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"Well, then, we maun be keepin' it brief," he said to himself and leaped at
the plainsman, raining blows from all directions, trying to overwhelm him by
sheer dint of muscle. His opponent danced away, but his boot heel skidded in
the trampled mud, and he had to block desperately as Viridovix'
blade came slashing down. He turned the stroke, but his own sword went flying,
to land point down in the muck.
"Ahh," said the Khamorth from their horses.
With their leader at his mercy, as he thought, Viridovix had no intention of
killing him there was no telling what the plainsmen might do after that. But
when he stepped confidently forward to pluck the nomad's knife from his belt
in token of victory, the Khamorth chopped at his wrist with the hard edge of
his hand, and his own sword dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers.
"No you don't, you blackhearted omadhaun!" the Gaul shouted as his foe grabbed
for the dagger. He grappled, wrapping the nomad in a bear hug. The Khamorth
butted like a goat, crashing the top of his head up into Viridovix' chin. The
Celt saw stars, spat blood from a bitten tongue, but his left hand kept its
clamp on his opponent's right wrist. He punched the plainsman in the back of
the neck again and again not sporting, maybe, but effective. At last, with a
soft little groan, the Khamorth slumped to the mud.
Sweat glistening all over his body, Viridovix retrieved his sword and faced
the mounted nomads.
They stared back, as uncertain as he was. "I've not killed him, you know," the
Gaul said, gesturing toward their chief, "though he'll wish I had for the next
few days." He still got blinding headaches from the clubbing Varatesh had
given him.
He squatted beside the plainsman, who was just beginning to revive. The rest
of the nomads hefted their bows in warning. "It's no harm I mean him,"
Viridovix said; they did not understand that any more than they had his
previous speech, but relaxed somewhat when they saw him help their
comrade sit. The barbarian moaned and held his head in his hands, still half
unconscious.
One of the Khamorth tossed his bow to the man beside him, dismounted, and
walked up to
Viridovix, his empty hands spread in front of him. He pointed to the Celt.
"You," he said. Viridovix nodded; that was a word he knew. The nomad pointed
to the string of steppe ponies the Gaul was leading. "Where?" he asked. He
repeated it several times, with gestures, until Viridovix understood.
"Oh, it's these beauties you'd be knowing about, is it? I stole 'em from
Varatesh, indeed and I did,"
the Celt said, proud of his exploit, not just because it had let him escape,
but for its own sake as well. In Gaul as among the nomads, stock raiding was a
sport, in fact almost an art.
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"Varatesh?" Three of the Khamorth spoke the name at the same time; it was all
they had caught of what Viridovix had said. Even their stunned leader jerked
his head up, but let it fall with a groan.
They hurled excited questions at the Gaul. He waved his hands to show he could
not follow.
The dismounted nomad shouted his friends down. "You and Varatesh?" he asked
Viridovix with a wide, artificial smile, then repeated the question, this time
with a fearsome scowl on his face.
"Aren't you the clever one, now?" the Celt exclaimed. "Me and Varatesh," he
said, and screwed up his face into the most terrible grimace he could imagine,
slashing the air with his sword for good measure. Only then did he realize the
nomads might be friendly to the outlaw. Well, no help for it, and a lie had
the same chance of getting him into trouble as the truth.
But he got the answer right. The plainsmen broke into smiles for the first
time. The dismounted one offered his hand for Viridovix to clasp. He took it
warily, shifting his sword to his own left hand, but the Khamorth's
friendliness was genuine. "Yaramna," he said, tapping himself on the chest. He
pointed to his companions on their horses: "Nerseh, Zamasp, Valash," then to
his chief:
"Rambehisht."
"More sneeze-names," Viridovix sighed, and gave his own. Then he had two
inspirations, one on the other's heels. He retrieved Rambehisht's saber and
gave it back to the plainsman. Rambehisht was hardly up to standing yet, let
alone showing thanks, but his comrades murmured appreciatively.
Then the Gaul walked back to his horses, retrieving his trousers and tunic
from the back of the one he had been riding.
He used his sword to cut some of the animals' leads, and presented each of the
plainsmen with half a dozen beasts. The string he kept for himself had been
Varatesh's; in such matters he trusted the outlaw chief's judgment. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]