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Since he had no idea what the kingdom would do, he ended up concentrating on
the first question. The first thing he had to do was get back over the bridge
the King of Kings' engineers had thrown across the Degird. If he couldn't do
that, he would be too dead to worry about anything thereafter.
If he did get back to the stronghold, he would be dihqan. He had known that
would happen one day, but had thought one day lay years ahead. Now it was on
top of him, a weight heavier on his shoulders than that of his armor on the
steppe pony he rode.
"Speaking of which," he muttered, and reined in. He swung down off the horse,
gave it a chance to graze and blow a little. He couldn't think just of the mad
dash for escape, not when he was several days' ride north of the Degird. He
had to keep the pony sound for the whole journey, even though every heartbeat
he waited made him fidget as if taken by the flux.
He stopped again when he came to a small stream. He let the steppe pony drink,
but not too much. It snapped at him when he pulled it away from the water.
"Stupid thing," he said, and cuffed it on the muzzle. Horses would drink
themselves sick or dead if you let them. They would eat too much, too, but
that wasn't going to be a problem, not now.
How best to escape pursuit? At length, Abivard rode southwest, still toward
the Degird but not as directly and out of the line of march by which the host
of Peroz King of Kings had approached disaster. Sure as sure, the Khamorth
would ride down that line, sweeping away the warriors who had not the wit to
avoid it.
By the time evening neared, Abivard no longer saw any of his fellow fugitives.
That he took for a good omen: the nomads would not be likely now to spot him
Page 24
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
while chasing someone else.
When he came to another stream, he decided to stop for the night and let the
steppe pony rest till morning. He dismounted, rubbed down the animal with a
clump of dry grass for lack of anything better, then tied its reins to the
biggest bush almost a sapling he could find.
After that, time came to shed his armor. He undid the catches at the side of
his coat of mail and splints, and got out of it after unhooking the mail skirt
that depended from it. He took off his iron-faced boots, then peeled down his
iron-and-leather breeches.
The cuirass, the mail shirt, and the armored trousers he flung into the
stream: no point in leaving them on dry land for some plainsman to take back
to his tent as spoils. He stripped off the veil and hood from his helmet and
threw them away, too. The helmet he kept, and the boots. They were heavy, but
he feared he would hurt his feet if he did without them.
"You can stand that much weight, can't you, boy?" he said to the steppe pony.
Its ears twitched to show it had heard, but of course it could not understand.
Wanting to keep the animal happy with him, he fed it another apricot from his
dwindling supply. He ate one himself; he had had nothing but water since early
that morning. Had a lizard skittered by, he would cheerfully have sliced it in
two with his sword and eaten both pieces raw. But no lizard came.
Then he thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand and cursed his own
foolishness. The steppe pony's saddle had saddlebags hanging from it. In them
might be . . . anything. He felt like shouting when he found strips of dried
mutton. They were just about as hard as his own teeth and not much tastier,
but they would keep him from starving for a while.
All he had on were thin linen drawers. He wished for his surcoat, then
laughed. "Might as well wish for the army back while I'm at it," he said. With
all that passion that was in him, he did wish for the army back, but he was
too much Godarz's son not to know what such wishes were worth.
He passed a chilly, miserable night curled up on the ground like an animal,
sword at his side so he could grab it in a hurry. He lost track of how many
times he woke up to some tiny noise or a shift in the breeze or for no reason
at all. Renewed sleep came harder and harder. At last, between dawn and
sunrise, it stayed away for good. He gnawed more dried mutton and began to
ride.
That day after the battle, he caught himself weeping again and again.
Sometimes he mourned for his family, sometimes for his overthrown monarch and
for Makuran at large, sometimes for himself: he felt guilty for living on when
all he held dearest had perished.
That's nonsense, son. You have to go on, to set things right as best you can.
So vividly did he seem to hear his father's voice that his head whipped around
in sudden wild hope that the dihqan had somehow survived. But the steppe was
empty as far as the eye could see, save for a crow that cawed harshly as it
hopped into the air.
"Stupid bird, what are you doing here?" Abivard pointed over his shoulder.
"The rich pickings are back that way."
Every so often, he saw rabbits lolloping across the plain. Just looking at
them made him hungry, but hunting rabbits with a sword was like trying to
knock flies out of the air with a switch, and he had no time to set a snare
and linger. Once he spied a fox on a rabbit's heels. He wished the beast more
luck than he had had himself.
Though he ate sparingly, he ran out of dried meat halfway through the third
day. After that, his belly gnawed at him along with worry. He caught a couple
of frogs by the side of a stream, gutted them with his dagger, and ate them
raw. His only regret after he finished them was that he had thrown the offal
into the water.
He looked for more frogs, or maybe a turtle or an incautious minnow the next
time he stopped to water the steppe pony, but caught nothing.
Page 25
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Toward evening on the fourth day after the battle, he reached the Degird. He
wanted to strip off his drawers, dive in, and swim across, but knew that, weak
and worn as he was, he would probably drown before he reached the southern
bank. Nor could he let the horse swim the stream and tow him with it, for it
was in no finer fettle than he.
"Have to be the bridge, then," he said; he had talked to himself a lot lately,
for lack of any other company. And if the bridge was down, or the Khamorth
already across it . . . he tried not to think about such things.
Before night descended, he rode about half a farsang away from the river.
Khamorth searching for fugitives still at large in their country were most
likely to ride along the northern bank of the Degird, he reasoned. No point in
making things easy for them. If they were already searching along the
riverbank, the bridge was sure to be down, too, or in their hands, but he made
himself not think about that, either.
Hunger woke him before the sun rose. He mounted the steppe pony, marveling at
its stamina. A Makuraner horse could carry more weight, yes, and gallop faster
for a little ways, but probably would have broken down on the long, grueling
ride south. He had done his best to keep the pony rested but knew his best
hadn't been good enough.
He rode into the morning sun, keeping the Degird in sight but not actually
riding up to it unless he needed to water his horse or himself. He didn't know
how far east he would have to ride to come on the bridge. "Only one way to
learn," he said, and booted the pony up into a trot.
The sun climbed higher, burned off the early-morning chill, and grew hot.
Abivard started to sweat, but he wasn't as uncomfortable as he might have
been. A couple of weeks earlier, he had fared north in like weather armored
from head to toe. He still had helm and iron-covered boots, but the drawers in [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl aikidobyd.xlx.pl
Since he had no idea what the kingdom would do, he ended up concentrating on
the first question. The first thing he had to do was get back over the bridge
the King of Kings' engineers had thrown across the Degird. If he couldn't do
that, he would be too dead to worry about anything thereafter.
If he did get back to the stronghold, he would be dihqan. He had known that
would happen one day, but had thought one day lay years ahead. Now it was on
top of him, a weight heavier on his shoulders than that of his armor on the
steppe pony he rode.
"Speaking of which," he muttered, and reined in. He swung down off the horse,
gave it a chance to graze and blow a little. He couldn't think just of the mad
dash for escape, not when he was several days' ride north of the Degird. He
had to keep the pony sound for the whole journey, even though every heartbeat
he waited made him fidget as if taken by the flux.
He stopped again when he came to a small stream. He let the steppe pony drink,
but not too much. It snapped at him when he pulled it away from the water.
"Stupid thing," he said, and cuffed it on the muzzle. Horses would drink
themselves sick or dead if you let them. They would eat too much, too, but
that wasn't going to be a problem, not now.
How best to escape pursuit? At length, Abivard rode southwest, still toward
the Degird but not as directly and out of the line of march by which the host
of Peroz King of Kings had approached disaster. Sure as sure, the Khamorth
would ride down that line, sweeping away the warriors who had not the wit to
avoid it.
By the time evening neared, Abivard no longer saw any of his fellow fugitives.
That he took for a good omen: the nomads would not be likely now to spot him
Page 24
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
while chasing someone else.
When he came to another stream, he decided to stop for the night and let the
steppe pony rest till morning. He dismounted, rubbed down the animal with a
clump of dry grass for lack of anything better, then tied its reins to the
biggest bush almost a sapling he could find.
After that, time came to shed his armor. He undid the catches at the side of
his coat of mail and splints, and got out of it after unhooking the mail skirt
that depended from it. He took off his iron-faced boots, then peeled down his
iron-and-leather breeches.
The cuirass, the mail shirt, and the armored trousers he flung into the
stream: no point in leaving them on dry land for some plainsman to take back
to his tent as spoils. He stripped off the veil and hood from his helmet and
threw them away, too. The helmet he kept, and the boots. They were heavy, but
he feared he would hurt his feet if he did without them.
"You can stand that much weight, can't you, boy?" he said to the steppe pony.
Its ears twitched to show it had heard, but of course it could not understand.
Wanting to keep the animal happy with him, he fed it another apricot from his
dwindling supply. He ate one himself; he had had nothing but water since early
that morning. Had a lizard skittered by, he would cheerfully have sliced it in
two with his sword and eaten both pieces raw. But no lizard came.
Then he thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand and cursed his own
foolishness. The steppe pony's saddle had saddlebags hanging from it. In them
might be . . . anything. He felt like shouting when he found strips of dried
mutton. They were just about as hard as his own teeth and not much tastier,
but they would keep him from starving for a while.
All he had on were thin linen drawers. He wished for his surcoat, then
laughed. "Might as well wish for the army back while I'm at it," he said. With
all that passion that was in him, he did wish for the army back, but he was
too much Godarz's son not to know what such wishes were worth.
He passed a chilly, miserable night curled up on the ground like an animal,
sword at his side so he could grab it in a hurry. He lost track of how many
times he woke up to some tiny noise or a shift in the breeze or for no reason
at all. Renewed sleep came harder and harder. At last, between dawn and
sunrise, it stayed away for good. He gnawed more dried mutton and began to
ride.
That day after the battle, he caught himself weeping again and again.
Sometimes he mourned for his family, sometimes for his overthrown monarch and
for Makuran at large, sometimes for himself: he felt guilty for living on when
all he held dearest had perished.
That's nonsense, son. You have to go on, to set things right as best you can.
So vividly did he seem to hear his father's voice that his head whipped around
in sudden wild hope that the dihqan had somehow survived. But the steppe was
empty as far as the eye could see, save for a crow that cawed harshly as it
hopped into the air.
"Stupid bird, what are you doing here?" Abivard pointed over his shoulder.
"The rich pickings are back that way."
Every so often, he saw rabbits lolloping across the plain. Just looking at
them made him hungry, but hunting rabbits with a sword was like trying to
knock flies out of the air with a switch, and he had no time to set a snare
and linger. Once he spied a fox on a rabbit's heels. He wished the beast more
luck than he had had himself.
Though he ate sparingly, he ran out of dried meat halfway through the third
day. After that, his belly gnawed at him along with worry. He caught a couple
of frogs by the side of a stream, gutted them with his dagger, and ate them
raw. His only regret after he finished them was that he had thrown the offal
into the water.
He looked for more frogs, or maybe a turtle or an incautious minnow the next
time he stopped to water the steppe pony, but caught nothing.
Page 25
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Toward evening on the fourth day after the battle, he reached the Degird. He
wanted to strip off his drawers, dive in, and swim across, but knew that, weak
and worn as he was, he would probably drown before he reached the southern
bank. Nor could he let the horse swim the stream and tow him with it, for it
was in no finer fettle than he.
"Have to be the bridge, then," he said; he had talked to himself a lot lately,
for lack of any other company. And if the bridge was down, or the Khamorth
already across it . . . he tried not to think about such things.
Before night descended, he rode about half a farsang away from the river.
Khamorth searching for fugitives still at large in their country were most
likely to ride along the northern bank of the Degird, he reasoned. No point in
making things easy for them. If they were already searching along the
riverbank, the bridge was sure to be down, too, or in their hands, but he made
himself not think about that, either.
Hunger woke him before the sun rose. He mounted the steppe pony, marveling at
its stamina. A Makuraner horse could carry more weight, yes, and gallop faster
for a little ways, but probably would have broken down on the long, grueling
ride south. He had done his best to keep the pony rested but knew his best
hadn't been good enough.
He rode into the morning sun, keeping the Degird in sight but not actually
riding up to it unless he needed to water his horse or himself. He didn't know
how far east he would have to ride to come on the bridge. "Only one way to
learn," he said, and booted the pony up into a trot.
The sun climbed higher, burned off the early-morning chill, and grew hot.
Abivard started to sweat, but he wasn't as uncomfortable as he might have
been. A couple of weeks earlier, he had fared north in like weather armored
from head to toe. He still had helm and iron-covered boots, but the drawers in [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]