Videssos Cycle, Volume 2 (16 page)

The missing guardsmen were close to where he had expected them
to be. A drop of sweat ran down his forehead nonetheless; the sorcery’s success had been a very near thing. From the awkward way one of the men had fallen, he had been walking back toward the campsite when sleep overcame him. Perhaps he thought he was taken ill and, like a good soldier, headed in for a replacement—as luck would have it, the worst thing he could have done. He had headed straight into the spell instead of away from it.

When Varatesh returned, he found one of his men bending over a sleeper, a thin chap with the scraggly beginnings of a pepper-and-salt beard. The chieftain’s foot lashed out, kicking the outlaw’s saber away before it could slice the fellow’s exposed throat.

The nomad yelped. He cradled his injured right hand in the other. “You’ve gone soft in the head,” he growled, resenting the spoiled kill. “Why ruin my sport?” The other three outlaws, who had been looking forward to the same amusement, grouped themselves behind him.

“Denizli, you are a cur, and the rest of you, too!” Varatesh did not bother to hide his disgust. “Slaying the helpless is women’s work—it suits you. If you take such delight in it, here!” His hands well away from sword and dagger, he turned his back on them.

They might have jumped him, but at that moment one of the supposedly ensorceled men by the campfire sat up not six feet from Varatesh and demanded in sleepy, accented Videssian, “Will you spalpeens give over your yattering and let a tired fellow sleep?” His hand was on his sword hilt, just as it had been when he dozed off; he faced away from the outlaws and must have assumed from their Khamorth speech that they were members of his own squad of horsemen arguing among themselves. He did not seem alarmed, only mildly annoyed.

The would-be mutineers froze in surprise; they had thought the members of the embassy party as insensate as so many logs. But Varatesh was more clever than his followers, and knew more. If Avshar’s quarry owned a blade that defeated the wizard’s magics, why should it not also defend him against this one? Reasoning thus, Varatesh had equipped himself with a bludgeon. He pulled it out now, took two steps forward, and struck the complainer, who was no more than half-awake, a smart blow behind the right ear. Without so much as a groan, the man fell flat, once more as unconscious as his comrades.

The Khamorth chieftain whirled, ready to face his men’s challenge. Their uncertain stances, the confusion on their faces, told him they were again his. As if nothing had happened, he ordered them, “Come turn this chap over so we can see what we have.” They obeyed without hesitation.

To this point, things had gone as Avshar had predicted, but when Varatesh got a good look at the man he had stunned, he suddenly felt almost as befuddled as his companions had when the fellow sat up and spoke.

Avshar’s description of his enemy had been painted with the clarity of hate: a big man, blond, clean-shaven, but otherwise of a Videssian cast. The man at Varatesh’s feet was big enough, but there the resemblance to the sorcerer’s picture ended. He had blunt features and high, knobby cheekbones; true, he shaved his chin and cheeks, but a great fluffy mustache reached almost to his collarbones. And while his hair was light, it was more nearly fire-colored than golden.

The outlaw scratched his beard, considering. He still had one test to make. He drew forth Avshar’s crystal and held it close to the unconscious man. Though he waited and waited, no color appeared in its depths; it might have been any worthless piece of glass. The absence of magic was absolute. Reassured, he said, “This is the one we seek. Denizli, go out and fetch Kubad and the horses.”

“What for? And why me?” the nomad asked, not wanting to walk any further than he had to.

Varatesh swallowed a sigh, sick to death of being cursed to work through men unable to see past the tips of their beards. With such patience as he had left, he explained, “If we bring the horses here, we won’t have to carry this great hulk out to them.” He let some iron come into his voice, “And you because I say so.”

Denizli realized he would get no backing from his companions, who were all relieved Varatesh had not chosen them. He trotted clumsily away, pausing once or twice to rub at his blistering heels.

Donkey, Varatesh thought. But then, it seemed even Avshar’s wisdom had its limits. When he had time, he would have to ponder that.

The man he had clubbed moaned and tried to roll over. Varatesh hit him again, a precisely calculated blow delivered without passion. It
would not do to strike too hard; he remembered the sentry in his father’s clan. No, no, he told himself for the thousandth time, the fellow had only been knocked cold. Still, he was more careful now.

Hoofbeats in the darkness heralded Kubad’s approach. Denizli with him looked happier on horseback. At least he had the wit to remount, Varatesh thought. Kubad looked around the campfire with interest. “Worked, did it?” he remarked economically. “Can we plunder them?”

“No.”

“Pity.” Of the five Varatesh had with him, Kubad was far the best. He slid down from his horse, walked to the side of his chief, who was still standing over the red-haired man. “This the one the wizard wants?”

“Yes. Get one of the remounts over here; we’ll tie him aboard.” They slung the unconscious man over the horse’s back like a hunting trophy, bound his hands and feet beneath the beast’s belly. Varatesh took his sword.

“How long is your charm good for?” Kubad asked. “You don’t want to butcher these sheep—” Denizli had been talking, then, “—so likely they’ll come after us when they wake. And there’s more o’ them than there is of us.”

“We’ll have a day’s start, from what I was told. That should be plenty. Smell the air—the night’s clear, aye, but rain’s coming before long. What trail will they follow?”

In the crimson glow of the campfire, Kubad’s smile seemed dipped in blood.

Viridovix awoke to nightmare. The driving pain in his head left him queasy and weak, and when his eyes came open he groaned and squinched them shut again. He was facing directly into the rising sun, whose brilliance sent new needles of agony drilling into his brain. Worse even than that was the work of some malevolent sorcerer, who had reversed sky and horizon and set both of them bobbing like a bowl of calf’s-foot jelly. His sensitive stomach heaved. Only when he tried to reach up to shield his face from the sun did he discover his hands were tied.

His moan alerted his takers to his returning awareness. Someone said something in the plains speech. The jouncing stopped. Very carefully,
Viridovix opened one eye. The world was steady, but still upside down. He let his head hang loosely. Gray-brown dirt swooped toward him; a sharp stem of grass poked up to within a couple of inches from his forehead. There was a brown, shaggy-haired leg on either side of him. I’m on a horse, he told himself, pleased he could think at all.

After more talk in the Khamorth tongue, one of the nomads came over to him. In his undignified posture, Viridovix could only see the man from the thighs down. That was enough to send alarm shooting through him, for alongside a saber the plainsman bore the Gaul’s sword.

Viridovix had learned only a few words of the plains language, none of them polite. He used one now, his voice a ghastly croak. Almost instantly he realized his rashness; his captor could enjoy revenge at leisure. He tried to gather his wits so he could take a blow manfully, if nothing else.

But the nomad only laughed, and there seemed to be no menace under the mirth. “I will cut you loose, yes?” he said in good Videssian, with only a trace of his people’s guttural accent. His voice was a surprisingly light tenor, a young man’s voice. He went on, “Please do not plan any folly. There are two men with bows covering you. I ask again, shall I cut you down?”

“Aye, an you will.” The Celt saw no point in refusing; trussed as he was, he could do nothing, even without the pounding in his head. The Khamorth bent beneath the horse’s barrel. His dagger bit through the rawhide thongs that lashed Viridovix’ wrist to his ankles.

The Gaul tumbled to the ground, limp as a sack of meal. His nausea abruptly overwhelmed him. As he spewed, the Khamorth held his head so he would not foul himself, then gave him water to clean his mouth. The kindness was in its way more frightening than brutality would have been. To brutality, at least, he would have known how to respond.

After two or three tries he managed to sit. He studied his captor as best he could, though his vision was still blurred and went double on and off. The Khamorth
was
young, likely less than thirty, though the great bushy beard he wore after his people’s custom helped obscure his youth. He was a bit taller than most plainsmen and carried himself like one used to leading. His eyes, though, were strange; even when he looked straight at Viridovix, they seemed far away, peering at something only he could see.

Fighting dizziness, the Gaul turned his head to see what allies the
nomad had. As promised, two plainsmen had nocked arrows in their short bows. One drew his shaft back a few inches when Viridovix’ eyes met his. He had a most unpleasant smile.

“Hold, Denizli!” the chief said in Videssian for the Gaul’s benefit, then repeated the command in his own speech. Denizli scowled, but did as he was told.

There were three more Khamorth simply relaxing on their horses. They watched Viridovix as they might a wildcat they had ridden down, a dangerous beast who should get no chance to use his fangs. The lot of them were typical enough plainsmen, if on the hard-bitten side. It was their leader who put trepidation in the Celt’s heart, the more so because he did not seem to belong on the steppe. He had more depth than his followers and, with his beard trimmed, would not have been out of place at the imperial court. Finesse, thought Viridovix, that was the word.

In his pain and confusion the Gaul took a bit of time to notice that none of his comrades had been taken. When he did, he burst out, “What ha’ ye done wi’ my mates, y’blackhearted omadhaun?”

The nomad chieftain frowned a moment; as was often true, Viridovix’ brogue thickened in times of stress. But when he understood, the Khamorth laughed and spread his empty hands. “Nothing at all.”

Oddly, Viridovix believed him. He was sure any of the other five would have delighted in the killing, but not this man. “What is it you want o’ me, then?” the Celt asked, not reassured.

The answer, though, was mild enough. “For now, let me wash your head, so your cuts do not fester.” Varatesh poured some kavass onto a scrap of wool, then knelt by Viridovix. The Celt winced when the stinging stuff touched his cut and swollen scalp, but the nomad daubed away as gently as Gorgidas might have done. “I am called Varatesh, by the way,” he remarked.

“I’d be lying if I said I was pleased to make your acquaintance,” the Gaul told him. Varatesh smiled and nodded, quite kindly—or so it would have seemed had Viridovix not been his prisoner.

The nomad’s body screened him from one of the archers. As if his weight were too much for him, Viridovix slumped against Varatesh’s shoulder—and then grappled for the longsword at the plainsman’s belt.
Only then did he realize how hurt and fuddled he was; Varatesh twisted away and bounced to his feet before the Celt’s move was well begun.

The nomad shouted for his bowmen not to fire. He looked down at Viridovix, and there was no kindness on his handsome face now. With chilling deliberation, he kicked the Gaul in the point of the elbow. “Play no games with me,” he said, still quiet-voiced.

Viridovix barely heard; sheets of red and black fire were passing in front of his eyes. The pain in his head, anguish a moment before, receded to a dull, all but friendly ache. Varatesh might not slaughter for the sport of it, but that only made his torments worse when they came.

“I doubt whether Avshar cares what shape you are in when he meets you,” the Khamorth said. He paused, waiting to see how Viridovix met the name.

“Och, be damned to you and him both,” the Gaul said, trying not to show the chill he felt. He blustered, “My comrades’ll be catching up with you long before you can bring me to him.” He had no idea how true that was; but if Varatesh had let them live, he might as well worry about them.

One of the other nomads laughed. “Hush, Kubad,” Varatesh said, then turned back to Viridovix. “They’re welcome to try,” he went on placidly. “In fact, I wish them luck.”

When the Celt could stand, his captors put him on one of their remounts. They took no chances on his escape, tying his feet under the horse and his hands behind him; the plainsman called Kubad guided his mount on a lead. Trying to gain more freedom of any sort, he protested, “At least be letting me have hold of the reins. What if I slip off?” He meant it; he felt anything but well.

Kubad had enough Videssian to answer him. “Then you drag.” Viridovix gave up.

As the nomads rode north over the plains, the Gaul began to see that, by comparison, his own party had been lazing along. The steppe ponies trotted on and on, tireless as if driven by some clockwork. Despite the wide detour the plainsmen took round the herds of some clan, they covered nearly as much ground in one day as Viridovix was used to doing in two.

The only stops they made were to answer nature’s calls; Viridovix
found it hard to relieve himself with an arrow aimed at his midriff. The Khamorth ate in the saddle, gnawing on barklike sun-dried strips of beef and lamb. They did not pause to feed their prisoner, but halfway through the day Varatesh, courteous as if he’d never killed a man, held a flask of kavass to Viridovix’ lips. He drank, both from thirst and in an effort to dull the pounding hurt in his head. The fermented milk did not help much.

Dirty-gray clouds like the underbellies of so many sheep came scudding up out of the south as the afternoon wore to a close. Kubad said something in his own language to Varatesh, who bobbed his head as if acknowledging a compliment. The wind grew brisker and began to feel damp.

The Khamorth leader picked a small creek with an overhanging bank as a campsite. “Rain tonight,” he told Viridovix, “but we sleep dry here—unless the stream rises. I do not think it will.”