Krispos Rising

arrows at him and his horse,' one of them said defensively. 'Some hit, too—the yells he let out had to be curses.'

'He got away,' Krispos repeated. It was the worst thing he could think of to say. No, not so; a moment later he found something worse yet: 'He'll bring the rest of the Kubratoi down on us.'

The celebration died very quickly after that.

The next five days passed in a blur of apprehension for Krispos. That was true of most of the villagers, but Krispos' dread had two causes. Like everyone else, he was sure the Kubratoi would exact a terrible revenge for the slaughter of their raiding party. But that, for him, was only secondary, for his father's wounded shoulder had gone bad.

Phostis, as was his way, tried to make light of the injury. But he could barely use his left arm and quickly came down with a fever. None of the poultices the village women applied to the wound did any good. Phostis had always been burly, but now, with shocking suddenness, the flesh seemed to melt from his bones.

Thus Krispos was almost relieved when, late that fifth afternoon, a lookout posted in a tall tree shouted, 'Horsemen!' Like the rest of the men, he dashed for his weapons—against Kubratoi, at least, he could hit back. And in the heat of fighting, he would have no time to worry about his father.

The lookout shouted again. 'Hundreds of horsemen!' His voice wobbled with fear. Women and children were already streaming into the forest, to hide as best they could. 'Hundreds and hundreds!' the lookout cried.

Some of the farmers threw down spears and bows and bolted with the women. Krispos grabbed at one who ran in front of him, but Idalkos shook his head. 'What's the use?' the veteran said. 'If they outnumber us that bad, a few more on our side won't matter much. We can't win; all we can do is hurt the bastards as bad as we're able.'

Krispos clutched his spear shaft so tight his knuckles whitened on it. Now he did not need the lookout to know the wild men were coming. He could hear the hooves of their horses, quiet now but growing louder with dreadful speed.

He set himself. Take one out with the spear, he thought, then drag another one off his horse and stab him. After that—if he still lived after that—he'd see what other damage he could do.

'Won't be long now, lads,' Idalkos said, calm as if the villagers were drawn up for parade. 'We'll yell 'Phos!' again, just like we did the first time, and pray for the good god to watch over us.'

'Phos!' That was not one of the farmers standing in ragged line in front of their houses. It was the lookout. He sounded so wild and shrill that Krispos wondered if he had lost his mind. Then the man said, 'They're not Kubratoi, they're Videssian troopers!'

For a moment, the villagers stared at one another, as if the lookout had shouted in a foreign tongue. Then they cheered louder than they had after they first beat the Kubratoi. Idalkos' voice rose above the rest. 'Stankos!' he said. 'Stankos brought us our soldiers back!'

'Stankos!' everyone shouted. 'Hurrah for Stankos!' 'Good old Stankos!'

Stankos, Krispos thought, was getting more praise jammed into a few minutes than he'd had in the past five years. Krispos shouted the farmer's name, too, over and over, till his throat turned raw. He had stared death in the face since the lookout called. Nothing could ever frighten him worse. Now he, also, knew what reprieve felt like.

Before long, the Videssian cavalrymen pounded into the village. Stankos was with them, riding a borrowed horse. Half a dozen farmers pulled him off the beast, as if he were a Kubrati. The pounding he got was almost as hard as if he had been.

Krispos quickly counted the troopers. As best he could tell, there were seventy-one of them. So much for the lookout's frightened hundreds and hundreds, he thought.

The horsemen's captain bemusedly watched the villagers caper about. 'You don't seem to have much need for us,' he remarked.

'No, sir.' Idalkos stiffened to attention. 'We thought we did, when we didn't know for sure how many Kubratoi were about. You gave us a bad turn there—our lookout mistook you for a band of the wild men.'

'By the bodies, I saw you'd dealt with the ones you found,' the captain said. 'Far as we know, that's the lot of mem. I'd say they were just out for a little thievery. There's no general invasion, or anything like that.'

A small band operating on its own, Krispos thought. The day he first picked up a sword, that was what Varades had told him the peasants might be able to handle. The veteran had known what he was talking about.

The Videssian captain turned to a priest beside him. 'Looks like we won't need you today, Gelasios, except maybe for a prayer of thanksgiving.'

'Nor am I sorry,' Gelasios answered. 'I can heal wounded men, aye, but I also think on the suffering they endure before I come to them, so I am just as well pleased not to ply my trade.'

'Sir!' Krispos said. He had to repeat himself before the priest looked his way. 'You're a healer, holy sir?'

'What of it, young man?' Gelasios said. 'Phos be praised, you seem hale enough.'

'Not me,' Krispos said impatiently. 'My father. This way.'

Without looking to see whether Gelasios followed, he hurried toward his house. When he threw open the door, a new smell came out with the usual odors of stale smoke and food, a sweetish, sickly smell that made his stomach want to turn over.

'Yes, I see,' Gelasios murmured at Krispos' elbow. The priest's nostrils flared wide, as if to gauge from the scent of corruption how great a challenge he faced. He went inside, stooping a little to get through the doorway. Now it was Krispos' turn to follow him.

Gelasios stooped beside Phostis, who lay near the edge of the straw bedding. Bright with fever, Phostis' eyes stared through the priest. Krispos bit his lip. In those sunken eyes, in the way his father's skin clung tight to bones beneath it, he saw the outline of coming death.