Sivas answered, “Who but shrouds himself in robes so his very eyes are unseen? Who but stirs discord in his wake as the wind stirs waves on the sea? And who but rides a great black charger in a land of ponies? On the plains, that were enough to name him without the other two.”
“Sure and it’s the spalpeen, all right,” Viridovix agreed. “Still and all, my good Celtic blade should do to let the mischief out of him.” Methodios Sivas raised a politely skeptical eyebrow, but Gorgidas knew Viridovix was not idly boasting. His sword was twin to the one Scaurus bore, both of them forged and spell-wrapped by Gallic druids and both uncannily mighty in this land where magic flourished.
“Yet another matter has reached me since my last dispatches to Videssos,” Sivas said. By his voice, it was one he would rather not have heard. He paused for a moment before going on: “You will understand this is rumor alone, and unsupported, but it’s said Varatesh has thrown in his lot with your cursed wizard.”
Again Gorgidas was conscious of something important slipping past him; again Viridovix and Goudeles were as mystified. Even Arigh seemed unsure of the name. But Lankinos Skylitzes knew it. “The outlaw,” he said, and it was not a question.
“It’s but a voice on the breeze, you understand,” Sivas repeated.
“Phos grant it stay such,” Skylitzes answered, and drew the sun-sign on his breast. Seeing his comrades’ incomprehension, he said, “The man is dangerous and wily, and his riders are no bargain. A great clan against us would be worse, but not much.”
His obvious concern reached Gorgidas, who did not think Skylitzes one to alarm himself over trifles. Arigh was less impressed. “A Khamorth,” he said contemptuously. “Next you’ll have me hiding from baby partridges in the grass.”
“He’s one to be reckoned with, and growing stronger,” Sivas said. “You may not know it, but this winter when the rivers froze he raided west over the Shaum.”
Arigh gaped, then hissed a curse in his own language. The Arshaum were convinced of their superiority to the Khamorth, and with justice; had they not driven the bushy-beards east over the river? It had been decades since Khamorth, even outlaws, dared strike back.
Sivas shrugged. “He’s a ready-for-aught, you see.” Arigh was still stormy, so the
hypepoptes
called to his serving maid, “Filennar, why don’t you detach yourself from your brick-whiskered friend and fetch us a full skin?”
She swayed away, Viridovix following her hungrily with his eyes.
“A skin?” Arigh said eagerly. He forgot his anger. “Kavass? By the three wolf tails of my clan, it’s five years since I set tongue to it. You benighted farmer-folk make do with wine and ale.”
“A new tipple?” That was Pikridios Goudeles, sounding intrigued. Gorgidas remembered the Arshaum boasting of the plains drink before, but had forgotten what the nomads brewed it from. Viridovix, a toper born, no longer seemed so dismayed over Filennar’s disappearance.
She soon returned, carrying a bulging horsehide with the hair still on the outside. At Sivas’ gesture, she handed it to Arigh, who took it as tenderly as he might an infant. He undid the rawhide lace that held the drinking-mouth, raised the skin to his face. He drank noisily; it was good manners on the plains to advertise one’s enjoyment.
“Ahhh!” he said at last, pinching the mouth closed after a draught so long his face had begun to darken.
“There’s dying scarlet!” Viridovix exclaimed—city slang for drinking deep. He raised the skin for a swig of his own, but at the first taste his anticipation was replaced by a surprised grimace. He spat a large mouthful out on the floor. “Fauggh! What a foul brew! What goes into the making of it, now?”
“Fermented mares’ milk,” Arigh answered.
Viridovix made a face. “Sure and it tastes like the inside of a dead snail.” The Arshaum glowered at him, irritated at
“Sure and it’s the spalpeen, all right,” Viridovix agreed. “Still and all, my good Celtic blade should do to let the mischief out of him.” Methodios Sivas raised a politely skeptical eyebrow, but Gorgidas knew Viridovix was not idly boasting. His sword was twin to the one Scaurus bore, both of them forged and spell-wrapped by Gallic druids and both uncannily mighty in this land where magic flourished.
“Yet another matter has reached me since my last dispatches to Videssos,” Sivas said. By his voice, it was one he would rather not have heard. He paused for a moment before going on: “You will understand this is rumor alone, and unsupported, but it’s said Varatesh has thrown in his lot with your cursed wizard.”
Again Gorgidas was conscious of something important slipping past him; again Viridovix and Goudeles were as mystified. Even Arigh seemed unsure of the name. But Lankinos Skylitzes knew it. “The outlaw,” he said, and it was not a question.
“It’s but a voice on the breeze, you understand,” Sivas repeated.
“Phos grant it stay such,” Skylitzes answered, and drew the sun-sign on his breast. Seeing his comrades’ incomprehension, he said, “The man is dangerous and wily, and his riders are no bargain. A great clan against us would be worse, but not much.”
His obvious concern reached Gorgidas, who did not think Skylitzes one to alarm himself over trifles. Arigh was less impressed. “A Khamorth,” he said contemptuously. “Next you’ll have me hiding from baby partridges in the grass.”
“He’s one to be reckoned with, and growing stronger,” Sivas said. “You may not know it, but this winter when the rivers froze he raided west over the Shaum.”
Arigh gaped, then hissed a curse in his own language. The Arshaum were convinced of their superiority to the Khamorth, and with justice; had they not driven the bushy-beards east over the river? It had been decades since Khamorth, even outlaws, dared strike back.
Sivas shrugged. “He’s a ready-for-aught, you see.” Arigh was still stormy, so the
hypepoptes
called to his serving maid, “Filennar, why don’t you detach yourself from your brick-whiskered friend and fetch us a full skin?”
She swayed away, Viridovix following her hungrily with his eyes.
“A skin?” Arigh said eagerly. He forgot his anger. “Kavass? By the three wolf tails of my clan, it’s five years since I set tongue to it. You benighted farmer-folk make do with wine and ale.”
“A new tipple?” That was Pikridios Goudeles, sounding intrigued. Gorgidas remembered the Arshaum boasting of the plains drink before, but had forgotten what the nomads brewed it from. Viridovix, a toper born, no longer seemed so dismayed over Filennar’s disappearance.
She soon returned, carrying a bulging horsehide with the hair still on the outside. At Sivas’ gesture, she handed it to Arigh, who took it as tenderly as he might an infant. He undid the rawhide lace that held the drinking-mouth, raised the skin to his face. He drank noisily; it was good manners on the plains to advertise one’s enjoyment.
“Ahhh!” he said at last, pinching the mouth closed after a draught so long his face had begun to darken.
“There’s dying scarlet!” Viridovix exclaimed—city slang for drinking deep. He raised the skin for a swig of his own, but at the first taste his anticipation was replaced by a surprised grimace. He spat a large mouthful out on the floor. “Fauggh! What a foul brew! What goes into the making of it, now?”
“Fermented mares’ milk,” Arigh answered.
Viridovix made a face. “Sure and it tastes like the inside of a dead snail.” The Arshaum glowered at him, irritated at
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