Marissa started involuntarily as the Tugar cattle-whip cracked sharply yet again behind her. She heard the yelp of pain as its lash landed on some wretched victim further back, and fumed with helpless anger at the callous brutality of these nomad horsemen, driving the surviving inhabitants of Krotos away to the north. Her own shoulders still smarted from casual blows, and she knew that some of the older women were in far worse case than herself. She plodded on wearily through the short, spring grass, hating the half-dozen arrogant Tugars who sat back lazily, whilst their ambling ponies carried them forward. It was easy for them, she thought, marching captives ten times their own number, unarmed women and children on foot, across this open plain; they had not bothered even to rope them together, and Marissa knew why- none could expect to run more than fifty paces before being struck in the back by nomad arrows.
The Kagan’s men had taken Krotos by surprise at dawn the previous day. Perhaps the sentry on the watch-tower had been careless- the enemy had burst over the stockade and opened the gate to their horsemen before Rostas could organise any proper resistance. In ones and twos, the Drevich men had been shot down or run through as they emerged from their quarters, whilst their families had hidden in the darkest corners they could find. It had been in vain, of course- the Tugars had attacked in great numbers, and their search parties dragged and kicked the non-combatants into the open. The merciless slaughter that had followed was still vividly fresh in Marissa’s mind, in spite of her efforts to push it into the back of her memory; every useless Drevich had been killed- old men and women, the sick and the crippled, and worst of all, the children too young to walk, torn away from screaming, hysterical mothers to be cold-bloodedly chopped down or impaled on lances. Yesterday’s march had been the worst experience that Marissa had ever suffered, with sobbing women dragging along tired, terrified children.
Uncertainty and ignorance undermined her attempts to find some reassurance; where was the Drevich army, had there been a battle, were Mirosh, Bardiya and the other Krotos men still alive? Ceaselessly, but unobtrusively, she glanced around the horizon, hoping with all her will-power to see Drevich cavalry. Beside her marched Vara, Mirosh’s wife, and his daughter, Sveta. All three knew perfectly well that the mounted guards would see any rescue-party long before the captives, and they looked up expectantly at every unusual movement of the Tugars.
Marissa had been going over her recollections of Bardiya’s conversations again and again as she tramped on- what had he said about the nomad practice with prisoners, where were he guards heading for, was there some clue to her chances in his words?
Suddenly, one of the Tugars gave a guttural shout, and his companions rose in their stirrups to look ahead. Marissa raised her head to stare, but she could see nothing above the waving grass. The guards exchanged brief remarks before relapsing into their habitual silence again, and she realised that whatever lay ahead was not hostile to them- they urged the prisoners on at an increased speed. She reached out to grasp the hand of one of the children trotting alongside her- a small boy, tired and miserable- and pulled him forward, lest his slackening pace attract the guards’ attention.
Their objective came into view- first, vast numbers of loose horses grazing, then beyond them a forest of tents, small and large, dominated by a huge, black, domed structure in the centre. Marissa remembered Bardiya’s description of the nomad encampments- Tugars swarmed among tethered ponies and piles of equipment. A wave of smells reached the exhausted captives, the odour of horses predominating, and idling men turned to watch the captives being driven through the camp. Marissa felt her face turn red at their incomprehensible comments and jeers, and Vara muttered viciously, ‘Barbarian pigs! ’ But she kept her voice down.
On foot, the Tugars seemed more grotesque than dangerous- squat, bow-legged, shaggy little men, with narrow eyes and yellowish, expressionless faces. It was clear that they had only recently established their camp on this spot- there was still fresh grass, newly trampled, between the tents and on the pathways. Part of the area had been set aside for captives, a large circular enclosure surrounded by light posts strung together with ropes. This fence was obviously not intended to imprison the Drevich women and children effectively- it served merely as a line for the guards to patrol. There were well over a hundred prisoners inside it already, and the Krotos people were thrust in to join them. The newcomers collapsed, exhausted by their march, wherever there was room for them.
When Marissa had recovered sufficiently to look round her, she was appalled by the air of cowed, helpless terror. What horrors had these others been through, she wondered. It was apparent that the guards were not at present molesting them, provided that they kept well away from the fence, and she began to question some of the women, in an attempt to find out what had happened elsewhere in the Drevich country. What she heard was not to her liking- the Drevich army was rumoured to have been destroyed in a battle at Mostek. Marissa had feared some such disaster since the capture of Krotos- how otherwise could small bands of Tugars, handicapped by prisoners on foot, move freely across the plains? Nevertheless, this news was shattering; all hope of rescue, in the near future at least, was gone. She wandered slowly back to Vara, tears in her eyes, to report what she had heard.
Vara listened distractedly- she was deeply worried about her daughter, who lay still, pale and fatigued, unable to sit up. Vara herself was a big, strong woman who had found little difficulty in keeping up on the march, but Sveta was a smaller, frailer girl, about the same age as Marissa- gay and energetic in normal circumstances, but clearly lacking in stamina. Her face was strained, and dark shadows had appeared under her eyes.
‘She can’t stand another day’s march,’ said Vara. ‘It’ll kill her.’ Marissa remained silent- there was nothing she could say.
In the evening, a great deal of bustle and movement began in the Tugar camp- the prisoners’ guards abandoned their casual poses and began to look alert; some polished their leather armour and their weapons. Marissa guessed that they were expecting an important visitor, and found herself trembling nervously. Soon the general stir died down, and she heard the sound of numerous horses passing through the encampment, coming closer. The captives looked at one another anxiously, then they saw standards waving and helmets flashing beyond the guards. A section of the fence was pulled aside- several horsemen rode slowly into the enclosure, the prisoners hastily scattering away from them.
With sudden, choking fear, Marissa realised that the leading rider must be the Kagan himself- one of his companions carried the seven-tail standard that Bardiya had described. Even without it, she would have known; no ordinary man could so dominate his surroundings with every eye drawn to him at once, radiating an atmosphere of unchallengeable authority.
A wide circlet of polished, gleaming gold, set round the base of his spiked helmet, was the sole mark of his rank. He sat tall and straight on his horse, sheathed in complete ring-mail, resting his right hand loosely on the hilt of the sabre slung from his belt. Marissa had never imagined a face so arrogant, so self-assured, or as coldly inhuman as his; high cheek-bones and dark, deep-set eyes combined with a sharper, narrower nose than the typical Tugar’s.
Today, however, he seemed in a good mood- she saw his teeth flash in a brief smile as he exchanged comments with one of his officers. They had come, obviously, to look over their haul of prisoners, and they spent some time at it. Several terrified women were dragged out by the guards one after another, at a word from the Kagan, and he leaned down to look at them, nodding his head once or twice in approval. Then they were thrust back among the crowd.
Eventually, he looked in Marissa’s direction and she tried desperately to blend into the mass of prisoners. He raised his hand from his sabre to point, and she realised with numb terror that he was indicating her. At once she was seized and brought up to him.
At close quarters, his presence was overpowering- his hard, merciless eyes stared down into hers, and she could not tear her gaze away. It was the longest moment she had ever endured. Then his hand moved fractionally and she was flung back abruptly into the crowd, shaking uncontrollably. Relief and humiliation alternated in her mind- he had studied her as coolly as a butcher examining cattle, and she realised that his interest had been solely that of the slave-trader.
Apparently satisfied, he uttered a short, imperative phrase and turned his mount away. His escort followed him as he rode off. She felt a physical weight lift from her, and the sudden, subdued babble from her companions showed that they felt much the same. The guard too had now relaxed, and the prisoners began to huddle together, feeling the night chill as dusk came on.
At dawn the next day, the guards entered the enclosure and began rousing their prisoners, cracking their whips and stirring laggards with their feet. Marissa rose, stiff with cold, to see large steaming cauldrons being dragged in- the Tugars evidently did not intend to starve their merchandise. Hardly had they eaten, however, than a score of mounted men appeared and pulled aside a large section of the fence. Then they began forming the captives into a column of march. Vara was helping Sveta to her feet when a whip-lash struck the girl across her shoulders- she screamed with pain and staggered off in the direction which the others were taking. Marissa saw the savage glint in Vara’s eyes and seized her arm.
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘Don’t anger them here, in the camp- wait! Who knows what may happen later?’ Vara shook her off, angrily; they took up position on either side of Sveta to help her along. Slowly, the long column of prisoners tramped away northward, flanked by their mounted escort.
They were scarcely clear of the nomad encampment when another group of horsemen appeared, coming towards them at a steady canter. Marissa saw at once that they were not Tugars- they rode larger, heavier horses and wore bright colours in place of the sombre Tugar clothes. They slowed to a trot as they reached the head of the plodding column, and she realised that they must be Sakas- the resemblance of their commander to Bardiya, both in his long, skirted mail-coat and his blond hair, was unmistakable. He reined in his horse, and waved his men on past him- about a hundred of them, Marissa guessed- most carrying long, heavy spears. She felt the ground shake as they trotted, and noticed with amazement that even their horses were protected in front by a chest- piece of mailed leather. The commander rode slowly along the column, looking casually at the prisoners, approaching the Tugar whose crested helmet seemed to indicate that he was in charge of the guard.
The nomad spoke as soon as the two riders came within earshot, and the Saka straightened in his saddle, replying with haughty irritation. The Tugar spoke again, insult apparent in his tone, even though Marissa could not understand his words. The Saka officer’s hand dropped to his sabre-hilt and he turned pale with anger- then he turned away abruptly and galloped after his men. The incident confirmed most clearly what Bardiya had told Marissa about the uneasy relationship between his own people and the Tugars.
She had now concluded that the captives were being taken towards the mountains in the north-east, towards the steppes and the eastern slave-markets. But it was clear that the wretched Sveta would never reach the steppes on foot; she was tottering already, almost a dead weight on her two supporters.
Suddenly, they were conscious of a horseman looming over them- the guard-commander. He gestured impatiently, ordering them away from Sveta, and they released her, uncertainly. She swayed dizzily, hardly aware of her surroundings, and the Tugar drew his sabre and struck at her in one swift movement. Vara screamed with shock and horror as her daughter dropped- she flung herself down to look at the pathetic corpse, unable to believe what she had seen.
The sharp snap as the nomad returned his blade to its sheath aroused her again- she rose with clenched fists and he realised her intention. Instantly, he slashed at her face with his whip and she raised her arms instinctively to protect herself. Marissa jumped forward, wrapping her arms tightly around the struggling, hysterical woman, certain that the guard would kill her too unless she was restrained. Nevertheless, the desire to express her own feelings was overwhelming- she stared up at his cruel, contemptuous face:
‘Tugar swine!’ she yelled, and her clear tone seemed to sting him more than Vara’s incoherent curses. His whip stirred again and lashed across her shoulders- she gritted her teeth as it cut into her like fire. Then he rode off down the column, apparently satisfied with his reply.
She led the sobbing Vara forward, herself half-blinded with tears at the heartless killing she had just witnessed- she had known Sveta nearly all her life. As the day wore on, the wearisome, hypnotic plodding lulled her into aching, desperately tired numbness.
Late in the afternoon, a startled exclamation from one of the older children made Marissa look up, to see mountain peaks away to the north-east. Even in her exhausted state, she gazed at them- she had never seen mountains before, except perhaps in her remote, half-forgotten childhood. The highest summits gleamed brightly, still snow-capped and catching the sunlight. In any other circumstances she would have been delighted beyond measure at the view, but now she dreaded crossing that range. After that, she would be beyond all possible aid, beyond the remotest chance of escape or rescue.