Read Online The Legion of Videssos by Harry Turtledove - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Harry Turtledove
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amazement. High in the upper right-hand corner of the shield, a neat hole punched through bronze and wood alike. “By my enemies’ heads,” he said softly, shaking his own.
The guardsman picked up his arrow, which had flown another ten or twelve feet after piercing the shield. He put it back in his quiver, saying, “A good buckler you have. Through mine it would farther have gone.” His own shield was a small round target of wood and leather, good for knocking a sword aside, but not much more.
Viridovix said, “And I was after thinking the plainsmen were light-armored on account of the scrawny little cobs they rode, the which couldna carry the weight o’ metal.”
“Why else?” Gorgidas said.
“Use your eyes, clodpoll of a Greek,” the Celt replied, waving his shield in Gorgidas’ face. “Wi’ sic bows you’re a pincushion with or without ironmongery, so where’s the good in muffling up?”
To Viridovix’ irritated surprise, Gorgidas burst out laughing. “Where’s the jape?”
“Your pardon,” the Greek said, jotting a note. “The idea of a weapon so strong as to make defense unprofitable never occurred to me. This steppe bow isn’t one, you know; in their mail and plate the Namdaleni stood up to it quite well. But the abstract concept is fascinating.”
Trying to poke his little finger through the arrowhole, Viridovix muttered, “The pox take your abstract concepts.”
The moving brown smudge in the distance slowly resolved itself into a herd of cattle, their horns pricking up like bare branches from a winter forest. With them were their herders, perhaps a score of Khamorth. Most of them abandoned the herd and came riding up when they spied the approaching envoys.
Their leader shouted several phrases in his own tongue, then, seeing imperials among the newcomers, added in horrible Videssian, “Who you? What here you do?”
He did not wait for an answer. His swarthy face darkened with anger when he noticed Arigh. “Arshaum!” he cried, and his men snarled and grabbed for swords and bows. “What you do with Arshaum?” he asked Goudeles, choosing the bureaucrat perhaps because he was most splendidly dressed. “Arshaum make all Khamorth clans—how you say?—suffer. Your Emperor eat pig guts to deal with them. I, Olbiop son of Vorishtan, say this and I true speak.”
“We kill!” one of Olbiop’s men cried. The guardsmen were reaching for their weapons, too, and Arigh had an arrow ready to nock. Viridovix and Lankinos Skylitzes both sat warily, each with hand on sword hilt. Gorgidas’ Roman blade was still buried in his gear; he waited for whatever fortune might bring.
It was then that Pikridios Goudeles showed his worth. “Stop, O noble Olbiop Vorishtan’s son, lest you fall unwittingly into error!” he said dramatically, his voice booming forth with a rhetor’s well-trained intonations. Gorgidas doubted if the nomad caught more than his own name, but that was enough to make his head swivel to Goudeles.
“Translate for me, old man, that’s a good fellow,” the bureaucrat whispered to Skylitzes beside him.
At the soldier’s nod he struck a pose and launched into florid Videssian oratory: “O leader of the Khamorth, our being slain by you would be a matter more difficult, grievous, and deadly than death itself. Its—”
“I couldn’t repeat that, let alone translate it,” Skylitzes said, eyes widening.
“Shut up,” Goudeles hissed, and then resumed with a gesture no less graceful for being made atop a scruffy horse rather than in a chamber of the imperial palace. Skylitzes followed gamely as the rhetoric poured out.
“Its defamation would live on to remain among all men; this thing has never been done, but will have been invented by you. There will be clear testimony to your deed, that you killed men on an embassy; and the report’s fearfulness will be shown still more fearful by the deed.”
The translation was plainly a poor copy of the original,without its
The guardsman picked up his arrow, which had flown another ten or twelve feet after piercing the shield. He put it back in his quiver, saying, “A good buckler you have. Through mine it would farther have gone.” His own shield was a small round target of wood and leather, good for knocking a sword aside, but not much more.
Viridovix said, “And I was after thinking the plainsmen were light-armored on account of the scrawny little cobs they rode, the which couldna carry the weight o’ metal.”
“Why else?” Gorgidas said.
“Use your eyes, clodpoll of a Greek,” the Celt replied, waving his shield in Gorgidas’ face. “Wi’ sic bows you’re a pincushion with or without ironmongery, so where’s the good in muffling up?”
To Viridovix’ irritated surprise, Gorgidas burst out laughing. “Where’s the jape?”
“Your pardon,” the Greek said, jotting a note. “The idea of a weapon so strong as to make defense unprofitable never occurred to me. This steppe bow isn’t one, you know; in their mail and plate the Namdaleni stood up to it quite well. But the abstract concept is fascinating.”
Trying to poke his little finger through the arrowhole, Viridovix muttered, “The pox take your abstract concepts.”
The moving brown smudge in the distance slowly resolved itself into a herd of cattle, their horns pricking up like bare branches from a winter forest. With them were their herders, perhaps a score of Khamorth. Most of them abandoned the herd and came riding up when they spied the approaching envoys.
Their leader shouted several phrases in his own tongue, then, seeing imperials among the newcomers, added in horrible Videssian, “Who you? What here you do?”
He did not wait for an answer. His swarthy face darkened with anger when he noticed Arigh. “Arshaum!” he cried, and his men snarled and grabbed for swords and bows. “What you do with Arshaum?” he asked Goudeles, choosing the bureaucrat perhaps because he was most splendidly dressed. “Arshaum make all Khamorth clans—how you say?—suffer. Your Emperor eat pig guts to deal with them. I, Olbiop son of Vorishtan, say this and I true speak.”
“We kill!” one of Olbiop’s men cried. The guardsmen were reaching for their weapons, too, and Arigh had an arrow ready to nock. Viridovix and Lankinos Skylitzes both sat warily, each with hand on sword hilt. Gorgidas’ Roman blade was still buried in his gear; he waited for whatever fortune might bring.
It was then that Pikridios Goudeles showed his worth. “Stop, O noble Olbiop Vorishtan’s son, lest you fall unwittingly into error!” he said dramatically, his voice booming forth with a rhetor’s well-trained intonations. Gorgidas doubted if the nomad caught more than his own name, but that was enough to make his head swivel to Goudeles.
“Translate for me, old man, that’s a good fellow,” the bureaucrat whispered to Skylitzes beside him.
At the soldier’s nod he struck a pose and launched into florid Videssian oratory: “O leader of the Khamorth, our being slain by you would be a matter more difficult, grievous, and deadly than death itself. Its—”
“I couldn’t repeat that, let alone translate it,” Skylitzes said, eyes widening.
“Shut up,” Goudeles hissed, and then resumed with a gesture no less graceful for being made atop a scruffy horse rather than in a chamber of the imperial palace. Skylitzes followed gamely as the rhetoric poured out.
“Its defamation would live on to remain among all men; this thing has never been done, but will have been invented by you. There will be clear testimony to your deed, that you killed men on an embassy; and the report’s fearfulness will be shown still more fearful by the deed.”
The translation was plainly a poor copy of the original,without its
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