Videssos Cycle, Volume 2 (15 page)

“No, damn it, I want nothing to do with that miserable piece of pointed iron in my kit,” Gorgidas growled at camping time, as he had every day since they left the village. Every day saw him more irritable, too; his face itched and felt rough as a rasp as his beard started growing in. And, to his mortification, it seemed to be mostly white, though his hair was still dark but for a thin dusting of silver at the temples. He wished he had his razor back.

“Listen to the silly man, now!” Viridovix exclaimed to everyone who would listen—the friendly feud between Celt and Greek entertained the whole party. “When you were with the legion, with its thousands of men and all, the lot of ’em could look after you. The now, though, it’s but this wee few of us. We have to watch out for our own selves and maybe canna be sparing the time for one puir doit too proud to learn swordplay.”

“Oh, go howl. I’ve managed to come this far in my life without the knack for killing people, and I don’t care to pick it up now. I’m too old to learn such tricks anyway.” He looked resentfully at the Gaul, who was
his own age, near enough, but whose sweeping mustachios were still bright red.

“Too old, is it? Sure and you’re a day younger than you’ll be tomorrow.” Viridovix waited to see if that shot would hit, but the physician merely set his chin. The Celt switched to Latin so only Gorgidas would understand: “Forbye, if you’re not too old to start bedding women, now, sure and the sword shouldna come too hard.”

The day was warm, but ice leaped up the Greek’s spine. “What mean you?” he said sharply.

“Softly, softly,” Viridovix said, seeing his alarm. “Naught with harm in it for you. But sith you’ve tried the one new thing, why not the other?”

Gorgidas sat unmoving, staring past the Gaul. Viridovix left him to himself for most of a minute, then asked with an impudent grin, “Tell me now, how is it by comparison?”

The Greek snorted. “Find out for yourself, you barbarian ape.” He had lived under the shadow of the Roman army’s law too long to be easy with others knowing he preferred men to women. In the legions, those who did so faced being beaten to death by their fellow soldiers as punishment on discovery.

Even the thought of a
fustuarium
was enough to freeze the smile on his lips. He sat a while, considering; he did not like the idea of being a burden to his companions. Pikridios Goudeles, with more tact than Gorgidas had thought he had, helped solve the dilemma. “Possibly the brave Viridovix,” he said, pronouncing the Celt’s name with care, though Videssians tended to stumble over it, “would instruct us both. I have no skill at swordplay, either.”

Skylitzes had been tossing a handful of dry sheepdung on the fire. At Goudeles’ words he looked up, his usually dour features showing amazed delight. The spectacle of the plump bureaucrat wielding a blade promised amusement beyond his wildest dreams. He kept silent, afraid a taunt might make Goudeles change his mind.

Gorgidas unsheathed the
gladius
Gaius Phillippus had given him, hefted it experimentally. It seemed short and stubby compared to the longsword Viridovix bore; the Romans favored blades no more than two feet long, for they relied on the stab rather than the slashing stroke. The
leather-wrapped grip fit Gorgidas’ hand seductively well; he held a tool perfectly designed for its intended use.

“Heavier than your pens, eh?” Arigh said, stepping toward the fire with the results of his brief hunt: a rabbit, a striped ground squirrel, and a fair-sized tortoise. The Greek nodded, scratching the side of his face for the dozenth time that day. Already his beard was thicker than Arigh’s; the Arshaum, unlike the Khamorth, were not a whiskery folk. As if to compensate, they rarely trimmed the few hairs that did appear, but let them grow in a thin tuft at the point of their chins.

Goudeles, of course, had brought no sword. He borrowed a saber from one of Agathias Psoes’ troopers, a curved, single-edged blade with a very short back edge, called a shamshir in the Khamorth tongue, a yataghan by Arigh. The Videssian handled it with even more uncertainty than Gorgidas showed; the Greek, at least, had seen combat at first hand.

But after a flourish that almost took off his own ear, Goudeles said grandly to Viridovix, “Impart to us your martial art.”

“That I will.” As the soldiers gathered round to watch, the Celt set his pupils in the guard position, making sure they carried their left arms well behind them. “Keeping them out o’ harm’s way and balancing you both, you see. If you’ve shields you’ll stand more face-to-face to get full advantage from ’em, but no use complicating things the now.”

He adjusted them once more and stepped back to survey his handiwork. Then, without warning, he tore his own blade free and leaped at his students with a bloodcurdling shriek. They stumbled away, horrified. The watchers guffawed. “There’s you first pair of lessons together,” Viridovix said, not unkindly. “The one is, never relax around a man with a sword, and t’other, a good loud yell never did you any harm, nor your foe any good.”

Even as teacher, the Gaul made a relentless opponent. Gorgidas’ arm and shoulder ached from parrying his slashes. So did his ribs; Viridovix had thumped them with the flat of his blade more than once. The contemptuous ease with which he got through infuriated the Greek, as Viridovix had known it would. Where Gorgidas had been all but forced to take sword in hand, he soon worked in grim earnest, panting breaths hissing out between clenched teeth. Once Viridovix had to pirouette
neatly to keep from being spitted on his point; the Greek lacked the experience to know how dangerous his thrust was.

“That poxy Roman blade,” the Gaul said. He was sweating as freely as his pupil. “You kern, you were watching the legionaries and never let on—you almost let the air out of me there.”

Gorgidas began an apology, but Viridovix slapped him on the back and cut it short. “Nay, ’twas well done.” He whirled on Goudeles. “Now, sirrah, your turn. And at ye!”

“Oof!” the pen-pusher said as the Celt’s blade spanked his side. He lacked any feel for aggression; whatever strokes he made were purely to defend himself. Within that limitation, though, he showed some promise. His movements were economical, and he had a gift for guessing the direction the next blow was coming from. Lankinos Skylitzes showed disappointment.

“It’s good you’re not trying to go beyond yourself,” Viridovix said. “If you learn enough to stay alive a while, sooner or later a mate’ll rescue you, the which would do a dead corp no good at all, at all.”

But after a while he grew bored with an opponent who would not take the fight to him. His own strokes grew quicker and harder, and when Goudeles, retreating desperately now, threw up his saber in a counter, the Gallic longsword met it squarely. The pen-pusher’s blade snapped clean across; the greater part flew spinning into the fire. Taken by surprise, Viridovix barely managed to turn his sword in his hand so he did not cut Goudeles in two. As it was, the Videssian fell with a groan, clutching his left side.

Viridovix knelt by him, concerned. “Begging your pardon, indeed and I am. That one was not meant to land.”

“Mmph.” Goudeles sat up gingerly. He hawked and spat. Gorgidas saw the spittle was white, not pink-tinged—the bureaucrat had no truly dangerous hurt, then. Goudeles looked at the stub of his blade. “I did not realize I was facing you with a weapon as flawed as my own skill.”

“Not flawed!” protested the trooper from whom he’d borrowed it. He was still young enough for his beard to be soft and fuzzy; his name was Prevails, Haravash’s son, testifying to his mixed blood. “I paid two goldpieces for that sword; it’s fine steel from the capital.”

Goudeles shrugged, winced, and tossed him the broken saber. He
caught the hilt deftly. “Look!” he insisted, showing everyone that what was left of the blade had the suppleness befitting a costly weapon. Once he had satisfied himself and his comrades of that, his eyes slowly traveled to Viridovix. “Phos, how strong are you?” he whispered, awe in his voice.

“Strong enough to eat the pits with the plums—or you without salt.” But despite the gibe, the grin stretched thin across Viridovix’ strong-cheekboned face. Gorgidas could guess his thoughts. There were times when his sword and Scaurus’, spell-wrapped by the druids of Gaul, were far more than ordinary blades in this world where magic was real as a kick in the belly. Usually it took the presence of sorcery to bring out their power, but not always.

The Celt sat cross-legged by the fire. He drew that strangely potent sword, studied the druids’ marks that had been stamped into the metal while it was still hot. They meant nothing to him; the druids guarded their secrets well, even from the Gallic nobles.

For a moment the marks seemed to glow with a golden life of their own, but before Gorgidas was sure he had seen it, Viridovix resheathed his blade. Some chance reflection from the firelight, the Greek thought. He yawned and sighed at the same time, too tired to worry about it long.

He also ached. Swordplay, like horsemanship, called on muscles he rarely used. He knew he would be stiff come morning. Ten years ago I would have been fine, he protested to himself. The internal answer came too soon: ten years ago you weren’t forty-one.

He gnawed at a rabbit leg, washed down some of the tasteless nomad-style wheatcakes with swigs of kavass, and fell asleep the moment his feet reached the end of his bedroll.

Varatesh tested the night breeze with a spit-moistened finger; out of the south, as he had expected. The wind came off the sea in spring and summer, bringing fair weather with it. In fall it would shift, and not even a man born on the plains relished a steppe winter. Every year the shamans begged the wind spirits not to turn, and every year found themselves ignored. Foolishness to waste good prayers thus, the renegade thought.

He had counted on a south wind when he led his little band across the track of the man he sought and his companions. They had ridden on
after dusk to catch up with the larger party, using as their guides the stars and Avshar’s talisman; in the darkness its orange smoke glowed with a glowworm’s pale cold light. Now their quarry’s camp lay straight north, the embers of its campfire a red smudge against the horizon.

Luckily there was no moon, or sentries might have seen Varatesh’s men approach. But in the faint starglimmer they were so many shadows sliding up, and they moved as quietly as any shades. Varatesh’s feet chafed in his boots. He was not used to walking any distance, but he had left the horses behind with one of his men; even muzzled, they were too likely to give themselves away.

“What now?” a nomad whispered. “From the trail the filthy pimps’ sons left, they’ve got twice as many as we do, and then some.”

“Much help they’ll get from that,” Varatesh replied. He checked the wind; it would not do to have it shift now. It was steady. He grunted in satisfaction, reaching inside his leather tunic for the second of Avshar’s gifts. The jar was veined alabaster, eggshell-thin, with a wax-sealed silver stopper. Even unopened, it had the feel of magic to it, a magic like the wizard-prince’s crystal, subtler and somehow more dangerous than the familiar charms the shamans used. Varatesh’s men backed away from their leader, as if wanting no part in what he was about to do.

He cut the sealing wax with a hard thumbnail, stripped it off, and threw it away. Though the jar was still tightly shut, he smelled the faint, sweet odor of narcissus. That was dangerous; he held his breath as a wave of dizziness washed over him, hoping it would pass. It did. Moving quickly now, he yanked the stopper free and tossed the little jar in the direction of the camp a few hundred yards away. He heard it shatter, though the throw was gentle. He did not think the noise would be noticed in the camp, but no matter if it was; any investigator would only meet Avshar’s sorcery the sooner.

Varatesh hurried back to his comrades upwind; together they drew back farther, taking no chances—as they had been warned, this was not a magic that chose between friend and foe. “How long do we wait?” someone asked.

“A twelfth part of the night, the wizard said. By then the essence will have dispersed.” Varatesh looked west, studying the sky. “When the star that marks the Sheep’s left hock sets, we move. Be watchful till then—if
they have a sentry posted far enough off to one side, he may not be taken by the spell.”

They waited, watching the star creep down the deep-blue bowl of heaven toward the edge of the earth. No outcry came from the camp ahead. Varatesh’s spirits rose; all was just as Avshar had foretold.

The white spark of light winked out. The nomads rose from their haunches and walked toward the camp, sabers ready in their hands. “My legs hurt,” grumbled one of them, no more comfortable on foot than his leader.

“Shut up,” Varatesh snapped, still wary. The outlaw glared at him. He was sorry for his hard words as soon as they were out of his mouth; it hurt him to have to use men so. Back in his own clan, he thought, a simple headshake would have conveyed his meaning. But he rode with his clan no more, and never would again, unless he came one day as conqueror. These oafs with whom he was forced to share his life paid soft manners no mind. Often even curses would not make them listen, and obedience had to be forced with fists or edged steel.

“Look here!” a nomad said, pointing to one side. The huddled shape was a sentry, now curled on his side in unnatural sleep. Varatesh smiled—it was always good to see a magic perform as promised. Not that he doubted Avshar, but a sensible man ran no risks he did not have to. An outlaw’s life, even an outlaw chief’s life, was risky enough as it was.

The five plainsmen came into the fire’s circle of light. Almost as one, they exclaimed at the strange sight of strings of fallen horses, flanks slowly rising and falling in the grip of Avshar’s spell. Varatesh laughed nervously. It had not occurred to him that the sorcery would fell animals along with men.

A dozen men lay unconscious by the fire. With the caution of a beast of prey, Varatesh examined their horses’ trappings. He frowned. From the look of things, fifteen of the beasts were being ridden. Counting the sentry he had already seen, that left two men unaccounted for. He trotted back into the darkness. If the sentries spaced themselves in a triangle round the fire, a good sensible plan, the missing ones would be easy to find—unless Avshar’s magic had somehow missed them, in which case, he thought, there would be arrows coming out of the night.