Читать книгу The Science-Fantasy Megapack - E. C. Tubb - Страница 7

THE WARLORD OF KUL SATU, by Brian Ball

Archaeologists can forget that the past is still with us. Its ghosts still linger. We forgot at Kul Satu.

The Warlord had been buried after the manner of the Scythian kings who were also battle-leaders. His horses had been pole-axed and placed around the central circular tomb. Fourteen men and eight women, one of them his queen or chief concubine, had contributed their deaths to his monument. Most had been strangled, a few poisoned. Food and weapons, cauldrons and armor, had been supplied on a lavish scale. The Warlord could ride with a full retinue through the eternal plains.

Al, my fiancé, saw him first.

“This is one big-time operator!” he called.

We were delighted. Finding a Scythian Warlord so far West meant that we knew the extent of the warrior-herdsmen’s penetration of Europe. Did I feel a chill of apprehension when I looked into the juniper coffin? Or was it that a chill wind had sprung up across the Hungarian plain? I remember feeling proud of Al.

It was one of the workmen the Hungarian government had supplied who made me feel a little uneasy.

“Grave-robbers!” he muttered.

The locals had never dared go near the Warlord’s grave. Even after twenty-five centuries, his grim reputation had survived. It was a place of evil spirits, we were assured. The workman made the sign of the cross and edged away. Al was peeved by his remark.

I was a little annoyed too. We had never thought of ourselves as robbers. The Hungarians had been glad to give us permits to excavate the mound at Kul Satu. We were financially independent, we were reputable archaeologists, and they knew we wouldn’t steal the gold and silver from the tomb. How could we be robbers?

I looked at the mummified corpse. The Warlord had been a big man by Scythian standards. He was heavy-boned, and he had been well-fleshed. I could distinguish his features even after the passing of over two thousand years.

“He was some guy!” Al exulted. I thought he looked cruel and I said so.

“You know the Scythians, honey! They ate babies for breakfast!”

Sometimes I wish Al would not make macabre jokes. But he was right about the Scythians. Not that they ate babies, of course. War was their way of life, war and all its grisly rituals. They took their young women into battle with them. The Warlord’s chief woman had gone to her grave with a beautifully-made sword in her hands. Al’s remark troubled me. So did the Warlord’s menacing features. I think it was then that I first sensed the brooding spirit of that barbaric splendidly-costumed and bejeweled warrior-king.

That night I dreamt of the gold-hilted sword, the electrum amulets, the bracelets and the magnificent silver bowls. I awoke shivering, with the pale moonlight dusting the nylon of the tent. I did not want to dream of the Scythians, but sleep took me once more and I saw the horses sweeping over the huge Hungarian steppes as they had done those long centuries ago. The ghosts of the mound at Kul Satu were stirring. I began to understand that the past is still with us.

It was the first time I had felt fear—actual and acute fear—on a dig. I awoke once more, this time hot and sweaty. Some impulse made me put on a gown and walk, through the silent camp towards the mound we had opened up. The plastic sheets covering the tomb flapped in the slight wind. Even though I was filled with an overwhelming sense of dread, I was impelled to look at that cruel long-dead face.

The Warlord’s presence seemed to hover about the night like some unseen but powerful miasma. In the cold moonlight, I felt the anguish of the strangled and the griping terrors of the poisoned. Blood and dread filled the night. I ran, whimpering.

Why I did not go to Al for comfort and reassurance I shall never understand. Perhaps I thought he would consider me foolish. I was. All I can say is that a scientist isn’t supposed to be afraid of his field of research. I was a fool. I told Al nothing.

We worked hard for the next few days photographing, classifying, packing, exploring, cataloging. It should have been pleasant and rewarding work, but I was too tired to share Al’s enthusiasm. Each night I dreamt of the terrible Scythians. There was always violence and, somewhere hovering just outside the edges of the dreams, the grim spirit of the Warlord of Kul Satu. I think more of the work force was affected by that brooding presence, but they were being well paid and said nothing. The workman who had called us robbers occasionally glared at Al or me, but he too kept his opinions to himself. Work was scarce in that part of Hungary.

My dreams were clearer now. The horses were strong, short-necked beasts. It did not seem strange that I should be riding with the men. Armed and armored, we flew over the vast green plain like some storm from the East. And the Warlord was somewhere close, very close.

I was desperately afraid now of the terrible presence. I knew that his ghost was abroad, that our disturbance of his tomb had given some kind of unholy sense of outrage to his terrible spirit. I was too young, too much in love to risk my fiancé’s peace of mind; I think too that I was afraid of his macabre jokes. The thought of Al’s laughter would be too much. What a fool I was!

The fifth night after we had opened the juniper coffin, I saw the Warlord’s face. Flat, Mongol, slant-eyed, ferocious, it was the living counterpart of that withered face in the gold-decked cloak. His eyes were wild, his mouth a bitter line. We wheeled our horses to hear him. Commands flowed.

The reason for our wild, surging charge across the steppes became clear. Softer, richer, more civilized peoples held the Hungarian plains. They had rich soil, cattle, docile children and gold. Land, wealth, cows and slaves were the prize. In that dreadful dream I saw the Warlord look at me with contempt. The insults rang in my ears the whole of the night and the next day.

I trembled as I helped Al with the last of the packing away. As we handled the still-sharp swords and the exquisitely-chased cauldrons I heard the warlord’s taunting voice. How had I offended that terrible man! Why had I to endure his bitter denunciations! How was it that he could reach out across the long centuries and send his terrible spectre into my dreams!

Al noticed my tiredness. I allowed him to send me to bed early when all I wanted was to remain conscious. Would it have changed matters if I had confided in him?

I think not.

The warlord of Kul Satu had eaten into my soul. When I slept, I dreamt, and when I dreamt I was his. I fought sleep, of course, but it came. With it came the thundering charge, the screams of dying men and the wild, exulted bellowing of the Scythians.

The Warlord glared red-eyed at me. He pointed to the gold-hilted sword in my hand, a woman’s weapon, slim and deadly. I was deeply ashamed. No Scythian woman could marry until she had killed a man, I wept. He pointed again, this time to a whimpering peasant who was trying to outrun our superb mounts. The man looked round, too exhausted to scream. He fell at my horse’s feet.

The Warlord bawled a command. I dismounted. The dread, the blood, the fury, filled my whole being. And all the time, the Warlord watched, his flat face alight with malice and triumph. I struck. I turned and saw that the Warlord’s face had withered and dried; but his eyes were filled with grim delight.

That night I slept deeply.

I heard the shouting as if through a fog. Al’s voice was raised, but others were yelling louder. I remembered my dream and shuddered, but I saw the red light of dawn and felt the night’s terror ebbing away. I knew I was free of the Warlord. We were to leave Kul Satu that day. I wondered what the hubbub was about. Pay? Or a new find!

Al called to me. I was to dress at once. Puzzled, but not yet alarmed, I pushed the sheet back. It was then that my eyes fell on the widespread red-rust blotches. I refused to ask myself their cause. I looked at my right hand. Blood had congealed on the hand and wrist. Al called once more, this time sharply.

I washed quickly. Something made me thrust the sheets into a specimen bag.

The workman who had been afraid lay transfixed by the slim, gold-hilted sword. He lay at the feet of the Warlord. My tears and shrieks were acceptable as feminine weakness. I don’t think anyone connected me with the death, not at the time. The police were anxious to keep publicity at a minimal level. Perhaps the man was trying to steal, they suggested. A slip in the dark, an unlucky fall.… I made no comment.

I buried the sheets. Perhaps Al saw me, I don’t know. He made no more jokes. I believe he married a girl from Maine.

What I do know is that the Warlord called more than one to his tomb, for the face of the dead workman was the face of the exhausted peasant. He had reason to fear the grim spirit of the Warlord of Kul Satu.

And so had I.