Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 83

Artem did not try to reassure Varkan; he did not think the Scythian needed it. The arrows had meanwhile stopped falling. Only occasional arrows still whizzed past.

“Dorbatay must be up to something else,” Ivan Semenovich said. “He must be planning another attack. With arrows, or sending his soldiers up? Artem, where’s the bag we found and smuggled out to you in the forest?”

The two bags that Varkan had brought Artem soon after their escape to the forest, did not contain the dynamite charges, so sometime later, after Artem had managed to repel the sudden attack in the forest with the primers, he had asked Varkan and Ronis to try to find the other two. The slaves found them among the things, stored away after the death of Skolot, and passed them on to Varkan’s men, who, in turn, delivered them to Artem. Much to his joy, he discovered that nothing had been taken out, probably out of fear of meddling with things belonging to the foreign magicians. Artem took the trouble of carrying one bag, into which he put their most prized possessions, with him from the camp to the place in the rocks from which the final attack was launched. But when they saw Ronis’s signal and started running down to the grove, Artem had left the bag behind. In the heat of battle and retreat he had forgotten about it, and now, when Ivan Semenovich mentioned it, he looked around in panic, thinking he had lost it. As he looked around, feverishly trying to remember where he had left it he was very much relieved to find it sitting untouched where it had been put a few hours ago. He rushed to it and squatted beside it, opening it. He did not see a head in the leather helmet emerging noiselessly above the crest of the rocks. The entire Scythian soon emerged, and holding onto the rocks, took a quick look around. Artem, still oblivious of the enemy’s presence, was the closest to him. The Scythian raised his spear and took aim. It all happened within a second.

“Artem!” Dmitro Borisovich suddenly cried out in alarm when he saw a Scythian with the raised spear at the crest. Artem looked up and was petrified with horror; just a few steps away, he saw an enemy soldier aiming at him with a spear.

That’s it, a thought flashed through his mind.

But at the same time, he saw someone leaping right in front of him. It was Varkan! The young Scythian had also noticed the danger to his blood brother. In a lightning movement, he had leapt between Artem and the enemy soldier. Had his intention been to tackle the enemy with his bare hands? The explorers were never to learn the answer.

The soldier hurled his weapon. It described a curve in the air — Artem saw it coming. But Varkan stood in the way of the sharp spear that was intended to bring death to Artem. With a loud groan, Varkan sagged to the ground right in front of the young man. A moment later Dmitro Borisovich who had rushed up to the intruder, brought down his heavy axe on the head in the leather helmet; the soldier did not have time to get away. Flinging up his hands, he went tumbling down the slope.

No one cared to see what happened to the enemy soldier as everybody rushed to Varkan. Varkan, their courageous, loyal friend was lying on the ground with a spear sticking out of his chest! The spear the enemy had intended for Artem! Blood was pouring from the wound.

“Varkan, Varkan, why did you do it?” muttered Artem, completely stunned. He bent low over the man who had just saved his life. Pink froth appeared on Varkan’s lips — a sure sign that the spear had pierced his lung. Varkan still found enough strength to smile; his hand groped for Artem’s trembling hand and gave it a squeeze, a very light one, his exceptional strength suddenly gone.

Tears welled in Artem’s eyes. He must help Varkan, he must… But how? Artem then heard the geologist’s doleful voice:

“By the looks of it, his lung has been pierced… We don’t have any means of helping him… Nothing can be done…”

The shouts of the priests and enemy soldiers who were trying to boost each others’ spirits for a decisive attack came from below. The attack was sure to come, as these rocks were the only place the enemy could retreat to. From their vantage point, the explorers and Varkan’s men could see that the slaves and the warriors of Varkan’s main force had reunited and pushed the enemy as far as the grove. There was almost no doubt that the enemy would be crushed soon. But what if they managed to capture this position in the rocks before it happened? There were too many of them, and a handful of Varkan’s men and the four strangers would not be able to hold them back for any significant time!

Then, Dorbatay’s rasping voice could be heard, giving some orders. But what did he say?

Varkan’s men were now positioned along the crest, hiding behind the rocks so they could not be hit by arrows. Due to the steep slope and the ruggedness of the rocks, it was possible to reach the ledge only one at a time, and those of the enemy who did get there would be easily dealt with by the defenders. Several of the enemy soldiers had already tried it, and were now sprawled on the ground, having been flung down, their heads bashed in. The rest had not yet worked up enough courage to ascend the slope.

Ivan Semenovich said to Artem in an undertone:

“You may safely assume that we will not use the horses.”

“And why is that?”

“Hartak’s soldiers have managed to get to them by some roundabout path. I didn’t see them do it, but I see them there now. Look, the enemy’s on that side, too.”

Now their encirclement was complete; they were in a trap. In front and on all the sides, they were besieged by the enemy. Behind them rose the vertical cliffs. The enemy, in turn, were also trapped, pressed to the foot of the rocks by the insurgents with no available routes of retreat except uphill. This made the situation especially grave for the explorers, as the enemy, even should they want to lift the siege, had nowhere to go. Besides, Dorbatay surely realized the advantages of the position on the rock ledge where his forces, after capturing it from the strangers, could hold out, with excellent chances of being able to defend themselves successfully for quite a long time against the insurgents.

Lida supported Varkan’s head; the courageous Scythian’s life was oozing away. His eyes were half-closed, he breathed heavily, in gasps. No words came from him.

“Varkan, Varkan, you shouldn’t have done it…”

The Scythian heard the sympathetic voice of his blood brother. His hand again touched Artem’s hand lightly. He did not have strength any longer for a smile, only the shade of it appeared on his deathly-pale face.

His eyes sought out Artem’s.

“I’m here with you, Varkan, here!”

Artem took Varkan’s hand in his. There were no words to express his grief; he helplessly and woefully blinked the tears from his eyes. Artem squeezed out a few words: “Varkan, my dear, great, wonderful friend…”

Varkan groaned, his hand unsteadily going to his head. He opened his eyes. There was a flicker of recognition when he saw Lida bent low over him. She said, her voice full of grief:

“Varkan, are you better?”

Gathering what little strength there was left in him, he moved his eyes from one of his friends to another: Dmitro Borisovich still holding his battle-axe in his hands; Ivan Semenovich, intently surveying the steep slope; Artem who never took his anxious, compassionate eyes off him, trying, it seemed, to pass through this intense gaze of great sympathy some strength and vital force which his dying blood brother needed so badly. This time Varkan managed a real smile of relief. All his friends were at his side. Hardly moving his lips, he whispered in Greek, barely audibly: “I’m glad… glad that you… that all of you…”

He could speak no more. His head rolled to the side. The last colors of life were gone from his face, and some pink froth again appeared on his lips. His chest heaved spasmodically — it was the last breath the Scythian ever took. A moment later he was dead. His limp body was as motionless as the quiver lying by his side.

Lida buried her face in her hands; hot tears ran between her fingers. She wept, without feeling shame for her tears or trying to conceal them; she was weeping over their dead friend, their true, noble and devoted friend. This wonderful man had been a friend to all of them. He had sacrificed himself to save Artem’s life, and he would have done so for anyone of them! Dmitro Borisovich turned away, wiping his tears. Artem could not make himself look at the body of the dead Scythian. He kept muttering to himself:

“Now… I can’t… I mustn’t… I must control myself… the enemy can attack any minute… I have to control myself…”

He felt as though a heavy hand had grabbed his heart; hot waves of anguish passed through him; he had to keep his eyes tightly shut to force back the tears. And he kept telling himself:

“I must control myself… Varkan, intrepid warrior, wonderful friend, had died… but there’s nothing I can do about it…”

At last, Artem moved slowly away from the stiff body of his friend and blood brother. Then he turned and looked once again at Varkan’s bloodless but now tranquil face.

“Farewell, Varkan,” he said mournfully, but in a steady voice. “Farewell, my friend!”

A spear whizzed through the air and clanged against the rock, falling between Artem and Varkan’s body. The enemy had definitely resolved upon a final attack. So, the insurgents must still be pressing them hard, so they had to try to capture the advantageous position on the ledge to defend themselves more successfully. But whatever the reason, the enemy were about to launch an attack that had to be dealt with! Two more spears struck the rock close to one another, but luckily without hurting anyone.