Bridge of the Separator

On toward the house where Himerios had lived, the house where Ingegerd still dwelt. Sometimes he forced his way through the snow, sometimes he used the shovel to clear a path for himself. By now, people all through Skopentzana were crying that the Khamorth were loose in the city. So far, though, Rhavas had seen none of the barbarians.

The prelate rounded a corner and almost fell over a body lying in the snow. The corpse was very fresh. Only a little snow lay on it, and its blood still stained the snowdrift in which it lay. An arrow stuck up from the dead man's back. Hastily sketching the sun-sign, Rhavas hurried on.

More Videssians came out of their homes. Some shouted at others to get back inside. Others called for getting away however they could. Even in the midst of chaos, Videssians still argued with one another. A couple of them turned to Rhavas. "What do we do, very holy sir?" they called.

"Fight if you can," he answered. "If you can't, pray." That left them quarreling over which they ought to do. He might have known it would.

Finding his way was a nightmare. He knew Skopentzana well, but the snowstorm was enough to confuse anybody. The town's twisting streets were confusing enough when he could see farther than the end of his nose. Now . . . Now he went down two or three blind alleys and had to double back on his track.

As he was coming out of the mouth of an alleyway, people on the street into which it opened fled past him, crying, "The Khamorth! The barbarians!"

He looked in the direction from which they were running. Up the street after them came a plainsman on a pony: a burly, broad-shouldered man with a big nose and a bushy beard. The Khamorth wore furs and leather. He held a curved sword in his right hand. Intent on his prey, he paid no attention to the prelate—if he even realized Rhavas was there.

Rhavas swung the shovel—not at the barbarian, but at the pony forcing its way forward through the snow. The blade smashed into the horse's right foreleg. With a horrible scream of surprise and torment, the beast crumpled. Its rider also cried out in surprise. Rhavas hoped the horse would crush him under it, but he kicked free and scrambled to his feet. Somehow, he hung on to his sword.

He shouted again. This time, the cry had words in it, though Rhavas did not understand his guttural language. The Khamorth advanced on him past the thrashing pony. The barbarian was badly bowlegged, which might have been funny under less frightening circumstances. As things were, it just made his clumping, purposeful gait all the more menacing.

"Get back!" Rhavas shouted, hefting the shovel.

Plainly, the barbarian knew no more Videssian than Rhavas did of his language. Just as plainly, the Khamorth wouldn't have been inclined to listen even if he had understood. Rhavas set himself. He had more reach than the Khamorth, but a shovel was only a clumsy makeshift weapon, while a sword was made to let the life out of foes.

Fast as a striking snake, the Khamorth slashed at Rhavas. The prelate barely blocked the blow with the shovel's shaft. The nomad cut again. Again, Rhavas turned the stroke. He lashed out with the shovel, as much to keep the barbarian busy as for any other reason. The Khamorth tried to use the sword as Rhavas had used the wooden handle of the shovel. The edge of the shovel blade caught the sword squarely—and broke it, sending all the sword but a short stub and the hilt flying through the air.

The plainsman stared in horrified astonishment at what little he had left. He threw the stub at Rhavas' head. Rhavas ducked. The Khamorth turned to run. Rhavas pursued him. Neither of them could move very fast. When the Khamorth floundered into deeper snow and slowed even more, Rhavas swung the shovel again.

This time, the blade bit into the side of the plainsman's head. The barbarian wore no armor, only a fur cap. The shovel smashed in his skull as it would have smashed an earthenware wine jar. He crumpled; all the bones in his body might suddenly have turned to water. A harsh stink fouled the air—his bowels had let go. He twitched for a little while, then lay still. He would never get up again.

Rhavas stood over him, panting harshly. The prelate stooped. Yes, the Khamorth had a knife on his belt. Rhavas took it and walked back to the pony he had crippled. He stooped again. This time, he cut the suffering animal's throat. The steppe pony let out an amazingly human sigh as its life rivered out of it. The smell of blood—all hot iron—reminded Rhavas of the inside of a smithy.

He realized nothing good would happen to him if the barbarians found him standing near the bodies of one of their friends and his horse. He hurried away. He was lucky no other nomad had happened by.