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own answering slash was slow and wide.
Varatesh spun his horse faster than Viridovix could. The Gaul was quickly
finding he did not care for mounted fighting. Afoot, he had no doubt he could
cut Varatesh to pieces, for all the outlaw chief's speed and ferocity. But a
horse was as much a weapon as a sword, and one at which the plainsman was a
master.
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With a deft flick of the reins, the renegade drove his mount to Viridovix'
shield side, cutting across his body at the Celt. A Khamorth might have died
from the unexpected stroke. Viridovix, though, was used to handling a far
heavier shield than the boiled-leather target he bore and got it in front of
the slash. But his roundhouse reply was a poor thing which just missed cutting
off his own horse's ear.
Though Varatesh's blow had failed, the Gaul realized he could not let the
outlaw keep the initiative he was too dangerous by half for that. "Get round
there, fly-bait!" he roared, jerking his horse's head brutally to the left.
The beast neighed in protest, but turned.
This time Viridovix was as quick as his foe. Varatesh's eyes went wide with
surprise as the Celt bore down on him. His shamshir came up fast enough to
save his head, but Viridovix' stroke smashed it from his fingers. The renegade
gasped an oath, wondering if his hand was broken. He drew his dagger and threw
it at the Celt, but the cast was wild he had no feeling above his wrist.
In plainsman style, Varatesh was not ashamed to flee then. "Come back, you
spineless coistril!" Viridovix cried. He started to gallop after him, then
glanced round, looking for comrades to join him in the chase. "Well, where are
they all gone to?" Most of Rambehisht's men were a quarter-mile south and
still retreating in the face of the outlaws' superior numbers.
The Gaul paused, of two minds. There was Varatesh ahead, disarmed and
temptingly close. If Viridovix had the faster horse, he could overhaul him and
strike him down, but he would surely cut himself off from his mates in the
doing. Then his choice was made for him, for two of the outlaw chief's men
were riding to his rescue, one with a bow.
The little battle had only increased Viridovix' respect for the potent nomad
weapon. He wheeled his horse away from the threat. The Khamorth fired twice in
quick succession, his last two arrows. One of the shafts darted over the
Celt's shoulder. Of the other he saw nothing. Short, he thought, and turned
back to shake his fist at the bowman.
An arrow was sticking in the high cantle of his saddle. He blinked; the archer
was tiny in the distance. "Fetch the executioner!" he exclaimed. He tugged the
shaft out, wondering how long it had been there. "Did you fly all this way, or
were you riding?" The arrow gave no answers. He threw it to the ground.
It took another hour of skirmishing to shake free of Varatesh's followers. At
last they gave up. Their horses were not as fresh as those of Rambehisht's
patrol, and Varatesh was too canny to let his men be caught on tired animals.
Having accomplished his main purpose turning his enemies' advance he drew
back.
"The grandest sport of all!" Viridovix shouted to his comrades as they
reformed. The Gaul was still exhilarated from the fighting. It was not the
hand-to-hand he was used to, but all the more exciting for its strangeness.
Not until he brushed a sweaty arm over his cheek did he discover he was cut,
whether from a sword or an unnoticed arrow-graze he never knew.
Several Khamorth were wounded, but even a plainsman with an arrow through his
thigh grinned through clenched teeth at the Gaul's words. Like him, the nomads
enjoyed war for its own sake. They had every reason to be proud, Viridovix
thought. Badly outnumbered, they had only lost one man the corpse was slung
over a remount and given Varatesh's hard-bitten bandits all they wanted.
Even gloomy Rambehisht seemed satisfied as the patrol made camp under lowering
skies. "They paid for everything today," he said, gnawing on the flattened
chunk of meat he had carried under his saddle.
"Yes, and dearly!" Batbaian said. He was tending to an arrow wound in his
horse's hock. His voice cracked with excitement; combat was still new to him,
and he swelled with pride on facing it successfully.
Viridovix smiled at his enthusiasm. "A pity the spalpeens twigged to the
kine," he said.
"Any trick is only good till the other fellow figures it out." Rambehisht
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