Kitobni o'qish: «Volume 3. Bronze and Blood»

Chapter 1. New Horizons

Two more years passed. Two years of peace, labor, and growth. The tribe of the "Grey Lynxes" could no longer easily be called a tribe — rather, it was a small people. One hundred and eighty people — men, women, children — lived in a fortified settlement surrounded by a high palisade, beyond which fields were green, herds grazed, fish and meat were smoked in special smokehouses.

Miron and Arsen stood on the hill from which, four years ago, they had first seen this place. Then there had been only shelters and frightened people in hides. Now — wooden houses with gabled roofs covered with turf, granaries for grain, pens for livestock, workshops. In the center rose a large communal house where they gathered for council, celebrations, and study.

"Hard to believe," Miron said, surveying the settlement. "We built this."

"Not we," Arsen corrected. "They built it. We only helped."

"Modest."

"Stating a fact."

Below, at the gates, a group of horsemen appeared. About ten men — on horses, with bows behind their backs, in leather armor. These were the nomads with whom they had concluded an alliance three years ago. Now they often came — to trade, exchange news, just to visit.

"Argamak has come," Arsen noted, peering closely. "I see his white horse."

Argamak was the chief of one of the nomadic tribes with whom the "Grey Lynxes" had the warmest relations. He often said that his people and the people of the "Grey Lynxes" were like two wings of one bird. One was strong in the steppe, the other in the forest; together no one was a threat to them.

"Let's go meet him," Miron said.

They descended from the hill and reached the gates just as the horsemen were dismounting. Argamak — a broad-shouldered man of about forty with long black hair braided into plaits — opened his arms wide.

"Or-Var! Ir-Tan!" he shouted, beaming. "Glad to see the brothers!"

"And we're glad," Arsen replied, embracing him. "What brings you here?"

"With good things. And with bad news," Argamak's face darkened. "But first — a feast. The road was long."

In the evening everyone gathered around the big campfire. They roasted a ram — the nomads had brought several carcasses with them — drank mead, sang songs. Argamak told of steppe news: where the herds grazed, which tribes roamed nearby, who had had children.

But Miron and Arsen sensed he was holding something back. When it got dark and most had gone home, the three of them remained by the fire.

"Speak," Arsen said. "What's the bad news?"

Argamak frowned and stirred the coals with a stick.

"People are coming from the east," he began. "Many people. They have bronze swords and axes — yellow metal, but harder than stone. They ride horses, but not like ours — their horses are taller, faster. They burn everything in their path. Three tribes have already been destroyed."

Miron exchanged glances with his brother. Bronze. These were the very "Bronze People" they had heard about several years ago. So they were advancing westward.

"How many of them?" Arsen asked.

"A thousand, maybe more. I didn't count. But many. Very many. They're like locusts — wherever they pass, nothing remains."

"How much time do we have?"

"By rumor — six months. But our scouts noticed they're moving faster than we thought. If they continue like this — they could be here in two months, maybe sooner."

The time was short. But it was possible to prepare.

"We must gather the union," Miron said. "All the tribes that don't want to perish."

"I've already spoken with the neighbors," Argamak nodded. "Many agree. They're afraid. But they won't decide without you. You are wise, you have weapons, you have a fortress. If you become the center — we'll unite."

Arsen fell to thinking. The center of the union — that was a responsibility. It meant that the main burden of the war would fall on them. But also a chance to survive.

"We agree," he said firmly. "Summon the chiefs. In a month, here. We'll decide."

Argamak beamed:

"I knew you wouldn't refuse. We will win. Together."

He went off to sleep, and the brothers remained by the fire.

"Do you understand what this means?" Miron asked. "If they have bronze, our bows may not pierce their armor."

"They can pierce, if the arrow is good. We must make new arrowheads — from bone, from hard stone. And we need shields to protect ourselves."

"And armor. Leather, of several layers."

"And long spears — to meet cavalry."

They talked until midnight, outlining plans. And in the morning work began in earnest.

Chick, who was now twelve, had become the chief chronicler and Miron's assistant. He wrote down everything the brothers said, sketched drawings, kept track of resources. Beside him was always Niya — she had grown into a beautiful girl with skillful hands, the best artist and potter.

"Chick," Miron said, "we need to count all the weapons. How many arrows, how many spears, how many bows."

"Already done," Chick answered, unfolding the birch bark. "Bows — forty-two. Spare strings — sixty. Arrows — about three thousand. Spears — one hundred twenty. Spear-throwers — thirty."

"Not enough. We need more. At least five thousand arrows. Two hundred spears."

"I'll organize it," Chick nodded. "The children will help."

Vetka, who had turned fourteen, had become a seasoned warrior. He commanded a detachment of young archers — his peers, whom he had taught to shoot himself. He no longer thought of revenge — only of protection. But the memory of his father lived in him and gave him strength.

"Vetka," Arsen called him over. "Take your lads and ride with Argamak into the steppe. Find out where the enemy is, how many there are, how they're armed. Carefully, don't get drawn into a fight."

"I'll do it," Vetka answered briefly.

An hour later a detachment of ten horsemen — Vetka, his archers, and several nomads — galloped east.

Meanwhile, work was in full swing in the settlement. The smiths — there were already five of them — smelted copper and tin, made bronze. Arsen had designed new bellows that produced a stronger air flow, and the temperature in the forge rose. The bronze came out hard, ringing.

"From this you can make not only arrowheads," he said, "but swords too. Short ones, convenient for foot combat."

The first bronze sword was forged a week later. It was given to Bork — as the best warrior. Bork took the sword, weighed it in his hand, struck a tree — the blade went in deep.

"Good," he said. "With this, you're not afraid."

"We'll forge more," Arsen promised. "For everyone who goes into hand-to-hand combat."

The women, too, did not sit idle. Yara organized the sewing of armor — jackets of several layers of leather, with sewn-on bone plates. Such armor could protect against arrows and light blows.

"Try it on," she said to Tuk, putting the jacket on him.

Tuk turned, moved his shoulders — it didn't restrict him.

"A bit heavy, but bearable. You'll get used to it in battle."

Niya sewed padded under-armor — soft clothing worn under the leather to soften blows. She worked quickly and well — the adult women marveled at her skill.

"You'll be the chief seamstress," Yara joked. "You'll find a rich husband."

Niya blushed but did not abandon her work.

The month flew by unnoticed. On the appointed day the chiefs gathered at the settlement — from the forests, from the steppe, from the mountains. There were twelve of them, each with a retinue. All were received with honor, fed, given drink, and in the morning a council was held.

In the large communal house, where maps and birch-bark books hung on the walls, the chiefs seated themselves. Run opened the council:

"You know why we are here. An enemy is coming from the east — strong, cruel. If we don't unite, he will defeat us one by one. I propose creating a union of tribes and electing a common military leader."

The chiefs began to murmur. Each wanted to be in charge.

"Why should we submit to you?" asked one, shaggy, from the mountains. "You have bows, we have strength. Let strength decide."

"Strength decides in battle," Arsen replied. "But here we need brains. We have fortifications, we have weapons, we have knowledge. If you want to survive — listen to us. If you want to perish — you can leave right now."

Silence fell. Then Argamak rose:

"I've known the brothers for four years. They have never deceived. They saved their tribe from destruction, taught us to make bows, to heal wounds. I trust them. My people will follow them."

"And mine," said another chief.

"And mine," a third.

So, one after another, all twelve chiefs agreed to the union. Arsen was elected common military leader. Miron became chief adviser and "keeper of knowledge." Run remained chief of the "Grey Lynxes," but now there was a union council above him.

"Now — prepare," Arsen announced. "We have six months, maybe less. We'll learn to fight together, make weapons, build fortifications. And hope it's enough."

The chiefs dispersed, carrying with them drawings of bows, samples of bronze, seeds of cultivated plants. The union was concluded.

In the evening of the same day Miron and Arsen sat on the hill. Below, fires burned — the guests had not yet left, they were celebrating. The hum of voices, laughter, songs reached them.

"We've dragged them into a war," Miron said quietly. "If we lose — everyone perishes."

"If we hadn't dragged them in — they would have perished one by one," Arsen replied. "This way there's at least a chance."

"A chance," Miron repeated. "A good word."

They were silent for a moment. Then Miron took out the lighter and turned the wheel — a click, but no fire.

"A spark," he said. "It all began with a spark."

"And it continues," Arsen replied. "Let's go. There's much to do tomorrow."

They descended from the hill and went to the fires where people were waiting for them. Ahead was war. But today was a celebration.

Chapter 2. News from the East

Vetka returned two weeks later. The detachment rode through the settlement gates at dawn, when the sun was just beginning to gild the tops of the palisade. People were still asleep; only the guards on the walls waved in greeting.

Miron and Arsen came out to meet them. Vetka jumped off his horse — he held up well, but his eyes betrayed fatigue. And not only fatigue — something dark, heavy had frozen in them.

"We saw them," he said briefly. "We need to talk."

An hour later everyone with a voice gathered in the large dugout: Run, Bork, Argamak (he hadn't left yet), the elders, the brothers. Vetka stood in the center, holding birch bark with notes, but he told the story without the paper — he kept it all in his head.

"We went east for eight days," he began. "Crossed the steppe, then climbed into the foothills. There, in the valley of a big river, we saw their camp."

"How many?" Arsen asked.

"Thousands. You can't count exactly, but many. They set up camp on level ground, surrounded by wagons. They have horses — many, whole herds. Warriors in bronze armor — breastplates, helmets. Armed with swords, spears with bronze tips. There are archers, but their bows are weaker than ours — short, made of a single piece of wood."

"How do they move?" Argamak asked.

"Fast. Ahead goes mounted reconnaissance, then the main army, then the baggage train with families and livestock. They're not just warriors — they're a whole people on the move. Women, children, old people — all with them."

"So they're looking for new land," Miron understood. "Not just plundering — they want to settle."

"Yes," Vetka nodded. "We saw them pitching tents, grazing livestock, even sowing something on the riverbank. They're here for good."

"Then why do they fight?" Bork asked.

"Because the land they've come to already belongs to someone. They take it by force."

Arsen walked over to the map spread on the wall. The map had been drawn from the stories of many hunters — schematically, but accurately enough.

"Where are they now? Show me."

Vetka came up and poked a finger at a point beyond the mountain range:

"Here. From us to them — ten days on foot, five or six on horseback. But they don't stand still — every day they advance west."

"How much time do we have?"

"If they don't speed up — about two months. Maybe three."

Two months — that was less than they had hoped. But better to know the truth than to guess.

"What else?" Miron asked.

Vetka hesitated, then said:

"They have prisoners. From the tribes they've defeated. We saw them — women, children, several men. They're forced to work, fed poorly. Some tried to escape — they were killed before our eyes."

A heavy silence fell in the dugout.

"We can't save them," Run said quietly. "If we try — we'll perish ourselves."

"I know," Vetka nodded. "But when we fight... maybe they'll help us from within?"

"Maybe," Arsen agreed. "If we can give them a sign."

He looked at his brother. Miron understood — they had to prepare not only weapons but also plans to use any weakness of the enemy.

The following days passed in feverish preparation. The news that time was short spurred everyone on. They worked from dawn to dusk, without days off, without complaints.

The smiths forged bronze. Arsen improved the process — now the bellows were worked not by hand but by a water wheel he had built on the stream. The wheel turned by itself, driving the bellows. The temperature in the forge rose even higher, and the bronze came out excellent.

"You're a genius," Miron said, looking at this technological marvel. "A water wheel in the Stone Age."

"In the Bronze Age," Arsen corrected. "We're already in the Bronze Age."

Swords, arrowheads, spearheads — all of it was turned out by the dozens, by the hundreds. Weapons were distributed to the allies who came to the settlement from all sides. Now it was crowded here — warriors from different tribes trained together, got used to each other, prepared for battle.

Yara and the women sewed armor. More than a hundred leather jackets with sewn-on bone plates were made. For the chiefs and best warriors — armor with bronze plaques, forged specially.

"Beautiful," Argamak said, trying on such armor. "And reliable."

"Can't be pierced?" Bork asked.

"Try it," Argamak smirked.

Bork took a bow and shot from ten paces. The arrow struck the chest but went in only a finger's depth — the plaques stopped it.

"Good," Bork admitted. "Now I want one like this."

"There'll be one for everyone," Arsen promised. "But not at once."

The children, too, did not stand aside. Chick organized a detachment of teenagers who carried arrows, water, and helped the wounded during training. Vetka, despite his youth, commanded the young archers and enjoyed their authority.

Niya now rarely left the workshop. She sewed, molded, drew. But sometimes, looking at the war preparations, she asked Miron:

"And if they win? If they enter the settlement?"

"They won't win," Miron answered firmly. "We've been building this too long to give it up."

"And if they do anyway?"

Miron would sit down beside her and put his arm around the girl's shoulders:

"Then we'll go into the forest. We'll wage guerrilla warfare. Attack at night, poison wells, drive off livestock. They won't be able to live here if we don't want them to."

"And we can do that?"

"We can. We're the 'Grey Lynxes.' We know how to survive."

Niya would calm down and return to her work.

One evening, when the training had ended and everyone was sitting by the fires, an unexpected guest appeared in the settlement. An old shaman from a mountain tribe, whose name was Wise Raven. He came on foot, leaning on a staff, and immediately asked to meet with the brothers.

"I know these people," he said when they were left alone. "I met them many years ago, when I was young. They called themselves the 'People of the Sun.' They have priests who worship fire. They know how to make the yellow metal, but they keep the secret."

"How do you know?" Arsen asked.

"I lived with them for a year. I was captured, but I escaped. They are strong, but they have a weakness — they believe their god will give them victory if they make a sacrifice. The bigger the sacrifice — the greater the luck."

"A sacrifice?" Miron repeated.

"Yes. They kill prisoners on the altar. Sometimes their own, if there are no prisoners. It makes them cruel, but also vulnerable. If you deprive them of faith in victory — they will waver."

"How to deprive them?"

"Show that their god is powerless. For example, destroy their shrine. They have a chief priest who wears a golden hoop on his head. If you kill him or capture the hoop — they'll decide that the god has turned away."

Arsen and Miron exchanged glances. This was valuable information.

"Thank you, old man," Miron said. "Stay with us, rest."

"I'll stay," Wise Raven nodded. "And I'll help as much as I can."

A month later almost five hundred warriors had gathered in the settlement — archers, spearmen, horsemen. Arsen held training every day, practicing the interaction of different branches of troops. The archers learned to shoot in volleys, the spearmen — to hold formation, the horsemen — to attack from the flanks.

"The enemy is strong in numbers," Arsen said at the evening gatherings. "But we are stronger in skill. We'll choose the place for battle ourselves — where their cavalry can't deploy. We'll lure them into a trap and destroy them piece by piece."

The warriors listened and believed. Arsen had already proven he knew how to win.

Reconnaissance reported: the enemy was approaching. They had only to cross the last ridge, and then they would come out into the valley where the settlement of the "Grey Lynxes" stood. There was almost no time left.

On the last evening before the march, Miron gathered the children. Chick, Niya, Vetka, and the little ones sat around him, listening.

"Tomorrow we leave," Miron said. "You stay here. If we win — we'll return with victory. If not — you must go into the forest and survive."

"We won't leave," Vetka said firmly. "We'll fight."

"You'll fight if the enemy comes here. But first we'll try to make sure he doesn't come."

He embraced each of them and kissed them on the top of the head. Chick held up well, but his lips trembled. Niya cried, burying her face in Miron's shoulder.

"We'll come back," he promised. "Definitely."

At night the army set out. A thousand men — warriors of the allied tribes, armed with bows, spears, bronze swords. Ahead, on a white horse, rode Arsen, beside him — Argamak and Bork. Miron walked on foot, with a detachment of archers.

They went into the darkness, toward the unknown. And in the settlement remained women, children, old people. And hope.

Chapter 3. The Ambush in the Gorge

For two days the army marched east. Forests gave way to foothills, the paths became steeper, the air — colder and more transparent. Arsen led the people through places he had scouted himself in past years, when he had studied the surroundings. He was looking for the ideal place for battle — one where the enemy's advantage in numbers and cavalry would be reduced to zero.

On the third day they came to the gorge. It was a narrow cleft in the rocks, almost half an hour's walk long, with sheer walls. At its widest point — no more than fifty paces. The bottom was stony, uneven, overgrown with sparse bushes. An ideal place for an ambush.

"Here," Arsen said, stopping his horse. "Beyond, the gorge widens, opens into the valley. If they go through it — we'll meet them."

"And if they go around?" Bork asked, surveying the cliffs.

"They won't go around. On the left — a precipice, on the right — impassable slopes. The gorge is the only way for a large army with a baggage train."

The scouts confirmed: the enemy was already two days away and moving straight here. There was precious little time to prepare.

Arsen distributed the forces. The main detachment of archers lay down on the slopes, among the boulders and bushes. Their task was to shower the enemy with arrows when they entered the gorge. The spearmen with long pikes took cover behind natural shelters at the end of the gorge — they would meet those who broke through. Argamak's horsemen remained in the rear, beyond the pass — in case they were needed for pursuit.

Miron commanded the reserve — a hundred of the most experienced warriors who were to strike at the right moment.

"The main thing is not to let them out of the gorge," Arsen instructed. "As soon as the first ranks enter, we block the exit with stones. We have prepared logs and boulders up above. At my signal — you drop them."

For two days the warriors hid without lighting fires, eating dry rations. The cold at night pierced to the bone, but no one complained. Too much was at stake.

At dawn on the third day a scout came galloping with the news:

"They're coming!"

Arsen pressed himself to a stone, peering into the far end of the gorge. First appeared horsemen — about ten, combing the area. They rode slowly, peering at the slopes. Arsen held his breath — if they noticed the ambush, all was lost.

But the horsemen rode past, noticing nothing. Too self-confident, too used to winning. Behind them appeared the main army — a column of foot warriors clad in bronze, with long spears. Behind them — wagons with women, children, belongings. A whole migration of peoples.

Arsen counted: a hundred, two hundred, five hundred... When most of the army had been drawn into the gorge, he raised his hand.

"Give the signal," he whispered to the warrior with the horn standing beside him.

The horn bellowed — low, alarming, echoing between the cliffs.

And at that very moment arrows flew from above. Thousands of arrows — a black rain that covered the enemy. Cries, wails, the neighing of horses — all merged into one terrible sound. The enemy thrashed about, trying to take cover, but there was no cover.

The second volley — hundreds more fell. The third — the enemy began to retreat, but their own pressed from behind, not seeing what was happening ahead. Crushing, panic, death.

"Stones!" Arsen shouted.

Boulders, logs, whole rock fragments flew onto the heads of the enemy. They crushed the ranks, smashed the wagons, killed indiscriminately.

The enemy wavered and ran. But not backward — forward, toward the exit of the gorge, hoping to break out of the trap. There Bork's spearmen were waiting for them.

The battle flared with renewed force. Bronze swords against long pikes, cries of fury and pain, blood on the stones. Arsen himself descended, sword in hand, to support his men.

Miron saw his brother fighting some huge warrior in a horned helmet. Blows rained down, but Arsen was faster, craftier. He stepped aside, swept the enemy's leg, and when he fell — finished him.

"Ars!" Miron shouted, fighting his way to him.

"I'm all right! Hold the line!"

The battle lasted, it seemed, an eternity. But the enemy, deprived of command, demoralized by the sudden attack, began to surrender. Some fled back into the depths of the gorge, some threw down their weapons.

By evening it was all over. The gorge was littered with bodies, blood flowed in streams over the stones. Few prisoners were taken — most were killed. Their own losses — about a hundred killed and wounded.

"We won," Bork exhaled, leaning on his sword. "We stopped them."

"This is only the beginning," Arsen shook his head. "This was only the advance guard. The main forces are still beyond the pass. And now they know we're here."

He was right. A day later reconnaissance reported: the main army of the "People of the Sun" had stopped, set up camp at the entrance to the gorge, and was clearly preparing for a new strike. There were still thousands of them.

"What shall we do?" Miron asked at the war council.

"Wait," Arsen answered. "They won't dare climb into the gorge again. They'll look for another way. And there is no other way. So they'll try to negotiate or lure us out."

"Or send assassins," Argamak added gloomily.

"Or send assassins. We must strengthen the guard."

The night passed anxiously. The warriors slept with one eye open, weapons in hand. And in the morning a parliamentarian rode up to the camp — one of the enemy chiefs, in rich armor, with a white flag.

He demanded negotiations with the leader.

Arsen came out alone, unarmed, but with Miron behind him — just in case. The enemy dismounted and approached.