Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Vampires, #Transylvania (Romania), #Krakatoa (Indonesia), #Volcanic Eruptions
Dark of the Sun (53 page)
“We can pull him for you,” said Bahkei as he and his two companions sauntered toward the landing plank.
“He’ll move soon enough,” said Rojeh, administering another tap-and-pull combination.
“Ignorant foreigner!” the third fur trader shouted, and laughed angrily. “Doesn’t want our help.”
Suddenly the mule, tired of the constant repetition, took a step forward and seemed willing to continue. Rojeh loosened the leads holding his stallion and scrambled into the saddle, reaching for the mule’s leads and bringing him up behind the spotted horse as they made their way off the ferry and into the streets of Donrog.
The town was smaller than Sarkel, more of a way station than a village, with only one market-square and a clutch of thatched-roof inns that were little better than the stables behind them. Most of the buildings were within the double stockade that provided a degree of protection to the inhabitants of Donrog; the few beyond the walls appeared to be part of a small compound constructed around a domed church with an Orthodox cross atop it. Even now, at midday, no official met the new arrivals, but a swarm of youngsters came running to surround the newcomers, blocking Rojeh’s and Ragoczy Franciscus’ progress as they begged for money and food.
Ragoczy Franciscus opened his wallet and took out a handful of copper coins, which he tossed some distance away, opening a path for him and Rojeh to approach the market-square. “We need more grain.”
“Yes, a sackful at least, if we can find a peasant selling any.” Rojeh did a quick scrutiny of the market-square and pointed to the far end. “There. That stall.”
“I see it,” said Ragoczy Franciscus.
“The price is likely to be—”
“—high,” Ragoczy Franciscus finished for him. “I assumed that would be the case. And we are in no position to refuse to pay.”
“Need I remind you that we are getting low on funds?” Rojeh asked.
“I’m aware of that, too; at least we still have a handful of jewels. If we can find a merchant who knows their value, we should have sufficient to cover our expenses between here and the Carpathians,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he rode up to the stall in question. A short-bearded peasant sat in one corner of the cloth-walled stall, a small knife in one hand working away on a length of wood in which he was carving leaves, flowers, and the faces of animals. He looked up as Ragoczy Franciscus halted and dismounted, then gestured a greeting, adding in dreadful Byzantine Greek, “Sacks of feed. Two sizes. Good for horses and other draft animals.” He reached over and patted the remaining sacks as if approving of a pet dog.
“How much?” Ragoczy Franciscus asked. “For the larger.”
“Six silver coins—Angels, if you have them.” His eyes were sunk in deep wrinkles that gave the impression of goodwill and amusement; only strict business was in his voice.
“That is almost as much as an ox,” said Rojeh, who had stopped behind Ragoczy Franciscus.
“I have grain. You have animals. You need feed, and I have a family.” He went back to carving.
“Twenty coppers. Persian coppers” was Ragoczy Franciscus’ counteroffer.
“Perhaps, for a smaller sack,” said the peasant.
“For the larger sack,” Ragoczy Franciscus insisted. “And the sack’s contents emptied from those hempen ones into a linen sack, to be sure it contains only grain, and to keep the grain from leaking away.”
“What do you take me for, a foist?” the peasant grumbled.
“Grain is scarce and money is also.” Ragoczy Franciscus leaned forward in the saddle. “Twenty Persian coppers for a large sack.” Something about his manner made an impression on the peasant, for he sat back, startled by his sudden willingness to consider the offer.
“Let me see the coppers,” he said, looking away from the foreigner in the black paragaudion edged in dark-red silken cord. He stared down at the gloved hand that contained eight large coins. “Are they all the same?”
“Every one of the twenty is the same,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. After a short silence, he said, “If you do not wish to sell, then we will look elsewhere.”
The peasant stumbled to his feet. “No. No. I will take twenty Persian coppers for a large sack, and I will show you it has only grain in it.” He was surprised to see Ragoczy Franciscus dismount and go to his mule to take a sack from the wad of cloth behind the pack saddle.
“You may use this sack,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, handing it to the peasant.
Knowing better than to protest to a man of such bearing, the peasant took the sack and went to open the largest sack of grain; he used a scoop to bring out the contents, transferring them into the linen sack, saying as he did, “Three years ago, you could have got two large sacks of grain for three Persian coppers, for grain was plentiful and the travelers came through Donrog in droves. Now grain is costly, and there is little to buy. Not even the rats are thriving.”
“It is thus all through the world,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, watching the scoop carefully.
“I will not cheat you,” said the peasant in disgust. “If the market were busy and the crops bountiful, I might slip a stone or two into the sack. But not now, when people sicken and starve, and sheep and goats wander untended in search of grass.”
“Sheep and goats are not the only ones wandering,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, thinking of the Desert Cats and many of the other clans that roamed the steppes.
“That does men like me no good—the eastern men come with their flocks and their herds, and before my neighbors and I can drive them off, half our crop is gone, and not one coin or a pair of goats to show for it.” He spat again and got the last scoop of grain out of the hempen bag. “There. Is it satisfactory?”
“Yes,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, and handed over the twenty coppers, counting each one aloud as he placed it in the peasant’s cupped palms.
“If you are returning this way, remember me,” said the peasant as Ragoczy Franciscus lifted the sack and went to secure it to his mule’s pack saddle. “Be careful on the road. There are desperate men about.” He stepped back from the foreigner on the handsome mare. “You and your companion should have guards.”
“If they are safe,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “If not, the guards are more dangerous than outlaws.”
The peasant laughed raucously, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. “True. True. True,” he repeated as Ragoczy Franciscus and Rojeh rode away, their mules following up behind them.
Beyond the market-square a dozen children thronged around them, most of them begging belligerently; Ragoczy Franciscus took out a few small brass coins and cast them some distance away. The children rushed after the money, shrieking as they strove to gather up the coins. Once again Ragoczy Franciscus and Rojeh slipped away, bound toward the southwestern gate and the road that led toward the Black Sea.
A pair of unkempt men served as guards at the gate; they demanded payment of Rojeh and Ragoczy Franciscus, accepted four copper coins, and shouted after them that the first inn on the road could not be reached by sundown.
Ragoczy Franciscus glanced toward the expanse of water visible through the trees. “At least the dizziness has stopped.” His voice was raw.
“There are still the Dnieper and the Bug to cross,” Rojeh reminded him.
“And the Dniester and perhaps even the Danube,” he said as they entered the shelter of a copse of willow, taking care to keep on the poorly maintained track.
Rojeh nodded. “Will we reach your homeland by autumn, do you think?”
“I hope we may,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “I would prefer not to spend another winter on the road.”
They continued on through the willows and out across a field of cold-dry grasses, then into another stand of trees; the road led almost due west and they marked their progress by the angle of the sun ahead of them. Occasionally they caught a flash of ever-more-distant water through the trunks and branches, but by midafternoon, this was lost to sight as they angled away from the Sea of Azov.
“What town do we reach next?” Rojeh asked as they noticed a distant barn at the far side of an empty field.
“Poranache, as I recall,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “If it is still there.”
“I take your point.” Rojeh said nothing more for almost a league, then spoke up again. “Do you think that we should ride until we reach that inn?”
“The one the guards shouted about? Who knows if they are to be believed,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. He noticed a few head of cattle standing in the shade of the trees. They were skinny and messy enough to have been on their own for some time, and so he approached them with caution, only to have them bolt away, lowing in distress. “They are wise to run, I suspect.”
“You mean that they would tempt more than animals?” said Rojeh.
“Either as stock or as meat,” said Ragoczy Franciscus. “At least there is a little grass coming up now, and so they can forage for their food.” He continued on away from the cattle. “Whoever had claim on them no longer does.”
“But think of them, out there, where anything might befall them,” said Rojeh.
“They are no worse off than we are,” Ragoczy Franciscus reminded him.
“We have weapons and—” He got no further, for a sudden burst of whooping and shouting made the woods ring as a small band of heavily armed men on ponies rushed down upon them, swords and lances drawn, and murder in their impassive faces.
“Back against the largest trees!” Ragoczy Franciscus ordered, moving his blue roan with pressure from the side of his leg. “Use your shimtare.”
Rojeh struggled to comply, holding the stallion and pulling on the mule’s lead; he managed to get his shimtare out, but could not bring it into play without risking cutting the mule. He swung the curved blade around his head, hoping to deflect anything the attackers might hurl at him. “I can’t get the mule around.”
Ragoczy Franciscus did as much as he could to make more room for Rojeh’s mule and nearly exposed himself to a number of furious blows. He drew his mace from its sheath and swung it, striking the nearest attacker on the clavicle so forcefully that the sound of the bone breaking and the man’s immediate shriek of pain rose above the general clamor of the fight; the injured outlaw reeled in the saddle and almost fell.
“Kill him! Kill him!” one of the other attackers shouted, rushing directly at Ragoczy Franciscus, his wedge-shaped sword positioned to strike.
This time Ragoczy Franciscus changed hands and brought the head of the mace crashing in under the man’s raised arm, pummeling his side and knocking him off his horse.
Rojeh had struck one of the assailants on his forearm, opening a long cut that bled freely; he lashed out at another man who rode as close as he could, a long-handled ax in his fist. The shimtare parried the chop, but the raider was able to get hold of the mule’s lead and, in an abrupt jerk, broke Rojeh’s hold, riding off with the mule before Rojeh could attempt to recapture the animal. In his efforts to catch the mule, he hacked an attacker in the thigh, and another on the hand.
Although he had struck the most heavily armed man in the group, Ragoczy Franciscus could not stop the assaults completely; he maintained his position and used his mace to keep most of the raiders at a distance; his mule had backed up against the trees and stayed there, letting the blue roan provide protection from the battle.
The man who had fallen clambered to his feet and was picked up by one of his comrades; riding double, they hurried away from the encounter; their departure acted as a signal to the rest, for they hurried after the two, the man with Rojeh’s mule’s lead in his hand shouting his victory at the capture of the mule.
“Are you all right?” Ragoczy Franciscus asked Rojeh as the raiders disappeared on faint trails among the trees.
“I am,” said Rojeh, chagrined. “I should not have let the mule go.”
“Had you tried to hold him, you might have been badly hurt,” Ragoczy Franciscus said, wiping the stellated head of his mace before returning it to its sheath.
“Still, I shouldn’t have let him go,” said Rojeh.
“You could have done no differently and been safe,” said Ragoczy Franciscus as he started away from his defensive position by the trees; his mule came with him reluctantly, the lead taut.
“But we’ve lost your chest of native earth,” Rojeh exclaimed. “And you have need of it.”
Ragoczy Franciscus nodded once with maddening composure. “But I can manage better without my native earth than I could manage without you.” He made no indication that he saw Rojeh’s astonished expression, adding only, “We will contrive something, and for now, old friend, we will travel by night.”
Rojeh could think of nothing to say as he and Ragoczy Franciscus presumed their journey toward the Black Sea and the town of Olbshe at the mouth of the Dnieper River.
Text of a letter from Brother Theofeo in Antioch to the Holy See in Roma, through the office of the Papal Secretary Archbishop Julianus Fabinius of Ravenna, carried by merchant ship and delivered in July 537.
To the most reverend, devoted, and well-reputed Papal Secretary, his Grace the Archbishop Julianus Fabinius, the heartfelt salutations of Brother Theofeo at the Church of the Apostle Luke in Antioch, on this the beginning of the Paschal Season as the priests and monks here reckon the time, and not being wholly in accord with the True Church in such matters, nor endorsing the calculations of the Eastern Rite, but following what they believe is set forth in the teachings of Saint Peter, in the 537th Year of Salvation. Amen.
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