On a certain day, a man rode for his life. He rode, not at a desperate gallop, but at a steady canter that ate up distance- as he had been riding for many days. The steppe grass was dried up from the long summer, yellow and shrivelled, not reaching his stirrups. He had discovered a ridge running along his route, where some rocky outcropping was barely covered by the soil; it was raised slightly above the plain in places. As he reached the top of one such low mound he slowed his horse to a walk, rose up in his stirrups, and surveyed the horizon carefully in two slow sweeps, to his left and his right.
He saw nothing, not a movement on the dry, grassy carpet that stretched away in every direction to a perfectly circular skyline. A lifetime of gazing over great distances had accustomed him to detect the tiny figures of far-away riders, the tall grass that waved out of phase with the wind, and a score of other danger-signs he was certain that no other human being was within the limits of his vision.
But beyond the horizon, in any direction, there might be riders in search of him, His flight had necessarily taken a devious route, and they could as well be ahead of him as behind. Only the sheer immensity of the plains had protected him thus far, and the Tugars were expert hunters.
Directly in front of him, to the west, there were hills- mountains perhaps- but far away. Two months of utterly rainless, hot weather has created a dusty heat-haze which made it impossible to judge their distance: if he was lucky, half a day
’s ride; but maybe much farther. He was a stranger to this remote area and he did not know precisely what lay between him and those indistinct heights. The sun was approaching its zenith, high up to his left, and he toyed, almost reluctantly, with the possibility that he might reach the hills before dusk. Until this morning he had taken it for granted that he was virtually a dead man; that he would survive only for a few days at most, until the Kagan’s men inevitably tracked him down. His one objective had been to extract a price for his life- to meet his pursuers in circumstances that would give him a chance to kill some of them.
This certainty of death he had come to accept, and his fear had become manageable, forced below the surface of his mind. In the tall grass, in the marshy places and at the river-crossings, he had never dared to relax, and the strain showed on his face.
He was a large man, riding a large horse, although his more than average height was not apparent on horseback. But his shoulders were broad and solid, his legs and arms big-boned and muscular. In spite of the heat, his torso was encased in ring-mail- a long, loose-skirted coat that brushed his knees split up to his belt at front and back to suit a horseman. Its base was leather , to which were sewn hundreds of tiny metal rings that glittered and flashed in the sunlight- priceless possession which twice its weight in gold would not buy.
In a sheath strapped to his saddle, hanging down by his left knee, was a long and heavy sword slightly curved towards the point; sluing behind him, attached to his belt, he carried the essential weapon of the plains the short, double-curved bow in its case, with a quiver on his opposite side. Tanned leather boots encased his legs to the knee, and soft breeches stuffed with lamb
’s wool protected his thighs from the chafing saddle. He was bareheaded, though a conical helmet, surmounted by a tall spike, dangle from his saddle-pack behind him; his blond hair, cut level with his ears, blew loose in the wind.
His age was difficult to estimate- sun and wind had tanned him to a colour and appearance
which would be unchanging until long after the prime of his life. Accurate judgement was further impeded by the neat, pointed beard, blond like his hair, which concealed the lines of his jaw.
The horse which he rode with casual, deceptive negligence was as solid and ageless as himself- a dark brown stallion, with strength and endurance barely tested. The fugitive had taken the best mount that he could lay hands on, without regard to ownership, and his judgment had proved excellent. The scattered days of rest in the river valleys, where the horse had grazed and the man had hunted waterfowl- nerve-racking days for one whose every instinct urged him to stay in the saddle- those days were shown to have been of value now; the man knew that he could rely on his mount for a long, hard gallop and the hills to the west were growing more distinct.
It was not unlikely that the Kagan’s men had reached this distant edge of the steppe, and were lying in wait for him. The trend of the plain ahead, the lusher grass far off, both indicated to his experienced eye yet another river; one of the series he had crossed, often with difficulty, during his ride from the east. They were surprisingly similar in topography- low-lying, marshy eastern banks difficult to approach, and high western banks beautifully suited for the ambushing of a traveller as he came ashore.
Directly ahead, there was a great jumble of rocks, a low hill in fact, where the ridge along which he had been riding met the river. Then he caught briefly and faintly the sound of rushing water, and knew why only a flat plain flanked the river- the current was too fast for marshes to form. But it was not good for him- fast currents and cataracts would block his crossing. As he reached the last rise, he paused as he had a hundred times that day and looked around him.
To the south, the ground sloped away from his ridge; he could guess that there were marshes down-river, where the current slackened below the cataracts and the water spread out over the lower land. To the north, the plain stretched away along the river’s edge; his eyes narrowed as he stared into the distance.
He stiffened suddenly; his horse sensed his alarm and flung up its head nervously. Then he was in command of himself again- light pressure of his rein on the bit reassured his mount. The black specks that he had seen away to the north occupied all his attention; a Tugar patrol, fanning out to cover the width of the plain, and galloping hard- ten riders. They had seen him, and he assessed the situation instantly. He must assume that their horses were fresh; certainly they would not have been ridden as his own had, for days without rest- somewhere beyond the horizon would be the mobile base to which the hunters belonged, with its reserve horses, its pack-horses and its guards. If he turned back into the steppe they would ride him down, and his whole mind rejected the idea- it would prolong his life for perhaps one day at most, now that they knew his exact position; then the other patrols from the squadron would cut him off. To the south there were marshes where he could be trapped, shot down or drowned.
It was the concentrated shooting of several bows that he could not face; that would be fatal in the open plain. He must have cover, and only the jumble of boulders down by the river offered it- perhaps? All this flashed through his mind so quickly that he did not appear to hesitate between his rapid count of the enemy strength and the sharp kick of his heels. It was not a hard kick, but it was sharper than any the horse had felt from him before, and he leaned forward at the same moment to breathe a single syllable of urgency into its ear.
The effect was drastic- the animal flung up its head and a surge of muscular power passed under the rider as the hind hooves rammed the earth away backwards. The horse bounded forward as if it had been awaiting this moment during all the long days of the flight; for the rider there could be no more soothing sound than the drumming of hooves, faster and faster as his mount fell into its rhythm; its whole body bunched and stretched under the saddle.
The fugitive estimated that he might reach the rocks before the Tugars. They had spread out in a line to intersect his course short of the river, and it seemed to him that the rider nearest the water was better mounted than the others- he was gradually moving ahead. The fugitive reached down to loosen the sabre in its sheath. One of his enemies would come within reach well ahead of the others- one Tugar at least would learn that men are not to be chased like rabbits. He had had plenty of time to think whilst he raced his pursuers for the river. For many days he had lived on deep hatred of his pursuers for what they were and for what they had done. Their unspeakable arrogance and the assumption that they could hunt him down with impunity enraged him.
As best as he could at full gallop, he made his preparations- the metal helmet he transferred from the saddle-pack to his head; he checked that his bow was instantly accessible and the arrows loose in the quiver. Long ago he had made certain that his horse could be controlled by thighs and balance and heels, to leave both hands free in combat.
The lone Tugar was now well ahead of the others, converging with him on the base of the mass of boulders, and likely to reach them simultaneously with himself. The outlying rocks were almost within bowshot now; the drumming hooves were inaudible above the roar of falling water. Huge slabs and chunks of stone were scattered around in confusion, with isolated pieces on the flat ground, towering above the galloping horsemen. The formation was larger than it had seemed from far off, and more extensive.
If he could lose himself among this stone maze, the fugitive told himself, the Tugars would be forced to split up in search of him; he had only to prevent this single horseman from following him too closely. He saw that he would reach the first outcroppings ahead of the other rider; his pursuer would come within bowshot before he reached cover, but he doubted his own accuracy with the bow at long range- the sabre was his preferred weapon.
Crouching down over his horse’s mane, he relied on his mail-coat to save him from a chance hit. The Tugar’s arm rose with his bow- the nomad was holding back his shot until the last possible moment and his chances of a hit were not high at this distance.
The fugitive kicked hard- his mount hurtled across the remaining hundred paces for the sheltering rocks.