Videssos Cycle, Volume 2 (41 page)

“Many, yes, but not enough.” That was Rambehisht, who led the patrol. As sparing of words as usual, the harsh-featured plainsman pierced to the heart of the matter. Targitaus’ army grew day by day, but many clans chose not to take sides, and some few ranged themselves with Varatesh, whether from fear of Targitaus or a different kind of fear of the outlaw chief and Avshar.

The scouting party’s point rider came galloping back toward his mates, swinging his cap in the air and shouting, “Horsemen!” Viridovix’ blade rasped free of its scabbard; the plainsmen he rode with unslung their bows and set arrows to sinew bowstrings. On this stretch of steppe other horsemen could only be Varatesh’s.

A few minutes after the outrider appeared, the patrol spied dust on the northwestern horizon. Rambehisht narrowed his eyes, taking the cloud’s measure. “Fifteen,” he said. “Twenty at the outside, depending on remounts.” The numbers were close to even, then.

The opposing commander must have been making a similar calculation from what he saw, for suddenly, before his men came into view, he swung them round sharply and retreated as fast as he could go. Batbaian let out a yowl of glee and punched Viridovix in the shoulder. “It works!” he shouted.

“And why not, lad?” the Celt said grandly, swelling with pride as he accepted congratulations from the plainsmen. Even Rambehisht unbent far enough to give him a frosty smile. That truly pleased Viridovix, to have the man he had beaten come to respect him.

Behind them, the six or eight cattle that accompanied the patrol took advantage of the halt to snatch a few mouthfuls of grass. Each of the beasts had a large chunk of brush tied behind it and threw as much dust into the air as a couple of dozen men. “The polluted kerns’ll be after thinking it’s whole armies chasin’ ’em,” Viridovix chuckled.

“Yes, and tell their captains as much,” Rambehisht said. He was a thoughtful enough warrior to see the use of confusing his foes.

“And we must have a double handful of patrols out,” Batbaian said. “They’ll be running from so many shadows they won’t know when we really move on them.” He gazed at Viridovix with something close to hero worship.

Feeling pleased with themselves, the scouts camped by a small stream. To celebrate outfoxing the enemy, Rambehisht slit the throat of one of the cattle. “Tonight we have a good feed of meat,” he said.

Viridovix scratched his head. “I’m as fond o’ beef as any man here, but how will you cook him? There’s no wood for a fire, nor a pot to seethe him in, either.”

“He’ll cook himself,” the plainsman answered.

“Och, aye, indeed and he will,” Viridovix scoffed, sure he was the butt of a joke. “And belike come morning the corp of him’ll grow feathers and fly off tweeting wi’ the burdies.”

After Rambehisht opened the cow’s belly, a couple of nomads dug out the entrails and tossed them into the stream. It turned to silvery
turmoil as fish of all sizes swarmed to the unexpected feast. A couple of large, brown-shelled turtles splashed off rocks to steal their share. Another was staring straight at Viridovix. It blinked deliberately, once, twice.

Rambehisht proved as good as his word. Arms gory to the elbows, he stripped hunks of flesh from the beast’s bones and made a good-sized heap of the latter. To the Celt’s surprise, he proceeded to light them; with the marrow inside and the fat still clinging to them, they burned well. The resourceful Khamorth then threw enough meat to feed the patrol into a bag made of the cow’s raw hide, dipped up water from the stream and added it to the meat, and hung the makeshift cauldron over the fire with a javelin. Before long boiled beef’s mouth-watering scent filled the air, mixing with the harsher smell of the burning bones.

Most of the nomads stuck strips of raw meat under their saddles, to rough-cure as they rode along. There the Celt declined to imitate them. “I’d sooner have salt on mine, or mustard, thanking you all the same. Horse sweat doesna ha’ the same savor.”

What Rambehisht had cooked, though, was delicious. “My hat’s off to you,” Viridovix said, and so it was—with the coming of night he had laid aside the bronze-studded leather cap he wore. He belched magnificently. As any plainsman would, Rambehisht took it for a compliment and dipped his head in reply.

Patting his belly, the Gaul rose and ambled over to the creek, well upstream from the offal in it—a precaution the Romans had taught him. The water was cool and sweet. He dried his mustaches on his sleeve and saw that same fat turtle still sitting on its boulder. He flapped his arms, screeched, “Yaaah!” Horrified, the little animal flapped its legs insanely, trying to swim before it was in the water. After a moment it collected the few wits it had and dove into the stream.

“Och, what a terror I am,” Viridovix laughed. He remembered Arigh’s joke with the frogs at Prista, looked in vain for the turtle. “Puir beastie! If you were but a puddock, now, you could take revenge on the lot of us wi’ a single peep.”

Varatesh listened in consternation as the scout babbled, “It’s a horde, I tell you. From the dust, there must be hundreds of ’em coming this way.
You’d best believe we didn’t stick around for a closer look, or I wouldn’t be here to warn you.”

The outlaw chief bit his lip, wondering how Targitaus had conjured up such an army. Seven patrols, now, had sighted big forces moving on his camp. Even discounting their reports by half, as any sensible leader did, his enemies were showing more vigor than they ever had before. If they kept pushing forward, they would drive him back toward the Shaum—or over it. He weighed the risks, wondering whether Targitaus could be as dangerous as the Arshaum. A raid was one thing, a fine piece of bravado, but to try to establish himself in Shaumkhiil …

White robes swirling around him, heavy boots clumping in the dirt, Avshar emerged from his tent and strode toward the outlaw chief. Varatesh could not help flinching; the scout, who knew far less than he, cringed away from the wizard-prince. “What lies is this coward grizzling out?” Avshar demanded, cruelly disdainful.

Varatesh glanced up at the veiled face, not sorry he could not meet those masked eyes. He repeated the rider’s news, adding out of his own concern, “Where are they getting the men?”

Avshar rubbed mailed hands together, a tigerish gesture of thought. He swung round on the scout. “Whose patrol are you with?”

“Savak’s.” The renegade kept his answer as short as he could.

“Savak’s, eh? Then you
are
a coward.” As the scout began to protest, Avshar’s booted foot lashed out and caught him in the belly. He spun away and fell, retching, to the ground. In showy contempt, the wizard-prince turned his back on him. The rider would have tried to kill any outlaw, even Varatesh himself. From Avsahr he crept away.

The sorcerer turned back to Varatesh, deigning to explain. “Your escaped swordsman rides with the ‘army’ Savak’s putrid carrion fled from, which makes it easier for me to track them with my scrying. Shall I tell you how they grow their soldiers?”

“Yes.” Varatesh’s hands had balled into fists at Avshar’s viciousness and scorn. At mention of Viridovix they tightened further. He was not glad to be reminded of how the Celt had bested him. Nothing had gone right since that red-whiskered rogue appeared on the plains.

When the wizard-prince was done, Varatesh stood rigid with fury at the trick. The gall of it all but choked him. “Cattle?” he whispered.
“Brush?” Realization burst in him. “All their bands must be so!” His voice rose to a roar, summoning the camp. “Ho, you wolves—!”

“Here’s that lad back again,” Viridovix said. His comrades sat their horses calmly as the point rider came toward them. After days of frightening off Varatesh’s patrols without fighting, they looked forward to doing it again.

When Rambehisht saw the cloud of dust behind the scout, though, his sneer became a worried frown. “Lots of them, this time,” he said, and unshipped his bow. The rest of the Khamorth did the same.

“Is it a brawl, now?” the Gaul asked eagerly.

Rambehisht spared him one sentence: “They aren’t here to trade tunics with us.” Then the plainsman was shouting, “Spread out, there! Quick, while there’s time! Oktamas, fall back with the remounts. And kick those cattle in the arse, somebody; they’re no good to us anymore.”

Horsemen grew visible through the dust, trotting forward at a good clip. Rambehisht’s “spread out” order confused Viridovix for a moment. Used to infantry fights, his natural inclination would have been to gather his forces for a charge. Then the first arrow whizzed past his head, and he understood. A headlong rush would have been pincushioned in seconds.

Nomads were darting every which way, or so it seemed, snapping off shots at what looked like impossible ranges. Yet men screamed when they were hit, and horses, limbs suddenly unstrung, went crashing to the steppe. It was deadly and confusing, and the Gaul, an indifferent rider with a weapon whose reach was only arm’s length, was of little use to himself or his comrades.

His ignorance of the plains’ fluid way of fighting almost got him killed or captured in the first moments of the skirmish. Varatesh’s men outnumbered Rambehisht’s patrol, which promptly gave ground before them. For Viridovix, retreat and defeat were as one word. He held his ground, roaring defiance at the outlaws, until Batbaian shouted, “Fall back, fool! Do you want to see Seirem again?”

That brought the Celt to his senses as nothing else could have. It was nearly too late. Already one of the outlaws was past him and twisting in
the saddle to fire. Viridovix slammed his heels into his horse’s flanks. It sprang forward, and the arrow flew behind him.

“Try that again, you black-hearted omadhaun!” Viridovix yelled, spurring straight at the nomad. Without time to nock another shaft, the plainsman danced his mount aside. The Gaul thundered by. He rode hard, bent low over his horse’s neck. An arrow point scraped the bronze at the very crown of his protective cap, sending a shiver through him. He could feel his back muscles tightening against a blow.

But quivers were emptying, and shamshirs came out of scabbards as the fight moved to closer quarters. Even then engagements were hit-and-run as horses carried riders past each other; a slash, a chop, and then wheel round for the next pass. Suddenly Viridovix, with his long, straight sword, owned the advantage.

Then he heard an enemy horseman cry his name. His head whipped round—he knew that voice. Varatesh drove his horse forward, shouting, “No tricks between us now and no truce either!”

“Sure and Avshar’s pup has slipped his leash!” the Celt retorted. Varatesh’s swarthily handsome features twisted with rage. He struck, savage as a hunting hawk. Viridovix turned the blow, but it jolted his arm to the shoulder. His own answering slash was slow and wide.

Varatesh spun his horse faster than Viridovix could. The Gaul was quickly finding he did not care for mounted fighting. Afoot, he had no doubt he could cut Varatesh to pieces, for all the outlaw chief’s speed and ferocity. But a horse was as much a weapon as a sword, and one at which the plainsman was a master.

With a deft flick of the reins, the renegade drove his mount to Viridovix’ shield side, cutting across his body at the Celt. A Khamorth might have died from the unexpected stroke. Viridovix, though, was used to handling a far heavier shield than the boiled-leather target he bore and got it in front of the slash. But his roundhouse reply was a poor thing which just missed cutting off his own horse’s ear.

Though Varatesh’s blow had failed, the Gaul realized he could not let the outlaw keep the initiative—he was too dangerous by half for that. “Get round there, fly-bait!” he roared, jerking his horse’s head brutally to the left. The beast neighed in protest, but turned.

This time Viridovix was as quick as his foe. Varatesh’s eyes went wide with surprise as the Celt bore down on him. His shamshir came up fast enough to save his head, but Viridovix’ stroke smashed it from his fingers. The renegade gasped an oath, wondering if his hand was broken. He drew his dagger and threw it at the Celt, but the cast was wild—he had no feeling above his wrist.

In plainsman style, Varatesh was not ashamed to flee then. “Come back, you spineless coistril!” Viridovix cried. He started to gallop after him, then glanced round, looking for comrades to join him in the chase. “Well, where are they all gone to?” Most of Rambehisht’s men were a quarter-mile south and still retreating in the face of the outlaws’ superior numbers.

The Gaul paused, of two minds. There was Varatesh ahead, disarmed and temptingly close. If Viridovix had the faster horse, he could overhaul him and strike him down, but he would surely cut himself off from his mates in the doing. Then his choice was made for him, for two of the outlaw chief’s men were riding to his rescue, one with a bow.

The little battle had only increased Viridovix’ respect for the potent nomad weapon. He wheeled his horse away from the threat. The Khamorth fired twice in quick succession, his last two arrows. One of the shafts darted over the Celt’s shoulder. Of the other he saw nothing. Short, he thought, and turned back to shake his fist at the bowman.

An arrow was sticking in the high cantle of his saddle. He blinked; the archer was tiny in the distance. “Fetch the executioner!” he exclaimed. He tugged the shaft out, wondering how long it had been there. “Did you fly all this way, or were you riding?” The arrow gave no answers. He threw it to the ground.

It took another hour of skirmishing to shake free of Varatesh’s followers. At last they gave up. Their horses were not as fresh as those of Rambehisht’s patrol, and Varatesh was too canny to let his men be caught on tired animals. Having accomplished his main purpose—turning his enemies’ advance—he drew back.

“The grandest sport of all!” Viridovix shouted to his comrades as they reformed. The Gaul was still exhilarated from the fighting. It was not the hand-to-hand he was used to, but all the more exciting for its strangeness. Not until he brushed a sweaty arm over his cheek did he
discover he was cut, whether from a sword or an unnoticed arrow-graze he never knew.

Several Khamorth were wounded, but even a plainsman with an arrow through his thigh grinned through clenched teeth at the Gaul’s words. Like him, the nomads enjoyed war for its own sake. They had every reason to be proud, Viridovix thought. Badly outnumbered, they had only lost one man—the corpse was slung over a remount—and given Varatesh’s hard-bitten bandits all they wanted.