Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 61

Artem looked back to see the same impenetrable darkness of the pitch-dark night. Once in a while, the clatter of hooves grew fainter and Artem rejoiced at the thought that his pursuers were falling behind. But then the clatter grew louder, and the men behind them seemed closer. Then Artem would press against his horse’s neck, urging the beast onward, trying to become one with it.

“Faster… faster… faster!” he whispered, keeping time with the gallop.

The horse continued at the same neck-breaking speed. Once they galloped over a low hill, the hooves beating a resounding staccato against the stones. And then they flew across the steppe with its high grass that lashed at Artem’s knees in the dark. He was disturbed by the fact that he did not know where they were going: the steppe was not a good place to hide. As far as he remembered, the cliffs at the end of the steppe could not hide them either. And they could not go on riding like this forever hoping that their pursuers would eventually fall behind and lose them…

There was little hope that would happen. The horses running after them must have been as fresh and strong as their own. Dorbatay was sure to have fetched the very best for his men…

Artem heard the clatter of hooves on stone from the same’ hill he and his companions had ridden over just a short while ago. So, the pursuers were not falling behind at all. Surely they were well-armed with the swords and spears the Scythians used so expertly. In this respect, the darkness was an asset for the fugitives.

When Artem remembered how Varkan had hit a small rabbit on horseback at full gallop, it made his flesh creep: Varkan was surely not the only Scythian capable of such feats! Artem looked back nervously: the steady clatter of hooves behind them never slackened. Artem peered into the darkness ahead and made out two dark silhouettes of men on horseback. He was definitely gaining on them. Were they slowing down? Had Varkan and Dmitro Borisovich — for who else could it be — reined in their horses? Something must have happened!

They have not stopped; they had slowed from a gallop to a trot. But at that pace, they would soon be overtaken by the pursuers! So, what was the idea?

When Artem found himself quite close to the riders, he called out to them:

“Dmitro Borisovich! What’s the matter? Why have you slowed down? The pursuers are on our heels!”

“My horse’s gone lame. He can’t gallop, and neither can I, for that matter. But that’s beside the point,” replied the archeologist.

“The pursuers…” Artem repeated but then cut himself short: it would disturb Dmitro Borisovich even more if he knew they were being chased. But it was too late: now the archeologist had been alerted to the new danger:

“What pursuers?” he asked quickly. “Do you mean we’re being chased?”

Artem had no alternative but to explain:

“An armed party has been dispatched to catch us, probably of priests. And they’re very close now.”

Now Artem’s horse was also trotting alongside the archeologist’s. Artem could not make out the expression on the archeologist’s face but he heard anxiety when the older man finally spoke:

“So, what’s to be done? My horse is limping… we can’t go much faster.”

At this point, Varkan cut in, saying just a few words. The clatter of the hooves was definitely drawing nearer and nearer with every passing moment. Something had to be done at once.

“What did Varkan tell you, Dmitro Borisovich?”

“He told me to go ahead to the forest which as it happens is very near, straight ahead. And to take you with me. Meanwhile, Varkan will engage the pursuers.”

“No, I don’t go with that,” Artem protested. “You should go there right away with your lame horse. I’m staying here and will catch up with you later.”

“But Artem…”

“Now’s not the time for arguing, Dmitro Borisovich! Go now!”

“You’re not even armed, Artem! What use you will be in a skirmish with the priests?”

“There you’re mistaken. I’ve got a weapon! Go, I beseech you!”

With no little satisfaction, Artem saw that the archeologist obeyed without further argument. His feeling Gf satisfaction was liberally mixed with wonder at how relations between people could change depending on the circumstances! Until just a short while ago, it was Dmitro Borisovich who issued orders which Artem invariably obeyed, albeit some times reluctantly, but now it was the archeologist who did what Artem told him.

Dmitro Borisovich set off toward the forest and was almost immediately engulfed by the darkness. In the meantime, the clatter of hooves was growing nearer.

Varkan put his hand on Artem’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shove as if to say: follow Dmitro Borisovich.

“No, I’m staying here,” Artem said resolutely. He was glad to hear Varkan say something to his men, in a tone suggesting that he approved of Artem’s determination.

They stopped, and Artem’s horse pranced nervously, probably sensing the tension of the rider. Swords clanked as they were drawn from the scabbards. Judging by the wild hue and cry that ensued, the pursuers must have caught sight of the fugitives.

It would be a fight against overwhelming odds: in spite of their dauntless courage, Varkan and his men would hardly be a match for the many pursuers, whose number could be estimated, judging by the clatter of hooves, as several score.

How could Artem help Varkan against such a formidable force? Diana would defend only Artem, for she could not distinguish friend from foe among the Scythians. Artem had neither sword nor spear, and Varkan had none to spare. Even if there had been an extra sword, Artem had no skill in handling one. But Artem knew how he would defend himself and the rest: he did have a weapon. It bore the least possible resemblance to anything conventionally described as weapons. In fact the thing he planned to use as a weapon was designed for purely peaceful purposes, but at the moment Artem placed more hope on it than on swords. In any case, he would not exchange it for a sword or spear under the present circumstances.

Artem’s heart was pounding wildly; he was dying to use his unusual weapon. The voices of his pursuers grew even louder as they drew nearer. The time had come. Using gestures, Artem explained that Varkan and his men should stay where they were and that he, Artem, would deal with the pursuers all by himself. Varkan, nonplussed as he was, nevertheless realized that his blood brother had come up with some ingenious new plan.

“You stay here,” Artem said, emphasizing his words with a gesture. “I’ll meet the pursuers alone. Understand?”

Varkan did not, of course, understand the words but the gestures were eloquent enough, and the Scythian was baffled; he was about to remonstrate, but Artem paid no heed. He dismounted, leaving Varkan and his men behind; they expressed their amazement and anxiety in terse phrases. Artem bent low to hide himself in the grass and dashed a dozen meters toward the oncoming pursuers. Then he stopped to catch his breath and command Diana, who was again at his side, to lie quietly.

“So, you want to hurl your spears?” Artem mumbled to himself. “You want to hack at us with your swords? Just try it! Just you wait, I’ll make you sorry you’ve come!”

Crouching low in the grass, he saw — now that his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark — the silhouettes of the first pursuers riding straight at him. They must have seen Varkan and his men, whose immobility must have surprised them. But they also must have been glad to discover that they had halted, for they would be easier to capture.

Yelling in a frenzy, the attackers raised their spears; now they were sure of success.

Artem decided that the time to act had come. He raised his hand, holding a stubby object, above the grass.

“Here we go!”

The yelling stopped immediately, congealing into abrupt, stunned silence. The priests had reined in their horses, but even had they not done so, their frightened mounts would have stopped anyway. The concentrated ray of white light that seemed quite blinding in the total darkness hit the pursuers straight in the face, so they could not see anything but this mysterious light. Artem, Varkan and his men, on the contrary, could see the pursuers, overwhelmed by consternation, very well; and they were indeed priests. No wonder they were astounded: the blinding spot of light was shining above the high grass, without setting it on fire!

The priests were staring at the cold light that had sprung up so mysteriously in their way in baffled dismay. They could see each other almost as clearly as in the daylight; they could see the grass around them, but further away, the darkness on all sides of the source of light seemed to have solidified into a wall beyond which nothing could be seen.

“Aha, you’ve stopped, haven’t you?” Artem whispered maliciously, trying to control his nervous excitement. “Now you’ve stopped, but what are you going to do next, I wonder?”

He trembled with nervous tension but he kept the button of his powerful flashlight pressed. Wasn’t it a piece of good luck that he had it with him and that he had remembered it just in time!

Suddenly, as the initial shock wore off, a new upsurge of fury smote the priests. One of them — a middle-aged man wearing a red cloak with a hood, lashed his horse, urging it forward. But the horse, still thoroughly frightened by the light, only reared. The rider lashed it again, but the horse refused to move forward. Then the priest abruptly raised a spear into the air, aiming at the blinding light, uttering curses and imprecations all the while.