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He wished for his helm and his cape of scarlet skins to let him cut an
impressive figure. His traveling clothes were muddy, wet, and drab to begin
with; he surveyed himself with distaste. "Sure and it's a proper cowflop I
look," he said mournfully. He cursed Varatesh anew. The outlaw, a scrupulous
thief, had stolen only the Gaul and his sword.
At that thought he yelled laughter; his lively spirits could not hold gloom
for long. He leaped down from his horse, pulled his ragged tunic over his
head, and scrambled out of baggy trousers. He threw them on his pony's back.
Naked, blade in hand, he waited for the plainsmen.
"Now they'll have somewhat to think on," he said, still grinning widely. The
breeze ran light fingers over his skin. He felt no strangeness, readying
himself to fight bare. For as long as the bards recalled, there had been Celts
who went naked into battle, wanting no more armor than their fighting rage. He
roared out a challenge and strode toward the nomads.
The grin turned sour on his face as he saw the arrows nocked in their
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double-curved bows, but he was not shot out of hand. The Khamorth gaped at
him what sort of crazy man was this pale, copper-haired giant? They talked
back and forth in their own language. One pointed at Viridovix' crotch and
said something that was probably rude; they all laughed. Curiosity would not
keep this pack at bay long; already the arrows were beginning to bear on him.
He took another long step forward; the plainsmen raised their bows menacingly.
"Is it that any o' you lumping buggersis after having the Videssian?" he
shouted, his whole stance a defial.
As it happened, none of them spoke the imperial tongue. But their colloquy
after the question let him pick out their leader, a lean, hard-faced barbarian
whose curly beard tumbled halfway down his chest. "You!" the Celt shouted, and
pointed at the Khamorth with his sword.
The nomad gave back a stony glare. "Aye, you, you sheep-futtering spalpeen!"
Viridovix said, repeating the insult in his vile Khamorth. As the plainsman
slowly reddened, the Gaul gestured, daring him to come out face to face in
single combat.
He knew the risk he ran. If the Khamorth was secure in his dominance over his
comrades, he would just order them to kill the Celt and then ride on,
unruffled. But if not... The plainsmen were watching their chief very closely.
Silence stretched.
The nomad snarled something; he was angry, not afraid. He reminded Viridovix
of a stoat as he slipped off his pony his motions had a fluid, quick
purposefulness that warned the Celt at once he would be no easy meat. The
nomad's shamshir slid from its leather sheath, down which writhed polychrome
beasts of prey in the contorted Khamorth style. He sidled forward, taking the
Gaul's measure as he advanced.
Curved sword met straight one, and at the first pass Viridovix gave back a
pace. Quick as a ferret indeed, he though! He parried a cut at his upper
thigh, then threw his arm back to avoid another. Smiling now, enjoying the
game, the plainsman bored in to finish him, only to be brought up short by the
Celt's straight-armed thrust not for nothing had Viridovix spent years with
the Romans. But his sword, unlike Scaurus had no sharp stabbing point, and the
nomad's shirt of thiel sueded leather kept it from his vitals. The Khamorth
grunted and stepped back himself.
Each having surprised the other, they fenced warily fortime, both looking for
some flaw to use to advantage. Viridovix hissed as the very point of his foe's
blade drew a thin line across his chest, then growled in disgust at his own
clumsiness when he was pinked again, this time on the left arm. His ancestors,
he decided, were great fools fighting naked there was just too much to guard.
The nomad was unmarked.
Viridovix was stronger than the Khamorth and had a longer reach, but in the
long run speed would likely count for more.
"Well, then, we maun be keepin' it brief," he said to himself and leaped at
the plainsman, raining blows from all directions, trying to overwhelm him by
sheer dint of muscle. His opponent danced away, but his boot heel skidded in
the trampled mud, and he had to block desperately as Viridovix' blade came
slashing down. He turned the stroke, but his own sword went flying, to land
point down in the muck.
"Ahh," said the Khamorth from their horses.
With their leader at his mercy, as he thought, Viridovix had no intention of
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