his body to direct the force of the water out, away from the wall.
Then he waited, fighting to stand against the water’s rise.
CHAPTER 23
He and Areion fought to hold their footing as the water rose higher. Inevitably, his bad foot, stuck on the downslope of the ravine, betrayed him. A branch swept by, clipping his foot. Myrad plunged beneath the water, the reins around his arm going taught. Struggling to find purchase with his feet, he got his head above water again. He saw Areion’s forequarters slipping from the wall, dragged away by his weight.
“Hold on!” he cried to the horse. But it was no use, and he let loose of the reins. The water closed around him and swept him downstream. Rocks battered his legs, and tree limbs scratched at his face as the flood pushed him onward.
In the distance he heard a roar like a thousand storms. He spun, struck by a limb, and peered into the gloom. Two hundred paces ahead, the flood disappeared from the horizon, dropping off into nowhere. The flow of the water forced him inexorably toward the roaring sound.
Ahead, a solitary tree, thick and broad-limbed, rose in defiance of the flood. Myrad paddled toward it, striking the water with clumsy strokes. The trunk came at him like a giant fist, but he kept his eyes open even as it hit him.
Struggling to breathe and stay conscious, he wrapped his arms and legs around the rough bark, inching his way around the trunk until the water pinned him in place. Branches and debris struck him in the back, raking at him, but he held on. Pain tore snatches of prayers from his lips. Then something hit him in the head and the world darkened to a pinpoint. He fought to stay conscious, his sight spinning.
After an eternity marked by blows, he slipped down the rough surface of the tree trunk. Then his feet touched the ground. The rain slowed to misting, then stopped. For over an hour he watched the flood recede, leaving behind a mass of branches and weeds at the high watermark. His weight hit the ground, yet his legs refused to bear him. He landed half in, half out of the water. Uncaring, he slept.
He woke to the smell of detritus benath his head. The water at bottom of the gorge muttered now instead of roaring but still held swift runoff. He struggled to his feet and made his way upstream, searching for Areion. He had no idea how far he’d been taken downstream or if his horse had managed to keep from being swept away as well. He scanned the slopes of the ravine. Nothing looked familiar. If he couldn’t find his horse, he would have to walk until he came to a village, assuming he could find one or make it that far.
After an hour of searching the ravine, or perhaps a bit more than a mile later, a soft whicker sounded above him. There, a few paces away from the shelf of rock where he’d left him, stood Areion. A sense of loneliness he hadn’t known he carried lifted from him, and he stumbled forward with a sob. When he came within reach of his horse, he put his arms around Areion’s neck and hugged him tight, muttering words of comfort more for himself than for the horse.
“We’re going to get out of here,” he said, but before he mounted, he unwrapped the oiled leather from around his bow. When he opened the folds, he found water had worked its way through, but thankfully only a small amount. He did his best to dry the weapon by wiping it with his hands and shaking it.
Painstakingly, he led Areion down the slope toward the water. It took no more than a glance to confirm he couldn’t cross anytime soon. Debris still littered the water, pieces of deadfalls floating along the surface. At least the ground was more level here. He mounted Areion and rode north at a walk.
He hoped to find help before sunset, but the ravine continued to stretch before him with no end in sight. The sun vanished below the crag to his left and plunged him into dusk. Myrad surveyed the woods around him. No sign of the caravan or their pursuers. Except for himself and Areion, the forest lay empty. He dismounted and tied the reins to a tree, then stripped off the riding blanket to drape it over a low branch to dry. Moving to his pack, he opened it to discover the ruins of Gershom’s calendar, the parchment and ink destroyed beyond salvage by the rain. Resigned, he pulled out his spare clothes, careful to safeguard the last of his money, and wrung the water from them before hanging them next to the dripping blanket. Next, he removed his wet clothes. Shivering, he twisted as much water from them as he could before putting them back on. The forest would become completely dark soon, so he found a pair of sticks while he could still see, stuck them into the ground, and upended his boots on top of each stick.
Myrad couldn’t recall ever feeling this exhausted. Not knowing what else he could do at the moment, he lowered himself to rest on an outcropping of rock next to Areion and waited for sunrise.
By the light of early dawn, he dressed and packed his things and then set out to the north. Gradually, the heat of the day finished drying his clothes. He stopped and changed, using the opportunity to flip the riding blanket. The second time he stopped, he heard the distant sounds of horses on the opposite side of the river. He scrambled into the nearest copse of trees, hiding to avoid being seen. The sounds grew louder. Soon the horses and riders passed him by a few paces, then continued south. He heard voices as well, faintly, yet the ones speaking were too far away to make out what was said. After they faded and rode away, he came out of his hiding place.
Hour after hour, he followed the winding course of the river upstream. That sameness lulled him into a false sense of security and betrayed him. He came to a bend in the river where the ravine narrowed and the trees and brush hid everything beyond, and when he passed through the vegetation, he found himself in a broad valley running east and west. In the far distance, he saw what looked like a road. No merchants traveled on it. Instead, hundreds, perhaps even a thousand soldiers on horseback filled the road, all of them in formation. Every man had his bow strung and ready. Tension radiated from them,
their horses shifting nervously.
By the time it occurred to Myrad to retreat to the defile, he’d been spotted and it was too late to run. His heart began to race as five men peeled from the group, galloping toward him. There was nothing for him to do but wait. Areion shied beneath him. He patted the horse on the shoulder to calm him. The men coming for him wore the road-weary look of those who’d been on horseback overlong.
They drew closer, slowing their horses to a trot. One of the riders moved to cut off his escape into the ravine. The man in front made no move to draw his weapons. A glance over his shoulder told Myrad why. The man behind him sat with an arrow nocked to his bow. In an instant he could draw and release at a distance even Myrad couldn’t miss.
“What business does a lone soldier have in Hyrcania?” the man asked him.
The creed of the magi that Gershom had instilled in him prevented him from lying, and he could think of no deception that might fool these men in any case. “I was accompanying a caravan. We were headed north, but the storm caught us in the ravine. The flood swept me away from the rest of the caravan. When it subsided, I wandered here.”
“You were caught in the flood?”
He nodded, and the man edged his horse closer while Myrad concentrated on keeping his hands still, trying to ignore visions of being stabbed or shot with an arrow. When they were near enough for their knees to touch, the man drew his knife and leaned over until his nose practically touched Myrad’s tunic. He sniffed.
“You have the smell of floodwaters on you. You’re fortunate to be alive.”
The soldiers’ neutral expressions indicated they believed him. Still, they made no move to withdraw and let him pass. “My caravan is hours ahead of me by now. I need to catch up to it.”
The leader shook his head. “You may be a scout for our enemy. Tell me who you serve, whose bondslave you are.”
Myrad held his hands up in surrender. “I’m a free man from the city in the employ of a silk merchant.”
The man’s brows, dark and heavy, met in disdain. “Do you think I’m a fool? Silk merchants don’t wander the ravines of the Elburz Mountains.”
“They do if they’re being pursued by Musa’s men.”
The man straightened on his horse, his expression opening in surprise. “Musa? What of Phraates?”
“Phraates is dead. Musa and her son rule now,” Myrad said. The queen’s name fell from his lips like a curse.
Several of the men spat at hearing this news, but the leader’s gaze never left Myrad. “What did Phraates and Musa do to earn your hatred?”
“They killed my father for voting against Musa’s elevation.”
The leader held a hand to his own chest. “I am Nimar. What is your name, traveler?”
He gave his name, confused by the shift in temperament.
“Welcome to our company.”
A few of the soldiers nodded their agreement. “I don’t understand,” Myrad said.
“You will stand with us. A large force of Musa’s men is coming this way.”
Myrad looked across the valley and compared the number of men before him to the soliders he’d counted the previous night. “You’re outnumbered, Nimar. They have nearly two thousand men.”
“And that’s just this force,” Nimar said. “Our scouts tell us another is approaching Hyrcania from the southwest. String your bow and offer your prayers to the god of the shining fire to deliver us from the hands of our enemies.”
Myrad shook his head. “Even before the flood, I could barely draw my bow, and water from the storm may have ruined it. Either way, I’m of little use to you. I’m no soldier. I wear these clothes to hide myself from the men who killed my father.”
The leader’s face darkened as he reached for Myrad’s bow. With a quick, fluid motion, he strung the bow and nocked an arrow. He twisted, sighting just over Myrad’s left shoulder for an instant before he let fly. The arrow flew so close to his face, Myrad felt the wind of its passing. The arrow struck a tree trunk dead center where it lodged with a low vibrating note. The message was impossible to miss. Join us or die.
“Your bow is dry and working,” the leader said. “You serve Artabanus, the prince of Hyrcania now.”
CHAPTER 24
With no other choice, Myrad rode back with them toward the main party. Water splashed in every direction as they galloped across the wet ground, churning the earth into mud. Once they’d slowed to a trot, he posed a question. “Why are you fighting if you’re so outnumbered?”
“Musa hopes to take Artabanus and ransom him against Orodes. We’re buying him time to escape east. To a man, we are his bondslaves.” Nimar stopped to give him a level stare. “If you try to flee once the battle is under way, I will ride you down and kill you myself.”
Myrad swallowed his fear, but the panic he expected failed to materialize. Perhaps encountering more danger after he’d just survived the flood muted its intensity, or possibly he was too tired to care. His body screamed for food and sleep. Whatever the reason, he found himself concentrating more on how he might live than the certainty he would die.
“Do you have any food?” he asked. “I’m hungry.”
Nimar offered him bread and water, and Myrad took a mouthful, his thoughts working in time with his jaw muscles. To the west, a pair of riders entered the valley at a gallop. Their horses were of Nisean stock whose coats shone like burnished gold. They flew across the terrain, and even from this distance Myrad could sense their haste. An idea occurred to him, spurred by the memory of a tale Gershom once read to him, a tale of a battle between Greece and Persia. “Have Musa’s men seen your forces?” he asked Nimar.
“No,” he said, and offered nothing more.
“The walls of the ravine where you found me are steep.”
“I have not seen them, traveler, but I will take you at your word. Why tell me this?”
“In Thermopylae, a few hundred men held their ground against thousands. Men hidden on the upper slopes of the defile I rode through would wreak havoc on Musa’s forces.”
“A Parthian fights from the back of his horse,” Nimar said.
“Should a bondslave die for his master?” Myrad asked.
Nimar and the men around him nodded with resolute expressions.
“Or should he make sure his enemy does?” Myrad added.
After a long moment, Nimar spoke to his men. “If the traveler attempts to run, shoot him.” He nudged his horse to ride toward the center, where he waited.
After the scouts arrived, Myrad watched as Nimar engaged in an extended conversation accompanied by much pointing. Then he rode back, barking names that pulled men from all across the line to follow him. He returned with over a hundred men.
“It is as you’ve said. We are outnumbered. Our commander has agreed to your plan.” Nimar’s face became like flint. “I’ve been told to kill you if it does not succeed.” He turned to issue an order, and his men set out, racing for the narrow canyon. Myrad’s horse, spent from its fight against the flood, lagged behind. Nimar stayed by him.
“Why these men?” Myrad asked.
“These are the weakest archers from horseback among us,” Nimar answered. “They see this duty as a dishonor, pulled from their horses to fight with their feet on the ground like a Roman.” He looked east over his shoulder. “We must hurry.”
Their horses pounded through the mud until they entered the ravine. Nimar gave more orders that split the men into two separate groups, and they spent the next few minutes coaxing their horses up the walls of the ravine until they were twenty paces above the bottom. There, they tied their horses to the nearest trees and waited. Myrad dismounted and ran his hands along Areion’s forequarters. “I owe you a good brushing and a bucket of fresh oats,” he told his horse.
Nimar nodded. “A wise man is kind to his mount.”
“He’s saved my life at least twice,” Myrad said. “Oats and kindness are a small price to pay.” He looked back through the mouth of the ravine towa
rd the valley. “How long will we have to wait?”
“That will depend on the strength of the enemy. The greater their number, the more likely they are to believe in our retreat and pursue. This deception must cost us some men, but hopefully fewer than before.”
Myrad thought about that for a moment. “But if they flee too soon, won’t Musa’s men ignore them and continue on toward Artabanus?”
“Yes,” Nimar said. “This trap you’ve suggested must be delicately balanced. We must lose enough men to make retreat convincing and yet retain enough men so the enemy cannot afford to leave us alive behind him.”
A half hour later, the sound of muted thunder could be heard. Nimar pulled a deep breath. “They are coming.”
Myrad stood on the slope of the ravine with his bad foot anchored behind a rock, his bow in one hand, an arrow in the other, and his quiver propped against a nearby sapling. Absurdly, he counted his arrows as if knowing the quantity might somehow keep him from being killed. Forty-seven. Part of him wondered if the number held any significance, while another part chided him for becoming distracted. The men around him seemed to have more arrows than he, but he doubted if it would make much difference. His skills with the bow were still limited to shooting in the general direction of his target.
The thunder of hooves grew louder.
“Hold until the enemy is completely within the walls of the ravine!” Nimar called. “Slow shoot.”
The soliders around him nocked their arrows. “What does ‘slow shoot’ mean?” Myrad asked.
Nimar’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you were telling the truth. In battle, a group of warriors will practice a quick shoot, usually four shots at the enemy, then a retreat. This creates a storm of arrows that cannot be dodged, but it also depletes the supply. We have only what is in our quivers. Slow shoot, then, means to pick a single target and aim well.”
The End of the Magi Page 19
