The Year of the Horsetails by R. F. Tapsell

Prologue 2

Yarosh sat on a ledge strategically placed to overlook his men at work below, and savoured the delights of leadership. His seat was comfortable and the afternoon sun was warm. Below him, a dozen men were engaged in the complicated operation of netting fish among the chaos of spray and rushing water. Where the foot of the huge, irregular mass of rock plunged into the river, the current was broken up into many fast, deep eddies and whirlpools around the boulders, submerged or half-awash, that filled the river bed for most of its width. The main stream of the water, faster and deeper than any of the smaller currents, was jammed into the narrow gap between the rocks and the far bank; it was unfordable for a long way upstream or down. But there were calm pools too, left by the receding water-level of late summer.

Beyond the river, on its western bank, the steppe was no longer treeless; clumps of woods were visible, and far away beyond them rose the mountains. In fact, the steppe faded away over there to the west, giving place to oak and hornbeam forests.

Yarosh had chosen his position with care, to have within his vision not only his men below, but his look-out, perched on the highest point of the hill. Rostas was a natural scout and spy, he thought, looking up the slope. The man had endless patience and the ability to see over great distances with surprising clarity; he was content with his easy task of scanning the plain to the east. He knew, and Yarosh knew, that it was dangerous to venture on to this side of the river, but there was no more suitable spot at this time of year than the cataract for collecting fish trapped in the many pools among the rocks. And half a day’s march would take them upstream to a ford, across the river, and deep into the forest with a quick, easy catch.

The warm sun and droning insects lulled Yarosh to the edge of sleep, before he realised it. Then he shook his head and stood up; to fall asleep now could undermine the confidence of his men in their relatively young, inexperienced leader. As he rose, he caught a glimpse of a small, sharp gesture by Rostas.

All thoughts of his promising future were thrust aside as he glanced quickly towards the look-out, sensing danger. Rostas gestured again- a small, imperative movement, which Yarosh understood to mean that Rostas wanted him to come up. He concluded that it was not imminent danger that threatened but something he must know about. He glanced at his men down by the water and saw that they were absorbed in their work; then he climbed up to Rostas without undue haste.

The rock table that topped the long, stony hill straggling along the river-bank commanded an extensive view in all directions. The winding course of the water stretched away to the north; to the south, below the rapids, marshes spread out on either side of the main stream; the mountains on the western horizon seemed nearer than they had when seen from below. But eastward, in a huge semicircle, the steppe rolled away to meet the sky-line.

Rostas pointed to the north-east, and Yarosh shaded his eyes with his hand to cut out the glare; he peered carefully. At first he could see nothing but the dull, burnt colour of shrivelled grass, quivering in the haze; then Rostas nudged his elbow and pointed again. Following the direction he indicated, Yarosh looked harder, and spotted the black, moving dots- which Rostas had already seen- horsemen, far away but moving southward.

In spite of the warm sunlight and the friendly sky, he shivered slightly. Common sense told him that he and Rostas were quite invisible, squatting here amid a mixture of colours and shadows. They could not possibly be seen from so far away, yet he felt naked and conspicuous. Those dots could only be Tugars- human wolves of the steppe. In the first moment of alarm he concluded, inevitably, that his own fishing party was their objective; anxiously he glanced round the horizon, dreading what he might see.

　

　

Rostas read his thoughts. ‘No more- yet,’ he said. Yarosh’s mind began to function properly again. Firstly, he told himself, it was very unlikely that his presence here was known to the Tugars. Secondly, they would not come charging across the plain in full view when they could so easily ambush his men at the ford upstream. Finally, there appeared to be only ten of them; a small force to hunt his dozen among the rocks here. But why should they appear today in this remote corner of their vast empire- the very day when he was here beyond the river?