Volodimir Vladko - Descendants of the Scythians

A group of slaves that had been working by the wagons, stopped what they were doing and began moving toward the big Scythian crowd. Artem had noticed earlier that slaves tended to gather in small groups of men only, without any women or children. Even from a considerable distance, he thought he could make out their agitation. Their movements were brisk and purposeful, not slow and languid as usual. But what Scythian would pay now any attention to the miserable slaves when his chieftain was being buried? But Artem gave his full attention to the slaves, as he knew that their agitation was not accidental, that they were uniting their forces in accordance with Ronis’s plan. They had evidently been instructed to station themselves on one side of the crowd, away from the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. A short while later, most of them drifted to the place furthest from where Varkan’s men would attack. Aha, now the maneuver became clear. Artem chuckled with satisfaction: Ronis’s strategic thinking was surely that of an expert. The slaves not only placed themselves out of line of Varkan’s attack, but were positioned conveniently close to the grave around which all the priests and chiefs were gathered.

Varkan, to his great satisfaction, also observed the concentration of the slaves in one place. His keen eyes saw — as he had expected — that their short cloaks were not draped around them in the usual loose manner, and he knew they must be hiding weapons underneath. So Ronis and his aids had managed to distribute weapons among the slaves.

Varkan turned to Artem. Without saying anything he picked up a sharp stone and scratched a circle on the rock. On one side of it he scratched an arrow that pierced the circle. Then, he quickly scratched another arrow on the other side of the circle. He dropped the stone, put his hands on both sides of the circle, and brought them together as though squeezing the circle, looking at Artem.

“I understand. An excellent plan!” Artem said, nodding his head. “We’ll get them in a pincer movement and crush them! It’s all quite clear!”

Varkan’s face broke into a happy smile: he and the young stranger, his blood brother, could communicate quite well!

The melancholy song grew in volume: all the Scythians, gathered at the grave, must have joined the priests in the song. Dorbatay raised his hands into the air — a gesture to draw attention to himself and give a signal to the priests. Another party of priests went to Skolot’s wagon to get the things that were to be placed into the grave. The ritual chanting grew alternately louder and softer, but never stopped. Dorbatay stood motionless with his hand in the air, the wide sleeves of his garment hanging at his sides like the wings of an immense, sinister bird. The priests were busy carrying things that once belonged to Skolot, into the grave. Golden bowls and ornaments, various weapons, among them his short ceremonial sword with the gold hilt, were carefully put on the rich carpets around the body to make sure that should the dead chieftain reach out his hand, he would get what he wanted.

“What fabulous treasures are being put in there!” whispered the archeologist, fascinated.

“Oh yes, they’re laying it out especially for you,” Artem could not help quipping.

Dmitro Borisovich did not hear the remark as his attention was completely absorbed by a party of priests who were carrying victuals to the grave: big cauldrons of stew, entire carcasses of horses, pigs and sheep.

At last, the flow of objects being put into the grave ceased. There was no room left around the corpse; it was impossible to reach it across the vast quantity of treasures, weapons and food.

Varkan touched Artem on the shoulder and pointed to the crowd and beyond. All the male slaves must have been gathered there. Artem’s heart was sent racing when he saw what he thought was the glint of a weapon.

The time of the attack must be very near now, he thought. When will Ronis give the signal? Everything seems ready. But where are Lida and Ivan Semenovich? I don’t see them anywhere!

Then another thought flashed through his mind: what if Ronis wasn’t giving the signal because he knew the captive strangers were being kept some place where their lives would be threatened if there was an attempt to free them, and he was doing something about it now?

Suddenly Diana, lying on a flat rock to the right of Artem, gave a short, agitated bark. At almost the same time, Dmitro Borisovich grabbed him by the shoulder:

“Look, there they are!”

A score of priests were escorting Lida and Ivan Semenovich to the grave. They walked unbound, and only the drawn weapons in the hands of the priests indicated that they were still captives. As he walked, Ivan Semenovich glanced toward the cliffs above the heads of the priests. Did he know where his friends were waiting in an ambush? The geologist and Lida must have been informed of their friends’ whereabouts because Lida also seemed to look in the same direction!

“They know, they surely know where we’ll attack from!” Artem cried out cheerfully. “It must be Ronis’s doing! He must have let them know somehow!”

Lida and Ivan Semenovich stopped not far from the grave, but not too close, which was very fortunate. For some reason or other, the priests must have decided they were not to be allowed to enter the inner circle. Their position would make setting them free easier. At least that’s what Artem thought.

Two hoary old warriors brought Skolot’s black stallion up to the grave, leading him by the reins. The horse didn’t want to he led into the hole and jerked from side to side. But the reins were held very fast. A priest with a distinguished and solemn appearance, approached the horse, dagger in hand, shouted something, probably an incantation, and plunged the dagger into the horse’s graceful neck. A jet of blood spurted out; tlie horse collapsed on its front knees, and a sound of choking came from his mouth.

The dagger was brought down several more times, and the black horse was stilled forever. Now Skolot could ride his favorite battle horse in the world of shadows.

Several priests came up to the wagon in which Skolot’s aged widow was sitting. Shudders passed through her body; her withered hands were pressed to her face. She was carried to the grave more dead than alive.

“Villains! To kill a woman, an old woman!” Artem cried out.

“It’s their custom,” Dmitro Borisovich mumbled without conviction. His archeological enthusiasm of a few minutes ago had evaporated. He did not say he was sorry he had lost his camera. He would not have been able to photograph such a horrible scene anyway.

The priests brought the hapless woman to the place where the slaughtered horse was lying. As she had fainted from fear, the priests had to carry her. A priest with a rope in his hands followed them. He was the ritual executioner who was to strangle the widow of the chieftain so she would follow her husband to the other world and be a good wife to him there.

At that moment, Artem saw a thin column of smoke rising in the distance beyond the crowd, from among the kibitkas. The smoke rose higher and higher in the still air; to an uninitiated observer, it was just smoke from a small campfire.

“Ronis has given his signal! It’s time to start, Varkan!”

But Artem was too late with his exclamation: Varkan had already given the signal to his men to go down the cliff. They descended the cliff nimbly and moved toward a cluster of trees that rose between the cliffs and the spot where the burial ceremony was taking place.

“Dmitro Borisovich! The signal’s been given!” Artem cried out in great excitement. “I’m going down with Varkan’s men!”

“What do you mean you’re going down? Do you suppose I’m going to stay here?”