Descendants of the Scythians

CHAPTER ONE

Varkan disappears at a very crucial moment, the explorers walk through a corridor of spears, Artem leaps onto a horse and is ordered to make an escape; he and Dmitro Borisovich ride off at break-neck speed and are almost overtaken by their pursuers; Artem remembers an unusual weapon in the nick of time.

The soothsayer’s henchmen raised their weapons, apparently ready to use them against the explorers if need be. Lida, who found herself standing closest to their tightening circle, stepped back. But there was not much space left for retreating, as the wall of gleaming daggers and swords drew steadily forward on all sides.

“Oh, what’s to be done? What’s to be done?” Lida said, looking around desperately.

One of the younger priests tried to grab Lida’s hand but she recoiled sharply, avoiding the grasp. Artem leaped forward placing himself between the priest and the girl. A moment later he felt someone join him. It was the archeologist, trembling with the eagerness to do battle that had suddenly flared up in him. Artem heard his strained voice:

“We’ll defend ourselves to the end! I’m with you, Artem!”

But no resistance was really possible: what, in fact, could three unarmed men and a girl do in the face of dozens of well-armed enemies?

The priests stopped nevertheless, evidently taken aback by the strangers’ obvious readiness to resist. Some of them looked back at Dorbatay, waiting for further instructions, and Artem used the moment to put two fingers to his mouth and whistle as loud as he could. Artem realized that whistling for the dog that was tied up to the pole by the kibitka from such a distance was futile, but there was no harm in trying.

Dorbatay said something sharp and imperative. He must have given the order to seize the strangers no matter what. The swords were again raised in the air, this time poised to strike if any further resistance was encountered. There seemed to be only one thing left: give themselves up. Any further resistance might prove fatal.

Now two more Scythians appeared on the scene, carrying no arms but equipped with lassos. Any moment now the explorers would be ignominiously bound… It was then that Artem heard a familiar sound, distant but approaching quickly. It was she, it was she, Diana with her unmistakable barking!

“Ivan Semenovich, it’s Diana! She’s broken loose!”

The barking drew nearer; there could be no mistake — it was Diana! Artem shouted at the top of his voice:

“Diana! Gome here! Diana! Come here! Poskina, poskina! Come here!”

The swords were’ lowered — poskina again? The dreaded yellow poskina?

“Come here! Diana! Poskina! Diana! Poskina!” Artem kept yelling. The barking stopped abruptly, but the crowd gave a collective groan of fear as the Scythians scattered in all directions, making way for Diana without even trying to use weapons against her. The big fawn dog dashed through the crowd like a ball of fire. She had stopped barking because she had seen her masters, and now she flashed past the dumbfounded priests in a giant leap, landing at the Artem’s feet. It took the dog no time to assess the situation as dangerous for her masters, and she rushed at the priests, growling fiercely. The dog, ignoring the swords timidly displayed by the priests, kept charging at them, and they did not even dare to raise their weapons but retreated in terror, exclaiming in tremulous voices: ^uPoskina! Poskina!”

Ivan Semenovich said to Artem:

“So, she must have broken loose when she heard your whistle. That was an excellent idea, Artem!”

A piece of rope was still hanging from the dog’s neck.

“Our dear Diana!” Lida even clapped her hands in exultation. “She’ll save us!”

Ivan Semenovich did not say anything but shrugged his shoulders as if to say: Fm not so sure she can.

There was, in fact, little to exult over. Dorbatay, who must have foreseen the possibility of the dreaded poskina’s appearing on the scene, issued a new command; it seemed nothing could catch him unawares. The situation changed abruptly, and again, a familiar maneuver was employed: spears were lowered and thrust forward. Now Diana could not charge the Scythians who were safe behind the forest of spears. There was no alternative but for the explorers to fall back.

Artem took a quick look around. Strange, but they were no longer surrounded on all sides: a passage had opened in the wall of swords and spears, and it led to the camp. Dorbatay’s plan was clear now: to force the strangers to go down this corridor of bristling swords and spears. But what trap did he expect them to fall into at the end of it?

The spearheads moved forward, almost touching the strangers’ breasts, and step by step they began retreating along the passage. The brave dog was bringing up the rear; every few paces she stopped and growled.

It had grown quite dark, and there was no way of telling what awaited the explorers at the end of the dark passage of swords and spears.

Dorbatay commanded something in a peremptory voice; but what had he said? It was important to know, even if it was the worst possible news. Why didn’t Varkan translate the soothsayer’s commands? Where was Varkan, anyway?

Artem looked around in alarm. Varkan was not to be seen anywhere!

“Dmitro Borisovich, Varkan’s gone.”

“He was at our side just a moment ago…”

“He didn’t tell you he was leaving, did he?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“So, he’s gone off somewhere without warning us!”

“I don’t know what to say, Artem. I don’t know why he’s done it.”

Varkan’s disappearance baffled the explorers greatly. If he had been seized by the priests they would surely have noticed the commotion. So, had Varkan just run away, abandoning them to their fate? That seemed highly unlikely!

Dmitro Borisovich looked around, feeling quite at a loss.

At last, failing to locate Varkan anywhere, he said hesitantly:

“He couldn’t have just taken fright and run away…”

“No, he couldn’t,” Lida said with conviction. “Varkan would never do such a thing! Artem, do you think he could have bolted like that?”

“No, he couldn’t,” Artem said without any hesitation.

“But where in that case is he?” Ivan Semenovich asked. No one could provide them with an answer. Varkan must have chosen a moment when nobody was paying attention to make his escape. With Varkan gone, the situation seemed entirely hopeless.

Meanwhile, the strangers were being driven further and further away from the dais. The stern, bearded faces beneath the bronze and leather helmets and felt hats now looked at the strangers with great hostility. The smiling faces and friendly, curious stares which had greeted the strangers several hours earlier were all clouded with malice now. The seditious rhetoric of Dorbatay and the insidious instigations of the nobles had done their job: Aren’t these strangers directly responsible for the death of our old chieftain Skolot? They have put Skolot under their spell, thus causing the gods’ wrath to smite the chieftain. Hasn’t the sage Dorbatay explained everything beautifully? Hasn’t the sage Dorbatay spoken in behalf of the gods whose voice told him that the strangers must die? Dorbatay, who in his wisdom knew best, decided that the strangers should not be sacrificed now, and so it must be. But there is no chance for the strangers to avoid terrible retribution, because the gods are against them!

All these thoughts and emotions could be read on every Scythian face. The wall of hostility, bristling with spears, was pushing the strangers along the passage. Any attempts at resistance would be suicidal. Even for the dog, there was nothing to do but to growl and retreat. Now the sinister silence was broken only by this growling and Dorbatay’s urgings.

“Stay close together,” Ivan Semenovich said.

“They still want to tie us up!” Lida said in alarm.

“We can’t allow it! We’ll fight!” Artem exclaimed hotly.

“With what? We’ve got no weapons,” Dmitro Borisovich said.

That was a very pertinent remark: they had no weapons of any sort with them. If earlier they had had their pickaxes to defend themselves with, now their only weapon was Artem’s pocket knife. Consequently there was not much sense in what Artem had said: he was seething with rage. It was the sudden disappearance of Varkan that had affected him the most. He did not want to believe that Varkan had just run away; such an act of faint-heartedness on his part was entirely out of character. But if he had not just run for it, he should have warned them somehow… Varkan, have you already forgotten that today we became blood brothers?

“Didn’t you, Dmitro Borisovich, tell me that the ties between blood brothers are much stronger than those of real brothers?” Artem said reproachfully.

The archeologist, with a gesture of the one entirely baffled, admitted frankly:

“I’m absolutely nonplussed myself…”

“I just can’t believe Varkan has run away, leaving us to the mercy of fate!” Lida exclaimed with a challenge in her voice. “He’s not that kind of person! He couldn’t have abandoned us like this!”

Meanwhile they had come to the end of the passage between the two walls of the armed Scythians. Once they were out of the perimeter of the kibitkas surrounding the place where the feast had been held, they ceased to be the guests of Hartak; that was probably why the priests, following Dorbatay’s orders, had forced them out there. Ivan Semenovich realized that now the moment had come when the priests would feel free to put Dorbatay’s plans into action.

The fifes played an extremely high-pitched tune somewhere behind them, probably by the dais. Blazing new torches were brought. Their fitful flames fought off the darkness that pressed on all sides. Everything looked even more ominous in this flickering light which gave the scene a sinister, fairy-tale atmosphere: here and there from the darkness would appear a bearded face with jumping reflections in its hostile eyes, or a hand with a drawn bow and the arrow ready to fly from the taut bowstring, or a high felt hat of a priest… It was quite a hopeless situation — on all sides the explorers were threatened with swords and spears; the advancing priests could be glimpsed in the unsteady light, which also revealed the two Scythians with the rope who were ready to bind the strangers.

Artem was thrown into utter despair; his voice trembled when he asked the geologist:

“What are we going to do, Ivan Semenovich? What?”

He was well aware that the geologist was not in a position now to say anything, but still he wanted to hear some words of encouragement that would revive the dying hope that they would be saved.

Suddenly Diana raised her head as though listening to something and gave a short bark. Then she looked at the geologist as if expecting a command. The two priests with the rope had positioned themselves so they could go into action the moment a suitable chance presented itself.

Diana gave another short bark as though warning her master of something. Only then did the explorers hear horses approaching at a gallop and muffled shouts in the distance. A few moments later there remained no doubt that several riders were approaching at high speed; the clatter of hooves and shouts were clear, and the voices of the riders could be distinguished; one of the voices sounded very familiar…

“Varkan, Varkan!” Artem shouted at the top of his voice.

Pushing the priests aside with his snorting black horse covered in lather, Varkan broke through the circle of swords and spears; in one hand he was holding the reins of several riderless horses. More of Varkan’s young friends appeared on the scene, armed with swords, adding to the confusion by pushing the priests still further away. Discordant shouts rose from the crowd. No one had expected this momentous attack, not even Dorbatay!

Varkan shouted, his voice rising above the din:

“Ratman! Ratman!”

And all the other riders shouted with him:

“Ratman! Ratman!”

The word rang in the air; Varkan, meeting the anxious gazes of Dmitro Borisovich and Artem, pointed to the riderless horses with an expressive gesture as if to say: hop on! The other riders held the priests at bay to keep them from preventing the strangers’ escape. And above all the deafening clamor hung the battle-cry of Varkan’s party:

“Ratman! Ratman!”

But why did the warriors and hunters not budge and rush to the aid of the priests? Only a very short while before.

Dorbatay and his henchmen had enjoyed the support of the Scythians in their move to seize the strangers; it had seemed that all the Scythians were ill-disposed toward the strange magicians. And now Varkan and a handful of his friends were fighting in an audacious attempt to rescue the strangers in full view of the armed crowd, and not a single Scythian made the slightest move to assist the priests in repelling the attack. What could have influenced the mood of the crowd? Varkan, in spite of all his audacity and daring, could not have done anything against such odds if it were not for the unexpected tacit non-interference of the crowd; by their staying away and passively observing, the Scythian warriors inadvertently helped Varkan’s cause. But why should they want to do it?

“Ratman! Ratman!”

Artem looked at Ivan Semenovich questioningly; the geologist nodded, giving the go-ahead, and in a moment, Artem was straddling the horse nearest him. Grabbing reins, he shouted:

“Lida! Dmitro Borisovich! Get on the horses! Get on the horses!”

The archeologist was standing closest to him; without much ado, Artem grabbed him by the coat and helped him onto a horse with a single powerful jerk. Dmitro Borisovich found himself clinging to the horse’s neck, holding on desperately. Now Lida and Ivan Semenovich had to be helped onto the horses. But why were they taking so long? Besides they were not so helpless with horses as Dmitro Borisovich was and did not need too much assistance.

“Get on the horses!” Artem yelled once again.

His voice could hardly be heard in the deafening uproar that had engulfed the place. When the initial consternation had worn off, the priests rallied to attack Varkan’s riders. In spite of very unfavorable odds, the riders defended themselves rather successfully by striking out at the priests with the flats of their swords; for some reason or other they did not want to use the cutting edge against the priests who, when they realized this, began pressing much harder. Then Dorbatay’s imperious and piercing voice could be heard, evidently giving fresh orders. The old soothsayer had again proved his agility by getting so quickly from the dais to the scene of the clash!

In the wavering light of the torches, Artem saw a noose tighten over Ivan Semenovich’s upper arms; a moment later, another lasso was thrown around Lida. The sight made Artem’s blood run cold — the priests had used their advantage in numbers, cut off Lida and Ivan Semenovich from Varkan’s riders and bound them!

“Ivan Semenovich! Lida!” Artem cried out to them, trying to get through the cordon of priests. But he could not: the priests had formed a veritable human wall around them. Some of the priests rushed at Artem and grabbed hold of the reins; a hot pain shot through his leg from a sudden blow. A lasso swished past his face, missing him by a couple of inches. A moment later he was almost dragged from his horse.

“Diana! Diana!” he yelled.

The dog immediately rushed to the rescue, her barking almost completely drowned by the din. Diana attacked one priest after another, biting them, knocking them down. And yet, none of them dared to strike her. They dashed out of her way, tripped and fell, or were knocked down by the dog, scrambled back to their feet and rushed to their positions around the strangers. Artem saw Yarkan look around in alarm. Then he grabbed the reins of the archeologist’s horse and called out to his followers. He made his horse rear and charged the priests. But he was heading in the direction opposite from where Lida and Ivan Semenovich were being held captive!

“Varkan! Wait!” Artem shrieked after him.

Varkan looked back and jerked his head which could only mean one thing: “We’re getting out of here!”

“Hey, what about the rest?”

Varkan, ignoring Artem’s pleas, made his way through the crowd, not letting go the reins of the archeologist’s horse. Two of his men were locked in a pitched battle with the priests who were trying to drag Artem from his horse. He was completely at a loss as to what he should do next: Ivan Semenovich and Lida were in the enemy hands; Varkan and Dmitro Borisovich were fleeing. What was he to do? It was beyond his power to rescue his captured friends, and any attempt to do so would surely end in his being seized as well. Another lasso was thrown and would have caught Artem for sure if one of Varkan’s men had not intercepted it in the air and thrown it to the ground. Through the uproar, Artem heard the muffled voice of Ivan Semenovich:

“Artem… run away at once… it’s our only chance… come back to rescue us…”

Even then the young man could not quite make up his mind to escape: his friends were in mortal danger. How could he run away?!

“Run, Artem, escape! Escape! I order you: escape!”

Now it was an order, so he had to obey. Artem jerked the reins and the horse reared, sending one of his attackers sprawling. Artern’s horse came down on the priests in front of him.

“Ah, you deserved it! Forward, forward!”

But this was easier said than done. He felt a hand grab him firmly by the leg. The next moment, in the flickering light of the torches, he saw a spear rise into the air, and it was definitely aimed at him. Then the sound of metal striking metal was heard — one of Varkan’s men near Artem struck at the spear with his sword.

“Thank you! And now, I’m off!” Artem cried, spurring his horse to a gallop. A moment later the priests were far behind him. Some distance ahead, Artem made out the dark shape of a man on horseback moving away quickly — or perhaps there were two riders galloping close together — Varkan and Dmitro Borisovich no doubt. But would the archeologist be able to sustain such a gallop for long?

Looking back, Artem saw two more riders gaining on him. Hopefully, they were Varkan’s men, so everything should be all right. But what was happening to Lida and Ivan Semenovich now? Artem still could discern the raving voice of Dorbatay through the clatter of the hooves: it was very easy to identify: rasping and yet somehow high-pitched. Artem also seemed to hear among the shouts and Diana’s barking, the voice of Ivan Semenovich, calling out:

“Take Diana with you, Artem… Take Diana…!”,

Without slowing down, Artem gave a piercing whistle, then again and again. But he realized it would be futile to look back to see whether the dog was following him, because the darkness around him was impenetrable.

The two of Varkan’s men had caught up with Artem and were riding alongside him. One of them suddenly stretched out his hand and pushed Artem closer to the horse’s neck.

At almost that very moment, a spear whizzed through the air just above his head, disappearing into the darkness ahead of him.

Thank you so much, my friend, Artem thought, realizing what had happened and appreciating what the man had done for him. It was as if the Scythians could see in the dark!

Artem looked back: what if there were further dangers lurking behind him in the dark? He saw the glow of the burning torches; in the distant glare, he thought he could make out a group of horsemen galloping after him. Had they been dispatched in pursuit? Or was his imagination running wild in the darkness? He also thought he heard Diana running to catch up with him.

No, these were not the tricks of his imagination: there she was, following him, and the clatter of the hooves and shouts of the Scythians in hot pursuit could be clearly heard now.

They were being chased!

He Hi *

Artem had no idea where he was headed with Varkan and his men. But he didn’t care either. The most important thing now was to shake off their pursuers, who were surely priests dispatched by Dorbatay.

Artem bent closer to the horse’s neck; the air whistled in his ears, hitting him hard in the face. His horse was galloping at top speed. They stayed in a close group, no one getting ahead or falling behind. He could also see Diana running alongside.

I wonder how Dmitro Borisovich is doing, Artem thought in trepidation. It’ll be nothing short of a miracle if he hasn’t fallen off his horse yet!

True, Varkan was riding by the archeologist’s side and would always be ready to help. Artem was somewhat worried whether he and Varkan’s men were moving in the right direction: it’d be terrible to lose Varkan now in this total darkness. But Artem’s horse seemed to know where he was going, and Varkan’s men knew the way.

Frenzied shouting came from behind. Varkan’s men urged their horses to race even faster, and Artem did the same. Since their pursuers were numerous, much depended on the speed of their horses. The enraged priests would probably kill the lot of them immediately!

What if my horse stumbles and falls? Artem wondered, but soon chased away this futile thought. He had to concentrate on escaping. Judging by the clatter of hooves, their pursuers didn’t seem to be gaining on them. But he wasn’t sure how many of them there were altogether.

Artem looked back to see the same impenetrable darkness of the pitch-dark night. Once in a while, the clatter of hooves grew fainter and Artem rejoiced at the thought that his pursuers were falling behind. But then the clatter grew louder, and the men behind them seemed closer. Then Artem would press against his horse’s neck, urging the beast onward, trying to become one with it.

“Faster… faster… faster!” he whispered, keeping time with the gallop.

The horse continued at the same neck-breaking speed. Once they galloped over a low hill, the hooves beating a resounding staccato against the stones. And then they flew across the steppe with its high grass that lashed at Artem’s knees in the dark. He was disturbed by the fact that he did not know where they were going: the steppe was not a good place to hide. As far as he remembered, the cliffs at the end of the steppe could not hide them either. And they could not go on riding like this forever hoping that their pursuers would eventually fall behind and lose them…

There was little hope that would happen. The horses running after them must have been as fresh and strong as their own. Dorbatay was sure to have fetched the very best for his men…

Artem heard the clatter of hooves on stone from the same’ hill he and his companions had ridden over just a short while ago. So, the pursuers were not falling behind at all. Surely they were well-armed with the swords and spears the Scythians used so expertly. In this respect, the darkness was an asset for the fugitives.

When Artem remembered how Varkan had hit a small rabbit on horseback at full gallop, it made his flesh creep: Varkan was surely not the only Scythian capable of such feats! Artem looked back nervously: the steady clatter of hooves behind them never slackened. Artem peered into the darkness ahead and made out two dark silhouettes of men on horseback. He was definitely gaining on them. Were they slowing down? Had Varkan and Dmitro Borisovich — for who else could it be — reined in their horses? Something must have happened!

They have not stopped; they had slowed from a gallop to a trot. But at that pace, they would soon be overtaken by the pursuers! So, what was the idea?

When Artem found himself quite close to the riders, he called out to them:

“Dmitro Borisovich! What’s the matter? Why have you slowed down? The pursuers are on our heels!”

“My horse’s gone lame. He can’t gallop, and neither can I, for that matter. But that’s beside the point,” replied the archeologist.

“The pursuers…” Artem repeated but then cut himself short: it would disturb Dmitro Borisovich even more if he knew they were being chased. But it was too late: now the archeologist had been alerted to the new danger:

“What pursuers?” he asked quickly. “Do you mean we’re being chased?”

Artem had no alternative but to explain:

“An armed party has been dispatched to catch us, probably of priests. And they’re very close now.”

Now Artem’s horse was also trotting alongside the archeologist’s. Artem could not make out the expression on the archeologist’s face but he heard anxiety when the older man finally spoke:

“So, what’s to be done? My horse is limping… we can’t go much faster.”

At this point, Varkan cut in, saying just a few words. The clatter of the hooves was definitely drawing nearer and nearer with every passing moment. Something had to be done at once.

“What did Varkan tell you, Dmitro Borisovich?”

“He told me to go ahead to the forest which as it happens is very near, straight ahead. And to take you with me. Meanwhile, Varkan will engage the pursuers.”

“No, I don’t go with that,” Artem protested. “You should go there right away with your lame horse. I’m staying here and will catch up with you later.”

“But Artem…”

“Now’s not the time for arguing, Dmitro Borisovich! Go now!”

“You’re not even armed, Artem! What use you will be in a skirmish with the priests?”

“There you’re mistaken. I’ve got a weapon! Go, I beseech you!”

With no little satisfaction, Artem saw that the archeologist obeyed without further argument. His feeling Gf satisfaction was liberally mixed with wonder at how relations between people could change depending on the circumstances! Until just a short while ago, it was Dmitro Borisovich who issued orders which Artem invariably obeyed, albeit some times reluctantly, but now it was the archeologist who did what Artem told him.

Dmitro Borisovich set off toward the forest and was almost immediately engulfed by the darkness. In the meantime, the clatter of hooves was growing nearer.

Varkan put his hand on Artem’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shove as if to say: follow Dmitro Borisovich.

“No, I’m staying here,” Artem said resolutely. He was glad to hear Varkan say something to his men, in a tone suggesting that he approved of Artem’s determination.

They stopped, and Artem’s horse pranced nervously, probably sensing the tension of the rider. Swords clanked as they were drawn from the scabbards. Judging by the wild hue and cry that ensued, the pursuers must have caught sight of the fugitives.

It would be a fight against overwhelming odds: in spite of their dauntless courage, Varkan and his men would hardly be a match for the many pursuers, whose number could be estimated, judging by the clatter of hooves, as several score.

How could Artem help Varkan against such a formidable force? Diana would defend only Artem, for she could not distinguish friend from foe among the Scythians. Artem had neither sword nor spear, and Varkan had none to spare. Even if there had been an extra sword, Artem had no skill in handling one. But Artem knew how he would defend himself and the rest: he did have a weapon. It bore the least possible resemblance to anything conventionally described as weapons. In fact the thing he planned to use as a weapon was designed for purely peaceful purposes, but at the moment Artem placed more hope on it than on swords. In any case, he would not exchange it for a sword or spear under the present circumstances.

Artem’s heart was pounding wildly; he was dying to use his unusual weapon. The voices of his pursuers grew even louder as they drew nearer. The time had come. Using gestures, Artem explained that Varkan and his men should stay where they were and that he, Artem, would deal with the pursuers all by himself. Varkan, nonplussed as he was, nevertheless realized that his blood brother had come up with some ingenious new plan.

“You stay here,” Artem said, emphasizing his words with a gesture. “I’ll meet the pursuers alone. Understand?”

Varkan did not, of course, understand the words but the gestures were eloquent enough, and the Scythian was baffled; he was about to remonstrate, but Artem paid no heed. He dismounted, leaving Varkan and his men behind; they expressed their amazement and anxiety in terse phrases. Artem bent low to hide himself in the grass and dashed a dozen meters toward the oncoming pursuers. Then he stopped to catch his breath and command Diana, who was again at his side, to lie quietly.

“So, you want to hurl your spears?” Artem mumbled to himself. “You want to hack at us with your swords? Just try it! Just you wait, I’ll make you sorry you’ve come!”

Crouching low in the grass, he saw — now that his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark — the silhouettes of the first pursuers riding straight at him. They must have seen Varkan and his men, whose immobility must have surprised them. But they also must have been glad to discover that they had halted, for they would be easier to capture.

Yelling in a frenzy, the attackers raised their spears; now they were sure of success.

Artem decided that the time to act had come. He raised his hand, holding a stubby object, above the grass.

“Here we go!”

The yelling stopped immediately, congealing into abrupt, stunned silence. The priests had reined in their horses, but even had they not done so, their frightened mounts would have stopped anyway. The concentrated ray of white light that seemed quite blinding in the total darkness hit the pursuers straight in the face, so they could not see anything but this mysterious light. Artem, Varkan and his men, on the contrary, could see the pursuers, overwhelmed by consternation, very well; and they were indeed priests. No wonder they were astounded: the blinding spot of light was shining above the high grass, without setting it on fire!

The priests were staring at the cold light that had sprung up so mysteriously in their way in baffled dismay. They could see each other almost as clearly as in the daylight; they could see the grass around them, but further away, the darkness on all sides of the source of light seemed to have solidified into a wall beyond which nothing could be seen.

“Aha, you’ve stopped, haven’t you?” Artem whispered maliciously, trying to control his nervous excitement. “Now you’ve stopped, but what are you going to do next, I wonder?”

He trembled with nervous tension but he kept the button of his powerful flashlight pressed. Wasn’t it a piece of good luck that he had it with him and that he had remembered it just in time!

Suddenly, as the initial shock wore off, a new upsurge of fury smote the priests. One of them — a middle-aged man wearing a red cloak with a hood, lashed his horse, urging it forward. But the horse, still thoroughly frightened by the light, only reared. The rider lashed it again, but the horse refused to move forward. Then the priest abruptly raised a spear into the air, aiming at the blinding light, uttering curses and imprecations all the while.

“Ah, I don’t think you’ll hit anything this time,” Artem said under his breath dodging the spear. “Now it’s me who’s got the advantage!”

The spear had missed the target completely. When Artem had jumped to the side, he had released the button on the flashlight only to press it again a moment later, once again bathing the priests in cold white light. Under slightly different circumstances, Artem would have burst into laughter: the dismayed and confused faces of the priests, quite at a loss as what they should do, were a sight indeed! But at the moment Artem did not exactly feel like laughing.

“Go ahead, throw some more!” he said. “Don’t forget to take a good aim though. I need time to dodge, after all. Diana, quiet! Lie still or else you might get hit by a spear.”

Two spears were hurled at him almost at the same time. Artem dodged one and barely escaped being hit by the other.

“Aha, so that’s what you want?” he said menacingly. “All right, you’ve asked for it.”

He stepped back and groped for the spear sticking out of the ground. Without shutting off the light, he took the flashlight into his left hand, grabbed hold of the spear with the right one, raised it into the air and hurled it at the priests.

“Take that! Shortly you’ll have another!”

The spear flew out of the darkness as though regurgitated by the earth. Artem had not taken an aim when he had hurled it, but the priests herded together into a tight group, their horses prancing but staying at one place, so it was very difficult to miss. Besides, they would have noticed the spear too late if at all. The spear hit one of the riders in the shoulder. The priests stared at the spear that had come from nowhere in great consternation, and exchanged alarmed shouts. The wounded man, having pulled the spear from his wound, turned his horse sharply around and trotted away from the peculiar cold light which hurled spears back at those who threw them!

“Here’s another one for you!” Artem cried out in a more cheerful voice now, throwing the second spear. He was not afraid of his enemies any longer.

This proved enough to turn dismay into panic; spears flying back from the darkness and hitting horses and men, the strange magician hiding behind the weird light — the priests broke down in the face of such abominations. What else did the terrible young magician have in store for them? — he who had defeated Dorbatay, who had escaped after the feast, and who was working these terrifying miracles in the night?

As though executing a command, the entire group wheeled round and galloped away. Artem could see that none of the riders even dared to look back. Leaning close to their horses’ necks, they urged their mounts on, racing away as fast as possible.

Artem burst into nervous laughter:

“Didn’t I tell Dmitro Borisovich I had a wonderful weapon!”

Artem remained where he was for some time, watching the priests make a hasty, disorderly retreat. In a moment, they disappeared over the hill. He switched off the flashlight and walked slowly back to Varkan and his men. He felt suddenly very tired, and stumbled in the high grass. The night seemed darker after the white glare of the flashlight. But soon, his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness again and he could see his horse grazing peacefully a short distance away and Varkan waiting with his men.

“Well, my friends, that’s that,” Artem said. “Did you see how they took to their heels! We’re safe now, but I don’t know for how long…”

He stopped short when he realized that the Scythians could not understand a word of what he was saying. They looked at him in awe: what he had just done was a miracle in their eyes. They had seen the eerie light and the panicky retreat of the priests, and assumed he had magical powers to make such a thing occur.

Artem leaped onto his horse.

“Let’s go,” he said with a gesture, urging them on. “If Dmitro Borisovich has not gotten lost in the forest, I’ll explain everything to you with his help. Diana, come here! Ah, my good dog, this time the enemy has been routed without your assistance, but that’s all right. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of chances for you to come to the rescue!”

Then he fell silent. The great nervous tension of the recent events must have affected him: he felt exhausted; the leg that had been wounded in the hunt was aching again.

Varkan said a few words to his men and they headed for the forest in silence. It seemed to have sprung out of darkness like something darker still. Varkan stopped his horse, put his hands to his mouth, and called the archeologist.

“Here I am, over here!” Dmitro Borisovich called back from a short distance away. He stepped from behind a tree and peered through the darkness counting the riders. Recognizing Artem, he rushed to him with open arms: ^uMy dear young friend! I’m so happy to see you safe and sound! I was so worried! I was so anxious lest you come to some harm!”

CHAPTER TWO

Ronis says the time is ripe for a rebellion, and Artem decides that he cannot possibly remain a passive observer: he must join Varkan and Ronis’s cause; Artem finds a means of communicating with Lida.

“When he saw that you had escaped, Dorbatay flew into a terrible rage. After the death of Skolot, he was convinced he had won the ultimate victory. So your escape has come to him as a tremendous blow. Besides, something else has come to pass to make Dorbatay and his rich supporters feel rather uncertain after all.”

“Why should they?”

“The people are divided into those who support him and those who are against him. You see, Dorbatay has been preparing for the final confrontation with Skolot for a long time. But on the other hand he kept putting it off, because he was afraid of Skolot as he saw that the old chieftain had still a strong hold over the Scythians. That’s why he kept his machinations secret for so long, building up support for his case. He managed to get considerable backing, and then you appeared on the scene. After his defeat at the altar, Dorbatay realized that using your magical powers, Skolot would get all the Scythians under his sway. So, the old soothsayer resolved to act without further delay. With those elders, nobles and rich men who supported him, he worked out a detailed plan which he managed to pull off almost without a hitch. Hartak was proclaimed the new chieftain but it was clear to everyone that all the power was now in the hands of Dorbatay. Dorbatay had maneuvered the elders into agreeing to this in spite of the fact that originally, some of them had been on Skolot’s side. They probably figured it was more to their advantage to have Hartak for the chieftain with Dorbatay exercising the real power instead of Skolot and Dorbatay pitted one against the other in an endless conflict, for the nobles fear the revolt that is brewing among the poor and the slaves. Besides the situation is further aggravated by the fact that Varkan has escaped, too. And there’s great power behind Varkan as well.”

“What power?”

“Wait, I’ll get to that shortly,” Ronis said with a smile. “It won’t be easy to figure out the best course of action. I can tell you that Dorbatay fears you and your possible moves against him greatly, especially now, after the spectacular escape staged by Varkan! Incidentally, the Scythians are talking about nothing but the mysterious light that magically appeared before the priests, stopped the pursuit, and hurled back the spears thrown at it by the priests, hitting a man and a horse.”

“Ah, well…” said Artem modestly after he heard the translation.

“Then, there’s your yellow panther, your big dog, that is. In other words, I’m sure that Dorbatay wouldn’t mind making peace with you, provided, of course, you agree to a reconciliation…”

“Oh no, never!” Artem exclaimed.

Ronis looked at him and understood what he had just said without having to listen to the translation: the expression on Artem’s face and the way he said it made his meaning all too clear.

“I’m not trying to convince you to do it,” Ronis said with a bitter smile. “I know from experience how little Dorbatay’s most solemn pledges are worth!”

“But we’re worried about what will become of our two friends who are in the hands of the old soothsayer,” Dmitro Borisovich said dismally and added, turning to Artem and looking him straight in the eye: “We should discuss the situation in every detail and decide upon something only after we have done so!”

Artem did not say anything in reply: the archeologist was right, of course. But on the other hand, they could not make any agreement with Dorbatay, their perfidious enemy, could they? And Ronis had also said that the old soothsayer could not be trusted! The Greek spoke again:

“At this point I don’t think your friends are in any immediate danger. Dorbatay fears retribution from you should your friends come to any harm. Besides, Hartak fancies your girl… Dorbatay will surely use this to his own advantage. It gives him additional strings to pull his puppet whatever way he wants by promising to give the girl to Hartak in marriage after he’s put the gold chieftain’s helmet on his head.”

Artem barely managed to suppress an indignant exclamation. But he lowered his head and stared at the ground.

“Your friends are being held in a kibitka with armed priests guarding them. They are not free to leave, but I can assure you that their lives are not in danger at the moment. After Dorbatay pronounced them the property of the gods, so to say, no Scythian would dare to touch a hair on their heads.”

After Dmitro Borisovich translated this for Artem, he added from himself, seeing how downcast the young man looked: “That should really keep them safe for the time being.”

“Hope they remain the property of the gods until we find the way to free them,” Artem said.

When Ronis heard the translation of Artem’s words, he said:

“Yes, it is safe enough… until… the moment Dorbatay decides to use this ‘property’ for his own purposes. But it may turn out he’ll have no time for that.”

“Why?” Dmitro Borisovich asked.

“Because, something is going to happen in the near future that will come as a shock to Dorbatay,” Ronis said, casting a meaningful glance at Varkan, who was also sitting by the fire making arrows. Without putting down the shaft and the knife he was holding in his hands, he said:

“All right, Ronis, tell them everything. Fate has brought us together in our struggle against our common enemy, Dorbatay and his henchmen. And Fate has also brought us close to the strangers who have become our friends. Go ahead, Ronis, tell our friends everything!”

“All right, Varkan, I will. They should know and should choose sides,” Ronis agreed.

The archeologist’s curiosity was piqued; as he translated, his eagerness to hear the secret grew. Varkan’s distinctive position among the Scythians made him popular among the warriors and hunters and earned him quite pronounced animosity from the elders, nobles and priests, Dorbatay in particular. But what made Varkan different had remained a secret to the explorers.

“All right, listen to this story, my friends,” Ronis said. “A revolt has been brewing among the slaves for a long time. But it must be well prepared to be a success. We’ve already seen the results of an ill-timed action. I gave ample warning that it would miscarry unless properly prepared. Varkan shared this view, too, but there were some hotheads who could not wait any longer and instigated the revolt. And, consequently, it all ended miserably, with many slaves loosing their lives in battle and under torture…”

Ronis heaved a sigh, and then continued:

“It grieves me to think about this… especially knowing I warned them against making any rash moves… The most important Scythians, Dorbatay in particular, and the other nobles would never let the slaves go free without putting up a fight. A major uprising was necessary to bring about the release of the slaves, but we were not quite sure which side the hunters and herdsmen would take. It was a matter of extreme importance for us… The rich nobles and elders own big herds of horses and many slaves. But they aren’t satisfied with what they have and try to get more by driving hard the hunters and herdsmen who have no possessions and have to work for the rich. The priests introduced a law that the hunters must give a part of their game-bag to the gods, in other words to the priests. There’s another law which requires the herdsmen to give the priests something, too. So, as you see, the rich elders and nobles make life very hard for the average Scythians. And no one can do anything about it. Dorbatay and his priests made sure no one could say a word against them, because anyone who did was denounced as an infidel and severely punished for breaking the sacred law.”

“In fact, Dorbatay could strip anyone of all his possessions, declaring them ‘the property of the gods,’” Varkan said bitterly.

“Yes, such things have happened,” Ronis said. “The Scythians have learned to fear the priests and the rich. They cower and grumble in secret, but they’re careful not to let the elders and priests hear about their grumbling to avoid trouble. That’s how it was, but then discontent began to grow among the Scythians. It is more widespread among young warriors, hunters, and herdsmen. The discontented Scythians have resolved to unite against the elders, nobles and priests. The leader of the discontented warriors was and is…”

“Varkan!” Dmitro Borisovich exclaimed. “Of course it’s Varkan! Who else could it be?”

“Who else indeed?” Artem said to himself with conviction.

“Yes, it’s Varkan. It is he who has made all the preparations for a major uprising against the priests and nobles. I was responsible for getting everything ready for the revolt. We went our separate ways until Varkan and I began to see eye to eye. We realized that our ultimate goals were the same and that we should unite. We were about to give the signal to start the uprising, but the situation changed abruptly… As a matter of fact, it was your appearance that was responsible for the change. If not for you, Dorbatay would have behaved differently; he would not have been in such a hurry to get rid of Skolot. But after his defeat at the altar… I think I’ve told you about that… So, Dorbatay poisoned Skolot, having secured the support of the nobles beforehand. Incidentally, he planned to seize not only you but also Varkan and his friends whom he suspected of plotting against him. But things did not go the way he planned. Varkan managed to escape, and by the way, it was extremely dangerous for him to return as he did, to rescue you. Now his friends have begun to join him here, one by one. Some have stayed behind to gain the support of other warriors and hunters. Dorbatay and his henchmen do not suspect that I incited the slaves to revolt. I’m sure that if he learnt about it, he’d rather lose the gold I bring to him and have me killed…”

Ronis fell silent, and the others were silent, too, their heads bent low in thought. They were sitting by the fire in the glade. Varkan went on working quietly at the arrow shafts with his knife as though the story did not concern him at all. But he glanced at them occasionally to see whether they were listening attentively enough then bent low over the arrow he was working at.

Dmitro Borisovich was all ears but didn’t forget to translate Ronis’s story for Artem, who was no less excited to hear it. This ancient world had been opening up before the archeologist in greater detail than could possibly be glimpsed in even the most meticulous accounts of the ancient historians or from any amount of artifacts unearthed in archeological excavations. Everything Dmitro Borisovich had observed threw additional light on the life of a Scythian tribe.

The representations of the Scythians that Dmitro Borisovich had seen earlier on the ancient jugs, vases, basreliefs, and jewelry, had now come to life before his very eyes. Could anything else give greater pleasure to an enthusiastic archeologist who had devoted his entire life to the history of the ancient tribes that had roamed the vast territories to the north of the Black Sea?

Artem was also excited to hear all this, but he was occupied with other problems.

The fate of his friends put everything else into the background. They were in the hands of Dorbatay and Hartak — or rather it was Dorbatay alone who was to be reckoned with, because Hartak could be easily dismissed as a nonentity. But on the other hand, Hartak wanted to marry Lida, and Dorbatay would be only too glad to oblige. This thought made Artem clench his fists. Though he loathed the very thought, he could not just ignore it. There was one thing that eased his mind somewhat: if Hartak intended to marry Lida, Dorbatay would not do her any harm, at least for the time being. As far as Ivan Semenovich was concerned, his only hope was Dorbatay’s fear of retribution from Artem and Dmitro Borisovich, should he come to any harm. That is, of course, if Ronis’s words were to be trusted. There was nothing else to hope for at the moment, and Artem knew it.

But there was something else that should be taken into consideration: according to Ronis, the Scythian community was about to explode in civil strife; Artem shared the views of Ronis and Varkan, and regarded the deep discontent of many Scythians as justified. It was only natural that the honest and courageous Varkan was the leader of the downtrodden hunters and herdsmen. Artem felt even more respect for his blood brother after learning of VarkanV role in the forthcoming revolt. It was also good to know that Ronis, a determined and resolute person, was the leader of the slaves who were preparing an uprising. That he was a man of exceptionally strong will could be easily seen from the story of the tortures he had been subjected to by Dorbatay. Ronis was definitely a man of mettle! He would be able to withstand any trials and carry into life all of his plans!

Thus the ways of the strangers and the leaders of the forthcoming uprising unexpectedly converged. Varkan was right in saying that all available forces should be united in the uprising. But could Artem and Dmitro Borisovich contribute anything? Weren’t they just two men seeking to free their friends? Artem thought he and Dmitro Borisovich should do all they could to help the uprising. It was a just cause, and they could not ignore it. They would join them against the priests and the nobles in their attempt to bring about justice. And if it coincided with the attempt to rescue Lida and Ivan Semenovich, so much the better!

* * $

In the long silence that ensued the only distinct sounds were the rustling of leaves and the crackling of the fire. Diana was lying beside Artem, her head resting on her outstretched forelegs; from time to time she would prick up her ears, listening to some indistinct, muffled sounds coming from the depths of the forest. The tethered horses were standing nearby; several Scythians were resting beside the horses: they were obediently fulfilling the orders of Varkan.

Ronis looked up abruptly.

“What will you tell me, strangers?” he asked Dmitro Borisovich. “I’ve told you everything there was to tell, and now Varkan and I want to hear whose side you’ll be on? Which way will you choose?”

The archeologist looked at him in surprise:

“What do you mean ‘which way?”’ he asked.

“Will you join us? Or do you prefer to remain neutral? We all understand you have that right, of course.”

“My dear Ronis,” Dmitro Borisovich said softly but firmly. “There’s nothing to discuss here, really. There is only one thing we can do, and that is to side with you against the priests and the nobles. Are you of the same opinion, Artem?” he turned to the young man.

Artem did not say anything but warmly squeezed the hands of Varkan and Ronis in an eloquent gesture that showed without words Artem’s preference. Varkan did not lower his eyes for the first time since the conversation had begun: he had been avoiding the eyes of the strangers, evidently not quite sure they would join his cause. Now Varkan looked Artem straight in the eye, and there was as much love and respect in his eyes as there was in the eyes of Artem who met his gaze. Artem realized that there had been some doubts in Varkan’s mind as to what their decision would be even though Varkan believed in the bottom of his heart that they would support him. Now everything was decided, and it was a great thing to be looking each other in the eye.

Artem broke into a broad grin.

“Dmitro Borisovich, tell Varkan,” he said, “that the problem of our participation must be considered settled. There’s nothing else to discuss! My dear blood brother should not have had any doubts concerning us… Wait, Dmitro Borisovich, wait, don’t translate all I said! Everything’s clear anyway!”

The archeologist nodded his head as if to say: yes, everything’s clear.

“But I’ve got a question of a different nature to ask,” Artem said. “According to Ronis, Varkan has quite a lot of supporters. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Varkan confirmed.

“If that is so, why couldn’t these supporters help Lida and Ivan Semenovich escape as Varkan helped us? United, we could be of greater use. Besides, our friends would be safe.”

Varkan looked at Ronis searchingly after he heard the translation, but the Greek shook his head.

“No, it can’t be done now. It’s out of the question at the moment,” he said firmly. “Does our friend really think that we would not like to do it? Of course we would, but the time for it has not yet come.”

“Why?”

“You see, the priests are keeping such a close watch over the kibitka where your friends are kept that no one can even come in sight of it. Mind you, Dorbatay is sure we will make an attempt to free them, and he is prepared to repulse us. If we try it now, we will be walking into a trap.”

Artem listened to the translation in gloomy silence. Ronis was surely right, and his assessment of the situation was flawless.

“We’ll be able to free your friends later during the general uprising,” Ronis said, “or maybe shortly before it breaks out, when the priests’ attention is directed elsewhere.”

“All right, I understand,” Artem said impatiently, for his impetuosity could not be checked even with the most convincing arguments. “But when will the uprising begin? Varkan and Ronis said they’d been planning it for a long time. Why do they keep putting it off? Now, after the poisoning of Skolot, isn’t it a suitable moment to come forward and open the Scythians’ eyes to the pernicious role of Dorbatay and the treachery of the nobles?”

Artem, roused by his own fervid words, was burning with the desire to see the action started as soon as possible. Dmitro Borisovich translated only the essence of what he had said so that the young man would get the answer the sooner.

“There are, in fact, several reasons why we can’t begin the uprising right away,” Ronis said with utmost gravity.

“What reasons?” Artem persisted. “Didn’t Ronis himself say a discontent was growing among the slaves, hunters, and herdsmen? What else are you waiting for?”

“That’s exactly what the hotheads who started the previous revolt prematurely, said,” Ronis replied gloomily. “They paid dearly for their rashness… and the whole thing ended in disaster… An uprising is a complicated matter — overlook one little detail, and everything is ruined.”

Artem lowered his head again — the clever Greek had some very convincing arguments.

“We have to get more weapons. We don’t have enough. That’s first,” Ronis continued. “The old warriors and their servants are better armed. Besides, the priests are also rather well armed. Second, they are all united by the fear of the impending uprising and are on guard.”

“So what?” Artem said hotly again. “They’re united, so why can’t you unite? Everything depends on you and those who share your views. You should give weapons to the people, incite them to action, make them follow you… then victory is yours! That’s what you should understand!”

Ronis looked at Artem with added interest: he must have liked the young man’s sincere impetuosity.

“Everything you say is quite correct in itself,” Ronis said after a short silence. “But as it happens, now is not the right time to undertake anything decisive. Dorbatay played his role well — you saw that yourself — and he’s managed fo sway the majority of the Scythians to his side. The Scythians fear the gods and believe it was the gods who punished Skolot. But I can assure you that things will change radically in the nearest future…”

“How soon will that be?”

“That depends on when the Scythians start the funeral journey to bury Skolot. You see, Scythian chieftains of such prominence must be buried in a sacred place where many other chieftains have been buried. The place is called…”

“Gerrhus!” Dmitro Borisovich cried out quite forgetting for the moment of his duties as interpreter. His mind was momentarily invaded by other thoughts. He knew the name of the place where Scythian chieftains had been buried from reading Herodotus, the ancient Greek historian who had left the most comprehensive account about the Scythians to come down to us. Herodotus wrote that the Scythians buried the most prominent of their chieftains in Gerrhus, the location of which was known only to the Scythians. This was the place the Scythian chieftain Idanthyrsus had in mind when he mockingly advised the Persian King Darius to come and find the graves of their ancestors. But wasn’t Gerrhus reserved exclusively for the dead of the powerful Scythian tribe known as the Royal Scythians? At least that was how some later historians interpreted Herodotus on the subject. If that was so, how had it come about that a small Scythian tribe, the nomadic tribe of the chieftain Skolot had a similar custom? Was it because in its complete isolation it had adopted a mode of behavior learnt from stories about the Royal Scythians? At the moment the archeologist could not find a better explanation.

Ronis cast a puzzled glance at the stranger: how did he know about the sacred place of the Scythians? But, when he replied, he sounded quiet and deliberate, and not at all surprised:

“Yes, Gerrhus. Very few people know its exact location. It is generally believed to be somewhere in the vicinity of the Borysthenes…”

“The ‘Dnieper’ is what we call the river now,” Dmitro Borisovich added in an aside to Artem.

“Oh, but… wait, how could the Dnieper flow through here? It’s quite…” Artem said greatly perplexed.

“Hush, we’ll try to find an explanation later!”

Ronis continued:

“They have begun the embalming of the chieftain’s body. In a few days, the Scythians will break camp and begin the funeral procession to Gerrhus. Naturally, the slaves will follow them. The funeral rites at Gerrhus will involve many human sacrifices, and Dorbatay will need many slaves as victims…”

Ronis broke off his story at this point and fell into a short, gloomy silence, lowering his head. But very soon, he came out of his momentary melancholy and said:

“I am sorry, the very mention of the fact makes me sad. Dorbatay will sacrifice innocent people to his cruel gods… but ahead of everything else, he will use these sacrifices to establish even a firmer grip over the Scythians and make them, fear not the gods but the soothsayer himself!”

“There is still a good chance that he won’t be able to do it,” Varkan said.

“I hope so,” replied the Greek, frowning in concentration. “When the procession arrives in Gerrhus, our uprising will start. Anyway, that is how we’ve planned it.”

Artem was excited to hear at last a more or less definite term for the start of the action.

“You see, my friends,” Ronis went on, “while the Scythians are on the move to Gerrhus, Varkan will tell the hunters and herdsmen — those who can be relied on, of course — what should be done. Dorbatay and the elders will not be able to rally support on such short notice, as during the journey, the Scythians will inevitably get mixed up and the nobles and their retainers will not be able to stay close together in one group. Also, the final coup will be easier as we plan to keep very quiet during the journey so as to lull Dorbatay’s vigilance and make him think that the unrest has fizzled out.”

Listening to this, Artem could not help thinking of Ronis with growing admiration: this reserved man of short stature commanded tremendous respect! Ronis’s plan seemed to take into consideration every detail and eventuality one could possibly think of. The plan was sure to work! It was so sound that naturally, Varkan supported his friend all the way. It was indeed a happy albeit rare combination: the courage and intrepidity of the young Scythian warrior and the careful planning and wise foresight of the Greek.

So there was only one thing over which they had no control: whether or not Lida and Ivan Semenovich would come to any harm at Dorbatay’s hands before the journey ended and the uprising began. Was there any hope that their friends would be safe until then?

As though in response to the worried thoughts of the young man, Ronis spoke again in the same deliberate, convincing manner:

“I think this funeral journey will keep Dorbatay, as the head priest, very busy. He won’t have time to do any harm to your friends. As far as the girl is concerned, I think she is quite safe anyway, considering Hartak’s intention to marry her. And your other friend is also relatively safe from any immediate danger.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, there are some reasons to think so. Suppose Dorbatay intends to kill your friend…”

“A very nice thing to suppose, and very comforting too!” Dmitro Borisovich could not help exclaiming.

“But even if Dorbatay does have such an intention, he will not have time to deal with your friend until the actual burial of Skolot, because it would be more useful to sacrifice your friend during the funeral rites to lend the ceremony more solemnity.”

Ronis presented his reasoning calmly, not overlooking a single detail. On the one hand, Artem and Dmitro Borisovich were somewhat put off by the callousness of his wording as though he were speaking about something inanimate rather than the fate of a human being, the way a chessplayer would speak of a pawn. On the other hand, they felt reassured by his determination and resoluteness. They saw in Ronis a person who wanted to plan everything carefully, taking into consideration every detail to arrive at the proper conclusions and bring the affair to the desired end. Varkan put away the arrows he had been working on and rose to his feet, his questioning gaze resting on Ronis.

“Our conversation seems to be coming to an end,” he said to his friend.

“Yes, so it seems,” Ronis replied quietly.

“Then I have just one more question for you. Do you still think that I should not appear in the camp? Is it better for me to stay here in the forest?”

“Yes, you should stay here,” Ronis said without the slightest hesitation. “Everything that need to be done at this stage can be done without you. Believe me, I have weighed everything carefully. There is no need for you to risk your life now, and if you go there you could easily walk into some trap. You know perfectly well what will happen if you are seized, do you not?”

Varkan nodded his head.

“Besides,” Ronis continued, “all those who feel they are in danger will be coming here to join you. I, for my part, will be sending you weapons via my men. Our weapons must not be seized by Dorbatay. Also, when the Scythians break camp and start their funeral journey you and your men should follow them, making sure they do not see you. You should arrive in Gerrhus along with the main body of the Scythians. I will contrive some means of letting you know of any new developments and of the state of readiness for our final move. All right?”

“Yes, I think that is the best way,” Varkan said without hesitation.

Barely audible sounds of tambourines and fifes drifted their way from far across the steppe; they all fell silent and listened. The Scythians dozing beside the horses, got up, alerted. Diana also pricked up her ears: she had already learnt to react to these sounds as to a potential menace.

“They have begun to perform the necessary rites to make sure the journey will be favored by the gods,” Ronis said gloomily. “There will probably be some sacrifices, too… Dorbatay will try very hard to re-establish a firm grip on the Scythians… with the gods supposedly speaking through him, to make their will known to the Scythians… What rubbish!”

Without saying anything else, he leapt onto his horse and disappeared among the trees. Artem stared after Ronis, listening to the distant tambourines and fifes. Rites with sacrifices, Ronis had said… And Lida and Ivan Semenovich were in the hands of the priests!.. He was powerless to do anything to rescue them… He did not even have any means of communicating with them to inform them of their new plan and find out what kind of conditions they were being kept in, of their moods and thoughts…

Wasn’t it just awful?

Diana came up to the young man, put her head in his lap, and began whining. Had the dog sensed his mood or did she want to show she was sorely missing Ivan Semenovich and Lida?

“Yes, my Diana, you’re not the only one who is in low spirits… I wish we could all see each other again, speak to each other…” said Artem, stroking the dog’s head. At that very moment, an idea dawned upon him. Who said he couldn’t communicate with his friends? Of course he could! He should have thought of it earlier!

Artem pulled a pencil out of his pocket, then his notebook, and began writing something hurriedly. Dmitro Borisovich stared at him in surprise; then, as he could not restrain his curiosity any longer, he walked up to the young man and peeped over his shoulder. Artem wrote:

Lida, we have successfully escaped and are safe now. We have not been injured or wounded and feel quite well. Dmitro Borisovich and I are in the forest planning your escape. We are worried lest some harm be done you, but we were told that Dorbatay has put you off limits by making you taboo for the other Scythians, and though he keeps you under lock and key, no one will dare to touch you. I think this taboo is a very helpful thing now. Ronis tells us that neither you nor Ivan Semenovich are in any immediate danger, at least for the time being. This is what sustains our hopes for the moment. Write back to me and tell me how you are. With Diana as the bearer of our messages you can feel free to write in detail. Ronis told us that the Scythians would soon start on the funeral journey to the sacred land of Gerrhus where Skolot is to be buried. It is there, in Gerrhus, that we are planning to set you free, for we cannot possibly dp so at the moment. Ronis and Varkan told us there was a great discontent among many Scythians which will surely end in an uprising. We cannot remain passive observers, that much is clear. In my next message, I will give you more details. By the way, I want you to know that the slaves are on our side. Write back immediately upon receiving this. Love, Artem.

When Artem had finished writing, he neatly folded the paper. Dmitro Borisovich, looking somewhat skeptically upon what Artem was doing, asked at last:

“And what is the means, if I may inquire, by which you think you can convey your message? And through what channel do you plan to receive an answer? Ronis is gone… besides, I doubt he would be able to pass the message on: he himself told us about the guard mounted outside the kibitka where Lida and Ivan Semenovich are being kept. You remember that, don’t you?”

Artem smiled cunningly and winked at Dmitro Borisovich: “I did not plan to ask Ronis. I’ve got another postman, even more reliable. This one will be able to slip past any guards, and I don’t think there’s anything or anybody that will stop my messenger. And I’ll get my reply in the same manner. I’m a little annoyed with myself for not having thought of it earlier. It’s so simple!”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, my young friend.”

“Oh, now you’ll understand everything. Diana, come here, my dear, wonderful dog, come here!”

Dmitro Borisovich and Varkan, very much intrigued, watched Artem adjust Diana’s collar and put the folded paper between the overlapping leather straps.

“Aha,” the archeologist exclaimed, “that’s an interesting idea!”

Then Artem gently pushed the dog, saying:

“Go, Diana, go, quickly! Go to Lida! Understand? Go to Lida, find Lida, quick!”

The dog wriggled her stubby tail, evidently much pleased with her new task; then she gave a short and cheerful bark as if to say: I understand. No sooner said than done! But Artem told her several more times:

“Go to Lida, Diana, find Lida! Run quickly, very quickly! Yes, what a good dog!”

The dog gave another bark as though to indicate that she understood everything and took off at a great speed. In a few seconds, she disappeared among the trees, headed for the Scythian camp which was situated a considerable distance away across the steppe. Artem turned to the two men watching him, his face aglow with pleasure:

“It’s all very simple,” he said. “Diana carried our letters back and forth when we were working at the foot of the Sharp Mount. In fact, Lida and I worked a considerable distance away from each other, as you may remember, Dmitro Borisovich. Well, sometimes, you get bored a little, you know, so once just for the fun of it, I put a piece of paper with a message to Lida into Diana’s collar, and told the dog to run to Lida. Frankly, I didn’t think anything would come out of it. I wasn’t even sure Diana would understand the command correctly and go to Lida. And then, of course, I wasn’t sure Lida would notice my message in the dog-collar. But she did! When Diana came back I saw a piece of paper in her collar, and could tell at once it wasn’t mine, but Lida’s. That’s how we began corresponding via Diana. Diana learnt very quickly what she was expected to do. Now, some time has passed since our last exchange of letters, and she may have forgotten the game, but I hope not. And the Scythians will not harm our good dog, our dear poskina, as they fear her greatly. So, I believe a line of communication has been opened. What do you think, Dmitro Borisovich?” The archeologist indicated that it was an excellent idea, very simple and effective.

Meanwhile, Artem went on to other matters:

“Now we must get our luggage back, that’s top on our list of priorities, Varkan. It’s very important for us to get our bags back… I’m sorry, Varkan, I keep forgetting you can’t understand me. When will we ever be able to communicate without an interpreter? But there’s no other way out at the moment. Dmitro Borisovich, would you please translate that it is of vital importance for us to have our bags brought to us here?”

Varkan nodded his head after he heard the translation. “Oh, good,” Artem said when he saw Varkan nod. “We’ll give it hot to Dorbatay and his priests yet!”

Artem’s mood had evidently improved!

CHAPTER THREE

Lida and Ivan Semenovich find themselves captives of Dorbatay who once again asks them to accept his proposals which they do, not knowing exactly what the proposals are this time; they are brought to the altar to witness rites with human sacrifices; the gloom is somewhat dispelled by Artemis message, but Lida discovers she has unwittingly accepted a proposal to become Hartak’s bride; Artem is greatly disappointed at his failure to find the dynamite charges in the bags, fights off a surprise attack with the means available and comes out victorious; Ronis informs Dmitro Borisovich of his new plans.

What had come to pass in the Scythian camp after Dmitro Borisovich and Artem made their spectacular escape?

Dorbatay, seething with rage, ordered Lida and Ivan Semenovich be taken to his own kibitka. As they walked, surrounded by the armed priests, in the flickering torchlight, they expected to hear the pursuers who had been dispatched to catch the fugitives, returning from their mission. Occasional wild shouts of the priests filled the air with menace. Dorbatay kept silent, but the fierce expression on his face, with reflections from the red flames of the torches making it even more sinister, did not portend anything good for the strangers.

It was only in the kibitka that Dorbatay spoke again, and he addressed Hartak, who almost literally trod on Dorbatay’s heels, following him wherever he went. Dorbatay never turned to look at the strangers who were sitting in the corner watching Dorbatay’s every movement closely, trying lo guess what fate Dorbatay had in mind for them. And they could expect the worst…

Talking to Hartak now, Dorbatay did not bother to feign any respect for “the glorious and sagacious chieftain.” There was no one to witness his behavior now, except for the strangers with bound hands. There was no reason whatsoever for old soothsayer to go on playing his role in front of them!

Now Dorbatay issued orders and Hartak listened with his head bent low. Only once did he try to remonstrate, but so timidly and in such a low voice, that Dorbatay made a contemptuous and impatient gesture with his hand and turned away. Hartak again lowered his head submissively and stopped without finishing what he had begun to say.

Priests kept coming and going: Dorbatay listened to what they had to say, gave orders and they rushed out again. Unfortunately, neither Lida nor Ivan Semenovich could understand a word. Neither could they even venture a guess what Dorbatay and several dignified and haughty Scythian elders who entered the kibitka at one point, were speaking about. Their conversation was unexpectedly interrupted: a loud and agitated voice came from outside the kibitka, and a group of priests burst in. One of them had blood on his shoulder; he began to speak, out of breath, stopping, wavering, and gesticulating wildly. Dorbatay’s face, which had been wearing a fierce enough expression, grew even gloomier as he listened to what the wounded man was telling him.

Ivan Semenovich leaned closer to Lida and said under his breath:

“I’m sure this is the pursuit party come back. And they’ve failed to catch anybody! So, everything’s all right! Artem and Dmitro Borisovich have managed to escape!”

“Oh, isn’t that wonderful, Ivan Semenovich! It…” Lida exclaimed, but cut herself short when she saw the warning in the geologist’s eyes.

Suddenly Hartak began to speak. This time, in contrast to his earlier timidity, he sounded more self-assured, and Dorbatay listened to him quite attentively.

Hartak, while speaking, gestured toward Lida and Ivan Semenovich, then to something outside the kibitka. Dorbatay was looking at him, his head bent to one side. It was a surprise to see Dorbatay apparently agree with what Hartak was suggesting; he gave a signal, and one of the attendant priests dashed out and soon came back with the swarthy man who had come to the explorers once already with proposals from Dorbatay. The swarthy man bowed low before Dorbatay, listened to some imperious phrases uttered by the chief priest, then turned to the bound strangers and addressed them, speaking suavely and distinctly.

Lida looked at Ivan Semenovich in utter confusion:

“They think we can understand him! But without Dmitro Borisovich we can’t!”

“Hm, Dorbatay reckons we know Greek!”

“But we don’t, we don’t! Oh, what shall we do? I wish we could understand at least some of it!”

Ivan Semenovich said with a sad smile:

“It would be very helpful, of course… But even without understanding a word of what they’re telling us, we can make a good guess. I’m sure it’s some new proposals. Naturally, I can’t say exactly which, but as it happens, we absolutely cannot refuse anything they suggest. We must gain as much time as we possibly can. Do you follow me? Consequently, we must accept their proposals, no matter what.”

“All of their proposals?” Lida asked tremulously.

“Yes, we have to!”

“You really mean we have to accept absolutely anything they might demand of us?” her voice broke as she remembered that Hartak fancied her. Had Ivan Semenovich forgotten about it?

The geologist said firmly:

“Yes, Lida, anything… but only up to a certain point, of course!”

“But how shall we know where to reject them? We can’t speak either Greek or Scythian!”

“We’ll watch all the developments very closely. I repeat, at the moment there’s no other way out. The most important thing for us is to gain some time. Now look at me, and see whether it is noticeable that I don’t understand anything this man is saying.”

With those words, the geologist turned to the swarthy man who had stopped speaking, waiting politely for the strangers to finish their conversation. When the man began to speak again, Ivan Semenovich pretended he was all ears, taking in every word. When he finished speaking, Ivan Semenovich lowered his head pensively as though thinking something over, and then, after some time, gave a nod.

This made a great impression on the Scythians. Dorbatay ran his hand over his mustache in surprise: he had evidently not expected the strangers to accept the proposals so quickly. Hartak, apparently very pleased, addressed Dorbatay again, talking animatedly. Without saying anything, the soothsayer pointed to Lida, and shrugged his shoulders scornfully. Ivan Semenovich leaned closer to the girl and whispered:

“Mind you, you’ll have to agree too if they address you… nod, or something, you know…”

A moment later, the swarthy interpreter having received some additional instructions from Dorbatay, turned to Lida. With a deferential bow, he addressed the girl, pointed to Hartak, and then made a gesture as if to say: there is nothing one can do but accept. And what, indeed, was else could Lida do but submit? Her lips trembled, she nervously squeezed her hands behind her back. She listened to the swarthy man to the end, feigning understanding, and then nodded her head to indicate agreement. Hartak burst into laughter, and this glee made the girl realize that with her nod, she had given her consent to become the fourth wife of this hideous man! As if to give an additional proof, Hartak immediately turned to the soothsayer, bubbling with joy.

Lida lowered her head in helpless resignation. She felt she was about to faint, but the quiet voice of the geologist’s reasoning jolted her into control of herself:

“Lida, don’t take it so hard. It’s a long way from your non-binding consent to the actual transaction.”

“A long way, you say? But do you realize what I have given my consent to?” Lida cried out in almost total despair.

“Yes, I do. I realize and I understand. But don’t worry so much. Nothing of the sort will happen, and, in fact, it can’t happen at the moment. But your consent will give us more time and a chance for our friends to free us.”

“And what if Hartak takes me to his kibitka this very moment? What then? What will become of me? What am I going to do then?”

Lida was on the verge of tears. Ivan Semenovich tried to reassure her, making his words sound as cheerful and convincing as he could:

“But, it cannot happen so quickly, my dear Lida. Don’t forget that Hartak is a chieftain, and his wedding must be a special solemn occasion. And preparations for such a wedding will take a long time. In the meanwhile, Artem and Dmitro Borisovich will not remain idle. I’m sure…”

Though Lida realized there was no other way out, she could not suppress her revulsion. Ivan Semenovich sounded very reassuring, but there was no way of knowing what Dorbatay and Hartak would think of next! How she wished Hartak had never laid eyes on her! Were they going to talk to her again? Again demanding her consent to something else now? No, she couldn’t take any more!

But the interpreter, receiving his instructions from Dorbatay, did not launch into another of his long speeches. He motioned for them to leave the kibitka. Lida was only too glad to do so, as the presence of Hartak, who kept throwing amorous glances at her, now that she had agreed to become his wife, made her quite ill.

They got out of the kibitka, and though they were immediately surrounded by armed priests, they felt great relief at not seeing the faces of the two murderers, who after they had poisoned Skolot, continued their vile scheming.

The swarthy interpreter led the way. Every so often, he turned to the strangers, and said something, still under the delusion that they could understand him. And unexpectedly enough, they could understand at least some of what he was trying to convey not from his words, but from his eloquent gestures which could be interpreted thusly:

“It is not worth trying to escape. You can see for yourself how many armed men are surrounding you. Do not even think of making an attempt, or you will be killed on the spot.”

But the thought of attempting an escape at the moment was very far from the explorers’ minds!

The kibitka to which they came was also well-guarded by priests; only two Scythians entered with Lida and Ivan Semenovich; the Scythians pointed to the rug on the ground as if to say: sit down here! and untied their hands. It was a very welcome gesture!

Massaging his hands to restore the circulation, the geologist said:

“I regard their untying of our hands as the first result of our having accepted Dorbatay’s proposals, the essence of which remains unknown to us.”

“What do you mean ‘unknown’? We know only too well what they wanted,” the girl said with infinite sadness in her voice.

“Don’t make too much of our guesswork, Lida. Concerning what you have in mind, we do not have any independent or reliable proof that we’ve guessed correctly, do we? Later, we’ll be able to see better what’s what, and in the meantime, aren’t we better off now than with our hands bound? With your hands free, you can even think clearer, right?”

The crestfallen girl lowered her head: she couldn’t keep up the conversation any longer.

“And here comes another consequence,” said the geologist cheerfully. “Now we can see that our hosts take care to be hospitable to their guests. Let’s have our supper, Lida,” Ivan Semenovich said, indicating the plates and jars that had been brought in and placed on the rug.

Lida and Ivan Semenovich slept without being disturbed well into the morning. Only the voices of the guards posted outside were occasional reminders that a close watch was being kept. Dorbatay decided to take no chances this time and made sure the dangerous outlanders were well guarded.

In the morning, Ivan Semenovich, in a very quiet voice as though nothing extraordinary had happened the night before, in a voice, in fact, reserved for the most trivial things, said to Lida:

“Now, my dear Lida, I want you to pay heed to what I am going to say. The main thing now is to relax and behave as though nothing unusual has happened. As a matter of fact, I don’t see that there’s much to complain about: we get very decent meals which I wouldn’t rate lower than what you get in an ordinary restaurant. Also, some pains have been taken to make us comfortable. I should say we’re almost being treated like Dorbatay’s guests of honor.”

Lida looked at the geologist reproachfully:

“Why should you try to make it a joking matter, Ivan Semenovich? To reassure me? I’m not a child and I do undersand why I had to do what you asked me. You don’t really have to go out of our way just to make me smile…”

Ivan Semenovich chuckled.

“Oh, all right, I won’t. I’m sorry. Let’s talk seriously then. Our motto now must be patience and prudence. We must not in any way be the cause of irritation or displeasure for Dorbatay and Hartak. One word from them, and… you understand. They must believe that our wills are so broken, that we’re glad to accept anything they…”

“Anything? Even my becoming Hartak’s wife?” Lida cried out in indignation.

“Yes, if not in actual deed, then in word,” Ivan Semenovich said quietly. “Haven’t we agreed to talk seriously? You must understand, my dear girl, that this line of behavior is the only way to save ourselves from certain death. We’re powerless to do anything else at the moment. I’m sure we’ll get a message from Artem and Dmitro Borisovich. They’ll find the means of getting it to us. And as you well know, neither our friend Artem nor his blood brother Varkan are the kind to remain idle. So cheer up. Things aren’t as bad as they seem. I dare say everything’s fine the way it is. Things could be much worse…”

Later in the day, they were taken to watch some rites at the sacred pyramid of branches — the place of Artem’s victory over Dorbatay. Now the old soothsayer could celebrate his own triumph! He had shown himself a man of nimble wit and great cunning, using the smallest chance to gain his ends. Nobody could deny him that.

Dorbatay got the upper hand in the struggle with Skolot by poisoning him; before doing so, he very craftily accused the chieftain of sacrilege. But now, with Skolot out of the way, Dorbatay thought it wise to adapt the occasion of mourning to his vile purposes by making a show of great deference to the deceased chieftain. Dorbatay had no intention of robbing Skolot of the ceremonious obsequies due him as chieftain; rather the opposite — all the pomp was designed to impress on the Scythians the idea that Dorbatay loved his late brother dearly, as a brother should. And this love, Dorbatay wanted to imply by all his actions, impelled him to bury Skolot in accordance with the sacred customs. Yes, the gods had punished Skolot, but he had been a great chieftain and had every right to be buried with the appropriate pomp; besides, the spectacle would make the Scythians forget the enmity that had existed between the two brothers: were the funeral rites not to be conducted by the high priest Dorbatay who would surely ask the gods to pardon his wayward brother! And this would, without doubt, give him a firmer grip on the Scythians.

That day, in preparation for the funeral, Dorbatay staged the first act of the burial rites: three slaves were sacrificed. Acording to the sacred tradition, human victims had to be sacrificed in honor of the deceased chieftain — so three slaves, chosen as victims, were ceremoniously killed by the priests. The crowd watched the sacrifice in silence. The strangers stood within the group that made up Hart^k’s entourage. Ivan Semenovich put his arms around Lida who stood with her head buried on his chest, nervous tremors passing through her body from time to time.

The sacrifice made her sick: for at least an hour after they returned to their kibitka, she lay motionless, almost unconscious, without answering the geologist’s questions, hardly seeing or hearing anything. Finally, Ivan Semenovich decided it would be better to let her be for a while, and fell silent.

Time proved a better remedy: in an hour or so Lida regained control of herself. She heaved herself up to a sitting position on the rug, her face still deathly pale, her hands still trembling a little. Ivan Semenovich noted with satisfaction that it was possible to communicate with her again; she began reacting to things around her. But what should he talk about to help her get back to normal?

At that moment, the guards stationed outside the kibitka, raised a loud, fearful cry. Lida raised her head to listen. Then in a moment, her eyes were aglitter with joy:

“It’s Diana!” she exclaimed. “Ivan Semenovich, Diana’s coming!”

A moment later the dog’s menacing harking could be heard approaching fast. Diana must have been quite near as the frantic and frightened shouting of the Scythians increased sharply. The next moment the dog burst into the kibitka, still growling. No one had dared to stop her, just as it had happened earlier!

Diana was at Ivan Semenovich and Lida’s side in a single leap, licking their hands in her joy, jumping and trying to lick them in the face, overflowing as she was with the joy of seeing them again. Laughing, with tears in her eyes, Lida hugged the dog, calling it all the pet names she could think of.

Ivan Semenovich searched behind the dog’s collar as though he knew he would find something there, pulled out the folded piece of paper, looked at it, and archly smiling, handed it to Lida.

“Now, my dear girl, I do believe that what I’m giving you will raise your spirits,” he said. “You don’t even ask what it is, because you have already guessed. Aha, aha, it’s a letter from our Artem, isn’t it? And I’m sure it’s addressed to you personally.”

“Why are you so sure?” the girl said, flushing with embarrassment.

“Why he should have done it is beyond my comprehension,” the geologist said, chuckling. “But let’s not waste time on idle talk. Take it and read it. And after you’ve read it, retell at least the general contents to me, because I want to know how our friends are, too. And if there’s anything personal, you’re free, of course, to skip it.”

Lida went red in the face. Without replying to Ivan Semenovich’s taunting, she began reading the letter bearing evidence of haste in its uneven, nervously jumping lines.

“Very good,” Ivan Semenovich said when she had finished reading. “We must get a message to them as fast as we can. They must be reassured that we’re quite all right for the moment.”

“And there’s nothing ‘personal’ as you’ve put it, in this letter,” Lida said.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, my dear girl,” Ivan Semenovich said matter-of-factly. “If there’s nothing in this message, there will be in the next one… But let’s get down to business. Take my notebook — here it is, and write, describing everything that’s happened to us since we got separated. There’s enough paper to give all the details, so don’t be stingy.”

Lida did not have to be encouraged in her task. A moment later, she was bent over the pad, filling the pages with her miniscule handwriting, describing everything in great detail. She had managed to squeeze quite a lot indeed into her long message, a little erratic, true, but filled implicitly with tender feelings. The letter ended thus:

I had to pause in writing this letter because, quite unexpectedly, we were visited — who do you think? — by Hartak himself; there were several slave girls with him. Hartak tries his best to look dignified in Skolot’s gold helmet, but he looks as hideous as before. The slaves brought in gold jewelry, beautiful rugs, bowls and richly adorned Scythian garments and put them in front of me. The slaves left, and Hartak pointed to all these things as if to say: this is all for you. Just imagine — that rascal giving me presents!

I was about to give him a piece of my mind, when Ivan Semenovich stopped me, saying peremptorily: ‘Make a show of acceptance, Lida! Make believe that the things spread before you give you joy, that they’re a marvelous sight, that you’re excited to receive such magnificent gifts!’

I did what Ivan Semenovich told me to the best I could. Hartak as he was leaving seemed to be well pleased. Was that abominable! He regards me now as his future wife! The loathsome murderer, parricide, believes I have given my consent to become his wife!

But Ivan Semenovich says that everything is going — the way he sees it — according to plan. He said after Hartak was gone: ^lThe firmer is Hartak’s belief that you’ve agreed to be his wife, the less dangerous the situation will be for us. The most important thing for us now is to wait it out, and delay by all available means any decisive actions on their part. In the meantime, Artem and Varkan are sure to come up with something.’

And he is right, isn’t he? You’ll think of some way to set us free, won’t you?

Now, as far as Gerrhus is concerned, I think I heard this word several times when the priests were talking among themselves, but, naturally, before I read your letter I didn’t have the slightest idea what it meant. From what we can tell, the Scythians are going to start on this trip you mentioned soon.

Now that we’ve learnt of the forthcoming uprising you can’t imagine how eager Ivan Semenovich and I are to take part in it, to be free. So, Ivan Semenovich asks you to describe everything that concerns the uprising in great detail, without omitting anything. He says he must analyze the situation and even the smallest details could be of importance. As far as I am concerned, the most important thing for me is to be free! Artem, please help us!

That seems to be all for the moment. Artem, my dearest, do something quick to free us! Don’t procrastinate! I’m in a terrible depression, and there’s no one except you who can help us get us out of here! Lida.

Artem fell silent after he finished reading the letter. Dmitro Borisovich did not say anything either. Lida’s message clarified a number of things. Hartak definitely regarded Lida as his future wife, giving her expensive presents. Dorbatay, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten about the captives’ existence for the time being, as he had plenty to keep him busy. Ronis was correct in his estimation of the situation. Dorbatay was not likely to harm the captives for the time being. And Ivan Semenovich had adopted the correct policy: to agree to everything the Scythians wanted them to do. That was all well and good, but what if Hartak wanted to have his wedding before anything could be done to stop it?

This thought made the blood rush to Artem’s head. Hartak! That revolting creature regarded Lida as his rightful property! And the girl was quite defenseless in the hands of those rogues… Ivan Semenovich would not be able to help either — an unarmed prisoner, he needed help himself… Only a decisive battle could resolve this situation, but when would it come, this decisive battle?

There were many Scythians — their number had grown considerably in the last few hours — sitting under the thick trees at the edge of the glade a short distance away from Artem and Dmitro Borisovich. Varkan’s friends kept joining him here in the forest, all of them united by their strong opposition to Dorbatay; all of them had reason to fear his vengefulness. The Scythians were fondling their horses’ harness, singing a gentle song. They were waiting for Varkan who had gone somewhere. Diana was lying at Artem’s feet, occasionally raising her sad eyes as though trying to be sympathetic with his gloomy thoughts and mood. It was very quiet in the forest; only the fire crackled, and carefree birds chirped in the trees.

Artem stared silently into the flames, his fingers breaking a twig he had absentmindedly picked up from the ground. I wish, he thought, that I had here as many reliable friends as the number of little pieces this twig could be broken into!

He raised his head suddenly, listening: the muffled clatter of hooves came from the distance. The Scythians who had been peacefully resting under the trees sprang to their feet. The clatter of hooves, muffled by the soft, spongy ground of the forest floor, was approaching fast. In a few seconds, Varkan, riding a big black stallion that was breathing hard, appeared in the glade. Several young Scythian warriors, armed with bows, swords and spears followed him. In tow were a dozen horses, laden with weapons.

Even before Varkan had time to dismount, Artem shouted from joy:

“Our bags! He’s brought our bags, Dmitro Borisovich!”

In fact, there were two knapsacks on his shoulders. The Scythian had done what he had been asked to do: he had managed to retrieve the bags and brought them to his friends.

“Wasn’t Varkan fast in finding the bags?” Artem said, collecting the precious knapsacks from Varkan. “Isn’t it great! Well done, Varkan! Dmitro Borisovich, ask him, please, how he managed to do it so quickly?”

“Oh, it was very simple,” he said in reply to the archeologist’s question. “As they had been left in the kibitka of the deceased Skolot, I thought nobody would touch them and, in fact, nobody did. I asked some of my boys to look. They did, found the bags and stealthily brought them back to me. But they did not feel like staying in the camp as their relations with Dorbatay were not very good. He knew they were my friends and was not likely to forget it. So, I invited them to join us here. They did. They are skilled warriors and will be of great use to us. And on our way here, we picked out several horses from Dorbatay’s herd, just in case, you know. They are fine horses and we will surely put them to good use. And we also brought a few weapons. They will surely be of good use as well.”

“Great, it’s just great,” Artem murmured to himself, going through the contents of the knapsacks. “Now, there’s the lamp, oh — cans of food… we don’t need these, that’s for sure, there’s food galore. Good, and what’s this? Aha, that’s the primers and safety fuse. Excellent! But where are the dynamite charges? They were in the bags… I remember putting them there very well… at least into mine, for sure… So why aren’t they here in the bag where they’re supposed to be?”

Then he stopped rummaging through the knapsacks, hitting himself with the flat of his hand on the forehead. “Of course! Damn it! Damn it! What the hell did I do that for? Damn it all!”

“What’s the matter, Artem? Have you discovered something terrible?” the archeologist said.

“Ah, no,” Artem said, very much annoyed. “You might say I haven’t ‘discovered’ what I very much hoped I would — the dynamite charges. One of the bags is Lida’s, and there were no charges in it. The other is mine, and the charges were in it, but…”

“But they’re not there now, are they?”

“No, they aren’t. The fact of the matter is that I took them out myself! Just before we went to confront Dorbatay at that pile of faggots, the altar, remember? I took a couple of primers, removed the charges from my bag, and put them into Ivan Semenovich’s, as he told me to do, for reasons of safety, I believe… So, all the charges are now in his knapsack.”

“That’s too bad.”

Artem shook his head.

“Oh yes, too bad. It was our bad luck when Varkan picked these two bags instead of the other two… Incidentally, could you ask him, please, what happened to the other two bags?”

Varkan shrugged his shoulders: Varkan’s friends had discovered only two bags in Skolot’s kibitka, so it was not a matter of choosing; they picked up the two bags and brought them to Varkan; he did not have the slightest idea where the other two could be.

“Isn’t that unfortunate?” Artem said gloomily. “I was pinning so much hope on these charges… they were our only weapons, since we’re not too handy with all those battle axes, swords, and spears, are we? We’ve never been trained to use them, have we? And I don’t know where we can start looking for the other two bags.”

He then put all the things he had taken out of the bags back into place, pocketing only the primers and fuse.

“Things turned out differently from what I wanted. Nothing’s to be done now but to try and teach ourselves to handle Scythian weapons, Dmitro Borisovich. It’s the only thing we can do at the moment. For example, do you like this thing here?”

Artem pulled out a sword from the pile of weapons which had been brought by Varkan and his men and dumped in the center of the glade. Tossing it from hand to hand, he said:

“It’s a little too heavy and will take a long time to get used to. And what about this one here?…”

Now he picked up a battle axe with a curved edge.

“Aha, this thing seems to be easier to handle, Dmitro Borisovich. Go ahead and choose something for yourself. We’ve found ourselves in a situation when we need to be able to use these weapons.”

Varkan and his friends, who watched Artem choose a weapon with some interest, could not help laughing when Dmitro Borisovich began doing the same. The younger outlander was not too dexterous in handling the weapons, but his movements were sure enough and his grip on the handles was firm. But the older man was a sight to behold!…

He dealt with the new task like serious work that required determined effort. He tried a sword, a spear and a battle axe, leaving bows and arrows alone. The latter, he judged, quite rightly, were beyond the scope of his martial abilities. At last, Dmitro Borisovich settled on a battle axe. His eyeglasses flashed menacingly as he brandished the axe, taking aim at an imaginary enemy, hacking at the air right and left, making terrible grunting sounds, putting the weapon down, spitting on his palms to get a firmer grip, picking up the axe again, hitting something in front of him, then quickly turning and parrying a sudden treacherous thrust from an imaginary enemy coming from behind… It was a spectacle worth seeing!

“That’s good, that’s right,” Artem said approvingly, stifling his laughter and wiping away the smile that appeared on his face against his will. “Yes, that’s the way to do it! I wouldn’t say that you had a very bellicose look up till now, Dmitro Borisovich, but with this axe in your hands you look a veritable warrior! You could frighten the most stalwart enemy!”

“Oh, the enemy will take fright all right! I’ll teach myself to handle this axe and become a soldier, I will,” the archeologist replied in earnest, never stopping his martial exercise. “You were right, Artem, it’s high time for me… to take part… in military operations… we’ll have to fight… to free Lida and… Ivan Semenovich, right?”

At last, he put the axe down and lowered himself beside it, wiping profuse perspiration from his brow. It was an arduous work, practicing with this axe, it was!

“So, Dmitro Borisovich, we’re going to fight with swords and axes, like real Scythians…” Artem stopped short when he glanced at Varkan: the Scythian was standing taut, his sword at the ready. The other Scythians also sprang to their feet, swords in hand, listening. Varkan raised his hand in a gesture of warning. What was going on?

Artem could not hear anything menacing except for rustling leaves and chirping birds: everything was peaceful, with no signs of danger at all. A branch snapped loudly under the foot of one of the Scythians and again everything was quiet.

“What…” Dmitro Borisovich began saying, but Artem stopped him by putting a finger to his lips. Varkan and the Scythians hid behind the trees, gesturing to Artem and Dmitro Borisovich to do the same.

It was growing dusky; it seemed to Artem that Varkan was gesturing to them to lie down on the ground. That could mean only one thing — danger. The glade was empty except for the horses at its fringe and a Scythian hiding near the horses.

Artem grabbed Dmitro Borisovich by the shoulder and pulled him down, whispering into his ear:

“Get down, quick!”

The archeologist complied; after he was stretched on the ground, Artem began crawling toward Varkan.

“Artem!” he heard Dmitro Borisovich whisper. He evidently wanted to stop Artem, but the young man just looked back and again put the finger to his lips. Artem saw that the Scythians were now also crawling forward, keeping behind the trees and bushes. Judging from their behavior, the danger was real and grave, but Artem neither heard nor saw anything suspicious.

Varkan stopped crawling when he heard Artem laboring behind, vainly — in spite of all his agility — trying to catch up with the Scythians whose swiftness in crawling was not to be matched. Varkan, after a very short hesitation, crawled on, gesturing to Artem to stay behind. Artem replied also with an energetic gesture which meant: never mind me, go ahead, move on, Til manage!

In a few seconds, Artem heard some voices. Now he could even make out that they were speaking in Scythian, and that those to whom the voices belonged, were moving. Hardly a minute passed before Artem saw a group of several dozen armed Scythians carefully making their way toward the glade where Dmitro Borisovich, the horses and weapons had been left. The armed Scythians moved slowly, holding their weapons at the ready, occasionally exchanging a word or two. Were they a reconnaissance party?

Varkan stopped dead behind the bushes: not a sound or the slightest movement any more. Artem hid behind a bush too, pressing close to the ground.

Are they headed for the glade? Artem thought with a shudder, his heart beating wildly. Looks like Dorbatay has not given up his attempts to have us seized!

The situation was desperate — once again they were against great odds: Artem, Varkan and a few of his friends facing a rather formidable group of armed Scythians. Then another group, also several dozen strong, appeared some distance away. It was a punitive force! Artem saw Varkan look back and shake his head; evidently he did not have much hope of success in a confrontation with such a force.

It was clear now that the fugitives’ hiding place had somehow been discovered and a surprise attack was being prepared. The enemy’s approach had been discovered in time, but any effective resistance seemed unthinkable: a mere handful against scores of armed men! Should Varkan’s men be noticed by the enemy, a rain of arrows and spears would fall on them, and it would hardly be possible to avoid being hit, even hiding behind trees and bushes. There seemed no alternative but retreat. But retreat to where? Back to the glade? But again, such a retreat could hardly pass unnoticed, and the moment the enemy saw them, that would be the end of them.

And the enemy was moving forward meanwhile. They looked very sure of where they were going; it was reminiscent of a hunt when hunters are surrounding the lair of a beast that has been tracked down.

Artem saw Varkan and his men begin crawling away, trying to stay behind the bushes all the time. But they were moving away from the glade where Dmitro Borisovich was waiting, not even aware of the impending disaster! Varkan and his warriors were trying to get out of the enemy way, because they realized that it would be suicidal to fight.

All right, come what may, Artem thought in desperation. Something must be done at once!

Artem could do only one thing in an attempt to stop the enemy, and he knew he ran a great risk of failure. If the enemy noticed him just as he was about to pull his trick, they would surely perforate him with hundreds of arrows and spears before he made his final move. Artem still remembered the hare impaled on the spear… But there was no other way, so he had to go ahead and do it.

“Yes, come what may!” he whispered. And, as it always happens when a person reaches a decision to do something he is in two minds about, Artem felt a sort of relief, and he could act, concentrating on what he had to do, disregarding the danger.

Without getting to his feet, he prepared everything for his stunt, clumsily pulling the things he needed out of his pockets. Next, staying behind his bush he found good purchase for his hands and feet on the ground to hoist himself up and leap when the time was right. He saw that Varkan had noticed his strange activity and signalled to him to stop it.

Ah, my good friend, you may signal, but there is no other way out, so I will go ahead with what I am planning to do. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Artem thought, turning away from Varkan to avoid being distracted any more. But if it works, then… Now, if the match does not fail me…

Every second counted. A detached observer would have thought that Artem had gone out of his mind: he sprang to his feet and began lighting a cigarette — an insane act at this moment of mortal danger, when death at the hand of implacable enemies seemed imminent, when the instinct of self-preservation should have kept him in hiding! The little flame of the burning match, that seemed so bright in the gathering dusk, lit up the face of the young man and the cigarette sticking out of his mouth for one brief moment then died. Now only a tiny spot of red light remained at the tip of the cigarette which grew brighter when Artem puffed at it. His eyes were riveted on the enemies who had stopped dead when they had seen the silhouette of the young magician with a spot of fire in his head. The outlander who had so miraculously materialized in their way, did not try to run away, nor did he do anything to prevent himself from being hit. He just stood there, a dot of fire at his mouth. Now all of the advancing Scythians froze, overcome by consternation, staring at him in dismay. But their initial fright would soon wear off and then they would fall on him with all their weapons and hack him to pieces…

As nothing terrible happened — only the little dot of light grew brighter — the Scythians began to shake off their consternation. A huge Scythian, evidently the leader, wearing a leather coat with metal plates sewn on to it, shouted something encouraging, pointing to Artem. In reply, the Scythians filled the forest with their battle-cry. But Artem had used the pause he had been granted: he had put the burning end of the cigarette to a short piece of the safety fuse that immediately caught fire, hissing and dropping sparks. The next moment Artem hurled the primer with the burning fuse attached to it into the midst of the Scythians and stepped back behind a thick tree trunk. He did it not a moment too soon as three of four spears hit the ground where he had been just standing.

“Aha, just you wait!” he cried out triumphantly.

The explosion of the primer made the Scythians freeze once again. The spears that had been raised in the air, the bows that had been bent, were held in those positions. The bearded, dignified-looking warrior at whose feet the primer exploded sank to the ground in shock. Without getting to his feet again, he began crawling backwards on all fours, dropping arrows from his quiver but never stopping to pick them up, his sword dragging on the ground, catching on the branches. His was the only moving figure among the immobile Scythians, gripped by fear.

Under somewhat different circumstances, Artem would have burst laughing at this sight, but now he just did not have time to. Puffing vigorously at his cigarette, he put the fuses attached to the primers to the burning end one by one, and then hurled them at the Scythians.

One explosion followed another, throwing flashes of light at the Scythians who ceased to be a group united by a single purpose as they had lost their fighting spirit and were thoroughly discouraged. The Scythians at whose feet primers exploded, collapsed at first and then, oblivious of everything, forgetting Dorbatay’s strict orders, casting away their resoluteness and audacity, not thinking any more of their superiority in numbers, took to their heels, having been routed by the terrible magician who now stood beside a tree without trying to hide behind it.

Artem was still holding the cigarette between his lips, but he had no use for it any longer. He stopped lighting the fuses — the punitive force had fled. His lips were twisted in a wry, nervous smile, his limbs trembling. But he had achieved a victory, a complete victory!

Spears, bows, arrows were scattered all around on the grass, dropped by the fleeing Scythians.

Artem stared silently at the scene. Strange conflicting emotions surged up in him, and he did not know to which he should give preference. On the one hand he had just managed to avert the mortal danger threatening him and his friends. That was good. But on the other hand, he was ashamed to have achieved his victory by rather cheap tricks which these Scythians took as nothing short of the terrible doings of a black magician. But what else could he have done in this situation? In any case, he had not killed or injured anyone. And if he had not played his tricks, things would have ended very badly for him, Varkan and his men… No, there had been no other way out, no doubt of it.

Artem was approached by Varkan who stopped a few paces away, staring at him silently, and in this stare were mixed love, fascination and awe. Artem, greatly embarrassed, said:

“Oh, cut it out, Varkan!”

The Scythian, still without saying anything, in a very solemn gesture, put his hand first to his helmet, then to his heart, and then bowed to Artem, touching the ground with one hand. Artem was thrown into utter confusion: why should Varkan be paying homage to him?

“Oh, really, cut it out, I tell you,” Artem murmured, almost angrily now. “I’m not your king, you know. You’re happy everything ended the way it did, but so am I, no less than you, believe me. Ah, now that’s better, we don’t need all these ceremonies, really!” And Artem reached his hands toward the Scythian. “You’re my blood brother!”

Varkan, who listened to the sounds of the language unknown to him with great attention, must have discerned the earnest and friendly notes. He broke into a smile, grabbed Artem’s hands, squeezed them hard, and then hugged him, saying something warm and friendly.

His men were already collecting the weapons that had been left behind by Dorbatay’s soldiers. They cast furtive glances at Artem, talking in low voices. Once again Artem felt somewhat discomfitted.

When they returned to the glade, Dmitro Borisovich rushed to Artem; he was greatly disturbed. He had heard the battle cry of the Scythians, and then the explosions of the primers, but he could not deduce from these sounds what was going on.

“Artem, my dear boy, what was it? Were you attacked? Was it a real fight? I heard the battle cries!” the archeologist poured out his questions, adjusting his eyeglasses which kept sliding down his nose — a sure sign that Dmitro Borisovich was in a state of great agitation.

“Luckily, everything was settled without a fight,” Artem said modestly.

“But what about those wild cries and explosions I heard?”

“Well, yes, there was, in fact, a group of soldiers that tried to attack us… And I’m still wondering how Dorbatay learnt where we were hiding?.. They, the soldiers that is, wanted to catch us unawares.”

“Oh, did they?”

“So it was necessary to do something about it. There was no other way out, you know. While they were deciding what to do next, I sort of attacked them myself.”

“You attacked them? You alone?”

“Errr… well, I threw a couple of primers at them. The primers detonated and gave a terrible fright to the Scythians who took to their heels. That’s all.”

“They just turned around and fled?”

“Yes, turned and fled. Otherwise we would not be talking with you now,” Artem said judiciously.

“Ah, my dear young man, is that any way to tell a story? I nearly went out of my mind lying here and listening to all those terrible sounds, and now I have to drag the words out of you!”

“Dmitro Borisovich, there’s nothing much to tell, honest! It was, really and truly just a skirmish, nothing more. Besides, we have to move out of here right away and find ourselves a different place to camp, because it is very dangerous to stay here any longer. Then, after we have settled down again, I promise, I will tell everything in great detail, if you’re interested, of course… And who’s that, over there?”

Some shadows were moving into the glade in the dusk. A moment later, the shadows became riders who had several heavily laden horses in tow. They could not be the enemy or Varkan would not be talking to them in such a friendly manner.

“Ronis!” exclaimed Dmitro Borisovich, glad to see the man again.

One of the riders dismounted and came up to the archeologist and Artem. It was, indeed, Ronis, who, as was his custom, bowed to Dmitro Borisovich politely and with dignity.

“I was happy to learn,” he said, “that Dorbatay’s soldiers failed to catch you by surprise. Unfortunately, I could not warn Varkan earlier because I learnt of Dorbatay’s intention only after the soldiers had already started on their way. They had been given an express order…”

“An express order?”

“Yes, a strict order to track you down and…”

“Kill us?”

“No, not necessarily. They were told to try and capture you alive, but Dorbatay told the leader of the group to kill you if capturing you proved impossible. Dorbatay would, of course, have preferred to have you brought to him alive rather than dead, because then he would have the opportunity to kill you when it suited him. But, naturally, if he could not have you alive, he would feel much safer having you dead.”

“Yes, he certainly would!” Artem said mockingly, after he heard the archeologist’s translation of what Ronis was saying. “But his men tried to get us twice already and failed both times!”

“But they might have more luck some other time, especially if you stay here,” Ronis said gravely. “He knows the exact location of your camp.”

“Yes, we have to move away from here,” Dmitro Borisovich said. “Artem suggested that already. It would be extremely unwise to give Dorbatay another chance.”

“And the consequences of a new confrontation could be much graver for us,” Artem added.

“All the more so that these ‘grave consequences’ would considerably hamper our plans,” Ronis said with a slight smile. “So, let’s get moving without losing any more time. I think Varkan has already chosen the site of our new camp. He knows the forest like nobody else.”

Artem got on his horse. Dmitro Borisovich, after several abortive attempts, managed, at last, to wriggle his way onto the horse’s back; he had reluctantly agreed to entrust himself to the mare. It was almost completely dark when Varkan started on his way. He was followed by the Scythians who had brought horses loaded with weapons. Next were Ronis and Artem with Dmitro Borisovich. Varkan’s men brought up the rear.

Ronis was relating the news.

“The Scythians will start on their funeral journey very soon, maybe even tomorrow. The corpse of the chieftain has already been embalmed.”

“Has already been embalmed?” Dmitro Borisovich whose archeological interest was immediately roused, repeated. “What a pity!.. That is… I mean… I wish I had seen it! It would have been of great interest for me to see how it was done! And the embalming took such a short time?”

“I understand it is not very complicated,” Ronis said.

“So you know something about it? Do tell me about it, Ronis! And in as much detail as possible, please! It is of great interest to me!” the archeologist said with such passion that the Greek smiled, knowing that his smile could not be seen in the dark.

“All right, I will tell you what I know, but I don’t know much,” Ronis said. “I am not a priest, you know… The priests rub the body with wax, make an incision in the abdomen and take out all the entrails. Then they put in chopped herbs, frankincense, anise… and something else. They sew the abdomen up again, and put the corpse on a bier. That’s about all I know.”

“That’s all? Oh, I wish you knew more,” Dmitro Borisovich exclaimed, sounding very disappointed.

“Yes, that is all. I do not know anything else as far as this matter is concerned… Now, that the body is embalmed, the Scythians can start on their journey.”

“Nothing else to detain them?”

“No, I din’t think there is anything to delay them. Most of the kibitkas and wagons have already been prepared for the journey. In fact, Dorbatay is rather in a hurry.”

“Why should he be?” Artem asked.

“Because, according to law, Hartak can become a full- fledged chieftain only after the burial of his predecessor. There is a belief that while Skolot’s soul is in the camp, no one else can be considered chieftain. Dorbatay, no doubt, wants to secure his victory by getting Hartak to assume full rights as chieftain. Besides, Hartak too would like to dispose of the body as soon as possible, for its continuing presence is a constant reminder of his participation in the murder of his father.”

“Are there any other reasons for them to be in a hurry?” Artem asked, secretly entertaining a hope that there were not.

Ronis shot a quick glance at him.

“Well, yes, there is another reason for them to be in a hurry. Hartak, as you already know, wants very much to marry your girl…”

“Oh, damn him!” Artem could not help exclaiming.

“One way or another, he would not mind committing another crime if it would help to speed things up. At the moment, he cannot marry the girl — the same law forbids marriage before the deceased chieftain is buried… But there is one thing that cannot be overlooked. Here, it is Dorbatay who is free to establish and abolish laws. He is the one who interprets the commandments of the gods, and who knows what they will tell him next. What if they allow Hartak to marry without waiting until after the burial? It is not impossible.”

“In that case, we must do something immediately to set Lida free… and Ivan Semenovich too, of course. That’s what I’ve urged the whole time!”

Ronis, sensing the urgency in Artem’s voice, glanced at him, waiting for the translation from Dmitro Borisovich.

“Yes, we must give it some very serious consideration,” Ronis said after a pause. “If Dorbatay gives his consent, the marriage can take place even during the funeral journey. The slaves who serve Hartak told me there was nothing on his mind but this marriage. And — I am sorry to say it but I must — it seems to me that Hartak… will manage to receive via Dorbatay the permission of the gods to go ahead with his marriage. Both Dorbatay and Hartak are vitally interested in keeping their relations friendly. So this marriage is a possibility… I felt I should warn you!” Dmitro Borisovich must have been loath to translate this to Artem: he made frequent stops and pauses — which was quite unusual for him — as though choosing the right words with difficulty. As he finished he burst out in indignation: “It’s preposterous! What if Dorbatay really does give his consent for Hartak to take Lida in marriage before the burial? What then? We can’t allow…”

He cut himself short. “Can’t allow it to happen…” But did they have any means of stopping the marriage?

Artem was silent. Wild thoughts raced through his head. Lida was in the hands of Dorbatay and Hartak, two scoundrels who would not stop at anything in trying to achieve their ends, no matter how foul and sinful. What could Artem and Dmitro Borisovich really do to thwart the malefactors’ evil schemes? Could Artem and the archeologist do anything at all? They themselves had to hide in the woods to avoid being seized and murdered by Dorbatay’s men! They had to attempt to get Lida away from there, but was this kidnapping possible? Ronis had said that the captives were kept under a very heavy guard. Lida, in her message, also wrote of vigilant watch being kept at their kibitka round the clock.

They could launch a desperate attack at night. But would Varkan and his friends wish to take part in such a doomed venture? What chance would they have against the multitude of the armed priests and Dorbatay’s soldiers, no matter how dauntlessly courageous the attackers were? Plus, there was another thing, the most important of all.

Ronis said it was safer for Dorbatay to have the strangers dead rather than have them alive and loose. That meant the old buzzard had surely given an order that the captives be killed if they attempted to escape! He could not have failed to foresee the possibility of Artem and Dmitro Borisovich making such an attempt. The thought made Artem shudder. No, they could not risk Lida’s life by an action that had so little chance of succeeding! If it were a question of his own life, he would not have hesitated. But Lida and Ivan Semenovich were helpless — completely at the mercy of the enemy.

This train of thought led Artem to melancholy and depressing conclusions. There seemed to be no solution…

Ronis, riding close, could not help noticing the gloom into which the strangers had been cast. He said to Dmitro Borisovich:

“I understand Hartak’s intentions to marry this girl is a cause of concern for you. And you are afraid Dorbatay will give his consent for Hartak to marry?”

“You have put your finger on it, Ronis,” the archeologist replied sullenly. “What makes it especially hard is that we are powerless to do anything to stop it. What can we really do? Nothing that could be of any help… And this thought makes us…”

Ronis cut him short, his voice sounding confidential and convincing:*

“I understand. Now listen to what I am going to say. I’ve got an idea. It seems to me there is a way to help your friends, the girl in particular. Even if Dorbatay gives his consent, there is still a chance of thwarting Hartak’s intentions, or, at least delaying the marriage for some time which will allow us to get ready for our final move. By that time we should have enough forces to…”

Leaning over, still closer to Dmitro Borisovich, the Greek continued to expound his new ideas in a barely audible whisper.

CHAPTER FOUR

Artem discovers some peculiarities in the path the Scythians have taken, and Lida receives messages from Artem; she finds herself being proposed to and uses the ruse suggested in one of Artem’s messages to delay the marriage; she eventually breaks down and Ivan Semenovich has a hard time trying to get her out of her slump; the geologist plunges into reverie and then talks of beautiful clouds, and another letter arrives in which Artem mentions some “personal affairs”.

The heavily loaded wagons swayed and creaked as they lumbered along, their wheels rolling in the ruts left in the soft earth by the wagons that had already passed. The line seemed endless, stretching as far as the eye could see. It took six or even eight horses to pull each wagon. But the load was so heavy that even the sturdy Scythian horses had to stop on the inclines to rest. The Scythians mercilessly whipped the snorting horses, covered with lather. Sometimes the horses managed to pull the wagons up the hills, and sometimes they had to be helped. Groups of exhausted, sweating slaves ran from wagon to wagon, pushing at the wheels, breathing heavily. The whips flashed through* the air falling on the horses’ backs and occasionally scourging the naked flesh of those slaves who were not too zealous at their toil.

The Scythians had been on the move for three days now. No one, except Dorbatay and a handful of priests, knew the way, the secret of which they carefully kept to themselves, giving directions only for the next leg of the journey. What the Scythians were allowed to know was that their destina- lion was the sacred land of Gerrhus and that it was the gods themselves who gave instructions as to how to get there, and then only to the high priest, Dorbatay, who rode in his big wagon, wrapped in his ceremonial scarlet cloak. He was silent and grim as he listened to the gods and told the men the directions to Gerrhus where the lavish funeral of Skolot was to take place. Woe to anyone who bothered Dorbatay or disobeyed his orders which came directly from the gods! No one could save the miscreant from being immediately destroyed by the wrath of the gods, which would strike them down via the weapons of the priests who unswervingly fulfilled the will of the gods voiced by the lips of the merciless Dorbatay.

The Scythians were on the move.

They stopped only for lunch and for the night, cooking their modest meals over camp fires. Horse flesh was boiled with spices in huge bronze cauldrons. The sweetish smell of cooking food hung in the still air, making the mouths of the Scythians water. After the evening meal was over, the Scythians quickly fell into a deep sleep; only those who kept watch moved about the camp, every so often checking on the vigilance — as they were ordered to do by Dorbatay — of the special guard mounted around several wagons and kibitkas in the center of the camp. There, in the center was the profusely decorated bier with the body of Skolot, the wagons with all Dorbatay’s treasures, and the kibitka with the captive outlanders, next to the bier.

The camp came to life with first light, and a modest breakfast was cooked. Fresh horses were chosen from the huge herds that were driven together while the Scythians were on the march; they were then harnessed to the enormous wagons. The horses that had pulled the wagons the day before were put back in the herds; horses that were too exhausted to go on or that were injured were slaughtered. The meat was salted down and stored for the future. This routine was repeated every day, in strict accordance with age-old tradition.

The Scythians had been moving along the edge of the seemingly endless forest beyond which the high cliffs loomed monptonously in the distance. Sometimes the column swerved away from the forest, only to come back to it, continuing along its edge.

Artem sometimes wondered whether Dorbatay and the Scythian chieftains had abandoned the idea of catching the fugitives or had forgotten about them altogether. There had been no more attempts to capture the small group of the fugitives in the forest or even to see whether they were following the funeral procession. It was extremely unlikely that Dorbatay had forgotten about his enemies: the soothsayer was much too prudent and judicious to allow something like that to slip his mind! So, there were two possible explanations for the absence of harrassment: either Dorbatay thought they had stayed behind or that there were too few of them to worry about even if they were somewhere in the vicinity of the column. Dorbatay was probably quite sure that the captive outlanders were guarded heavily enough so as to be quite inaccessible.

It was no problem for Artem, Varkan and his men to watch every move the Scythians made without being seen. Artem made sure to remember all the landmarks they passed, for if they had to return to the old place all by themselves after rescuing Lida and Ivan Semenovich, their only chance to get back to the surface of the earth was to locate the hole they had come through.

There was one thing that attracted the attention of the young man whose curiosity never left him. The Scythians were moving past the cliffs along the edge of the forest. According to the geologist’s theory, the cliffs were in fact monolithic walls that rose above the clouds and encompassed the enormous subterranean cavity, inhabited by the Scythians. It was through a crack in this wall that the explorers had gotten into this Scythian world, leaving behind the big cave with its stalactites, stalagmites, and terrible gas.

At first, Artem, consulting his compass, thought the Scythians were heading due west, and this discovery did pot improve his mood — which was blue enough — in the least. Every kilometer took them further away from the crack in the wall. But after some time, Artem saw that the direction in which the Scythians were moving changed slightly to the northwest.

Artem told Dmitro Borisovich of his observations.

“So, you’re correlating the direction they are taking by compass. That’s good. But frankly, I don’t think it makes much difference which way they’re heading — west or southwest.”

It was clear that the archeologist thought it made very little difference as far as the two of them were concerned, and Artem would probably have taken the same attitude if not for the fact that the Scythians continued to swerve to the right, heading almost due south. This meant that the cliffs curved extending from north to south, and the Scythians were moving along the concave curve of the cliffs.

This was in itself a very important observation, no matter what Dmitro Borisovich thought of it! If this were really so, that meant they could not travel too far from the opening through which the explorers had entered this Scythian world. If they were moving in the circle, they would come back to where they had started!

It would be very good if it were so. But would they be lucky enough, after rescuing Lida and Ivan Semenovich, (Artem was convinced that they would soon be rescued) to find a place in the wall that could be broken through, say, with the help of Varkan and his men? Artem shook his head as he thought of it: it was quite unreasonable to hope that there were several thin places in the wall like the one they had come through where it took only a single dynamite charge to break through.

Should he talk to Dmitro Borisovich about all this? No, it did not seem worth the effort. Excellent expert in archeology — especially in matters concerning the archeology of the Black Sea coast — though he was, Dmitro Borisovich was little interested in geology which, he said, dealt with “dead matter.” Artem had had more than one opportunity to be convinced that he and Lida knew more about geology than Dmitro Borisovich.

So, discussing the problem with the archeologist would hardly be useful. That’s why Artem stopped thinking about it, all the more so since another thing was foremost in his mind — how to rescue Lida and Ivan Semenovich. But that would only be possible during the uprising.

Every day, a number of people joined Varkan at the camp. They were young wariors and hunters who had had a very low opinion of the priests even before Skolot’s death and had shown their hostile attitude in some manner. Now they felt that Dorbatay and the elders would retaliate, so they preferred to join Varkan in the forest, knowing that the priests and.nobles had been settling scores these days with those who had dared to oppose them.

Ronis and Varkan were taking their time to make thorough preparations for the uprising. Artem considered it to be the best way of doing things, but still, he was burning with desire to throw himself immediately into the fray which would bring freedom to Lida and Ivan Semenovich.

Meanwhile, all he could do was to watch the Scythians from some distance away. Only when they stopped for the night, did Artem and Varkan risk coming any closer. Artem still entertained a dim hope that some happy chance would present itself for saving Lida and Ivan Semenovich. But, alas, nothing of the sort occurred, as Artem never managed to get even anywhere close to the center of the camp where the big wagon that was the focus of his attention, stood.

Artem could easily tell this wagon from the rest by its red covering which he had glimpsed occasionally in the daytime. Once he even thought he could see Lida peering out, but he was too far away to know for sure. Anyway it was quite out of the question to attempt to set Lida free. There was nothing for him to do but clench his fists and wait.

The tension of forced inactivity was somewhat alleviated by Lida’s letters. It was not Diana that carried the messages now. Ronis had set up a delivery service: every night, slaves brought Artem little sheets of paper torn from the geologist’s notepad covered with Lida’s fine handwriting, bearing signs of haste. Artem read and reread the messages several times, trying to grasp Lida’s thoughts and feelings. Then, in his mind’s eye, he would conjure up the image of his dear Lida:

…The wagon, heaving and creaking, its wheels going over bumps and small hollows, the tracks left on the ground being the only road across the wide steppe with the pink- yellowish forest stretching endlessly on one side, and the cliffs looming behind. Then a flat stretch of ground without bumps or hollows, the only sound now — the loud unceasing rasping of the wheels on the axles coming from all sides…

…Lida sitting in the wagon, looking out, staring at the distant woods, knowing that there Artem, Dmitro Borisovich, Varkan and his men, were following and waiting for the proper moment to get them free! Lida staring and sighing, the poor girl! Seeing nothing but the motionless trees, Lida would turn away, bending low over a piece of paper, writing the letter Artem was holding in his hand…

My Dearest Artem, In your letter you tell me not to worry, to be cool and composed. I know it without your having to remind me, but waiting is so depressing! Waiting all day long and waiting all night long, waiting for something that doesn’t happen! The only thing that makes the waiting easier is writing letters to you. So I write as much as I can and will write as long as there are sheets left in Ivan Semenovich’s pad. You want me to describe everything that has happened to us since the departure. All right, I’ll do it.

From the very start, the wagon we’re riding in has been in the center close to Hartak’s and right next to Skolot’s huge funeral bier with its red cover; ten white horses are pulling it. There are red stripes along the horses’ sides and backs. The priests escorting the body, are riding white horses too…

Artem again concentrated on the images evoked in his mind; he had in fact seen some of what Lida described from the hiding place — it was an impressive sight…

…The large bier with the body of Skolot, priests with sacred images of eagles, panthers and deer, the highest nobles and elders heading the procession. Around the bier those Scythians who had inflicted ritual wounds on themselves to express their grief at the death of the great chieftain Skolot: parts of ears missing, streaks of blood drying on their cheeks, necks and clothes; cuts on their hands and arms still oozing blood; foreheads and noses with deep scratches; left palms pierced with arrows, and hair cut short. The Scythians singing a disturbing, heart-rending song, with the priests leading — or perhaps not a song but chanting a prayer to the implacable gods? None of the Scythians was aware of the real cause of Skolot’s death. Dorbatay, the poisoner, was riding in his wagon, looking very dignified, feigning concentration as he was mumbling prayers to the gods. The white horses slowly pulled the bier; another big wagon, carrying Skolot’s bereaved wife, moved right behind the bier; she kept her face buried in her wrinkled hands, covered with age-spots. Two old priests were sitting beside the widow who was destined to follow the chieftain into the grave. The body of Skolot lay under a felt canopy in the red bier garbed in sumptuous clothes, the gold helmet on his head and massive gold bracelets on his wrists, arms folded on his chest; the old chieftain’s short sword resting by his side; Skolot’s expression peaceful, his closed eyes suggesting sleep rather than, death, his face showing no signs of the death throes that had filled his last moments, only the thin, transparent layer of wax over the face and hands reminding one that he was rather dead than quietly resting or slumbering…

The procession pushed on and on, always in near-perfect order, the self-assured Dorbatay in his scarlet cloak and helmet-like headgear preserving his solemn and dignified appearance.

The innumerable gold decorations sewn onto his cloak and headdress jungled every time the wagon he was riding in, heaved over bumps and holes. Dorbatay’s eyes were fixed on some invisible spot beyond the gray horizon; he seemed completely submerged in prayers for his beloved brother, the dead chieftain, not hearing or seeing anyone around. The simple-hearted Scythians, taken in by this performance, glanced at him with great respect.

Hartak also tried to preserve a solemn and dignified appearance, sitting straight on his horse, putting his hand on his hip in a carefree fashion, looking around, his eyes shifting, searching for a mocking glance, as he knew well that he did not command much respect with the warriors. In a short time, his head would bend under the weight of the big golden helmet. His hands nervously picked at the reins. Hartak looked very unsure of his equestrian abilities, and it was an effort for him to keep from tumbling off his horse.

“What a freak!” Lida could not help exclaiming as she caught sight of him.

Hartak must have heard her voice in spite of the considerable distance separating them. He looked back quickly, fixing his eyes on her. Lida froze in fear for a moment, but then she realized the freak could not have understood her anyway. In fact, Hartak smiled, evidently trying to make his smile a sweet one. It even seemed to Lida that Hartak had the impudence to wink at her! That was too much to bear, and she turned away quickly.

She dared to raise her eyes only after the bier had passed, followed by the rasping wagon in which the chieftain’s widow was riding. Only after Hartak’s wagons passed did the one carrying the captive strangers move on. Their wagon was followed by those with the slaves, servants and wives of the new chieftain.

Ivan Semenovich, taking a look around him, said:

“Do you see that big wagon over there, my dear girl? The one with the women in tall headdresses shooting glances at you. I’m sure, they’re Hartak’s wives, and they seem eager to have a look at the new bride who’s captured their husband’s heart…”

“Oh, you shouldn’t say that, Ivan Semenovich!” Lida said, much annoyed. “You know perfectly well how hateful the very thought of that is to me…”

But the geologist continued, unabashed:

“Believe me, Lida, I wish I didn’t have to mention it, but… I think it’s better to keep it in mind all the time so you’ll stay on the alert and not be taken unawares. I admit I drew your attention to that wagon on purpose to remind you… to behave properly. I want to caution you against irresponsible conduct.”

“Have I done something wrong?..”

“Well, yes, you have. You forget that it is in our vital interests to keep Hartak and Dorbatay assured that you have given your consent to marry the young chieftain. And don’t make such a wry face! We have no option here! It would be even better if you could make them believe that you desire it! Remember what happened just a few minutes ago! Hartak smiled at you, and what did you do in return? Anyone observing your disgusted reaction would understand something was wrong! You’re lucky that Hartak, overwhelmed as he seems to be with… errr… feelings toward you, did not notice your grimace. Don’t do anything else like that, Lida! You’re endangering our chances of being rescued!”

What could Lida reply to all that? She could only promise she would watch her step very carefully in the future.

…It was already the fourth day of the journey. For the fourth consecutive day the wagons had been moving toward the mysterious country of Gerrhus. Her letters to Artem, and his replies were the only things that alleviated the tedium. The messages from Artem were also evidence that their fate was the main concern of their friends. Lida had done what Artem had asked — a rather unexpected and mystifying thing — in one of his letters: to learn by heart a text of considerable length in Greek Artem had transcribed, listening to what Ronis slowly and distinctly told him. Lida knew the general content of the text but not the meaning of the words she had had to memorize. This text was later to play a significant, it not decisive role in her life.

The procession stopped for lunch; cauldrons were set up over the campfires. The air was again permeated with the sweetish smell of horse meat being boiled; not only Lida but even Ivan Semenovich, a man of great tolerance, had developed an aversion toward the meat. But there was nothing else to eat. Truth to tell, Lida ate it only when Ivan Semenovich insisted. This morning the girl had felt she couldn’t force herself to swallow even the tiniest piece.

“It makes me sick just to look at it, Ivan Semenovich! I’d better just have some milk!”

“No, that won’t do, Lida. If the sight of it makes you sick, don’t look at it. Just close your eyes and swallow.”

“I can’t! I can’t put it in my mouth even with my eyes closed. It smells of horse sweat.”

“Then hold your nose and eat it.”

“It has such a pungent taste that…”

“Then put your tongue out of the way, and swallow it whole. I’m not joking, Lida. I’m quite serious. I insist that you eat. We must eat this meat to keep strong. You must realize clearly that a day will come when we’ll need all our strength and deftness. We must prepare ourselves for it. And I’m not taking any of your remonstrations, my dear girl. You’d better think of what Artem would say if he saw you refusing food and condemning yourself to feebleness?” Lida stopped resisting and began eating, color mounting in her cheeks. Well, if she must, she must…

Presently, some animated voices could be heard approaching their wagon. Was it a message from Artem being brought by the slaves? This thought even reconciled Lida somewhat to the loathsome boiled horse meat she was trying to swallow and keep down. She peeped out, and what she saw gave her the shock of her life: Hartak and the three nobles who always accompanied him as part of the young chieftain’s entourage, were standing right by the wagon. Two slaves were putting a pair of steps covered with a red rug up to the wagon for the chieftain to ascend with all appropriate dignity and solemnity. And Hartak looked more dignified than he ever had before.

“Ivan Semenovich, Hartak’s on his way here!” Lida said in a frightened whisper. “By the looks of him, something important is on his mind!”

“Please remember, Lida,” the geologist replied with a frown, “control yourself! The main thing is to control yourself!”

“What about the text Artem’s passed on to me?”

“Oh, yes, I think the time to use it has come!”

Saying this, Ivan Semenovich moved into the corner and watched the felt cover rise and the stoop-shouldered Hartak, accompanied by the nobles, make his entrance, smile to the girl and even bow to her awkwardly — all to show how favorably he was disposed to her.

Lida leaned back to support herself against the side of the wagon and waited to see what would happen next.

Hartak began speaking, his rasping voice sounding especially irritating now. But he must have been saying something he thought should be welcomed as the most exciting news because he smiled a couple of times, baring his sharp, carnivorous teeth. He tried to make his voice sound gentle, evidently — judging from his gestures — inviting the girl to go with him.

When he finished speaking, making an expansive gesture, as if showing Lida the way, and as the translation of his address into the Greek language began, Lida suddenly realized that Hartak had come because Dorbatay had given his consent for the wedding to be held before the end of the journey and before the burial of Skolot! There could be no other reason for him to come to her with his entourage but to take her away and make her his wife! Lida was numbed with the unspeakable horror of the situation.

Hartak kept his hand extended to the exit while his words were being translated; his smile was still glued to his face. Lida could neither say anything nor make a slightest move; she was petrified. Her legs and arms felt like dead weights; blood drained from her face. Then Hartak made a step toward her, took hold of her shoulder — seemingly oblivious to the state she was in — and gently pushed her toward the exit opening in the felt cover. Lida, quite forgetting of the geologist’s stern warnings, jerked her shoulder away from the Scythian’s grasp, and cried out:

“Never, never!”

Panting hard, she looked around, her eyes wild with fear. She had to do something, but what? Then she caught the expressive gaze of Ivan Semenovich, staring at her from the corner. Hartak was taken aback by her violent reaction. Ivan Semenovich began speaking, very distinctly, spacing his words carefully, and sounding very persuasive:

“Lida, my dear girl, try to control yourself. Calm down, think! You’re ruining our chances! Lida!”

Little by little, Lida began regaining control of herself. Yes, there was something she could do, and Ivan Semenovich knew what, and he would tell her, he would save her.

“Tell me what to do, Ivan Semenovich, please,” she said feeling very faint.

“He wants you to go with him, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, what else?”

“It means he’s gotten Dorbatay’s consent for the marriage… Oh, stop it, Lida,” the geologist added hastily seeing the girl go rigid again at the mention of ‘marriage.’ “You remember the text Artem’s sent you? Go ahead, and recite it, look serious, thoughtful, and convincing while you’re doing it! Control yourself! Good. Now begin, but remember you must neither look nor sound hostile. Begin!”

Hartak stood looking quite at a loss, shifting his gaze from Lida to Ivan Semenovich and then back to Lida. He did not know what to do, whether to use force or wait a bit. In the meantime Lida had regained control of herself and was ready to recite the text, their last hope. She should have thought of it on her own! Artem had written that the text was to be used for exactly such an occasion! Now it was her turn!

Pulling herself together, and taking a deep breath, the young woman stepped forward and looked Hartak straight in the face. Hartak immediately lowered his eyes: he seemed unable to sustain anybody’s direct gaze. Lida heaved a sigh and began. It is extremely difficult to recite something when you don’t understand the individual words but know only the general content! Yet she tried to put as much dignity into what she was saying as she could — both Artem and Ivan Semenovich had advised it.

In fact, it was not only Lida who was ignorant of the meaning of the words in the text — Artem was just as hazy as to what the individual words meant, having transcribed the Greek sounds from Ronis’s dictation. The contents were as follows:

Hartak! I come from a tribe different from your people. We have laws and customs different from yours. According to our laws, the chieftain cannot marry a girl before he has performed a feat of valor in combat, but he must not engage in combat before the deceased chieftain had been buried. I have agreed to become your wife. But our wedding can take place only after you have done what the laws of my people require. Otherwise the gods, my gods, will severely punish both you and me! Now I beg of you to leave and return only after you have done everything to comply with the law!

That was what Lida told Hartak. She was not even sure whether what she pronounced was not garbled beyond comprehension — first in Artem’s transcription and then in her utterance — but she pushed on, mouthing the Greek words with so much stateliness that she surprised herself. It gave her a new impetus and she finished her piece in a loud and solemn voice. As the translation proceeded she saw, first, that what she had said made sense, and, second, that Hartak was taken aback. He had never expected anything of the kind!

Ronis’s plan seemed to be working! Suspecting that Hartak could get Dorbatay to consent to the marriage before the journey was over, Ronis had suggested this little ruse to delay the wedding; the trick was also to give the impression that it was really something that had to be done in accordance with the laws of the people the girl belonged to, not a refusal.

Lida had managed to regain almost complete self-control seeing the effect her words were having. Hartak was definitely discomfitted — and that was a gain already!

Had it been a resolute and bold person in place of Hartak, Ronis’s plan would have fallen through, but Hartak was a milksop, so Ronis’s plan worked. Hartak had evidently been scared by the girl’s mentioning the wrath of some foreign gods. What if they really did punish him if he violated the laws of the people to which these outlanders belonged? Hartak looked around, seeking support, but his companions lowered their eyes; they had not approved of the young chieftain’s marriage taking place before the end of the journey in the first place; in spite of Dorbatay’s consent, they felt the sacred laws were being violated.

A murmur rose among those who stayed outside after they heard the translation of what Lida said. If it was a murmur of approval, it was not at all bad!

Hartak realized that the nobles were not on his side. He turned abruptly and left briskly, saying something which sounded like an order: there was ill-disguised fury in his voice. He was helped onto his horse and in a moment, he was gone. The other Scythians who had come with Hartak also left without saying a single word or casting a glance at the girl or the other stranger who was sitting motionlessly in the corner, staring.

It grew quiet. Lida glanced at Ivan Semenovich: what did he think of her performance? But she did not have to ask as his reaction was manifested all too clearly. The geologist sprang to his feet, rushed to the girl, embraced and kissed her.

“It was just great, my dear girl, excellent!” he cried out, overflowing with emotion. “See the results? Terrific! Lida, you’ve proved your mettle! I’m proud of you!”

This time, Lida, emotionally drained, did not refuse to eat the horse meat, forgetting her disgust toward it. But instead of relaxation, the afternoon brought new tensions.

Every day, Dorbatay staged pompous rites with human sacrifices, and every day he increased the number of victims to increase the Scythians’ fear of the gods and of him, the high priest of the vengeful gods and the mouthpiece of their will. Dorbatay, in all probability, also wanted to awe the captives: they had already been taken to watch the rites twice. This afternoon, there was no need to take them out of their wagon as the rites were to be performed in the center of the semicircle formed by all the wagons.

Though Ivan Semenovich kept the felt cover tightly closed and Lida clasped her hands over her ears, it was impossible to get away from the horrible sounds that filled the air.

The girl had been ennervated enough by her encounter with Hartak even before the rites began, and now she was heading toward nervous collapse. At first, she just trembled when the priests opened the ceremony with the doleful- sounding prayers. But then, after the terrible sacrifices began, Lida broke down in a flood of tears. No matter how hard she pressed her palms over her ears she still could hear the heart-rending sounds coming from outside.

Ivan Semenovich was nervous, too. At first, he hoped Lida would manage to get control of her emotions, as it was not the first time that Lida had burst into tears, and on all the previous occasions, she had been able to regain self-control. He sat silently in his corner not even daring to look in her direction so she wouldn’t think he was watching her. But gradually Lida’s uncontrollable sobbing began to turn into full-fledged hysteria. Ivan Semenovich was at a loss as to what he should do to calm the girl.

Lida went on crying bitterly, her head buried in the cushion. Her shoulders heaved; her face and the cushion were wet with tears. Then she began trembling all over and almost shouted through her flood of tears:

“I can’t stand it any more! I can’t! I can’t! It’s horrible! Nowhere to hide! Hateful murderers! Oh, I can’t stand it! I can’t!”

“Just don’t think about it, Lida,” the geologist said dejectedly. “You’re much too wrought-up. Wrap yourself up in a rug, and try to sleep. That’s the only thing we can do now.”

“You’re making fun of me! Sleep? There are people being tortured… and you are… so merciless… so indifferent… I can’t stand it!”

Her shouting grew louder, mingling with the shouts from outside, with the wailing and death cries of the victims, with the beating of tambourines, and the piercing whistling of the bone fifes — such a terrifying, unnerving din that it could quite literally drive anyone mad.

“Stop it, Lida! You must control yourself, really! We’re powerless to do anything!”

The geologist tried to make his words sound reasonable and convincing, but it did not help: Lida went on hysterically weeping.

All of a sudden the beat of the tambourines grew louder — it seemed that their number had increased twofold; at the same time the high-pitched wailing of the fifes also grew in intensity.

“Oh, how horrible! I can’t stand it! I can’t!”

“Stop it, Lida, stop!”

“No, I can’t, I can’t! I’ll do it! I’ll do it!”

She raised her head, her glassy eyes staring into nothingness.

“My heart’s breaking. I’ll go out there and stop it. You hear? We have no right to stand aside… No, don’t you touch me! Don’t you stop me!”

As she said it, she sprang to her feet, ready to rush out. The geologist only just managed to intercept her, and had to use force to make her sit down on the rug again. Things were beginning to look really grim.

After a short silence, the geologist began speaking in a very loud, imperative, steeled voice, a voice Lida had never heard the tolerant, genial and reserved geologist use before!

“Gut it out! You hear, stop this immediately! You can’t help these people, and neither can I! We’ll just ruin our chances of rescue. Shut up! Enough of your hysterics! You hear? Stop it or I’ll…”

He firmly grabbed Lida by the shoulder, making her grimace with pain! His other hand flew into the air — clenched in a fist! She winced in his grasp — she had never seen him in such a fury! His jaw set tight, his eyes under the frowning brows flashing! Deep wrinkles furrowing the cheek with moving knots of muscle! The hand poised in the air, ready to strike!

“Oh, Ivan Semenovich, don’t! You scare me… I…”

“Shut up!”

Biting her lips to draw blood, Lida cowered, silenced. She was so badly frightened she could not have uttered a single sound, even if she wanted to: she just swallowed sobs and shuddered from time to time; tears kept pouring from her eyes — she could not keep them back, hard as she tried.

She could still hear the frenzied shouts of the priests and heart-rending wails mingled with the beat of the tambourines and shrieking of the fifes. It seemed she was seeing the face of Ivan Semenovich, twisted with fury, looming above her. She could not get rid of the image of this face and the clenched fist raised high. She had never felt such dejection, loneliness, and hurt.

Ivan Semenovich let go of Lida’s shoulder and stood looking at her cowering on the floor, suddenly turned into a little girl, piteous, her stooping back shaking with sobs. He slowly lowered his hand and was about to touch her golden hair. He wanted so much to pat her on the back, to say something soothing but he restrained himself: it was not the time to start comforting her, no matter how much he wanted. His heart was heavy: he had had to threaten a woman, and so mercilessly at that — something he thought he would never have to do. But he felt that if he relented now, Lida would have another fit of hysterics, moved by self-pity. And then she might rush out and do something that would destroy them both.

Ivan Semenovich heaved a sigh: the scene had cost him much: his hands twitched nervously, and his throat was constricted as though he was about to burst into tears himself.

He stared down at the gentle girl with much too soft a heart, smitten with pity for her. How could he have brought himself to threaten her? Now he himself had the problem of keeping self-control and not breaking down… But what else could he have done? He had had to stop Lida’s hysterics, to prevent her from dashing out…

Ivan Semenovich was standing by Lida’s side. She seems to be quieted down, he thought. Noiselessly he moved away and slowly walked into his corner, sat down, filled and lit his pipe.

The shouting outside seemed to lose its intensity; the tambourine beat went on but slackened. Ivan Semenovich inhaled the smoke deeply, and it was very pleasant to feel tobacco smoke spread its tranquilizing effect through his veins. He glanced at Lida: the girl was lying down now, motionless; her shoulders had stopped shuddering; only muffled sobs could be heard once in a while. Very soon, though, she began breathing evenly: she must have slipped from her overexcited state into sleep.

Ivan Semenovich sat in his corner looking out the opening in the felt cover long after his pipe had stopped smoking and the wagon had begun rolling again. He could hear the voices of the Scythians urging the horses on and the tall grass swishing under the wagon wheels; through the opening, he could see the unending strip of the woods in the distance beyond which cliffs rose steeply. The heavy gray clouds hid the tops of the cliffs as they always did here. It was very difficult to believe there was a stone ceiling above the clouds — hundreds of meters of rock that separated this underground world from the world he could call his own, real and bathing in sunlight…

Artem and Dmitro Borisovich were hiding somewhere in the forest. He wondered what they were doing at the moment. How was Dmitro Borisovich, this hot-tempered, straightforward adult with the soul of a child, who was so helpless in these wild conditions, adjusting to the brutality of the Scythians? Ivan Semenovich did not think it would be too much of a problem for Artem to adjust, as he had proven that he could stand up for himself and for others; just think how radically he had been transformed from a sloppy, awkward youth into an intrepid, determined and resourceful young man! It was a good example of what a sudden change in circumstances could do: something that had been hidden deep in his soul had surfaced and turned into resoluteness, stalwartness, fearlessness, sound reasoning… A very nice boy, Artem!

Suddenly somebody embraced his neck making him start violently; he turned around to discover Lida.

Her green eyes were gazing at the geologist, an embarrassed smile on her lips. She was eager to speak but something held her back.

“I did not see you wake up,” Ivan Semenovich said in the most gentle voice he could master. What if he had overdone it and had been too harsh on her in his attempts stop her hysterics?

“Ivan Semenovich, I feel so bad about my behavior… I’m sorry I didn’t keep control of myself… I just couldn’t… I’m ashamed… I can’t look you straight in the eye…”

“All right, let’s not speak about it. It’s over and done with. Look up at the sky instead. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful? Have you? See those wonderful clouds? Aren’t they just magnificent?”

The girl waved all this aside.

“I’m sorry but I think I can see only the usual gray sky and no magnificent clouds… just the usual overcast gray. Where did you see those clouds you spoke of?”

Ivan Semenovich looked right, then left, and said: “Strange, nothing unusual to be seen indeed… Very strange… I’m sure I saw them just a minute ago… they were so beautiful…”

“Oh, Ivan Semenovich, except for these low-hanging clouds, what else could you expect to see here?”

“Yes, maybe you’re right, maybe…”

“You were talking about the clouds just to change the subject! I know you were!”

“You think so? I don’t think I did it on purpose…”

“Let’s not ever bring it up again, please… I feel so ashamed, really…”

“Bring up what? The clouds?”

“No, of course not! You know what I mean.”

“Ah, but if you keep coming back to it every other minute, I’ll talk about it every day, ten times a day rather. And I’ll tell Artem too!”

“Oh no, don’t! I’ll never do it again. I’ll… Oh, who’s that?”

A woman’s head appeared in the opening — the slave woman brought sour milk for the captives. She put the earthen jar on floor and glanced quickly around.

“She’s up to something.”

After she ascertained that there was no one in the wagon except the outlanders, the slave pulled a tiny piece of paper from the folds of her dress. She gave it to Lida and made several gestures as if to say: give me your letter in return for this one for the men in the forest, to which she pointed with her finger. Then the slave crouched with her back to the opening in a posture typical of a slave waiting for orders.

“It’s a message from Artem!” Lida exclaimed, bubbling over with joy.

“And what does he say in his message?”

“Yes, I’ll read it now!” Lida said hurriedly in her excitement. “It says: ‘Why don’t you write? We’re worried. Has Hartak made any moves yet? Ronis told us that Hartak had already secured Dorbatay’s consent for his marriage to you to take place before the end of the journey. Write back at once and tell us what’s going on. Have you learnt the Greek text by heart? Mind you, very much may depend on it. We’re doing fine here. Many more people have joined Varkan and Ronis here in the forest, so we’re a large force now. The time of your rescue is drawing near. I expect you to write me a detailed account of everything. I’m particularly eager to learn what you think of my personal…’”

Lida abruptly halted and burst into a fit of coughing.

“Is there anything else there?” the geologist asked archly.

’“…of the personal… errr… affairs I mentioned to you in my previous letter.’ That’s all, Ivan Semenovich,” the girl said, trying to make her voice sound natural and sincere — in fact it sounded much too natural and much too sincere. Color mounted treacherously in her cheeks.

“That’s all, is it?”

“Well, there’s something else… just a meaningless trifle…”

Lida, now very red in the face, lowered her head.

“Oh, if it’s just a meaningless trifle, I’ll leave it to you to find some meaning in it,” Ivan Semenovich said with a chuckle. “You must write back at once. Let’s not make Artem worry unnecessarily — we have settled things more or less with Hartak, haven’t we? Are there any sheets left in my notepad?”

“Quite a few, Ivan Semenovich, there’s quite enough to last us several more days. I’ll begin right now and will describe everything that happened to Artem. Where’s the pencil?”

Ivan Semenovich turned away to conceal from Lida the arch but benevolent smile that spread across his face.

CHAPTER FIVE

Varkan takes a decision as to the size of his group; Dorbatay stages another sacrifice with diviners taking part and a man dying in the flames; Artem draws some historical and literary parallels; Varkan swears vengeance and Artem drifts into a reverie thinking about Lida.

Days passed, one like the next. The great funeral procession of the Scythians stretched for about a kilometer, but the legendary place of Gerrhus was still somewhere ahead. The horses moved slowly, at a measured pace; the huge, cumbersome wagons creaked: they could easily be passed on foot.

This slowness grated on Artem’s nerves as he was impatient for the action to begin, and that would happen only after the Scythians arrived at Gerrhus! Varkan and Ronis reasoned with him, trying to cool him down.

“This slowness is working in our favor. Lida and Ivan Semenovich are absolutely safe. Hartak fears the vengeance of the foreign gods and will not attempt to speed up the wedding…”

“He’d better not!”

“He won’t. In the meantime, the forces Dorbatay and his henchemen could rely upon, are slowly but surely diminishing. It is not a very noticeable process, but consequently, our forces are growing, and increasing in strength. Varkan and Ronis tell me everything’s proceeding according to plan,” said Dmitro Borisovich.

The Greek added:

“It’s a good sign that the Scythians are moving so slowly. There’s nothing surprising in it, really. The longer the journey lasts, the better it is for us. It will help our cause a lot, for the fight will be shorter.”

Artem looked at him in surprise:

“Why? I don’t follow.”

“I will explain,” Ronis said. “Remember, I once told you that this journey would weaken the forces of Dorbatay and the chiefs? What I have in mind is this: before the journey began, the most important Scythians and their soldiers kept close together, and now, with the fatigue of the journey and the procession stretched out the way it is now, everything is confused — the established order of wagons of the chiefs and their soldiers has broken down. Their wagons are scattered now, which greatly diminishes the effectiveness of their forces. On the other hand, our forces are growing. We aren’t losing time; we’re becoming more unified as more and more men join us. Yes, since the time when our first uprising was put down, we have learnt a lot!”

Ronis, showing an agitation quite out of character, struck the nearby tree with his clenched fist:

“I assure you, the chiefs are in for a much tougher fight this time! The blood of my ill-fated brothers, murdered and tortured to death by Dorbatay, will be avenged! We remember the crimes of the priests and chiefs only too well and we will avenge them!”

Varkan said judiciously:

“Ronis, you’re not being reasonable. You have allowed your vengeful feelings speak for you…”

“I am a man of flesh and blood and I am subject to all human emotions. You seem to forget that, Varkan,” Ronis said tartly.

“Oh yes, I remember it. And I also remember that the desire for vengeance leads to no good. Is it only vengeance that we are seeking, Ronis? No, not only that, and you know it as well as I do. So why do you put vengeance foremost?”

For the first time since they had met, Artem saw Ronis lower his head and admit that he had been wrong. Then he said:

“You are right, my friend. The blood of my slain brothers clouded my eyes…”

Everybody was silent, impressed with the way this firm and intelligent man admitted to having been wrong. After a short silence Varkan spoke again, tactfully changing the subject:

“As a matter of fact there’s one important thing I wanted to draw your attention to. I am not sure you have thought about it.”

“What?” Ronis said, raising his head, his eyes calm again.

“If Dorbatay and the chiefs suspected anything, they wouldn’t be treating the hunters and herdsmen the way they are. For the last few days, Dorbatay has been playing into our hands, turning the hunters and herdsmen against him. I think he has been blinded by his power. He and the chiefs are treating the hunters and herdsmen the way they usually treat the slaves. This is what those who join us, tell us. And there are quite a few newcomers… unfortunately.”

“And what’s so bad about that?” Artem could not help exclaiming.

“It’s bad because Dorbatay may be alerted by the disappearance of men,” Varkan explained. “We’d rather have the old soothsayer remain convinced that he possesses the ultimate power. That’s why I’ve decided not to allow any more men to join our group. It’s already big enough, and I think it would serve our cause better if all those who have grown indignant at the injustices done them by Dorbatay and the chiefs stay where they are. They will be able to influence others and help us from within, so to say, when the right time comes. And that time is drawing near, and very quickly at that.”

Artem was excited to hear Varkan say that the time of the decisive battle was near! A few more days, and the uprising would break out! And then… then all their problems would be solved!

Varkan’s group kept following the funeral procession. Almost all the young warriors who had once formed the most reliable and strongest part of the troops of the dead chieftain had joined Varkan’s group. Soon after Skolot’s death, these young soldiers had found that Dorbatay and his henchmen would not forgive the retainers of the late Skolot whom they considered — with good reason — to be their enemies.

With Skolot dead, his retinue had lost the support it had enjoyed, and all those who had been in favor with Skolot were regarded with suspicion by Dorbatay. Those who had dropped some disapproving remarks about the priests or haughty chiefs found themselves in a much worse situation — they faced almost certain death.

The merciless and vengeful Dorbatay would remember all their snubs, and his keen, boring eyes seemed to be gazing at the long line of people to be punished or simply put out of the way on the slightest suspicion of disloyalty.

Every day, the old soothsayer solemnly pronounced imprecations against those whom he suspected of disloyalty, and that was the end of them. These people were stripped of all their possessions, no matter how worthless, and at best, they were turned into slaves. No one dared to help those who bore the curse of the gods, since it would immediately bring a curse on the helper.

Seizure of property was only one of the intimidation procedures Dorbatay was employing to keep the people fearful and obedient. He managed to achieve his purpose quite well.

Three young hunters, all of them Varkan’s friends, had already been put to death. These three hunters had, on several occasions, poked fun at the priests; neither had they held the chiefs in high regard. Dorbatay had meted out punishment to them with his characteristic cruelty.

One of them was accused of disrespect for the sacred traditions and ridicule of the priests. He, disarmed and bound, was brought before Hartak. The new chieftain was sitting on a dais richly decorated with red cloth. Dorbatay stood beside him, grim and relentless, wearing the ceremonial vestments of the high priest. The chiefs sat in a circle around the dais. A little further away the Scythians stood in a crowd. They spoke in undertone, casting sympathetic glances at the young hunter who, everybody realized, was doomed. The hunter probably realized this, too, but he stood firm.

Hartak raised his hand, giving the signal for the trial to begin. Then, in his croaking, rasping, dead voice, he asked the young man in the silence that had fallen:

“Do you plead guilty? Do you admit to having violated the sacred laws? Do you admit to having offended the holy priests?”

The hunter raised his head proudly and said boldly:

“No, I do not admit to having done anything wrong. I deny the charges. I have never violated the sacred laws. I have never offended the holy priests. I only stood up for an orphan girl who was wronged by a priest. He took away all her cattle, depriving her of all means of livelihood. She would have died of hunger. The priest said he was doing it in obedience to the will of the gods. But could just gods really have ordered this? The priest slaughtered the horse he took from the girl, for food. After doing that, can he be called a ‘holy’ priest? So, I gave him a piece of my mind, that’s all. How can that be considered an offense and violation of the sacred laws?”

He said this, looking Dorbatay straight in the eye. The crowd burst into a loud murmur, as quite a few people knew that everything he had said was true. Hartak was somewhat at a loss as to what to do next. Not so Dorbatay — the soothsayer knew perfectly well what to do! Raising his hand threateningly, he said in a loud, brazen voice:

“The priest did what the gods willed, otherwise the gods would have punished him! And they have not! And you, recreant, are being tried! You have offended a priest — a holy priest! — and thus provoked the ire of the just but severe gods whose will the priest obeyed. Be quiet! I will not have your arguments now! We will ask the great gods and they will tell us the whole truth. And we will do with you as the gods will advise us. Call the diviners! Let them consult the gods!”

Three priests, who in fact, looked very feminine, approached the dais with thick bundles of rods in their hands. They put the bundles on the ground, sank to their knees, raised their hands in the air, and began to sing a hymn in rasping voices. The priests asked the gods to hear their prayers and reply. The hunter stood waiting quietly. Everyone else waited eagerly for the sign from the gods.

When they finished praying, the priests spread the rods in front of them, bent low over them, and looked for patterns, murmuring sacred words. The crowd stood in glum silence. The artless hunter shrugged his shoulders as if to say: what could these rods reveal when all the people know that the priests robbed the girl?

The diviners straightened up at last. The elder diviner got to his feet, took a step forward and said:

“o great and wise chieftain, Hartak! o wise and holy servant of the gods, Dorbatay! The gods have made their reply. They have told us what it is to be done, and everyone of us has received the same answer. We have heard their thunderous voices. This man is guilty! He has insulted a priest and offended the gods. The gods are wrathful! This man has violated our sacred laws, and not for the first time!”

The hunter paled at the new accusation: he knew he would be sentenced to death. But when Dorbatay asked him again whether he pleaded guilty, the hunter said firmly, with great courage:

“No! I have done nothing wrong! These priests are lying! The gods could not have said anything of the kind, because they know I am innocent!”

“Bring other diviners here!” Dorbatay said calmly. “We shall do everything in compliance with our sacred laws!”

The number of diviners was now six — double what it was the first time. This was what the sacred traditions required if the accused refused to accept the verdict of the first three diviners.

The six, after casting their rods on the ground, confirmed the findings of the first three:

“He is guilty! He is guilty on all counts! The gods have said it again! And the gods demand that he be punished!”

Once again, the hunter rejected the charges. Then Dorbatay called in twelve diviners — twice as many as before. These twelve gave the same reply:

“The man is guilty! This is what our gods tell us! And they demand a harsh punishment for him!”

No more evidence was required; everything had been done in accordance with the sacred traditions. Dorbatay turned to Hartak:

“You must give a verdict, o great and wise chieftain Hartak!”

Without looking at the accused hunter who searched in vain for some final hope in Hartak’s expression, the chieftain said as though repeating words he had just been made to learn:

“May the gods’ will be fulfilled! The guilty man must be punished!”

Dorbatay imperiously waved his hand and the priests brought a wagon filled with dry branches up to the dais. Fierce bulls were harnessed to the wagon. The hunter was bound hand and foot and gagged. Then he was put in the wagon and more branches were put on top of him. The wood was set on fire, and the bulls were lashed mercilessly. The frightened beasts ran into the steppe, pulling the blazing wagon in which an innocent man who could neither move nor even cry out in his terrible anguish, was being incinerated.

Dorbatay followed the burning wagon with his cold eyes for some time, then raised his hands in a solemn gesture and told everyone to pray to the great gods and thank them for having meted out just punishment to the criminal who had gone against the sacred traditions of the Skolots.

Two other hunters who also were Varkan’s friends were put to death with much less pomp. One of them was hacked to pieces by priests with axes in the middle of the night. Afterwards, the priests claimed he was a recreant who had secretly worshipped the Greek gods. The Scythian gods had punished him by hurling the heavy, sharp axes from the skies. The simple-minded Scythians believed it…

The other hunter died during a hunt, struck down by a spear the priests claimed had also come from the skies. The other badly frightened participants in the hunt confirmed this, saying that they had seen for themselves a spear coming from somewhere above their heads, deep in the woods. The spear had not returned to the heavens, true enough, but who else except the gods could have hurled it in that forest when there was no one around but the hunters? However, Dorbatay and his closest associates knew very well where the weapon had come from: Dorbatay himself had ordered one of the priests to track down the hunters, climb up a tall tree and hurl the spear at the doomed man.

Varkan and his friends knew of all Dorbatay’s evil deeds. Unfortunately, they were helpless to do anything to prevent the murders. No wonder there were so many defections to Varkan in the forest from the very first days of the funeral journey. Those who felt their fates would be similar to those who had already died preferred to run away. Dorbatay and the priests could easily deal with them one by one, secretly or in the open, but when they joined together, they were a considerable force, having the tacit support of the many hunters and herdsmen who stayed with the main body of the Scythians but disapproved of the blood-thirsty priests’ cruelty.

It was only later that Varkan decided to stop allowing new defectors to join him. All the younger warriors were already with Varkan, as were those hunters who were in danger of being murdered by Dorbatay and the priests. The rest of Varkan’s supporters could remain with the main body of the Scythians for the time being. There, they could be more useful, as they could help with various matters before the uprising, and they also constituted a surprise force within the Scythian ranks which could strike at Dorbatay from within — from where he least expected an attack.

The strength of Varkan’s group grew on other counts, too, and not just numerically. Varkan made sure there would be no clashes with Dorbatay’s forces before everything was ready for the final confrontation. Varkan reasoned that he had to solidify his forces and lull the vigilance of the old soothsayer. That is why the only action allowed was leading away horses from Dorbatay’s large herds. It was done in the dead of night, very stealthily, to avoid any clashes with the herdsmen. Everything was done very quickly; Varkan’s men were not even armed for such nocturnal raids. They were sure they would not be attacked anyway, as in accordance with the sacred Scythian traditions, it was forbidden to engage in any armed aggressive action until the deceased chieftain had been buried. Until then, the Scythians were permitted to use weapons only in self-defense.

Artem once said, commenting on the situation:

“It’s like the legend old Ormad, or whatever his name was, told at Skolot’s feast…”

“It was not a legend, my dear Artem, but a piece — somewhat embroidered of course — of actual history,” Dmitro Borisovich remarked.

“All right, so it really happened. But anyway, this funeral procession on the way to Gerrhus could be compared to the march of Darius’s hordes. And we, here in the forest — to the Scythians who avoided battle and used hit-and-run tactics… See, Dmitro Borisovich, how some knowledge of history, or legend, helps one assess the present situation? Ormad should be thanked. Now, what about a little workout?”

Artem and Dmitro Borisovich had already scored some successes in mastering the Scythian weapons. Artem took to archery. For some reason or other, he liked the excitement of shooting arrows, and every time he had a chance — mostly when their group stopped to rest — he practiced. After some time, he could claim considerable improvement in his archery skills — he was able to hit a tree with an arrow from twenty yards away. In spite of what he considered to be a great achievement, he was still way behind Varkan and the other Scythians who could hit the same target two or three times the distance!

Besides, Artem could hit only stationary targets. Any moving target — a hare or a fox — was beyond his capabilities.

Dmitro Borisovich had taken to the axe, the very same long-handled axe he had picked from the pile of weapons shortly before the surprise attack of Dorbatay’s soldiers. In the time that had passed since that day, Dmitro Borisovich had learnt to handle it with considerable dexterity. His height and long sinewy arms increased his reach significantly. When the archeologist, his spectacles flashing menacingly, challenged Varkan to a mock battle, the Scythian had a very hard time defending himself. The sharp axe had become a very dangerous weapon in the hands of the persevering but hot-tempered archeologist.

“There’s only one thing that spoils the effect somewhat, Dmitro Borisovich,” Artem said jokingly. “With this axe in your hands, you remind me of Don Quixote who proclaimed the beauty of his lady Dulcinea to the world…”

“What impertinence!” the archeologist cried out, sounding rather offended.

“Oh, don’t get cross! It’s true! Upon my word! You’re lanky as Don Quixote’s supposed to be, gawky… err, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that — honest — I used the wrong word,” Artem began mumbling, dropping his teasing tone, as soon as he saw the long, steady arm of Dmitro Borisovich reach out toward his ear. It would have been an impossible disgrace to have his ear pulled in front of the Scythians! And whose ear would it be? The ear of the young but powerful magician who, among other things, could summon thunder and fire from the ground!

Artem quickly stepped back, shut his mouth, and pulled his helmet still lower over his head. Both he and Dmitro Borisovich were obliged to wear round bronze helmets which left their faces open, most of the time now. It was Yarkan who insisted, and Ronis supported him, saying:

“Why take unnecessary risks? When attacking, the Scythians aim for the head. If you wear helmets, you lessen your chances of being badly hurt. You never know what might happen any moment now.”

Varkan’s group followed the funeral procession on its way to Gerrhus day in, day out. Sometimes they kept close behind it, camping at its tail, and sometimes they moved parallel to it. The procession could hardly be seen in the extremely tall pink grass a horse’s head high. Among other things, this mode of travel allowed Varkan and Ronis to communicate easily with their supporters who had stayed in the main Scythian camp. Artem was happy to be able to maintain a steady correspondence with Lida and Ivan Semenovich.

Messages were exchanged without the help of Diana. There was no need to send the dread poskina back and forth, thus reminding Dorbatay and the priests of their existence. The slaves helped them get the messages in and out. Hartak had sent Lida two slave women to cater to all the whims of the chieftain’s fiancee. He could never imagine that the slaves did in fact serve the girl very well but in a manner he would hardly have approved of. For with the two slaves, as well as most of the rest, the word of Ronis weighed much more than the orders of Hartak. So, the two slave girls took Lida’s messages and passed them on to other slaves who carried them to the forest at night. Lines of communication were thus opened permanently in all weather.

Varkan was almost constantly in conference now. Two newly-arrived hunters had just told him of what had been going on at the camp. After hearing them out, he talked to Ronis and gave some orders. The hunters headed back to the camp.

Varkan’s face was clouded; even more sombre was Ronis’s. He knew in general terms from his own sources what was going on in the Scythian camp, but the hunters’ story had affected him deeply. The hunters informed him that Dorbatay was preparing a new rite with more human sacrifices. Such bloody rites were staged practically every day now, and the Greek slaves were being killed in increasing numbers by the priests as a sacrifice to propitiate the gods.

Ronis stared gloomily at the fire where the sparks were darting and dancing. Varkan came up to him and patted him on the shoulder:

“Don’t feel too bad, my friend,” he said softly. “There are only two or three more days of waiting before we strike. Then we’ll put an end to everything that’s depressing you and breaking your heart now. Do you believe me?”

Ronis raised his head, his big eyes glistening with reflections from the fire. When he began to speak, there was a great anguish in his voice:

“I do believe you and trust you completely, Varkan. Otherwise I would not be here with you. I’m firmly convinced that we’ll win. But sometimes I feel I’m choking with too much hatred for Dorbatay and his priests…”

“What’s so bad about that?” Varkan asked in surprise.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” the Greek said with a sigh. “But sometimes it can be a nuisance; it fuddles the brain as you saw quite recently, my friend. When this hatred grips me, I forget our aims and think only of revenge for all my brothers. How many of my kin has he had tortured to death and murdered! If Dorbatay manages to escape, I will be very discontented!”

“He will not escape, Ronis!”

“He does not have much chance… as long as I’m alive.” Ronis suddenly sprang to his feet. His voice rang.

“And what will happen if I die before him? No, Varkan, I am not afraid of death. But it might turn out that I will not be able to meet my arch enemy face to face. It can happen easily in battle, for no one is protected from sudden death. You’re a soldier yourself, Varkan, and you understand what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” the Scythian said in a low voice.

“All right then,” Ronis said. “Death or a bad wound can come unheeded from a stray arrow… or the blow of an axe from behind… And I won’t be able to do what I’m burning to do. Such thoughts make me restless; I lose the ability to do what must be done at the moment; I have an irrepressible urge to cut the old evil-doer’s throat with my own hands! To kill him — and then come what may. Now listen to me, Varkan. Do you still consider yourself my friend and brother, now and for ever?”

“Why should you ask? You know very well that I do!” Varkan said reproachfully.

“All right then. I have never asked you for personal favors. But now I want you to promise me in all earnest to do what I ask of you. And if I die and you don’t do it, may Fate punish you! Do you agree to promise me that, Varkan?”

“Go ahead, tell me your request, I’m listening.”

“There’s only one request I have, one demand rather, as you’re my best friend, my blood brother. If I fall in battle, dead or badly wounded, if I am not fated to be the avenger for all my murdered Greek brothers… if fate does not allow me to kill this blood-thirsty, wild beast, this hideous creature and murderer Dorbatay with my own hands, you, Varkan, must kill him yourself. Kill him! Fulfill my greatest desire, punish the vile man, Varkan, my friend!”

Ronis’s voice was vibrating with intense hatred; he shook his clenched fists in the air; he dropped his voice from a shout to a fervent, even feverish whisper, stopping to gasp for air as though he was short of breath.

“Kill him!… Kill him, Varkan! Swear you will!”

Varkan put his hand on the hilt of the sword. His face was grave and determined as he said firmly and solemnly: “I swear to you, Ronis, that I will do what you ask of me. My hatred for Dorbatay is no less than yours. All my friends hate him. We’ll never know peace until this stinking rat dies. I swear to you, o Ronis!”

The paroxysm of great agitation passed and Ronis now seemed a little ashamed of this display of emotions, which was so out of character with him. He wiped his forehead with his palm and sighed with relief. Then he squeezed Varkan’s hand, looking him straight in the eye.

“I believe you, Varkan! I will put it out of my mind. You are a noble and honest man. I am going to repeat what I once said, but you refused to take heed then: I sincerely want you, Varkan, to become the chieftain of the Scythians!” Varkan shrugged his shoulders, not saying anything in reply.

Several young warriors came up to the camp fire. They were to start shortly on their nightly raid to get more horses from Dorbatay’s herds. Varkan listened to their report and issued brief orders; the warriors walked away and disappeared into the darkness. The sounds of the tambourines came from the Scythian camp in the distance.

Artem felt neither fear nor apprehension. On the contrary, now, after he had heard the translation of Ronis’s passionate outburst and Varkan’s reply, a firm belief in the successful outcome of their enterprise grew in him. The vague doubts and anxieties that had been lurking in the back of his mind completely disappeared. For the first time in his life, he had witnessed the great power of hatred!

Artem had also had another opportunity to see that Varkan was a courageous, resolute, honest and straightforward man. He had also learnt that Ronis had a penetrating, sober and flexible mind and was a man of mettle and cold-blooded reason. He realized very clearly now that this reticent Greek had become the leader of the downtrodden slaves by right, just as Varkan was* at the head of the maltreated hunters, herdsmen and young warriors from the deceased chieftain’s entourage by right.

But it was only now that Artem had seen them open their hearts, filled as they were with turbulent feelings, to show the magnitude of their hatred for their common enemy. Ronis and Varkan, drawn so close to each other by mutual love, friendship and respect, amply demonstrated their great human worth. Artem grew to admire them enormously.

It made Artem feel proud to have both these men as his friends. He was not at all surprised when Dmitro Borisovich told him enthusiastically:

“We will win, Artem! Now I’m sure of it.”

The archeologist was staring at him with his myopic eyes, much too thoroughly wiping his eyeglasses which had suspiciously misted over. But his face was clear and he was wearing the resolute expression of a man who has arrived at some unshakable conclusions.

“Of course we’ll win, Dmitro Borisovich,” Artem said. “From what you just translated it seems…”

The archeologist took Artem’s hand and squeezed it hard: “Yes, I know what you mean, Artem! Now I’m sure that nothing will stop them! Consequently, the most important thing for us at the moment — the release of dear friends — will also be accomplished! We’ll be together again! We’ll kiss our beloved girl, we’ll embrace Ivan Semenovich…” Dmitro Borisovich was so deeply moved by his own words that he was struck speechless for some time by his frantic attempts to find adequate verbal expression for his emotions. Ronis got to his feet.

“I’m going back to the Scythian camp,” he said. His voice had returned to normal — it was quiet, sober, imbued with characteristic ironic overtones. Nothing betrayed the emotional outburst he had gone through just a short while ago. “I’ll find out — maybe for the last time — how Dorbatay and Hartak are getting on. I’m interested to learn whether they think nothing threatens them in the near future, whether anything’s troubling them… It seems we have arranged and thought of everything, Yarkan? Do you remember our signals?”

“Yes,” said Varkan curtly.

“Then I’m leaving. I probably won’t see you until the day of the uprising.” Ronis raised his hand in a gesture of good-bye and disappeared among the trees.

The men sitting around the dying fire fell silent; the deep night shadows, which seemed even darker against the unstable light of the last, flickering flames, were moving in from all sides. A slight breeze gently touched the tops of tall grass. The clearing where they were sitting was enveloped on all sides by the impenetrable dark. Only the clouds in the sky could still be discerned.

CHAPTER SIX

The Scythians arrive at Gerrhus and the explorers watch the funeral ceremony from a ledge on the face of the cliff; Ronis gives the signal and the battle begins; the four friends are reunited only to find themselves facing a new danger; Varkan displays his courage, and the time comes for the explorers to use their only weapon.

The tops of the huge rocks at the ledge close to the foot of the cliffs served as an excellent observation point. Artem reckoned hardly a kilometer separated them from the site where the burial was to take place. From where they stood, they remained undetected by the Scythians below. Even if it were not for the jagged rocks which provided such a good hiding place, the Scythians below were much too busy to pay any attention to anything around them.

Not only could the observers see everything in detail due to the extreme purity of the air, but they could also hear the sounds of the remarkable spectacle unfolding below them. For several hours now, the priests had been chanting their woeful prayers. The solemn and impressive ceremony of Skolot’s burial turned out to be a compelling sight.

Artem, Dmitro Borisovich and Varkan had been lying there, among the rocks, since early morning, watching, listening and waiting. A little beyond them was stationed their entire group whose strength was over one hundred and fifty well- armed young warriors and hunters. It had been decided that the signal for the attack would be given after Ronis had pulled his forces together to strike at Dorbatay’s soldiers from the rear. Then they would be joined by the hunters and herdsmen who would also be alerted. After Dorbatay’s forces were thus engaged, the decisive attack would come from the rocks — it would be carried out by Varkan’s warriors. The general plan of the uprising that had been worked out by Varkan and Ronis seemed faultless: all that remained was to carry it out.

But there was one person hiding in the rocks whose mind was occupied with matters very different from the impending battle with the soldiers of Dorbatay and Hartak! This person was, of course, none other than Dmitro Borisovich! The enthusiastic archeologist had stopped thinking about his mastery of the battle axe. Neither was his participation in the forthcoming battle — “my personal and direct involvement,” as he put it — of much concern to him. His attention was riveted to the scene unfolding below. He wanted to weep with disappointment that he had lost his camera in that cursed cave! It was an outrage not to be able to capture on film everything he had been privileged to see! What a vexation to be left only with some rather blurred mental pictures imprinted on the memory!

The burial of the Scythian chieftain, the obsequies, carried out in full accordance with the sacred traditions of the tribe! An archeologist’s dream, to be sure! Quite naturally, Dmitro Borisovich could not take his eyes off the scene. Even Artem, who, though he was not an archeologist, shared much of Dmitro Borisovich’s enthusiasm, for he was impressed by the unusual, striking sight.

The burial was to take place on a flat stretch of the ground, flanked on one side by the cliffs and locked in on all the other sides by the curve of a quietly flowing, rather wide river. The Scythians called the river “Borysthenes,” but Dmitro Borisovich explained the name to Artem:

“The real Borysthenes, the one Herodotus wrote about, is, of course, the Dnieper of our days. The river we see here is just an underground stream that empties into some underground lake which must be of quite a size, too. And again, of course, this lake would have nothing whatsoever to do with the Pontus of Euxine, that is, what we now call the Black Sea. Incidentally, our hypothetical underground lake would be very much below sea level…”

This last observation was self-evident and did not call for any explanation. The archeologist went on:

“The tribe of the Scythian nomads that wandered into this underground cavity a very long time ago and was forced to stay…”

“So, you support the theory Ivan Semenovich put forward to explain the Scythian presence here?” Artem interrupted him.

“We haven’t come up with any other plausible theories so far. So, as I was saying, this tribe, cut off from the surface, must have preserved the ancient geographical names and applied them to their new environment. The Scythians, Herodotus tells us, had many legends concerning the Borysthenes, and these stories must have been passed down from generation to generation. When these underground Scythians came upon this river, they, quite naturally, invested it with such a glorious name. That’s all. And, as this funeral is also part of the ancient tradition, the tribe picked this spot, associating it with the legendary Gerrhus, as a burial place for their chieftains.”

“Yes, all this is very interesting, and no doubt very important,” Artem said impatiently. “I am quite sure that everything you say is true, but there’s something else that’s worrying me at the moment…”

But glancing at the archeologist, Artem stopped, as he saw that Dmitro Borisovich was not listening, so absorbed he was in the ceremony below. Artem was more concerned with the following:

Suppose in the general uprising Lida and Ivan Semenovich were set free. So far so good. What next? Varkan was no doubt an excellent person, and Ronis, too. So after the uprising, they would feel quite safe among the Scythians; that was obvious. But the most important question remained: what next? Wasn’t it high time to start looking for a way back to the surface? Hadn’t they had enough adventures? Hadn’t they had enough of this world with its pink and yellow plants, which as far as Artem was concerned, were rather disgusting?

But how would they look for the way back? The cliffs were the same wherever they went, rising in steep walls, and disappearing into clouds, with jagged rocks at the foot. Which place should they choose to climb? And what good would it do to scale those cliffs? How could they find the thin place in the wall that separated this strange world from the stalactite cave with its passage to the surface?

The damned rocks! Artem kicked one in a fit of bad temper. The kick hurt his foot, making him cry with pain — the stone was as hard here as anywhere else! The pain brought him back to the harsh reality of the moment. Wasn’t it a bit too early to think about returning? First they had to free their friends, and then they would see what to do next. Ivan Semenovich would, of course, know what to do! Things would take care of themselves!

Artem turned his attention to the obsequies proceeding down below. All the Scythians had already gathered by the large pit that was to serve as a grave. Dorbatay and the priests stood around it in a tight circle, a few steps away. Hartak, the son of the late chieftain, and the oldest and most important chiefs who were closest to Skolot, formed the inner circle.

The embalmed body had already been put in the grave and laid out on a rug, surrounded by wooden poles dug into the ground. The priests were putting planks across the poles and covering them with reeds, thus making a sort of simple, wooden but spacious tomb for the body of Skolot; there was room enough in it for all the things the Scythians believed the deceased would need in the world of spirits.

Dmitro Borisovich had told Artem that big mounds of earth, heaped on both sides of the grave during the digging, would be used to make a barrow. A short distance away from the grave stood the wagon in which the widow sat, sobbing uncontrollably, and the servants, all of whom would shortly follow their late master to the grave to cater to his needs in the nether world.

The wonderful black stallion that belonged to Skolot, was also brought to the grave. He pawed the ground, nervously turning his head and stretching his neck. The priests held him firmly by the reins as the stallion seemed to feel death approaching. He snorted, jerked his head and looked fiercely at the priests.

“Are they going to kill him, too?” Artem asked, without turning his head, feeling sorry for so handsome and noble a horse. Dmitro Borisovich said curtly, “Yes.” He was also grieved at the thought that this handsome horse, the only large one he had seen, was soon to be slaughtered. But there was nothing to be done about it: the Scythians believed that their chieftain would need the horse to go riding in the next world.

There were hunters and herdsmen, old women and girls, boys and very old men in the big, seething crowd standing some distance away from the grave. There were only few people by the wagons.

A cart, loaded with gold vials and precious objects, was brought to the grave; it was followed by a goodly number of choice pigs, goats and sheep.

“Will all of this also go into the grave?” Artem asked, incredulous; even after the explanations given by Dmitro Borisovich, Artem could not quite believe that so many precious things, so many animals were to be buried in the grave.

“Of course!” Dmitro Borisovich said, but with a look of surprise at Artem’s incredulity. “Not only these animals and treasures. They’ll put Skolot’s widow into the grave, too, strangling her first. I don’t know all the details, but they should bury a cup-bearer, a cook, a groom, and some servants along with the chieftain… Not alive, of course, but strangled beforehand. It’s the tradition.”

“You speak so matter-of-factly about it!” Artem said, bristling. “I’m boiling with indignation and you’re dispassionately enumerating the victims! It’s revolting, that’s what!”

The archeologist said noncommittally:

“I don’t think you should be so indignant about it, Artem. It’s history, and I’m telling you what historians recorded. In our excavations, we have discovered similar victims. Do you want me to pass moral judgment on this ancient custom? Oh, never mind that now! Better look over there at the slaves!”

A group of slaves that had been working by the wagons, stopped what they were doing and began moving toward the big Scythian crowd. Artem had noticed earlier that slaves tended to gather in small groups of men only, without any women or children. Even from a considerable distance, he thought he could make out their agitation. Their movements were brisk and purposeful, not slow and languid as usual. But what Scythian would pay now any attention to the miserable slaves when his chieftain was being buried? But Artem gave his full attention to the slaves, as he knew that their agitation was not accidental, that they were uniting their forces in accordance with Ronis’s plan. They had evidently been instructed to station themselves on one side of the crowd, away from the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. A short while later, most of them drifted to the place furthest from where Varkan’s men would attack. Aha, now the maneuver became clear. Artem chuckled with satisfaction: Ronis’s strategic thinking was surely that of an expert. The slaves not only placed themselves out of line of Varkan’s attack, but were positioned conveniently close to the grave around which all the priests and chiefs were gathered.

Varkan, to his great satisfaction, also observed the concentration of the slaves in one place. His keen eyes saw — as he had expected — that their short cloaks were not draped around them in the usual loose manner, and he knew they must be hiding weapons underneath. So Ronis and his aids had managed to distribute weapons among the slaves.

Varkan turned to Artem. Without saying anything he picked up a sharp stone and scratched a circle on the rock. On one side of it he scratched an arrow that pierced the circle. Then, he quickly scratched another arrow on the other side of the circle. He dropped the stone, put his hands on both sides of the circle, and brought them together as though squeezing the circle, looking at Artem.

“I understand. An excellent plan!” Artem said, nodding his head. “We’ll get them in a pincer movement and crush them! It’s all quite clear!”

Varkan’s face broke into a happy smile: he and the young stranger, his blood brother, could communicate quite well!

The melancholy song grew in volume: all the Scythians, gathered at the grave, must have joined the priests in the song. Dorbatay raised his hands into the air — a gesture to draw attention to himself and give a signal to the priests. Another party of priests went to Skolot’s wagon to get the things that were to be placed into the grave. The ritual chanting grew alternately louder and softer, but never stopped. Dorbatay stood motionless with his hand in the air, the wide sleeves of his garment hanging at his sides like the wings of an immense, sinister bird. The priests were busy carrying things that once belonged to Skolot, into the grave. Golden bowls and ornaments, various weapons, among them his short ceremonial sword with the gold hilt, were carefully put on the rich carpets around the body to make sure that should the dead chieftain reach out his hand, he would get what he wanted.

“What fabulous treasures are being put in there!” whispered the archeologist, fascinated.

“Oh yes, they’re laying it out especially for you,” Artem could not help quipping.

Dmitro Borisovich did not hear the remark as his attention was completely absorbed by a party of priests who were carrying victuals to the grave: big cauldrons of stew, entire carcasses of horses, pigs and sheep.

At last, the flow of objects being put into the grave ceased. There was no room left around the corpse; it was impossible to reach it across the vast quantity of treasures, weapons and food.

Varkan touched Artem on the shoulder and pointed to the crowd and beyond. All the male slaves must have been gathered there. Artem’s heart was sent racing when he saw what he thought was the glint of a weapon.

The time of the attack must be very near now, he thought. When will Ronis give the signal? Everything seems ready. But where are Lida and Ivan Semenovich? I don’t see them anywhere!

Then another thought flashed through his mind: what if Ronis wasn’t giving the signal because he knew the captive strangers were being kept some place where their lives would be threatened if there was an attempt to free them, and he was doing something about it now?

Suddenly Diana, lying on a flat rock to the right of Artem, gave a short, agitated bark. At almost the same time, Dmitro Borisovich grabbed him by the shoulder:

“Look, there they are!”

A score of priests were escorting Lida and Ivan Semenovich to the grave. They walked unbound, and only the drawn weapons in the hands of the priests indicated that they were still captives. As he walked, Ivan Semenovich glanced toward the cliffs above the heads of the priests. Did he know where his friends were waiting in an ambush? The geologist and Lida must have been informed of their friends’ whereabouts because Lida also seemed to look in the same direction!

“They know, they surely know where we’ll attack from!” Artem cried out cheerfully. “It must be Ronis’s doing! He must have let them know somehow!”

Lida and Ivan Semenovich stopped not far from the grave, but not too close, which was very fortunate. For some reason or other, the priests must have decided they were not to be allowed to enter the inner circle. Their position would make setting them free easier. At least that’s what Artem thought.

Two hoary old warriors brought Skolot’s black stallion up to the grave, leading him by the reins. The horse didn’t want to he led into the hole and jerked from side to side. But the reins were held very fast. A priest with a distinguished and solemn appearance, approached the horse, dagger in hand, shouted something, probably an incantation, and plunged the dagger into the horse’s graceful neck. A jet of blood spurted out; tlie horse collapsed on its front knees, and a sound of choking came from his mouth.

The dagger was brought down several more times, and the black horse was stilled forever. Now Skolot could ride his favorite battle horse in the world of shadows.

Several priests came up to the wagon in which Skolot’s aged widow was sitting. Shudders passed through her body; her withered hands were pressed to her face. She was carried to the grave more dead than alive.

“Villains! To kill a woman, an old woman!” Artem cried out.

“It’s their custom,” Dmitro Borisovich mumbled without conviction. His archeological enthusiasm of a few minutes ago had evaporated. He did not say he was sorry he had lost his camera. He would not have been able to photograph such a horrible scene anyway.

The priests brought the hapless woman to the place where the slaughtered horse was lying. As she had fainted from fear, the priests had to carry her. A priest with a rope in his hands followed them. He was the ritual executioner who was to strangle the widow of the chieftain so she would follow her husband to the other world and be a good wife to him there.

At that moment, Artem saw a thin column of smoke rising in the distance beyond the crowd, from among the kibitkas. The smoke rose higher and higher in the still air; to an uninitiated observer, it was just smoke from a small campfire.

“Ronis has given his signal! It’s time to start, Varkan!”

But Artem was too late with his exclamation: Varkan had already given the signal to his men to go down the cliff. They descended the cliff nimbly and moved toward a cluster of trees that rose between the cliffs and the spot where the burial ceremony was taking place.

“Dmitro Borisovich! The signal’s been given!” Artem cried out in great excitement. “I’m going down with Varkan’s men!”

“What do you mean you’re going down? Do you suppose I’m going to stay here?”

Saying this, the archeologist grabbed his battle axe and began his descent. The ungainly archeologist had a hard time keeping his balance on the way down; it was especially difficult as his eyes were still riveted on the burial scene.

But duty was above everything for him! His friends needed help, and he must do whatever he could to help them.

The desperate cry of a woman reached them from the distance, making them shiver and halt on their way: it was the last cry of Skolot’s dying widow.

Artem and Dmitro Borisovich resumed their descent. Varkan’s men had already reached the grove. Artem knew that in response to the signal, Varkan’s men had to rush to the grove and wait there until the slaves engaged the enemy. This would give them a chance to get close to the enemy without being observed. Otherwise, they would be met by a hail of arrows and spears and the main attack would lose the advantage of surprise. To prevent this from happening, Ronis and his men had to engage the enemy and sustain battle for some time.

The grove, being much closer to the grave, allowed them to observe the Scythian crowd in much greater detail, but at the same time, being at ground level made it impossible for them to see what was going on by the grave. They could hear much better though. The monotonous, melancholy praying did not cease. Drowning all other sounds, it was occasionally pierced by the terrible heart-rending, high- pitched crying of a woman. It gave Artem the shivers to think that one of those cries could have come from Lida.

Varkan’s men were lying on the ground, hiding behind the trees of the grove, waiting patiently. One careless move could reveal their presence, and the consequences would be serious.

The absolute silence in the grove contrasted sharply with the monotonous song and piercing cries of the women. Artem’s heart was pounding wildly in his chest, threatening to burst. He kept telling himself that he must keep a cool head and relax, for the time of the decisive attack was near. But that was easier said than done!

The grove was still, filled with an extremely tense silence. No movement. Why wasn’t Ronis signalling for the attack to begin?

Artem heard the heavy breathing of Dmitro Borisovich at his side. The archeologist’s hands were tightly clasped around the handle of the axe. Then Dmitro Borisovich said in a barely audible whisper right into Artem’s ear:

“Where’s your weapon, Artem? Are you ready?”

Without saying anything, Artem indicated his sword with his eyes. The archeologist nodded his head to show that he thought it was not enough. Then the young man patted one of his pockets as if to say: don’t worry, everything’s all right; I have something else here, too. His most important weapon was ready for use at any moment the situation called for it to be employed.

Loud shouts made Artem and Dmitro Borisovich hold their breath. Had the slaves launched their attack?

The shouting increased in volume and turned into a general din. The song stopped, drowned in a powerful wave of shouts, frantic and fierce. The slaves had started the uprising!

“Forward! Forward!” Artem shouted at the top of his voice.

“Forward!” Dmitro Borisovich joined him in the shout.

Getting to their feet at the same moment, they started running toward the grave. No matter how fast they tried to run, Varkan’s men were faster, surging ahead of them. Artem could see only their backs appearing and disappearing among the trees. He kept racing after them, brandishing his sword and shouting:

“Forward! Forward!”

Dmitro Borisovich followed as fast as he could; he had completely forgotten that for the sake of archeology it would have been best to remain an impartial observer. In a moment, he turned with his usual impetuosity into an intrepid soldier. He also shouted something but Artem’s mind did not register what it was.

In a few moments they were out of the grove, running full speed across the field. Then they slowed down somewhat as it took considerable effort to wade through the tall pink grass that seemed to be growing everywhere. Artem saw Varkan’s men in front of him and heard the sounds of clashing weapons and shouts coming from somewhere very near. The gaping hole of the grave was just a short distance away. Would they be lucky enough to meet the enemy and get to the captives without having an arrow shot or spear hurled at them? Had Ronis and his men managed to engage the forces of the chiefs and priests so intensely they weren’t paying any attention to anything else around?

Women and children, badly frightened by the sudden eruption of fighting, scattered in panic in all directions. As no one tried to attack them, they made way for Varkan’s men who kept running at full speed. Every moment they were getting closer and closer to the grave. The closer the attackers got to it, the bigger their chances were of taking Dorbatay by surprise and preventing him from rallying his forces for resistance.

A moment later, Artem saw the attackers reach the enemy lines in front of the grave. The battle had begun. Amidst the clanging of swords, the enemy bellowed a terrible war- cry, trying to raise their own courage for a stiff resistance. The priests, armed with swords and daggers, began pouring out of the grave pit. Urged on by sharp commands from Dorbatay, they threw themselves into battle and checked the advance of the attackers. Swords were brought into play with added fierceness. Both sides were fighting on foot, with no horse soldiers to help. The greatest danger for the attackers had passed: the enemy had not had time to use their bows and meet the sudden thrust from the grove with a deadly hail of well-aimed arrows. It was from the very start hand- to-hand fighting in which the victory goes to the one who is stronger, quicker, more experienced; it was a battle fought with swords and axes, a battle at close quarters. Varkan’s soldiers made their way to the grave without losing a single man!

Diana made her presence known to Artem by growling at his side. Diana! How could he have forgotten about her! Without even turning his head to her, he shouted:

“Forward, forrr-ward, Diana! To our friends! To Lida!”

The battle raged on. But where was Varkan? Aha, over there. He was fighting against three enemies who tried to overcome him by sheer number. He needed help!

But before Artem had time to rush to Varkan’s aid, the foes, besetting him, were attacked by his bold warriors. Two of them were brought down, and the third was killed by Varkan’s sword.

On all sides there was clanging of weapons, groaning of the wounded, and shouting of the combatants. Varkan’s men kept pressing the enemy who were lacking in courage and intrepidity. Besides, the forest insurgents had a clear and noble goal; they knew perfectly well what they were fighting for and what they wanted to achieve. Hartak’s soldiers and the priests felt very differently, taken by surprise, dumb founded by the sudden attack. And they began to retreat in spite of the frenzied incitements from the furious Dorbatay.

But where were Lida and Ivan Semenovich?

The main fighting now began moving sideways from the grave. The enemy, hard pressed and slowly falling back, opened the way to the grave on one of its flanks. It made Artem wonder: weren’t the priests giving way much too easily? Did they have a reliable rearguard to fall back on? Had something gone wrong with the attack? Artem knew the slaves, burning with hatred, must be attacking, the enemy from the other side, from the rear. Had something stopped or delayed them? But it was impossible to make out anything in the turmoil of battle, in the terrible din of voices and weapons. If only he knew where to look for Lida and Ivan Semenovich! Moments before the attack had begun, he had seen them standing close to the grave. Had they been dragged away by the retreating priests?

Artem rushed forward, arriving at the edge of the pit a few paces away from the spot where the ground sloped to provide easy access to it. Some distance away, he could see the wagons, among them the scarlet bier in which the body of Skolot had been carried… Lida and the geologist must be somewhere around… He must get there quickly!

Something buzzed past Artem’s head… Then again… and again…

“Ouch!” Dmitro Borisovich cried out, as an arrow hit his helmeted head.

“Keep moving!” Artem shouted without stopping.

Behind one of the mounds of earth stood a group of priests with bows in their hands. Among them Artem glimpsed the red cloak of Dorbatay. Were Lida and the geologist somewhere there, too? The priests were slowly retreating into the pit. The next moment, Artem heard the ringing voice of Lida:

“Diana! Diana! Come here! Come here to me!”

Both Artem and Diana stopped dead in their tracks. The dog, trembling with impatience, her ears pricked, looked at Artem, as though asking for permission to run to the girl.

“Of course! Right away! Hurry! Run to Lida, Diana! To Lida! Quick!”

Diana would show the way! She would take Artem to Lida! Artem began shouting at the top of his voice after Diana. She spurted toward the priests, making giant leaps every few steps. “Poskina! Poskina!” he shouted.

He knew what he was doing. With these shouts he let the priests know that the dread poskina was on her way. It would strike fear into them even before the dog arrived! It would also, in all likelihood, scare them badly enough to make them think only of fleeing rather than of aiming their spears and arrows at the sacred animal.

Diana, meanwhile, had already reached the earth mound behind which the priests were hiding. So Lida and Ivan Semenovich must be there, too! Artem started running toward the mound.

“Forward!” Artem shouted again as he ran. Dmitro Borisovich followed. Now Artem was afraid of neither arrows nor spears; he knew that nothing could stop him! The Scythians would make a bolt for it at the sight of the dread poskina! Their fear of poskina would protect Artem!

As Artem ran, he saw Diana reach the priests who stood undecided, not daring to use their weapons against the dog. Diana, without stopping, leapt into the air and closed her jaws on the neck of one of the priests, knocking him to the ground. Then the dog turned and immediately attacked another priest. The priests, utterly terrified, turned and ran! Dorbatay was the first to go, getting far ahead of the routed priests. As he ran, stumbling on the hem of his long scarlet robe, he pulled it up every so often to allow for freer movement, but never stopped for a moment. A little behind him limped a man looking clownish in his sumptuous clothes: it was Hartak!

But Artem did not care to watch the scene: with immense joy he saw a graceful girl run out from behind the mound, her golden hair streaming in the air, her arms stretched toward Artem. Behind her ran Ivan Semenovich. The priests had left the captives behind as they scurried away in panic!

“Lida! Lida! My dear!”

A moment later Lida’s arms were flung around Artem’s neck and he was kissed hotly on the mouth.

“Artem, dear! My love!”

“Lida!”

“We must get back quickly to the rocks at the foot of cliffs! Quick!” Ivan Semenovich said in his cool and commanding voice. “We don’t have a second to lose! Just turn around and have a look over there!”

From where they stood, they could see the battlefield in detail. The slaves were pressing the priests and Hartak’s soldiers hard. With the slaves were many poor Scythian hunters and herdsmen who had joined the uprising the way Varkan had predicted they would. But the enemy were retreating toward the grave — all other escape routes had been cut off — thus creating a dangerous situation for the explorers.

Artem assessed the situation in an instant: he and Dmitro Borisovich, in their haste to free their friends, had gotten too far from Varkan’s men, and now the enemy, in their retreat, had cut them completely off from the friendly troops. Dorbatay and Hartak had stopped running away and were in the midst of their troops, moving slowly toward the outlanders. In a moment several arrows whizzed past the explorers. It was a lucky thing for them that the priests were not as good with their bows as the regular Scythian warriors were.

“Diana!” Ivan Semenovich shouted. “Come here!”

There was nothing else to do but retreat to the cliffs. If some of Varkan’s men, or maybe even Varkan himself, saw the plight of the outlanders they would attack the enemy, forcing them to halt, and thus allowing them to escape before they were captured again. But the chance seemed rather slim: Varkan and his men were too much involved in bloody fighting to pay attention to anything around.

The explorers ran toward the cliffs. A group of priests and soldiers rushed after them in hot pursuit, probably with express orders to capture them again or simply kill them to get rid of them for good. The main body of the enemy forces was still engaged in bitter fighting with the slaves under the leadership of Ronis, but the group detached to capture the strangers was big enough to do the job without any difficulty. It was a grave situation in which the explorers stood no chances if they tried to resist.

Then something made Artem look back. Varkan and a dozen young soldiers appeared on the priests’ right flank! The valorous Scythian had not forgotten about his blood brother and his friends, even in the heat of battle! When he saw them, he immediately realized that they were in danger. So he had fought his way through, and now he was running with some of his men, toward them to help.

“Varkan’ll be here in a minute!” Artem cried out cheerfully. “We don’t have to worry now!”

They stopped to wait for Varkan and his men. Holding his blood-stained sword in one hand, the Scythian gesticulated with the other, pointing to the cliffs; as he spoke he had to stop a couple of times to gasp for air because he was still short of breath after the break-neck run:

“We must get there quickly! And wait until the enemy is broken from the rear! They are trying to resist. That’s why they’ve pulled together all their forces and are moving this way. But they still have no chance of winning.”

As soon as these words were translated, Ivan Semenovich, Lida and Dmitro Borisovich started running toward the cliffs. Varkan, his men, and Artem covered their retreat. Artem was now in full control of himself: his dear friends had been saved; Varkan had joined them, everything was all right. Every few steps Artem stopped, as some of the Scyithians in Varkan’s party did, and taking a good aim, shot an arrow at the enemy; he had picked up both the bow and the quiver full of arrows running through the battlefield some time earlier. His shots, no doubt, were not as effective as the archery of the Scythians, but the young man was eager to do something to help slow down the advance of the enemy.

Isn’t it a piece of bad luck! he thought as he released his arrows. To find ourselves right in the path of retreat of these damned priests and Hartak’s soldiers… All right, they don’t have any other way to retreat… that’s why they are pursuing us… ah, good, here’s the grove at last! I’ll make my stand here, shoot a few more arrows and then dash into the trees!

Artem again saw the scarlet cloak of Dorbatay among the priests; he also saw the pathetic figure of Hartak. He would have given a great deal to be able to hit any one of them with his arrow! But, alas, the distance was too great. Artem’s arms, despite his intensive training, were not as strong as those of the Scythian warriors; neither was his aim too sure.

“All right, just you wait, I’ll try all the same… maybe this time…” Artem whispered to himself as he stood behind a tree, taking aim. But no, it was too far! And the more experienced enemy soldiers had a much better chance of hitting Artem than Artem did of hitting his target!

“Don’t lag behind, Artem!” he heard Ivan Semenovich calling to him in a loud and peremptory voice. There was nothing to be done but obey the order. He turned, and running among the trees in zigzags, soon joined the rest.

Varkan was speaking to his men in an evident fit of bad temper, gesticulating and pointing toward the grave from which the mass of enemy soldiers were moving toward the grove. They were retreating, that much was clear, but retreating in the same general direction as the advance party dispatched by Dorbatay to capture the strangers. To oppose this formidable force was only a dozen of Varkan’s soldiers and the outlanders, on whose combat strength Varkan could not rely very much. The fierce attack of the slaves caused the priests and Hartak’s soldiers to flee from the grave toward the grove, thus creating an immediate and grave threat to the outlanders and Varkan’s dozen, and forcing them to retreat. But the question was: where to?

Ivan Semenovich explained the situation to Artem: “Varkan’s men, the main body, that is, of his men, got too involved in fighting and allowed the priests to cut them off from their leader, Varkan. But then they should have attacked the retreating priests, which they apparently did not do, and now the situation is somewhat complicated.” That was evidently what Varkan was so annoyed about. He turned to the outlanders, making an eloquent gesture with his hand toward the cliffs, as if to say: that’s the place we must get to, and quick! He did not have to insist as the situation was only too clear to everyone. Soon they were climbing the rocks to the flat ledge where they would be able to defend themselves, protected by the jagged rocks along its edge.

As they spread out among the boulders, Artem remembered the geologist’s assessment of the situation, and said:

“All the same, the victory will be Ronis’s and Varkan’s! We’ll have a chance yet to celebrate their victory with them! Take my word for it!”

“Don’t be too rash with conclusions, Artem. It’s not yet clear whether we’ll be able to participate in any future celebrations…”

“And why is that?”

“Well, if the priests manage to capture us again… then, I don’t think they are likely to spare us… And there’s nowhere for us to escape from here, do you realize that?”

“But we can wait out here until Ronis comes to the rescue. Besides, there must be horses somewhere in the vicinity…”

“First, we must get to those horses, Artem.”

A moment later, as though in support of the geologist’s words, something began whizzing and buzzing and hissing menacingly in the air all around them. It was a wild cacophony of high-pitched sounds of various intensities, grating on the nerves and striking panic into everyone. Artem had never heard anything like it before. He saw Lida go pale and Ivan Semenovich grimace. The sudden eruption of these terrible sounds gave Dmitro Borisovich a bad start. But a moment later he managed to get a control of his fright; strange as it might seem, he was the first to do it, he of all people.

“Don’t get up! Keep behind the rocks!” he shouted in a peremptory voice. “Hug the rocks! It’s the famous whistling arrows of the Scythians!”

In a few seconds they crawled to the protection of the rocky crest that separated the flat ground from the slope at the foot of which the priests and Hartak’s soldiers were now positioned. Artem and the rest had now understood what gave them such a bad fright: a hail of arrows descended on their hiding place; the enemy had used unusual arrows equipped with whistling devices that produced terrible sounds. The arrows flew over the crest, but due to the angle at which they had been shot, they could harm no one so far…

Dmitro Borisovich, snuggling in safety behind a huge rock, said:

“Yes, the famous whistling arrows of the Scythians! They were used to strike panic into the enemy. Dorbatay must have thought these arrows would frighten us, too… and I admit he was not wrong, the old rogue! It was really frightening!”

“It was frightening because it came so unexpectedly,” Artem said trying to put on a bold face, and glancing at Lida whose face still retained the pallor of a bad fright. “You know, it was really sudden, this ghastly whizzing… It was like an attack on the nerves, really! But they are just arrows, nothing more. Besides, arrows shot from below will pass above us without doing any harm! And as they say, the devil is not so black as he is painted!”

“What you say is basically correct,” Ivan Semenovich said pensively. “But if they choose to shoot in a different manner…”

“How?” Artem asked.

“In artillery it’s called ‘plunging fire.’ If you shoot at a certain angle, the missiles go rather steeply up but then they go down and can fall right behind a barrier… Do you follow me?”

“And they can use barbed arrows too,” Dmitro Borisovich said as though thinking aloud. “I’m not sure whether the Scythians use them, but the possibility exists.”

“Barbed arrows? And what’s that?” Artem asked rather tensely, feeling Lida squeeze his arm in fresh alarm. Artem wanted to say something else, to reassure the girl who had been considerably ruffled by what she had gone through, but he did not have time to.

Several arrows clanked and thudded, falling on the stones very close to where the explorers sat. Two arrows stuck vertically, trembling. A muffled groan reached their ears. Someone must have been wounded!

Turning around, Artem saw Varkan grab his left shoulder with the right hand. There was blood coming from under the hand and between the fingers.

“Varkan’s been hit!”

Varkan, pale in the face, pulled at the arrow but it did not come out. He gave it a stronger tug, but again with no effect. The arrow stayed in the flesh, and only the bulging muscles showed that he was applying great effort in trying to extricate it. Glancing at Dmitro Borisovich, Artem saw great anxiety in his face.

“It must be a barbed arrowhead,” the archeologist said in a whisper. “If it is what I think… it cannot be pulled out like this… only if you cut the flesh around it… The arrowhead must be taken out, otherwise it’ll oxidize… And what if it’s poisoned?”

Varkan, biting his lips, gave one last pull and then abandoned his attempts. One of his men crawled up to him. He cut off the shaft and bandaged the wound tightly, using a belt to secure the bandage. Then he said something to Varkan who silently nodded his head, his eyes closed.

Artem did not try to reassure Varkan; he did not think the Scythian needed it. The arrows had meanwhile stopped falling. Only occasional arrows still whizzed past.

“Dorbatay must be up to something else,” Ivan Semenovich said. “He must be planning another attack. With arrows, or sending his soldiers up? Artem, where’s the bag we found and smuggled out to you in the forest?”

The two bags that Varkan had brought Artem soon after their escape to the forest, did not contain the dynamite charges, so sometime later, after Artem had managed to repel the sudden attack in the forest with the primers, he had asked Varkan and Ronis to try to find the other two. The slaves found them among the things, stored away after the death of Skolot, and passed them on to Varkan’s men, who, in turn, delivered them to Artem. Much to his joy, he discovered that nothing had been taken out, probably out of fear of meddling with things belonging to the foreign magicians. Artem took the trouble of carrying one bag, into which he put their most prized possessions, with him from the camp to the place in the rocks from which the final attack was launched. But when they saw Ronis’s signal and started running down to the grove, Artem had left the bag behind. In the heat of battle and retreat he had forgotten about it, and now, when Ivan Semenovich mentioned it, he looked around in panic, thinking he had lost it. As he looked around, feverishly trying to remember where he had left it he was very much relieved to find it sitting untouched where it had been put a few hours ago. He rushed to it and squatted beside it, opening it. He did not see a head in the leather helmet emerging noiselessly above the crest of the rocks. The entire Scythian soon emerged, and holding onto the rocks, took a quick look around. Artem, still oblivious of the enemy’s presence, was the closest to him. The Scythian raised his spear and took aim. It all happened within a second.

“Artem!” Dmitro Borisovich suddenly cried out in alarm when he saw a Scythian with the raised spear at the crest. Artem looked up and was petrified with horror; just a few steps away, he saw an enemy soldier aiming at him with a spear.

That’s it, a thought flashed through his mind.

But at the same time, he saw someone leaping right in front of him. It was Varkan! The young Scythian had also noticed the danger to his blood brother. In a lightning movement, he had leapt between Artem and the enemy soldier. Had his intention been to tackle the enemy with his bare hands? The explorers were never to learn the answer.

The soldier hurled his weapon. It described a curve in the air — Artem saw it coming. But Varkan stood in the way of the sharp spear that was intended to bring death to Artem. With a loud groan, Varkan sagged to the ground right in front of the young man. A moment later Dmitro Borisovich who had rushed up to the intruder, brought down his heavy axe on the head in the leather helmet; the soldier did not have time to get away. Flinging up his hands, he went tumbling down the slope.

No one cared to see what happened to the enemy soldier as everybody rushed to Varkan. Varkan, their courageous, loyal friend was lying on the ground with a spear sticking out of his chest! The spear the enemy had intended for Artem! Blood was pouring from the wound.

“Varkan, Varkan, why did you do it?” muttered Artem, completely stunned. He bent low over the man who had just saved his life. Pink froth appeared on Varkan’s lips — a sure sign that the spear had pierced his lung. Varkan still found enough strength to smile; his hand groped for Artem’s trembling hand and gave it a squeeze, a very light one, his exceptional strength suddenly gone.

Tears welled in Artem’s eyes. He must help Varkan, he must… But how? Artem then heard the geologist’s doleful voice:

“By the looks of it, his lung has been pierced… We don’t have any means of helping him… Nothing can be done…”

The shouts of the priests and enemy soldiers who were trying to boost each others’ spirits for a decisive attack came from below. The attack was sure to come, as these rocks were the only place the enemy could retreat to. From their vantage point, the explorers and Varkan’s men could see that the slaves and the warriors of Varkan’s main force had reunited and pushed the enemy as far as the grove. There was almost no doubt that the enemy would be crushed soon. But what if they managed to capture this position in the rocks before it happened? There were too many of them, and a handful of Varkan’s men and the four strangers would not be able to hold them back for any significant time!

Then, Dorbatay’s rasping voice could be heard, giving some orders. But what did he say?

Varkan’s men were now positioned along the crest, hiding behind the rocks so they could not be hit by arrows. Due to the steep slope and the ruggedness of the rocks, it was possible to reach the ledge only one at a time, and those of the enemy who did get there would be easily dealt with by the defenders. Several of the enemy soldiers had already tried it, and were now sprawled on the ground, having been flung down, their heads bashed in. The rest had not yet worked up enough courage to ascend the slope.

Ivan Semenovich said to Artem in an undertone:

“You may safely assume that we will not use the horses.”

“And why is that?”

“Hartak’s soldiers have managed to get to them by some roundabout path. I didn’t see them do it, but I see them there now. Look, the enemy’s on that side, too.”

Now their encirclement was complete; they were in a trap. In front and on all the sides, they were besieged by the enemy. Behind them rose the vertical cliffs. The enemy, in turn, were also trapped, pressed to the foot of the rocks by the insurgents with no available routes of retreat except uphill. This made the situation especially grave for the explorers, as the enemy, even should they want to lift the siege, had nowhere to go. Besides, Dorbatay surely realized the advantages of the position on the rock ledge where his forces, after capturing it from the strangers, could hold out, with excellent chances of being able to defend themselves successfully for quite a long time against the insurgents.

Lida supported Varkan’s head; the courageous Scythian’s life was oozing away. His eyes were half-closed, he breathed heavily, in gasps. No words came from him.

“Varkan, Varkan, you shouldn’t have done it…”

The Scythian heard the sympathetic voice of his blood brother. His hand again touched Artem’s hand lightly. He did not have strength any longer for a smile, only the shade of it appeared on his deathly-pale face.

His eyes sought out Artem’s.

“I’m here with you, Varkan, here!”

Artem took Varkan’s hand in his. There were no words to express his grief; he helplessly and woefully blinked the tears from his eyes. Artem squeezed out a few words: “Varkan, my dear, great, wonderful friend…”

Varkan groaned, his hand unsteadily going to his head. He opened his eyes. There was a flicker of recognition when he saw Lida bent low over him. She said, her voice full of grief:

“Varkan, are you better?”

Gathering what little strength there was left in him, he moved his eyes from one of his friends to another: Dmitro Borisovich still holding his battle-axe in his hands; Ivan Semenovich, intently surveying the steep slope; Artem who never took his anxious, compassionate eyes off him, trying, it seemed, to pass through this intense gaze of great sympathy some strength and vital force which his dying blood brother needed so badly. This time Varkan managed a real smile of relief. All his friends were at his side. Hardly moving his lips, he whispered in Greek, barely audibly: “I’m glad… glad that you… that all of you…”

He could speak no more. His head rolled to the side. The last colors of life were gone from his face, and some pink froth again appeared on his lips. His chest heaved spasmodically — it was the last breath the Scythian ever took. A moment later he was dead. His limp body was as motionless as the quiver lying by his side.

Lida buried her face in her hands; hot tears ran between her fingers. She wept, without feeling shame for her tears or trying to conceal them; she was weeping over their dead friend, their true, noble and devoted friend. This wonderful man had been a friend to all of them. He had sacrificed himself to save Artem’s life, and he would have done so for anyone of them! Dmitro Borisovich turned away, wiping his tears. Artem could not make himself look at the body of the dead Scythian. He kept muttering to himself:

“Now… I can’t… I mustn’t… I must control myself… the enemy can attack any minute… I have to control myself…”

He felt as though a heavy hand had grabbed his heart; hot waves of anguish passed through him; he had to keep his eyes tightly shut to force back the tears. And he kept telling himself:

“I must control myself… Varkan, intrepid warrior, wonderful friend, had died… but there’s nothing I can do about it…”

At last, Artem moved slowly away from the stiff body of his friend and blood brother. Then he turned and looked once again at Varkan’s bloodless but now tranquil face.

“Farewell, Varkan,” he said mournfully, but in a steady voice. “Farewell, my friend!”

A spear whizzed through the air and clanged against the rock, falling between Artem and Varkan’s body. The enemy had definitely resolved upon a final attack. So, the insurgents must still be pressing them hard, so they had to try to capture the advantageous position on the ledge to defend themselves more successfully. But whatever the reason, the enemy were about to launch an attack that had to be dealt with! Two more spears struck the rock close to one another, but luckily without hurting anyone.

Varkan’s men, who until now had kept their defensive positions along the crest, began to show signs of restlessness. They glanced at the motionless body of their leader, talking in low voices. Then, they picked up their weapons and began to run, stooping low, toward the place where the horses, before they had been besieged by the enemy, had been tethered. One of the Scythians stopped, turned to the out- landers, and beckoned for them to follow.

Artem looked after the retreating Scythians undecided:

wouldn’t it be better to try to escape while there still was some chance of succeeding? But Ivan Semenovich put his hand reassuringly on Artem’s shoulder.

“I don’t think there’s any point in it,” he said, having guessed what the younger man was thinking about. “Suppose even, that we manage to escape from here — which is extremely unlikely — and don’t forget that the horses must have been seized by the priests. What then? The moment we leave, this place will be captured by the enemy. It will be almost an impregnable stronghold against the insurgents. Do we have a moral right to let that happen?”

“Of course not! It would be treachery on our part!” Artem said hotly. “Besides if we do somehow manage to escape, what really we would do next? Hide in the forest? Varkan is no longer with us…”

“So,” Ivan Semenovich continued, “we must hold this position for some time more, thus giving the insurgents time to crush the enemy. It’s our moral duty before… our courageous dead friend.”

“Yes, you are right, Ivan Semenovich,” Artem replied with conviction.

“The insurgents have already chased the enemy almost to the foot of the cliff. The time has come for us to help our friends who made it possible for us to escape from the hands of Dorbatay and Hartak. Besides, by helping them, we’ll help ourselves regain complete freedom.”

The geologist observed the situation on the battlefield with his keen eyes:

“I believe the final assault is going to begin any minute now. The enemy does not seem to have any options,” Ivan Semenovich said emphatically, picking up the bag. “There are only two points from which they can launch their attack, here and here,” he added pointing down at the two places where ascent was possible. “I’ll take care of this spot, and you take the other one. Good. Now, my dear friend, let’s have a smoke in these last quiet moments. But make sure you have at least one cigarette left! The time has come to use our only weapon!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

The priests storm the ledge and the explorers use their only weapon; Dorbatay dies but the explorers’s weapon is turned against them; a chance explosion opens up the mountain and the explorers find themselves in a cave; Ivan Semenovich supplies explanations and a Scythian face is found carved on the wall; the treasure of Pronis is discovered.

The ledge on which the explorers were hiding was about fifteen meters in length. The explorers moved to one end of the ledge which was isolated from the rest of it by huge rocks, forming a sort of pocket, separated from the outside by the crest with an unscalable crag at the back of it. At the foot of declivity behind the crest swarmed the enemy.

By now the only possible way of escape — the one Artem had been tempted to use — had been cut off by the enemy who had also captured the horses on which Varkan’s group had arrived at their place of ambush. The priests must have seized those men from Varkan’s party who had tried to escape by that route, too. But as they were nowhere to be seen, there was no way of knowing for sure.

The priests still held back their attack, probably screwing up courage or regrouping their forces. Whatever the reason for the delay, it played into the explorers’ hands. They watched anxiously, hidden among the rocks, the changes of fortune in the battle, hoping that the enemy’s resistance would at last be broken. But what they saw did not exactly comply with their wishes.

The battle was far from entering its final stage. Earlier, it had seemed that the main forces of the enemy had been on the verge of a crushing defeat. But the situation had changed! The soldiers of Varkan’s group, in the heat of battle, must have moved further than they had been expected to, letting a considerable enemy force slip out from the encirclement. When Varkan’s soldiers realized what had happened and begun to rearrange their battle formation, the latter had taken heart, regrouped their own forces, and retreated, in an orderly manner, first to Skolot’s grave, then to the grove, and then further towards the crags. The suddenness of the attack, in which Ronis had invested so much hope, had not brought the expected results!

It was easy to see from the ledge how fiercely the enemy were defending themselves. They were putting all their strength into the struggle as they had evidently realized they would not be spared if they lost. In spite of this, they were still giving ground before the great fury of the insurgents who stopped fighting only when they died or when their hands and arms were so covered with wounds they could move them no longer. It was a terrible, life or death encounter. It was only natural in such a situation for Dorbatay and Hartak and their entourage to keep away from the thick of the battle and stay at a relatively safe distance by the crags with about a hundred priests and soldiers, waiting and hoping for the successful outcome of the battle. But their hopes were diminishing by the minute as the insurgents never slackened their pressure, making the enemy fall back and retreat toward the crags.

“It looks as though, in spite of their indecisiveness, the priests will storm the ledge,” Ivan Semenovich said, his voice full of apprehension. “The old soothsayer and his henchmen must consider us a lesser menace at the moment than the insurgents who will cut their throats as soon as they lay their hands on them. All right, get ready, Artem! Diana, quiet! Lie down!”

The dog was lying still, her head resting on her front legs, even without being told to do so. She occasionally looked inquisitively at her master. Her eyes were in perpetual motion as she listened to the disquieting sounds of the battle coming from afar and to the nearer sounds of the priests’ voices coming from the foot of the slope. Every so often, a shudder passed through her body: her muscles were tensed to launch her to the defense of her masters!

“When they get to the top of the crest, they won’t see us here,” Artem said. “We’ll be safe for a couple of minutes behind these rocks. So, maybe we should let them get as near as possible. What do you say, Ivan Semenovich? Then we can wreak real havoc upon them…”

“Hush,” the geologist interrupted him. “Shhh!”

He was looking at the rocks toward which Artem had just pointed. There was the top of a Scythian helmet, slowly emerging from behind a rock. It looked as though someone wanted to peek in but couldn’t make up his mind.

Dmitro Borisovich grabbed his battle-axe. But Ivan Semenovich stopped him.

“First of all, it’s just a helmet. It seems there’s no head in it. Too much trouble striking an empty helmet. Second, you’ll be unnecessarily exposing yourself to arrows and reveal our position besides. Ah, yes, it is for sure a ruse, a trick that has been used throughout the ages — a helmet or hat, supported on a stick, raised for the enemy to see. They just want to find out whether we’re on guard. All right, let them think we haven’t seen anything, because Artem is right — we should let them come nearer. Artem, my friend, are you ready?”

Artem, pointing to the dynamite charges laid out in front of him with short pieces of safety fuse attached to them, said: “Everything’s ready, Ivan Semenovich!”

“Good! But be carefull with that cigarette of yours now! Make sure it doesn’t go out and let us down.”

“Yes, sir!”

The helmet that had been swaying strangely, suddenly disappeared behind the rocks, never to appear again.

“Our guess was correct,” Ivan Semenovich said with a chuckle. “Now Dorbatay is convinced that we are not attentive enough, and in all likelihood that place will be chosen for storming. Excellent!”

“I wish the insurgents would advance faster!” Artem said with a sigh.

“I don’t think it would improve our situation any. I think it would make it even more hazardous, because then we would have to face the soldiers from the enemy’s main force, hot from battle, angry at their defeat, and much more experienced in fighting than the priests.”

“Well, you have a point,” Artem admitted reluctantly.

The hubbub at the foot of the slope suddenly died down. Instead, came an ominous, menacing silence which made it possible to hear the sounds of the battle raging in the distance; the clanging of metal and shouts of the combatants. The geologist’s eyes were riveted to the spot at which the helmet had been pushed into view several minutes ago. His brows puckered with tension from waiting; he watched.

“They’ve fallen silent down there,” he said pensively. “So, I believe, the attack is about to be launched. Attention, Artem! But don’t light the fuse before I give the command!” Artem was patiently waiting, keeping his eyes riveted to the crest. Any minute they could expect a new shower of whistling or barbed arrows, or spears to fall on them. Artem glanced back at the motionless body of his blood brother, the faithful Varkan. A barbed arrow, and then a spear… Artem heaved a sigh. But he had to keep his attention focused on the places where the enemy was likely to appear from. He realized that his timing had to be absolutely perfect: not a minute too soon or a minute too late… The priests would be well prepared for the assault… Neither Dorbatay nor Hartak relished the possibility of finding themselves in the thick of the battle that was inexorably approaching the crags… So the only way of escape for them was upward, to the ledge, which had yet to be captured from its defenders… Did the enemy know that there were only four of them, the four strangers with none of Varkan’s men to help? In any case, Dorbatay and his priests were surely prepared to push themselves to the limit in their attempt to capture the ledge, killing whoever dared to resist. Suddenly Ivan Semenovich made a warning gesture: “Attention! Here they are! But act on command, Artem!” Several helmets appeared simultaneously from behind the rocks. A moment later, the fierce bearded faces of the priests came into view. The priests cautiously looked around, their strong hands firmly gripping the stones. The priests were ready either to jump in and attack the defenders, or, in case of grave danger, to hide behind the rocks.

Diana began growling, but the geologist’s strong hand pressed her head to the ground, and she was silenced; only her intelligent eyes were moving, watching the enemy.

The priests carefully scanned the ledge and were in no hurry to jump in. There was no one in sight except for the body of Varkan. The explorers were well hidden from view behind the rocks in their corner of the ledge.

Then one of the priests, having probably decided there was no immediate danger, turned back and said something to the rest of his party. A dozen helmeted priests hoisted themselves up onto the rocks. In addition to their usual short swords and wide daggers, they were also equipped with bows and quivers full of arrows. They stood at the very edge of the slope, not yet daring to go any further.

Suddenly, Dorbatay’s creaking, imperative voice could be heard from below. From the tone of his voice it could be surmised that he was inquiring about something. The priest who had signalled his comrades to come up a minute earlier, replied. His voice sounded reassuring and brought quite unexpected results.

In a few seconds the head of Dorbatay himself emerged slowly from behind rocks. As he was helped onto a flat rock, Dorbatay carefully scanned the ledge the way the priests had done before him. His cold and cruel eyes seemed to touch every stone, rock or prominence.

Artem grew absolutely still, afraid even to breathe. It seemed to him that Dorbatay’s searching gaze lingered over their hiding place for much too long before it moved further. But he could not see through the stone, he absolutely could not! And the crack in the rock Artem was peeking through was much too narrow to reveal their presence. And yet, Artem could not get rid of the impression that Dorbatay had somehow seen him and his friends… It felt like just the right time to throw a charge at him!

“I’m itching to do away with him right now,” Artem moved his lips in an almost soundless whisper, turning to Ivan Semenovich. “I haven’t had time to tell you… that Varkan gave an oath of vengeance… to kill Dorbatay…”

“Shhh!” the geologist stopped him sharply.

Dorbatay was still examining the rocks, especially the ones behind which the explorers were hiding. Suddenly his face puckered in a grimace of wicked triumph. He seemed to have come to a decision. Artem, hardly believing his eyes, saw the old soothsayer point with his sinewy hand in their direction. It was an extremely unexpected gesture as it was quite impossible to see the strangers from the spot where the soothsayer was standing! And yet he was pointing to their hiding place as though he had in fact seen through the stone!

Whatever made the soothsayer point in that direction, the priests, obedient to his commands, began moving toward the explorers’ corner of the ledge, their swords drawn and arrows taut on the bows. Artem had the odd feeling of being able to see his own body go stiff with tension, only his chest heaving as he breathed. Now, now! How was his cigarette? Good, still burning!

But why wasn’t Ivan Semenovich giving the signal? The priests were no more than five or six meters away!

“Go ahead, Artem!”

It took him only a moment to put the cigarette to the fuse. It immediately started burning, hising and dropping sparks. Artem hurled the charge over the barrier of rocks.

When it was still in the air, he saw that he had thrown it with too much force. The charge sailed over the priests’ heads and fell somewhere behind them over the ledge.

“Another one!”

One more dynamite charge flew into the air, traling smoke. This time it came down right in front of the three nearest priests. They froze, staring in fear at this smoking object, vomiting forth sparks. Its hissing reminded them of a small angry animal.

“Hit the deck, Artem!” Ivan Semenovich bellowed when he saw his friends hoisting themselves from the rocks to see better. “Down, can’t you understand!”

Dorbatay cried out something in alarm: he must have recognized the hissing sound that brought to mind the memory of his comeuppance at the sacred altar. Artem saw him jump backward, tripping as he did so on his long robe. But it was too late. The terrible explosion shook the rocks, sending up a cloud of black smoke. One of the priests was flung high into the air by the blast, flailing his arms wildly. A huge boulder crushed into the ledge, exploding into small lethal pieces. A hail of stones knocked the priests down. A moment later another explosion shook the ground: it was the first charge thrown by Artem; it went off a little later than the second one, probably because its fuse was longer.

A second cloud of smoke began slowly rising above the ledge of rocks. Artem had a glimpse of a human figure who seemed to be riding spreadeagle on top of the black smoky mushroom. The figure in the scarlet cloak turned upside down. There was something painfully familiar in this figure. The sight made Artem shudder. Was it?.. Yes, it was Dorbatay. The old soothsayer did not have time to escape, and the second blast hurled his corpse back toward the ledge.

The broken body of the soothsayer began falling down, still turning. The long white gown and the chimerical red cloak fluttered around him, and at that moment he looked like an ominous bird with wings spread. Dorbatay was falling in an avalanche of stones… The punishment of his dread gods had been meted out to him at last… Finally, his body crashed into the rocks and lay still with stone falling on and around him.

Ivan Semenovich shouted a command:

“Another charge, Artem! Over there, to the left!”

“Artem, the priests! Further to the left!” Lida cried out, too.

In fact, several more helmeted heads appeared above the crest. Brandishing their swords and keeping their bows drawn, the enemy poured into the ledge, scrambling over the rocks like insects. In a few seconds they would reach the explorers…

But there was enough time for Artem to set fire to the fuses of two charges and throw them, one right after the other, at the enemy. Up went the charges over the wall of rocks, trailing smoke, and a moment later they landed among the attackers.

“Now, you’re going to get it!” Artem whispered, his heart beating wildly.

The charges lay on the ground, spewing smoke. The priests recoiled, but then an unexpected thing happened, something the explorers would never think was possible: one of the priests bent forward quickly, snatched one of the charges from the ground, straightened up, and with a wide sweep of his arm, hurled it back behind the rock barrier separating the explorers’ hiding place from the rest of the ledge!

“Look!” Lida screamed.

The explorers’ weapon had been turned against them! Petrified with terror, they watched the same priest stoop over to pick up the other charge. But this time, he did not manage to throw it back at the strangers — the charge went off, flashing red flames, shaking the mountain and sending pieces of rocks and priests flying down the slope in a cloud of black smoke…

But what happened to the charge that had been thrown back at the strangers by the priest?

They saw the charge fly over their heads, as the priest had thrown it too hard. It fell somewhere behind them among the rocks. They could not see the place where it landed; only a thin wisp of smoke indicated its location. A moment later it exploded thunderously in wliat seemed a more powerful explosion than all the previous ones.

And lo and behold: the crags wavered and…

Eyes wide with horror, the explorers gaped at the terrible change the explosion had wrought in the mountain: immense masses of rock, now unbalanced, were about to collapse and bury them under thousands of tons of stone.

Then the rocks began to fall! First they wavered, then moved slowly as though sliding apart, and then suddenly, they crashed down, falling onto the ledge a short distance from the explorers, and breaking into thousands of pieces, showering them with stones.

The explosion not only disturbed the balance of the rocks on the face of the mountain, it caused some shifting of the stone below the surface.

As the explorers watched in awe, a crack opened in the face of the cliff. The cliff seemed to have been cleft in two by a deep black gap that widened before their very eyes. The two huge rocks that flanked the gap on either side began moving inwards as though pushed by an invisible gigantic hand; as their tops met, the immense slabs stopped, keeping all other rocks from sliding down. The gap looked very much like the mouth of a cave.

Ivan Semenovich looked around, and to his great consternation and dismay, he heard the battle cry of the priests. Apparently they had not been intimidated by the terrible explosions and falling rocks. It could only mean that the priests figured it was better to risk storming the ledge and to face all the hazards awaiting them there, both natural and supernatural, than to fall into the hands of the insurgents burning with vengeance. The explorers were virtually defenseless now — Artem had only one charge left; and there was no one to help them. By the time Ronis’s men got here, everything would be over… So, there was no option left but…

“My friends!” Ivan Semenovich shouted. “Follow me! Follow me!”

And he rushed to the gap — whatever awaited them there in the bowels of the mountain was better than the prospect of being seized by the bloodthirsty priests, seething with rage.

It seemed to Artem as he started to run that the great slabs flanking the gap were tottering. He stopped for a moment to get a better look. Yes, they were definitely sliding!

There was nothing else to do but hope they would not collapse for another minute, but, of course, they could give way under the immense weight of the other rocks pressing on them from above, any moment, either squashing the explorers or closing the gap.

“Quickly! Quickly! The rocks can fall in any moment!” Ivan Semenovich shouted.

But his friends hardly needed any urging. Dmitro Borisovich and Lida ran right behind the geologist, with Artem who carried the bag and a spear, bringing up the rear, Diana at his side. They raced as fast as their legs would carry them, jumping over big pieces of rock. Quickly!

A moment later they were inside the gap; they had disappeared into the darkness as though they had been swallowed up by it. They were not a moment too soon, as another party of priests had scrambled onto the ledge. Howling wildly and brandishing their weapons in a frenzy, they rushed after the strangers. But the latter had already made it through the gap into what turned out to be a cave. But which way should they go in this pitch-black darkness? The only source of light was the gap through which they had come in. And the enemy would be there in a few seconds! Ivan Semenovich was the first to stop as he ran smack into a stone wall, hurting his leg. It was impossible, quite impossible to move quickly in this utter darkness which seemed especially impenetrable after the light outside, subdued though it was. And the enemy would surely find some way of locating the explorers in the limited space of the cave!

Still out of breath after running, Ivan Semenovich said between gasps:

“Artem… give me… give me… the charges…”

“But 1 have only one left, Ivan Semenovich!”

“All right… give it to me… And all of you… move on… further away from the gap… I’ll stay behind for a while.”

“But…” Artem began to object, but was silenced by the angry and peremptory voice of the geologist who snapped: “Move on, I tell you! None of your lip! Move on!”

He snatched the charge from Artem’s hands, turned, and ran back toward the gap through which the voices of their pursuers could be already heard. Ivan Semenovich stopped, lit a match and put it to the fuse. As it began to smoke, the geologist looked back, but his friends were not to be seen in the blackness of the cave. Then, with a wide sweep of his arm, lie cast the charge into the gap. He followed it with his eyes as it flew — a little black thing with a tiny dot of fire at its end, then he turned and ran to catch up with his friends.

A few moments later the blast wave hit him in the back, almost knocking him down. He ran on under the impetus, stumbling against stones, and at last he tripped on a rock and fell.

The continuous thunder of crashing rocks filled the cave. The light that filtered through the gap, disappeared as the two gigantic stone slabs fell in the swirling billows of black smoke and dust; the gap was completely sealed with rocks falling from above, now that the slabs holding them back and supporting them were gone. A huge pile of stones grew at the place where only a short while ago, there had been a gaping crack.

The cave the explorers had found themselves in, was securely cut off the Scythian world. There was no more danger of being attacked by the priests. The deafening noise of the falling rocks subsided; only the reverberating echo could still be heard dying away, and an occasional stone clacking as it rolled down.

Soon everything grew absolutely still; not a sound could be heard from the outside either. An impenetrable darkness enveloped Ivan Semenovich.

He scrambled to his feet, wiped the sweat from his brow, and heaved a sigh of relief. But which way was he to go to join his friends?

It was quite futile to try to see anything in the darkness — he could not see his hand in front of his face. Where were his friends? Hopefully they were not hurt in the explosion or in the subsequent avalanche of rocks and stones.

Suddenly a bright white flame sprung up somewhere in the distance. It must be a miner’s lamp! Ivan Semenovich remembered Artem boasting he had managed to preserve one lamp through all their tribulations. So, if he still had it in the bag Ivan Semenovich had seen him running with, he must have lit it, good boy!

The light made it possible to see some of the surrounding rocks. Even the first look revealed they were not just the usual jagged pieces of stone — they were conical-shaped stalagmites rising from the floor of the cave. And yes, some gigantic stalactites could be discerned hanging from above! Another stalactite cavern? Or was it, by any chance, the same one they had come through before their fantastic adventures had begun?

Ivan Semenovich gazed about, but it was impossible to tell whether it was the same cave. In any case, it was a gigantic cavern, too, judging by what he could see in the feeble light. Great boulders and pieces of rock were piled at the place where the gap had been.

“Ivan Semenovich!” he heard Artem calling him. “Ivan Semenovich! Do you hear me? Are you all right? Where are you? Answer me!”

“I’m here! I can hear you, and I can see the light too,” he called back. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll join you in a minute.”

And the geologist smiled in the darkness, his first full smile of relief in a long time, and began walking towards the light of the lamp, climbing over rocks, going around the stalagmites; they were exactly like the ones they had seen in the other cave.

Diana almost swept him off his feet as she shot out from the darkness, jumping at him and licking his face.

“All right, all right, enough of that,” he said disentangling himself from the dog.

As the geologist came closer he saw Artem holding the lamp high in the air: it was tied to the spear — that was why the light reached so far. Now Artem lowered it as there was no need to light the way for the geologist.

Dmitro Borisovich looked very picturesque indeed! With a Scythian helmet on, he was holding his battle-axe in the hands. Good, no one was hurt, everybody was here. But why did they look so despondent, except, of course, for the ever- cheerful Diana?

“What’s wrong, my friends?” the geologist said. “Aren’t you happy we have escaped? We’ve left all the dangers behind — now the priests won’t be able to do us any harm, even with their arrows!”

His attempt at a joke did not make any impression on his friends. They looked as dejected as before.

“All right, what’s the matter?” he said rather sharply. “What has come over you? We have escaped certain death; you should be mad with joy! But you look as though… Dmitro Borisovich, tell me, what’s the matter?”

The archeologist shrugged his shoulders:

“Yes, we’ve escaped from the priests, that’s true. But what are we going to do next, Ivan Semenovich?”

“What do you mean, what are we going to do next?”

“Well, aren’t we sort of sealed off in some cave?” Artem cut in. “We don’t know where to go… if there is anywhere to go.”

“I don’t follow you, Artem,” Ivan Semenovich said with genuine surprise. “We’ve been extraordinarily lucky so far! We had just enough dynamite to delay the attack and then open and close a gap in the crags. We even have a lamp, a thing which none of us thought of carrying around, except you, Artem. If one considers what we’ve been through, it’s almost a miracle! And you whine and say ‘sealed off,’ ‘nowhere to go’! We have not even started looking for the way out!”

Dmitro Borisovich said hesitantly, glancing inquiringly at the geologist:

“Yes… to look for the way out… But which direction are we to choose? It’s impossible to decide which way to go. We don’t know anything about this cavern. So where do we go from here? We can go right or left, this way or that way with the same little chance of hitting on the egress… Or rather with no chance, if you want.”

Quite unexpectedly Ivan Semenovich burst out laughing, his laughter reverberating among the stalagmites.

“My good friends, I don’t recognize you! Is it really you? What’s come over you?” he said after his laughter subsided. “Lida, are you also part of this dejected company? Now, try to remember what we talked about more than once during that tedious funeral journey?”

Lida looked at the man with uncertainty: there were so many subjects they had touched upon!

“Too bad, too bad!” he said with a mock reproach. “And I thought it had made a profound impression on you then. Ah, well, never mind. You’ll soon see what I mean. Now, cheer up! It’s a shame to sulk after we’ve had such a narrow escape! We’re on our way home, and you look so dismayed! We’re as good as back on the surface, in our world…”

“I think it’d be more correct to say that we’re still very much under the surface, in an unexplored cavern,” Dmitro Borisovich said gloomily.

“All right,” the geologist said with a smile. “If you can’t figure out why I’m sure we’ll soon be on our way home, I’ll explain it. Sit down and listen.”

He was the first to sit down on a boulder; then he pulled out his notebook that had only a few pages left.

“You see, my book worked so hard it lost a lot of weight,” he said making another attempt at a joke. “Lida maintained such a lively correspondence with Artem… But there’re still some pages left. It’ll be enough.”

He opened the notebook to a page with a technical drawing that looked like a diagram. His friends stood around him, craning their necks to see it.

“Look at this… Still, I’m surprised at the change in you, Artem! With such an excellent mind as yours — and to miss such an obvious thing! Didn’t I teach to keep your sense of direction, in any situation? All right, tell me, did you notice the direction the Scythians took at the start of their funeral journey?”

“They headed west,” Artem readily replied.

“Did they keep going west?”

“No, they didn’t. They ended up heading north.”

“Good. So you did notice the change of direction, didn’t you? I’m glad. But why didn’t you draw the necessary conclusions from it? Try to do so now.”

Artem’s mind was set working feverishly while his eyes were riveted on the plan before him. What was the catch? But it was Lida who was the first with the answer:

“I remember! You talked about the procession moving in a curve along the cliffs!”

“That’s correct, Lida. But which necessary conclusions do we have to draw from this?”

Now Lida fell to thinking. What conclusions, really?

“Yes, the procession kept moving along the cliffs,” the geologist said. “Good. But it swerved to the right as it moved, changing direction from west to north and then slowly to east, and finally south. That’s what I have here in my plan. Look.”

The line, tracing schematically the progress of the procession, made almost a complete circle on the paper.

“You noticed the change of direction, Artem, but the most important thing you seem to have missed: the procession eventually turned south,” Ivan Semenovich said. “You haven’t guessed what I’m driving at yet, Artem? Think harder!”

Then, in a flash, everything became clear to Artem, and the strange drawing revealed its meaning. Of course! The procession had made almost a complete circle and arrived at…

“Ivan Semenovich!” he cried out. “Ivan Semenovich! I know! It’s so simple I’m ashamed of myself for not guessing earlier!”

“And?”

“We made a circle, moving along the walls of this underground world and came back to where we had started! So it must be the same cave where we were nearly killed by that gas! Damn it, I should have guessed myself! I noticed the direction in which the procession was moving change soon after it had started! Dmitro Borisovich, don’t you remember, we talked about it? We tried to figure out what it would mean for us? Do you remember that?”

Dmitro Borisovich after some hesitation said, nodding his head:

“Yes, I remember some talk about the change in direction; yes, we did talk about that. But I don’t remember us arriving at any conclusions, Artem. No, I positively don’t.”

“But isn’t what I said now correct? Isn’t it, Ivan Semenovich?” Artem said passionately.

“Absolutely,” the geologist said. “We have come back to our stalactite cave, though, of course, not at the same place we entered the Scythian world, but a little further to the north. I would estimate that we would have about a mile to go before we get to the section of the cave with which we are familiar. Of course, my calculations are valid only if my compass is in order. I have relied on it all the time though, but just in case, let’s check it. Artem, do you still have your compass?”

Artem quickly produced it — the hands of both were in identical positions.

“Aha, that means everything’s all right,” Ivan Semenovich said with conviction. “Let’s get started, my friends! We don’t have much time — don’t forget it’s vital for us to have some light, and there can’t be too much fuel left in the lamp. It must last until we get to the place where we left our other three lamps. We must try to find them.”

They were about to start when Artem said:

“Wait, Ivan Semenovich, what about that gas? It almost killed us then!”

Ivan Semenovich dismissed the objection with a wave of his hand:

“Don’t worry, my friend. If it is still there, we’ll be able to detect it long before we plunge into it. But I’m sure it has either dissipated or decomposed. Anyway, we’ll see. Now, let’s go, my friends, and be quick about it!”

They moved among the stalagmites, constantly checking their direction with the compass. Ivan Semenovich was at the head of the party, Artem following right behind, trying to keep up the pace set by the geologist.

Artem ran the explanations through his mind again and again.

The enormous underground cavity where the Scythians lived and upon which the explorers had inadvertently stumbled, had its limits, stupendously big though it was. It was circular at ground level, and the funeral procession had just gone around it, arriving not far from where it had started! Very luckily for the explorers, the sight of the burial turned out to be close to their stalactite cave! It looked so simple now, and yet was incredible.

Compared with the cave of the Scythian world, the stalactite cave was tiny, but in its turn, it was gigantic by any human standards. It was vitally important now for the explorers to move in the proper direction which would take them to the place from where all their incredible adventures had begun. The loss of direction was fraught with… But no — Artem had joined Ivan Semenovich on many occasions for underground explorations and not once had the geologist’s keen, experienced eyes and sense of direction let them down. There was another thing, enigmatic as much as that they had encountered recently, which was on Artem’s mind now. Maybe Ivan Semenovich had found the answer to it during the long days of captivity and just hadn’t had time to tell him about it…

“Ivan Semenovich,” Artem said in a low voice, “I’ve got a question for you.”

“What kind of question?” the geologist asked, turning his head but not stopping.

“That gas. Where did it come from? It did not come from the Scythian world, did it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Where did it come from then?”

“Without making a chemical analysis of the gas, it’s impossible to say anything for sure, but I would venture a guess that what happened was this: in a rather small cavity, separated both from the stalactite cave and the immense Scythian underground world, some unknown gas was formed due to chemical or even organic processes.”

“It was a poisonous gas, too,” Artem remarked.

“No, I don’t think it was, my friend. Had it been poisonous, we would have been… errr… effected in a very different manner. No, it was not poisonous, Artem. I would reckon it was a heavy, neutral gas with no oxygen in it, and possibly with an admixture of some substance with a narcotic effect which knocked us out for some time. So it had all the properties of an asphyxiating gas. This.gas was trapped in the cavity where it had been forming for centuries until we came along and released it by blowing a hole in the massive rocks. As it escaped…”

“It escaped and nearly killed us,” Dmitro Borisovich said emphatically, cutting into the geologist’s explanations, which he had been following keenly for some time as he walked.

“Yes, it was a rather unpleasant encounter,” Ivan Semenovich agreed. Before he continued, he checked the direction with his compass. “But most important is that our most trying adventures are over.”

“If we don’t walk into that gas again,” Dmitro Borisovich said with the same emphasis, and even rather sullenly this time.

“Oh, how horrible that would be!” the geologist said mockingly. “You’re in a very pessimistic mood today. But I can guarantee that we won’t find any traces of that gas.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because such gases are very unstable and easily decompose, mixing with the air!”

They walked for some time in silence. The going was easy — there were no major obstacles in their way. Skirting a stalagmite, Dmitro Borisovich thought that now all of their miraculous, fantastic adventures seemed to have been no more than a dream. But the Scythian helmet on his head was very real! And the long-handled battle-axe in his hands was very real, too!

And the life of the nomadic Scythian tribe? Wasn’t that much too real? And it was good to know there was a chance of being able to return some time in the future to this strange underground world of the Scythians, ancient but still very much alive! To study their life thoroughly!

Fantastic! Incredible! The discovery that he and his friends had made — albeit involuntarily — would open a new era in archeology! He thought of the reaction of the scientific world to his sensational report: some would be enthusiastic, others skeptical, still others — derisive. He would challenge the skeptics to go down underground to the subterranean realm of the living Scythians and see for themselves! A reality that could be more fantastic than the wildest flights of imagination!

The archeologist’s head began spinning: what tremendous vistas of research would be opened! He couldn’t keep silent any longer, he was bursting with enthusiasm:

“Ivan Semenovich, my dear friend, just think! We’ll be able to return to the Scythians again with a well-equipped archeological expedition! We’ll come to them as friends…”

He stopped abruptly as the pale face of the dead Varkan appeared before his mind’s eye.

“Friends…” Artem repeated as though in an echo. “Yes, let’s hope our friends will have won by that time… but we shall not find our poor Varkan among them…”

Artem heaved a sigh. Wonderful Varkan who had sacrificed his life for his blood brother! Artem would never see him again; never again would he shake the strong hand of this open and courageous man.

Suddenly, Ivan Semenovich shouted loudly:

“Aha, there it is, the place where we encountered the gas!”

The geologist was not mistaken: it was the very place — the familiar crack in the wall; the familiar group of stalagmites. There was not a trace of the noxious gas; the crack was so inviting!

“Oh, there’s one of our lamps sitting right where we left it, and two more over there! Everything’s the same as it was. And no gas. We scrambled outside into the Scythian world through here! Now it’s blocked and sealed by these huge rocks. Remember, they began falling soon after we got through. Difficult to believe that all our adventures started from this very spot.”

Then a short silence fell as everyone looked around in the dying light of Artem’s lamp. Artem checked the fuel and found that there was very little left. Before the light went out altogether Artem climbed onto the stalagmites to retrieve the lamps left there shortly before their egress into the Scythian world. Luckily, all three lamps still had fuel in them as they had been turned out before the explorers had rushed through the opening… It seemed such a long time ago…

Ivan Semenovich was the first to speak again:

“Well, my friends, isn’t it high time to start our way home? What do you think? I reckon we can postpone a more thorough exploration until we come here better equipped. Haven’t we had enough of adventures?”

Artem cast a glance at the geologist and it seemed to him there was some irony lurking in his squinting eyes. Why this smile? Had he remembered something that had yet to be done? But what?

He looked around again, taking in the stalagmites, the wall, the gaping crack…

“Wait!” Artem cried out suddenly. “Wait! There’s one thing we haven’t done yet! We can’t go home yet!”

Dmitro Borisovich stared at him in amazement; Lida also looked at him in some annoyance: what was the restless Artem up to now? Ivan Semenovich alone turned to the young man as though he had expected this outburst.

“We’re not through with this cave yet, my friends!” Artem said impulsively. “You seem to have forgotten the aim of our underground expedition in the first place! Have you forgotten the parchment and what it said? Have you forgotten about Pronis and the story his descendant Ronis told us about him?”

Ivan Semenovich burst into laughter which he had been trying to suppress for some time.

“I have not forgotten,” he said. “But it seems to me that Dmitro Borisovich and Lida have indeed forgotten what it was we came down here to look for. And our Artem was ready to rush back home too!”

“No, I wasn’t! Honest! I… was just thinking of something else at the moment,” Artem said in his defense. “Besides it doesn’t really matter now, Ivan Semenovich! We absolutely must explore it to the end! And to do so, we only have to go through this crack! I’m sure it can’t be far! Let’s go, Ivan Semenovich!”

“Now, if you remember what Pronis’s testament said you would agree that here it does look like the last passage indicated in the plan. We even started digging to get through the rockfall, remember? Shall we go ahead and do some more exploring?” the geologist asked, addressing Lida and the archeologist.

As a matter of fact, the question did not need to be asked, as it was much too tempting to see where this new corridor would lead. Meanwhile, Artem had climbed into the wide crack as he was eager to be the first one in.

“All right, let’s go,” Ivan Semenovich gave the command.

One could easily walk upright through the passage. As he cautiously made his way in, he examined the walls in the light of his lamp. Suddenly he shouted triumphantly:

“See? See? It’s exactly what Pronis’s testament said we would find here!”

He pointed to the picture of a head carved into the rock. It was the head of a Scythian, the fifth head mentioned by the parchment that had been found in the bronze chest! Deep grooves outlined a helmeted Scythian head, gazing at something in the distance.

This newly discovered face differed from the ones the explorers had seen earlier on the walls of the underground passages on their way to the cave. Their severity had a forbidding, even terrifying aspect. But the present visage had a much milder expression and bore a strong resemblance to someone they had seen in the flesh.

Lida was the first to speak, her voice trembling with emotion:

“Oh, doesn’t the head resemble our poor friend Varkan!”

For some time everybody contemplated the picture that seemed to stand out from the wall in bold relief. The features of the face definitely resembled those of Varkan. Everyone was overcome by a fresh wave of memories. But Ivan Semenovich took them out of their reverie:

“Sorry, but we don’t have much time! Don’t forget there’s not much fuel left in our lamps, and without light we won’t be able to get out of here. We’ll come back soon, and we’ll surely visit the place where… we parted for ever. Let’s move on, my friends!”

A few steps further, the passage forked. Discovering a small representation of a wild boar on the wall, Artem knew where to turn. He remembered well the instructions of the parchment. The explorers moved on without examining the carving.

A few more steps through the passage, which had narrowed, and the light from Artem’s lamp revealed a fantastic sight. Artem stopped dead in his tracks, jerked the lamp higher. The rest stopped behind him, dumbfounded.

The narrow passage widened abruptly to form a cavern whose floor was covered with a layer of what looked like pebble-sized stones, shimmering a dull yellow in the light of the lamps. The same glitter shone from spots in the walls of the cavern which resembled an oddly-shaped room. The remains of an ancient bronze spade could be seen among the glittering stones.

Ivan Semenovich made a step forward, picked up one of the stones and examined it closely. Then he looked at his friends and said in an awed voice, pronouncing each word very clearly, distinctly, and slowly as though emphasizing by this the great importance of each word.

“These are gold nuggets, my friends. And this must be the gold deposit once discovered by Pronis! The deposit the Scythians could not get to!”

“The great treasure his descendant Ronis told us about!” Artem cried out impulsively.

The geologist ran his eyes around the cavern, its floor, walls and ceiling.

“It’s so great a treasure I wouldn’t dare to even estimate its value,” he said at last, his voice revealing how stunned he was by the discovery. “There must have been an immensely, unimaginably rich vein of gold running through this place. Sometime in the distant past, part of it must have crumbled and fallen down here in a shower of gold nuggets! It’s… it’s unbelievable! Expedition upon expedition will soon be coming here! Not only for the gold of course! We have made some mind-boggling discoveries: this unheard of subterranean cavity the presence of which no one could suspect, the Scythians living deep in the earth, and all the other enigmatic phenomena we have encountered… all of it is worth studying thoroughly. And it’s not a matter of archeology only, Dmitro Borisovich! The mass of puzzles we have come across can be cracked only by joint effort. The whole thing is a great scientific problem in itself! Besides, economically… such a tremendous amount of gold in one little place… Our country will benefit greatly from this discovery, my friends!”

“So, this is the treasure Pronis wrote about…” Dmitro Borisovich said in a low voice, more to himself than to anybody else.

“The treasure that has been waiting for centuries to be discovered,” Lida said.

Ivan Semenovich cast a last glance at the gold nuggets scattered on the floor of the cavern.

“Now, let’s get started, my friends,” he said with a sigh. “We are much too tired after all we’ve had to go through. We have to get back to the surface, and it’s still a long way, mind you, and uphill too! We’ll take a short rest and then come back here. Besides we have to inform the scientific world and the authorities of our discoveries. Artem, my friend, put a couple of these nuggets into your bag as samples and material evidence so we won’t think it was all a dream when we get back to the surface… nothing but a fantastic dream…” the geologist said, overcome with emotion.

They turned and began to walk back to their great stalactite cave, past the pictures of the boar and the Scythian head. Artem lagged behind, letting his friends go ahead to have one more look at the face. It did indeed resemble his blood brother!

“Varkan, Varkan!” he whispered mournfully.

Artem, his eyes half-closed, summoned up memories of recent events: the camp fire in the forest… he and Dmitro Borisovich listening to the conversation of Ronis and Varkan, their heated arguments, their plans… the reflections from the fire playing on the energetic face of the Scythian… Ronis leaving… Varkan sitting with them by the fire… the silent forest… heavy, massive clouds moving across the low underground sky… the quiet, friendly voice of the bold Varkan.

“Artem! What’s holding you up? Come on!” Ivan Semenovich called out to him from a distance.

“My dear Artem, where are you?” This time it was Lida’s voice, so gentle and soothing that was a pleasure to hear.

Artem roused himself from his reveries.

“I’m here, I’m here! I’ll be with you in a minute!” he shouted back.

Artem turned and began to walk briskly toward his friends; the light from his lamp danced on the rocks, stalactites and stalagmites, creating phantasmagoric pictures on their uneven surfaces.

THE END