Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 70

As nothing terrible happened — only the little dot of light grew brighter — the Scythians began to shake off their consternation. A huge Scythian, evidently the leader, wearing a leather coat with metal plates sewn on to it, shouted something encouraging, pointing to Artem. In reply, the Scythians filled the forest with their battle-cry. But Artem had used the pause he had been granted: he had put the burning end of the cigarette to a short piece of the safety fuse that immediately caught fire, hissing and dropping sparks. The next moment Artem hurled the primer with the burning fuse attached to it into the midst of the Scythians and stepped back behind a thick tree trunk. He did it not a moment too soon as three of four spears hit the ground where he had been just standing.

“Aha, just you wait!” he cried out triumphantly.

The explosion of the primer made the Scythians freeze once again. The spears that had been raised in the air, the bows that had been bent, were held in those positions. The bearded, dignified-looking warrior at whose feet the primer exploded sank to the ground in shock. Without getting to his feet again, he began crawling backwards on all fours, dropping arrows from his quiver but never stopping to pick them up, his sword dragging on the ground, catching on the branches. His was the only moving figure among the immobile Scythians, gripped by fear.

Under somewhat different circumstances, Artem would have burst laughing at this sight, but now he just did not have time to. Puffing vigorously at his cigarette, he put the fuses attached to the primers to the burning end one by one, and then hurled them at the Scythians.

One explosion followed another, throwing flashes of light at the Scythians who ceased to be a group united by a single purpose as they had lost their fighting spirit and were thoroughly discouraged. The Scythians at whose feet primers exploded, collapsed at first and then, oblivious of everything, forgetting Dorbatay’s strict orders, casting away their resoluteness and audacity, not thinking any more of their superiority in numbers, took to their heels, having been routed by the terrible magician who now stood beside a tree without trying to hide behind it.

Artem was still holding the cigarette between his lips, but he had no use for it any longer. He stopped lighting the fuses — the punitive force had fled. His lips were twisted in a wry, nervous smile, his limbs trembling. But he had achieved a victory, a complete victory!

Spears, bows, arrows were scattered all around on the grass, dropped by the fleeing Scythians.

Artem stared silently at the scene. Strange conflicting emotions surged up in him, and he did not know to which he should give preference. On the one hand he had just managed to avert the mortal danger threatening him and his friends. That was good. But on the other hand, he was ashamed to have achieved his victory by rather cheap tricks which these Scythians took as nothing short of the terrible doings of a black magician. But what else could he have done in this situation? In any case, he had not killed or injured anyone. And if he had not played his tricks, things would have ended very badly for him, Varkan and his men… No, there had been no other way out, no doubt of it.

Artem was approached by Varkan who stopped a few paces away, staring at him silently, and in this stare were mixed love, fascination and awe. Artem, greatly embarrassed, said:

“Oh, cut it out, Varkan!”

The Scythian, still without saying anything, in a very solemn gesture, put his hand first to his helmet, then to his heart, and then bowed to Artem, touching the ground with one hand. Artem was thrown into utter confusion: why should Varkan be paying homage to him?

“Oh, really, cut it out, I tell you,” Artem murmured, almost angrily now. “I’m not your king, you know. You’re happy everything ended the way it did, but so am I, no less than you, believe me. Ah, now that’s better, we don’t need all these ceremonies, really!” And Artem reached his hands toward the Scythian. “You’re my blood brother!”

Varkan, who listened to the sounds of the language unknown to him with great attention, must have discerned the earnest and friendly notes. He broke into a smile, grabbed Artem’s hands, squeezed them hard, and then hugged him, saying something warm and friendly.

His men were already collecting the weapons that had been left behind by Dorbatay’s soldiers. They cast furtive glances at Artem, talking in low voices. Once again Artem felt somewhat discomfitted.

When they returned to the glade, Dmitro Borisovich rushed to Artem; he was greatly disturbed. He had heard the battle cry of the Scythians, and then the explosions of the primers, but he could not deduce from these sounds what was going on.

“Artem, my dear boy, what was it? Were you attacked? Was it a real fight? I heard the battle cries!” the archeologist poured out his questions, adjusting his eyeglasses which kept sliding down his nose — a sure sign that Dmitro Borisovich was in a state of great agitation.

“Luckily, everything was settled without a fight,” Artem said modestly.

“But what about those wild cries and explosions I heard?”

“Well, yes, there was, in fact, a group of soldiers that tried to attack us… And I’m still wondering how Dorbatay learnt where we were hiding?.. They, the soldiers that is, wanted to catch us unawares.”

“Oh, did they?”

“So it was necessary to do something about it. There was no other way out, you know. While they were deciding what to do next, I sort of attacked them myself.”

“You attacked them? You alone?”

“Errr… well, I threw a couple of primers at them. The primers detonated and gave a terrible fright to the Scythians who took to their heels. That’s all.”

“They just turned around and fled?”

“Yes, turned and fled. Otherwise we would not be talking with you now,” Artem said judiciously.

“Ah, my dear young man, is that any way to tell a story? I nearly went out of my mind lying here and listening to all those terrible sounds, and now I have to drag the words out of you!”

“Dmitro Borisovich, there’s nothing much to tell, honest! It was, really and truly just a skirmish, nothing more. Besides, we have to move out of here right away and find ourselves a different place to camp, because it is very dangerous to stay here any longer. Then, after we have settled down again, I promise, I will tell everything in great detail, if you’re interested, of course… And who’s that, over there?”

Some shadows were moving into the glade in the dusk. A moment later, the shadows became riders who had several heavily laden horses in tow. They could not be the enemy or Varkan would not be talking to them in such a friendly manner.

“Ronis!” exclaimed Dmitro Borisovich, glad to see the man again.

One of the riders dismounted and came up to the archeologist and Artem. It was, indeed, Ronis, who, as was his custom, bowed to Dmitro Borisovich politely and with dignity.

“I was happy to learn,” he said, “that Dorbatay’s soldiers failed to catch you by surprise. Unfortunately, I could not warn Varkan earlier because I learnt of Dorbatay’s intention only after the soldiers had already started on their way. They had been given an express order…”

“An express order?”

“Yes, a strict order to track you down and…”

“Kill us?”

“No, not necessarily. They were told to try and capture you alive, but Dorbatay told the leader of the group to kill you if capturing you proved impossible. Dorbatay would, of course, have preferred to have you brought to him alive rather than dead, because then he would have the opportunity to kill you when it suited him. But, naturally, if he could not have you alive, he would feel much safer having you dead.”

“Yes, he certainly would!” Artem said mockingly, after he heard the archeologist’s translation of what Ronis was saying. “But his men tried to get us twice already and failed both times!”

“But they might have more luck some other time, especially if you stay here,” Ronis said gravely. “He knows the exact location of your camp.”

“Yes, we have to move away from here,” Dmitro Borisovich said. “Artem suggested that already. It would be extremely unwise to give Dorbatay another chance.”

“And the consequences of a new confrontation could be much graver for us,” Artem added.

“All the more so that these ‘grave consequences’ would considerably hamper our plans,” Ronis said with a slight smile. “So, let’s get moving without losing any more time. I think Varkan has already chosen the site of our new camp. He knows the forest like nobody else.”

Artem got on his horse. Dmitro Borisovich, after several abortive attempts, managed, at last, to wriggle his way onto the horse’s back; he had reluctantly agreed to entrust himself to the mare. It was almost completely dark when Varkan started on his way. He was followed by the Scythians who had brought horses loaded with weapons. Next were Ronis and Artem with Dmitro Borisovich. Varkan’s men brought up the rear.

Ronis was relating the news.

“The Scythians will start on their funeral journey very soon, maybe even tomorrow. The corpse of the chieftain has already been embalmed.”

“Has already been embalmed?” Dmitro Borisovich whose archeological interest was immediately roused, repeated. “What a pity!.. That is… I mean… I wish I had seen it! It would have been of great interest for me to see how it was done! And the embalming took such a short time?”