Harry Turtledove V

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filled his mouth, he was content with the world. "A braw lass, a good scrap to
go to, and e'en a bit o'
honey when you need it most," he said to no one in particular. "Who could want
for more?"
After the Khamorth camped that night they went from fire to fire, trading
news, telling tales, and gambling with a bizarre assortment of money, some of
it so worn Viridovix could not tell whether it had been minted in Videssos or
Yezd. There were also square silver coins stamped with dragons or axes, whose
like he had not seen. "Halugh," a nomad explained.
The Gaul won several goldpieces and one of the Haloga coins, which he pocketed
for luck.
The next day's travel was much like the one before. The steppe seemed endless,
and the plainsmen with whom Viridovix rode the only men on it. But when the
evening fires went up, there was a faint answering glow against the northern
horizon. Men checked harness and gear; here a nomad tightened a girth, there
another filed arrow-points to razor sharpness, while two more practiced
sword-strokes on horseback, making ready for what would come tomorrow.
Viridovix woke before dawn, shivering from the cold. In Gaul the trees would
have been gorgeous with autumn's colors; the only change the steppe grass
showed was from green to grayish yellow.
"Sure and it's bleak enough, for all its size," he mumbled around a mouthful
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of cheese.
The Khamorth teased the handful of older men left behind to guard the
remounts. The latter gave back good as they got: "When you're done beating the
bastards, drive 'em this way. We'll show you what we can do!"
Clan by clan, the plainsmen mounted. As they rode north they shook themselves
out into a rough battle line. Targitaus' band held the right wing. Eyeing the
gaps between clans and the ragged front, Viridovix consoled himself by
thinking that Varatesh's bandits would keep no better ranks.
Moving dots against the steely sky, the outlaws appeared. A murmur ran down
the line; men nocked arrows and freed swords in scabbards. Varatesh's men drew
closer with a speed that Viridovix, still used to foot campaigns, found
dismaying. He waved his sword, howling out a wild Celtic war cry that startled
his comrades; what it did to the foe was harder to tell.
Skirmishers traded arrows in the shrinking no-man's-land between the armies. A
pair of nomads dueled with sabers. When the outlaw slid from his saddle, a
cheer rang out from his foes.
It clogged in Viridovix' throat when he spied in the center of the enemy line
a white-robed figure riding a black horse half again the size of the steppe
ponies around it. "Well, you didna think himself'd stay away," he muttered.
"Och, would he had, though." The Gaul thought his side outnumbered the
bandits, but who knew how many men Avshar was worth?
No time for thought after that the two main bodies were shooting at each other
now. The arrows flew, bitter as the sleet that could be only days away.
Useless in the long-range fight, the Celt watched over the edge of his small,
light shield. The deadly rhythm had a fascination to it: right hand over left
shoulder to pull a shaft from the quiver, nock, draw, a quick glance for a
target, shoot, and over the shoulder again. The plainsmen methodically emptied
their quivers. Now and again the measured cadence would break down: a curse, a
grunt, or a scream as a man was hit, or a
wild scramble to leap free of a foundering horse before it crushed its rider.
Varatesh watched in astonishment as Avshar wielded his great black bow. It was
built to the same double-curved pattern as any nomad bow, but not even the
burliest outlaw could bend it. Yet the wizard-prince used it as Varatesh might
a child's weapon, killing with his wickedly barbed shafts at ranges the outlaw
chief would not have believed a man could reach. His skill was chillingly
matter-
of-fact. He gave no cry of triumph when another shot struck home, nor even a
satisfied nod, but was already choosing his next victim.
An arrow whined past Varatesh's cheek. He ducked behind his horse's
neck futile, of course, if the shaft had been truly aimed. He fired back, saw
a rider topple. He wondered if it was the man who had shot at him. "No,"
Avshar said, reading his thought. The wizard-prince's voice held scornful
mirth. "Why should you care, though? He would have been glad enough to kill
you." That was true, but even truth from Avshar left a sour taste.
The wizard's eye traveled the enemy line for new targets. He wheeled his horse
leftward, steadying it with his knees. He drew the black bow back to his ear,
but as he shot Varatesh reached out and knocked his wrist aside. The arrow [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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