Volodimir Vladko - Descendants of the Scythians

The strength of Varkan’s group grew on other counts, too, and not just numerically. Varkan made sure there would be no clashes with Dorbatay’s forces before everything was ready for the final confrontation. Varkan reasoned that he had to solidify his forces and lull the vigilance of the old soothsayer. That is why the only action allowed was leading away horses from Dorbatay’s large herds. It was done in the dead of night, very stealthily, to avoid any clashes with the herdsmen. Everything was done very quickly; Varkan’s men were not even armed for such nocturnal raids. They were sure they would not be attacked anyway, as in accordance with the sacred Scythian traditions, it was forbidden to engage in any armed aggressive action until the deceased chieftain had been buried. Until then, the Scythians were permitted to use weapons only in self-defense.

Artem once said, commenting on the situation:

“It’s like the legend old Ormad, or whatever his name was, told at Skolot’s feast…”

“It was not a legend, my dear Artem, but a piece — somewhat embroidered of course — of actual history,” Dmitro Borisovich remarked.

“All right, so it really happened. But anyway, this funeral procession on the way to Gerrhus could be compared to the march of Darius’s hordes. And we, here in the forest — to the Scythians who avoided battle and used hit-and-run tactics… See, Dmitro Borisovich, how some knowledge of history, or legend, helps one assess the present situation? Ormad should be thanked. Now, what about a little workout?”

Artem and Dmitro Borisovich had already scored some successes in mastering the Scythian weapons. Artem took to archery. For some reason or other, he liked the excitement of shooting arrows, and every time he had a chance — mostly when their group stopped to rest — he practiced. After some time, he could claim considerable improvement in his archery skills — he was able to hit a tree with an arrow from twenty yards away. In spite of what he considered to be a great achievement, he was still way behind Varkan and the other Scythians who could hit the same target two or three times the distance!

Besides, Artem could hit only stationary targets. Any moving target — a hare or a fox — was beyond his capabilities.

Dmitro Borisovich had taken to the axe, the very same long-handled axe he had picked from the pile of weapons shortly before the surprise attack of Dorbatay’s soldiers. In the time that had passed since that day, Dmitro Borisovich had learnt to handle it with considerable dexterity. His height and long sinewy arms increased his reach significantly. When the archeologist, his spectacles flashing menacingly, challenged Varkan to a mock battle, the Scythian had a very hard time defending himself. The sharp axe had become a very dangerous weapon in the hands of the persevering but hot-tempered archeologist.

“There’s only one thing that spoils the effect somewhat, Dmitro Borisovich,” Artem said jokingly. “With this axe in your hands, you remind me of Don Quixote who proclaimed the beauty of his lady Dulcinea to the world…”

“What impertinence!” the archeologist cried out, sounding rather offended.

“Oh, don’t get cross! It’s true! Upon my word! You’re lanky as Don Quixote’s supposed to be, gawky… err, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that — honest — I used the wrong word,” Artem began mumbling, dropping his teasing tone, as soon as he saw the long, steady arm of Dmitro Borisovich reach out toward his ear. It would have been an impossible disgrace to have his ear pulled in front of the Scythians! And whose ear would it be? The ear of the young but powerful magician who, among other things, could summon thunder and fire from the ground!

Artem quickly stepped back, shut his mouth, and pulled his helmet still lower over his head. Both he and Dmitro Borisovich were obliged to wear round bronze helmets which left their faces open, most of the time now. It was Yarkan who insisted, and Ronis supported him, saying:

“Why take unnecessary risks? When attacking, the Scythians aim for the head. If you wear helmets, you lessen your chances of being badly hurt. You never know what might happen any moment now.”

Varkan’s group followed the funeral procession on its way to Gerrhus day in, day out. Sometimes they kept close behind it, camping at its tail, and sometimes they moved parallel to it. The procession could hardly be seen in the extremely tall pink grass a horse’s head high. Among other things, this mode of travel allowed Varkan and Ronis to communicate easily with their supporters who had stayed in the main Scythian camp. Artem was happy to be able to maintain a steady correspondence with Lida and Ivan Semenovich.

Messages were exchanged without the help of Diana. There was no need to send the dread poskina back and forth, thus reminding Dorbatay and the priests of their existence. The slaves helped them get the messages in and out. Hartak had sent Lida two slave women to cater to all the whims of the chieftain’s fiancee. He could never imagine that the slaves did in fact serve the girl very well but in a manner he would hardly have approved of. For with the two slaves, as well as most of the rest, the word of Ronis weighed much more than the orders of Hartak. So, the two slave girls took Lida’s messages and passed them on to other slaves who carried them to the forest at night. Lines of communication were thus opened permanently in all weather.

Varkan was almost constantly in conference now. Two newly-arrived hunters had just told him of what had been going on at the camp. After hearing them out, he talked to Ronis and gave some orders. The hunters headed back to the camp.

Varkan’s face was clouded; even more sombre was Ronis’s. He knew in general terms from his own sources what was going on in the Scythian camp, but the hunters’ story had affected him deeply. The hunters informed him that Dorbatay was preparing a new rite with more human sacrifices. Such bloody rites were staged practically every day now, and the Greek slaves were being killed in increasing numbers by the priests as a sacrifice to propitiate the gods.

Ronis stared gloomily at the fire where the sparks were darting and dancing. Varkan came up to him and patted him on the shoulder:

“Don’t feel too bad, my friend,” he said softly. “There are only two or three more days of waiting before we strike. Then we’ll put an end to everything that’s depressing you and breaking your heart now. Do you believe me?”

Ronis raised his head, his big eyes glistening with reflections from the fire. When he began to speak, there was a great anguish in his voice:

“I do believe you and trust you completely, Varkan. Otherwise I would not be here with you. I’m firmly convinced that we’ll win. But sometimes I feel I’m choking with too much hatred for Dorbatay and his priests…”

“What’s so bad about that?” Varkan asked in surprise.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” the Greek said with a sigh. “But sometimes it can be a nuisance; it fuddles the brain as you saw quite recently, my friend. When this hatred grips me, I forget our aims and think only of revenge for all my brothers. How many of my kin has he had tortured to death and murdered! If Dorbatay manages to escape, I will be very discontented!”

“He will not escape, Ronis!”

“He does not have much chance… as long as I’m alive.” Ronis suddenly sprang to his feet. His voice rang.

“And what will happen if I die before him? No, Varkan, I am not afraid of death. But it might turn out that I will not be able to meet my arch enemy face to face. It can happen easily in battle, for no one is protected from sudden death. You’re a soldier yourself, Varkan, and you understand what I’m talking about, don’t you?”