Volodimir Vladko - Descendants of the Scythians

At that moment, he saw a big crowd at the next bend in the road and stopped. He also heard shouts and general agitated murmur coming from the people. They’re headed for the chieftain’s kibitka! the thought crossed Artem’s mind. There were several horsemen riding back and forth in front of the crowd. They gradually retreated as the mass of bodies pressed forward. The riders seemed to be trying to halt the progress of the crowd, urging their horses to push the people back with their chests, but the crowd was too much excited to be turned away, and pressed inexorably forward, step by step. The horses reared and pranced; one of the riders was almost knocked out of the saddle.

The riders must be Varkan and his warriors! Artem thought.

The riders were now in full retreat. Artem caught sight of a rather short figure in a hectic movement between the retreating riders and the crowd, his hands raised threateningly high into the air. Artem recognized the old soothsayer who was advancing on the riders, shouting, losing his breath in the process, and uttering imprecations in his unpleasant voice. He pointed to the sky, to the big cloud that loomed so low as to touch the people’s heads, and waved his arms wildly.

He must be scaring them with something, damn the old geezer! Artem thought.

Varkan rode toward the soothsayer, but other riders lagged behind, leaving Varkan alone to face the soothsayer. The old man took advantage of this chance and raised his arms even higher, shouting something in a frenzy. In response to this howling, the front rows surged forward and rushed at Varkan. Another moment, and he would be thrown from his horse, but Varkan had not lost his nerve: he jerked the reins, making the horse leap to the side and rear. Then the horse turned and bore the brave Scythian to the rest of the warriors. Without halting, Varkan shouted a few short words to the riders who galloped away all together, probably headed for the chieftain’s kibitka.

The crowd rushed after the riders, shouting triumphantly. The old soothsayer ran in front of it, several Scythians close by his side. One could only wonder at the old man’s agility and vigor. And it was probably this agility that impressed the Scythians, who followed him, running and shouting hostile words.

“Ah, I don’t like the way the things are developing,” Artem grumbled. “If they catch sight of me, I’ll be in big trouble… and there’s nowhere to hide…”

The situation was indeed growing desperate, all the more so since more Scythians began appearing from nearby kibitkas evidently attracted by the shouts of the crowd. There was nowhere for the young man to hide; he could be seized either by those Scythians who were running after the riders or by those who were pouring out of their kibitkas. At that moment, Artem saw that the riders were already quite near him.

“Varkan!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Varkan, help!’’

The Scythian, seeing Artem, uttered a cry of surprise. He reined in his horse abruptly. Varkan reached his hand to Artem and pulled the youth up behind him. The moment Artem was firmly installed, Varkan galloped away, catching up with the rest of the riders. Artem was sitting on the horse’s croup, holding on to the Scythian’s shoulders with his hands. A new wave of shouting came from the infuriated crowd. Artem turned his head to look back and saw the crowd, much swelled in size, rolling after them, the soothsayer at its head as before.

It looks as if it’s us they’re after, Artem thought, and this very disturbing idea made his flesh creep. But soon everything would become clear. In a few moments, the riders stopped at the red tent of the chieftain.

Artem leapt down from the horse and rushed in, impatient to break the news to his friends. If the old soothsayer was, in fact, stirring up animosity toward the strangers, Artem and his friends had to get ready to defend themselves, to do something about it… But what, Artem could not say. Seeing the disturbed, questioning expressions on the faces of his friends, who turned to him as he burst in, he cried out:

“A great crowd is on its way here! The soothsayer’s leading them! They’ll be here any moment now!”

Lida went pale, Ivan Semenovich clenched his teeth, and Dmitro Borisovich began to rise. The old chieftain had, naturally, understood nothing of what Artem had said, and only looked at him questioningly.

“And what is it they want?” Ivan Semenovich asked at last.

“I don’t know. They attacked Varkan… They’re pushing forward and are on their way here… They seem incensed at something.”

That was all Artem could say, but just then, Varkan entered the kibitka and began telling his story, addressing himself to both the chieftain and Dmitro Borisovich. The chieftain frowned.

“What is he saying?” Ivan Semenovich asked the archeologist.

“I do not understand. He must have forgotten I don’t speak Scythian. But judging from the way he sounds, it must be pretty bad.”

Abruptly, Skolot interrupted Varkan and picked up his helmet from the rug. His hand gripped the golden handle of his short sword. Without rising, he pointed at the guests.

Varkan understood. He turned to Dmitro Borisovich and spoke again — this time in Greek. The archeologist listened to him attentively, pulling anxiously at his beard.

“Well, what’s he telling you?” Ivan Semenovich asked impatiently.

“He says that the soothsayer has instigated the Scythians to come here to Skolot and demand that we be given to the priests. The soothsayer warns of the gods’ wrath, scaring the people with an approaching thunderstorm, saying that lightning will strike them dead and rocks will begin to fall on their heads for their disobedience to the soothsayer. The soothsayer also says that the gods are already angry at the Scythians because Skolot would not allow us to be sacrificed…”

Artem saw the shrewd move of the soothsayer: he had used the approaching thunderstorm for his purpose, and thunderstorms were evidently rare in those parts.

“Ivan Semenovich, there really is a thunderstorm coming. I’ve seen it,” he said. “The whole sky — or maybe not the real sky but whatever they have here for a sky — is covered with dark clouds, and the soothsayer apparently wants to use the occasion to scare the wits out of the Scythians.” Ivan Semenovich remained silent, pondering the problem. The archeologist began speaking again:

“Varkan says that the Scythians are indeed frightened. They fear that the rocks will start tumbling from the sky. That’s strange, since according to what we know about the Scythians from historical sources, they were not afraid of thunderstorms. But here they…” Dmitro Borisovich spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

Ivan Semenovich shrugged his shoulders:

“Your historical sources might have had their reasons, but don’t forget that the conditions here are rather peculiar. The falling rocks mentioned by Varkan — isn’t that a good enough reason to be afraid of thunderstorms?”

Lida glanced at the geologist in surprise:

“Rocks? Do you believe rocks can really fall from the sky here during thunderstorms?”

“I don’t see why we should regard this idea as impossible. Don’t forget where we are. Powerful electric discharges can, of course, dislodge huge pieces of rock in the mountains, sending them down into this valley… Have you forgotten that in all likelihood, we are in an enormous subterranean cavity, a sort of gigantic cave?”

Now, when this idea had been expressed at last, it sounded incredible, and yet it was the only plausible explanation. Ivan Semenovich seemed to be the only person among the four explorers who had the presence of mind to think of the actual state of things. The presence of Scythians in this subterranean cavity of unthinkable size could be regarded as highly enigmatic and baffling, but still he never forgot they were somewhere underground in a gigantic cave where everything, from the chimerical yellow-pinkish plants to an underground thunderstorm with rocks raining from the sky, was highly unusual and unique. To arrive at an ultimate explanation that would take all these things into account was still impossible, the more so since there was no time to ponder it properly.