Read Online The Exotic Enchanter by L. Sprague de Camp, Lyon Sprague de Camp, Christopher Stasheff - Free Book Online
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psychologist was not the world's most easygoing traveler, and on a journey such as this they'd have given each other migraines, if not ulcers.
It surprised Shea that men who supposedly traveled for a living would make so many simple mistakes on the march. Shea wondered if most of the merchants were actually accustomed to selling their wares locally. If they were traveling now to avoid paying taxes later, they were certainly paying the penalty.
The biggest problem, of course, was keeping everybody from too much sampling of the main cargo. Shea didn't want to place aversion spells on it, not when his plan depended on free swilling by the right people. He had to fall back on persuasion.
By itself, that would not have been too demanding a job. Mikhail Sergeivich, and Shea as his nominal second-in-command put on a convincing mean captain/nice lieutenant act, which kept the soldiers and most of the merchants in line, most of the time. Once Shea had to draw his sword on a merchant's servant, and a few other times it took Mikhail Sergeivich and his biggest men cracking a few thick heads to quiet things down.
Fortunately that happened after they were far enough out on the steppe that deserting the caravan wasn't a good idea. The owners of the cracked heads stayed in the ranks. But Shea and the soldiers walked with eyes in the backs of their heads and their hands close to their sword hilts for a day or two, and went about in pairs after dark.
And everything from sweet reason to cracking heads had to be done during and after days in the saddle, short of sleep and struggling with thirst. As the days dragged on, Shea began to dream about adventuring in a world based on a work written by some cloistered nun a thousand years and a thousand miles away from the actual events. No long trips, no saddle sores, no reeking horse-barbarian camps, no subtler reek of blood from executed traitors!
"How far have we come today?" Shea asked Mikhail.
"A third less than we should have, so far."
"The devil fly away with this steppe!"
"Speedily a tale is spun, with much less speed a deed is done, eh? Well, by midafternoon tomorrow well have to send out scouts, anyway—and messengers."
The messengers would be riding to Igor's column, well to the rear. Chalmers was traveling with it as a closely watched prisoner, doubtless in no great comfort. But there was nothing Shea could do for his colleague except bring this off.
Over the next few days, Shea found that, this trip anyway, the steppe had no power to hypnotize him. The merchants were settling down for the most part, but the steppe made trouble on its own. A wolfpack stampeded some mules one night, and on another morning, short of water, they reached a spring only to find a dead aurochs in it. That was the longest day of the journey, it seemed, and before they reached the next water source, boredom was the least of Shea's worries.
They saw no Polovtsi, but endured enough else to test everyone's alertness to the limit. Even Shea's dreams of Belphebe grew faint, which he soon realized was just as well. Seeing Belphebe again depended on getting Doc Chalmers out of this jam, and if he'd stopped to think about it, instead of just doing it, he might have convinced himself that it was impossible.
The scouts had gone out as planned, and they brought the good news that the Polovtsi were approximately where they were expected to be, and in about the right numbers—several bands of various sizes. It was another two days before the scouts could, without being detected, pass between the Polovets bands and find the slave caravan.
"Good smiles," Mikhail Sergeivich said on the ninth day, after hearing the latest report. "The slave train's heading for Krasni Podok at about the pace we expected. But the two largest bands are coming our way. We'd best have the trade-truce banner up before dawn tomorrow. Oh, and send word back to our friends—they also have to move the way we planned, or they'll miss the
It surprised Shea that men who supposedly traveled for a living would make so many simple mistakes on the march. Shea wondered if most of the merchants were actually accustomed to selling their wares locally. If they were traveling now to avoid paying taxes later, they were certainly paying the penalty.
The biggest problem, of course, was keeping everybody from too much sampling of the main cargo. Shea didn't want to place aversion spells on it, not when his plan depended on free swilling by the right people. He had to fall back on persuasion.
By itself, that would not have been too demanding a job. Mikhail Sergeivich, and Shea as his nominal second-in-command put on a convincing mean captain/nice lieutenant act, which kept the soldiers and most of the merchants in line, most of the time. Once Shea had to draw his sword on a merchant's servant, and a few other times it took Mikhail Sergeivich and his biggest men cracking a few thick heads to quiet things down.
Fortunately that happened after they were far enough out on the steppe that deserting the caravan wasn't a good idea. The owners of the cracked heads stayed in the ranks. But Shea and the soldiers walked with eyes in the backs of their heads and their hands close to their sword hilts for a day or two, and went about in pairs after dark.
And everything from sweet reason to cracking heads had to be done during and after days in the saddle, short of sleep and struggling with thirst. As the days dragged on, Shea began to dream about adventuring in a world based on a work written by some cloistered nun a thousand years and a thousand miles away from the actual events. No long trips, no saddle sores, no reeking horse-barbarian camps, no subtler reek of blood from executed traitors!
"How far have we come today?" Shea asked Mikhail.
"A third less than we should have, so far."
"The devil fly away with this steppe!"
"Speedily a tale is spun, with much less speed a deed is done, eh? Well, by midafternoon tomorrow well have to send out scouts, anyway—and messengers."
The messengers would be riding to Igor's column, well to the rear. Chalmers was traveling with it as a closely watched prisoner, doubtless in no great comfort. But there was nothing Shea could do for his colleague except bring this off.
Over the next few days, Shea found that, this trip anyway, the steppe had no power to hypnotize him. The merchants were settling down for the most part, but the steppe made trouble on its own. A wolfpack stampeded some mules one night, and on another morning, short of water, they reached a spring only to find a dead aurochs in it. That was the longest day of the journey, it seemed, and before they reached the next water source, boredom was the least of Shea's worries.
They saw no Polovtsi, but endured enough else to test everyone's alertness to the limit. Even Shea's dreams of Belphebe grew faint, which he soon realized was just as well. Seeing Belphebe again depended on getting Doc Chalmers out of this jam, and if he'd stopped to think about it, instead of just doing it, he might have convinced himself that it was impossible.
The scouts had gone out as planned, and they brought the good news that the Polovtsi were approximately where they were expected to be, and in about the right numbers—several bands of various sizes. It was another two days before the scouts could, without being detected, pass between the Polovets bands and find the slave caravan.
"Good smiles," Mikhail Sergeivich said on the ninth day, after hearing the latest report. "The slave train's heading for Krasni Podok at about the pace we expected. But the two largest bands are coming our way. We'd best have the trade-truce banner up before dawn tomorrow. Oh, and send word back to our friends—they also have to move the way we planned, or they'll miss the
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