The Legion of Videssos (48 page)

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 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. Vet 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 flew harmlessly into the air.

The wizard-prince seemed to grow taller in the saddle, glaring down at Varatesh like an angry god. “What are you playing at, fool?” he rasped, a whisper more menacing than any other man’s roar of rage.

The outlaw chief quailed as Avshar’s wrath fell on him, but his own anger sustained him. “The red-haired one is mine,” he said. “You may not have him.”

“You speak to me of ‘may not,’ grub? Remember who I am.”

That memory would stay with Varatesh forever. But he summoned all that was left of his own pride and flung it back at Avshar: “And you, sorcerer, remember who I am.” Afterwards, he thought it the bravest thing he had ever done.

The wizard-prince measured him with that terrible unseen stare. “So,” he said at last, “another tool turns and bites me, does it? Well, for all that your mother was a cur, you make a better one than that scrannel Vardanes, who thought only of his prick in the end.” He spread his hands in ironic generosity. “Take the red-haired one, then, if you can. I make you a present of him.”

“He is not yours to give,” Varatesh said, but only to himself.

As fighters on both sides began running out of arrows, the battle lines drew closer. Shamshirs flashed in the autumn sun; a nomad near Viridovix gaped at the spouting blood where two fingers of his left hand had been sheared away. “Tie ’em up!” Targitaus shouted. The rider came out of his stupor. Cursing furiously, he wrapped a strip of wool over the wound and tied it tight with a leather thong.

An outlaw rode straight for the Gaul; Viridovix booted his horse on to meet him. Straight sword rang off curved one. With the lighter weapon, the Khamorth slashed again before Viridovix had recovered. He leaned away from the stroke, turned the next one with his shield. His own cut laid the nomad’s leg open. The rider cursed and dropped his guard. Viridovix brought his blade round in a backhand swipe. It crunched into the renegade’s cheek. Blood spattered; the Khamorth’s fur cap flew from his head. Dead or unconscious, he fell from the saddle, to be trampled by his own horse.

Rambehisht had cannily saved his arrows till the fighting came to close quarters. At point-blank range his bow, reinforced with horn, could drive a shaft right through a man, or pin him to his horse. Then his own animal toppled, shot just below the eye. Lithe as a cat, he kicked free of the stirrups before it fell, and faced an oncoming bandit sword in hand.

Mounted man against one afoot, though, was a contest with an ending likely grim. Viridovix, who was not far away,
howled out a wild Gallic war cry. It froze the outlaw for the moment the Celt needed to draw close. Rambehisht ran forward, too. Suddenly it was two against one; the horseman tried to flee, but in the press he could not. Seizing his left calf, Rambehisht pitched him off his beast. Viridovix leaned down to finish him off. Rambehisht leaped onto the steppe pony before it got away. He drew, fired, and hit a nomad riding up behind the Gaul.

Viridovix jerked his head round at the bandit’s cry of pain. “Thank you, Khamorth darling. That one I hadna seen.”

“Debts are for paying,” the dour plainsman answered. Viridovix frowned, wondering if Rambehisht intended to pay back his beating one day as well.

No time to fret over might-be’s. Three brigands spotted Viridovix at once. By luck, one of Targitaus’ men took the closest out of the fight with a well-cast javelin. The other two bored in on the Gaul. He let out another ululating shriek, but it did not daunt them. Thinking fast, he spurred toward one, then clapped his bronze-studded leather cap from his head and hurled it in the other’s face. He wheeled his horse with a skill he hardly knew he had, smashed his sword down on the head of the distracted renegade’s beast. The luckless horse dropped, stone dead. Viridovix never knew what happened to its rider. He was already whirling back to face the other bandit, but the outlaw fled before him.

He laughed gigantically. “Back to your mother, you skulking omadhaun! Think twice or ever you play a man’s game again!” Blood flew from his sword as he brandished it overhead. This was what the battlefield was for, he thought—bending the foe to your mastery, whether by steel or force of will alone. Intoxicating as strong kavass, the power tingled in his veins.

He brushed his long hair back from his eyes, looked round to see how the bigger fight was going. It was hard to be sure. These cavalry battles took up an ungodly lot of room and ebbed and flowed like quicksilver. Worse, he had trouble telling his own side from the outlaws at any distance.

There was, he saw, a battle within a battle in the center of the field, with Anakhar’s Spotted Cats in a wild melee with Krobyz’ Leaping Goats. Most of Varatesh’s nonoutlaw allies seemed to be bunched there, from the standards waving over
them. They might fight along with his blank black banner, but were not eager to join too closely with the renegades who followed it.

As a result, Anakhar’s men were outnumbered and hard-pressed. Targitaus waved to his son to ride to their rescue. Batbaian led a company leftward. Unlike Viridovix, he knew friend from foe at a glance. His horsemen plugged what had been a growing gap, making the enemy give ground. Heartened, the Spotted Cats fought with fresh vigor.

Targitaus took the rest of his men on a flanking move round the outlaws’ left. Avshar met them head-on, leading half a hundred of Varatesh’s hardest brigands, scarred rogues who knew every trick of fighting, fair and foul. They were steeped in evil but far from cowards, giving no quarter and asking none.

On his huge stallion, Avshar stood out from the Khamorth around him like a war galley among rowboats. His fearsome bow was slung over his shoulder; he swung a long straight sword with deadly effect. “Another oaf!” he cried as one of Targitaus’ riders drove at him. The blade hissed as it cleaved air and bit into the plainsman’s neck. “That for your stupidity, then, and Skotos eat your soul forever!”

Viridovix raised his voice to carry through the battle clamor: “Avshar!” The wizard-prince’s head came up, like a dog taking a scent. “Here, you kern!” the Celt yelled. “You wanted Scaurus, but I’ll stand for him the now!”

“And fall, as well!” Avshar spurred past one of his own men. “Out of my way, ravens’ meat!” He brought his sword up in mock salute as he neared the Gaul. “You will make Varatesh angry, gifting me with your life so.”

Viridovix barely beat the wizard’s first stroke aside, turning the flat of the blade with his shield—the edge would have torn through it. The heavy horse Avshar rode let him carry the full panoply he always wore beneath his robes—his shield was a kite-shaped one, faced with metal, on the Namdalener pattern. The gear made the Gaul’s boiled leather seem flimsy as linen.

You’ll not beat this one on strength, the Gaul thought as he turned his horse for the next pass, nor on fear either. That left wit. He remembered the lesson he had learned in his fight with Varatesh: a horse was as important as a sword. It was
doubly true of Avshar’s huge charger, which reared to dash the brains from a dismounted nomad with its iron-shod hooves.

The wizard-prince brought it down and sent it charging at Viridovix, who dug spurs into his own mount. When they met, his slash was aimed not at Avshar in his mail, but at the stallion. He had intended to deliver the same crushing blow he had used against the outlaw’s mount, but misjudged the speed the charger could deliver. Instead of crashing down between the beast’s eyes, the sword tore a great flap of skin from the side of its neck.

That served nearly as well as the stroke he had intended, for the wounded animal screamed in shock and pain and bucked frantically, almost throwing Avshar. Bellowing in rage, the wizard-prince had to clutch its mane to keep from going over its tail. And even though he held his seat, the wounded animal would not answer the reins; it ran off at full gallop, carrying him out of the fight.

“Come back, ye blackguard!” Viridovix howled gleefully. “It’s only just begun that I have.”

Avshar spun in his saddle, shouting a curse. For a moment the battlefield swayed and darkened before the Gaul’s eyes. Then the druids’ marks on his blade flashed golden as they turned aside the spell. His vision cleared. He squeezed the sword hilt gratefully, as if it were a comrade’s hand.

The battle hung, undecided, for some endless time, with no lull long enough to let the fighters do much more than sob in a few quick breaths or swig at skins of water or kavass. The sun had passed west of south before Viridovix fully realized he was moving forward more often than back.

“Press ’em, press ’em!” Targitaus shouted. “They’re going to break.”

But as his horsemen gathered themselves for the charge that would finish the outlaws, yells of alarm came from the center and left, the most dreaded cry on the steppe: “Fire!” Clouds of thick black smoke leaped into the air, obscuring the renegades. Targitaus’ face purpled with rage. “Filthy cowards! Better to die like men than cover a retreat that way.”

Then Viridovix heard Avshar’s gloating laughter and knew all his hopes were undone, for the flames spread faster than any natural fire, and at the direction of a malignant will. Horses shrieked and men screamed as the advancing walls of
fire swept over them. But they were merely caught by accident in the web of the wizard-prince’s design. He used his blaze to net his foes as a hunter would drive hares into his meshes, trapping them in small pockets between fiery sheets that raced between and behind horses faster than any beast could hope to run.

As the main body of their enemies was caught, Varatesh’s brigands took fresh heart, while the clans that rode with them saw Avshar’s prowess with mingled awe and terror. They drove against the untrapped remnants of Targitaus’ army with redoubled force. Now all the weight of numbers was on their side. There was no checking them. The retreat that followed was close to rout.

Viridovix tried to stem it singlehanded, slashing his way through the enemy ranks toward Avshar. The wizard-prince was afoot, having dismounted from his wounded charger the better to direct his sorcery. The Gaul’s desperation burned bright as the wizard’s flames; few outlaws dared stand against him.

Varatesh and a band of outlaws rode to Avshar’s rescue, but the wizard needed no protection. He gave Viridovix a quick glance, gestured, sent a tongue of flame licking his way through the grass. The Celt spurred toward it regardless, confident his sword would carry him past the magic. The druids’ marks on the blade glowed as he thundered toward the fire.

But his mount knew nothing of sorcery and shied at the flames ahead, its eyes rolling with panic. For all his roweling, it would go no further. He cried out to Epona, but the Celtic horse-goddess held no power in this world. Avshar’s image wavered through the flames, tauntingly out of reach.