The Legion of Videssos (15 page)

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.

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.”