Över gräsbevume slätten,
halsen vrålande i vreden,
svääden höll i jätte hänner,
anföll han den vjenntne Yngling. . . .*
When the poet’s apprentice had finished, all the Kazakhs clapped their hands politely. Hans blushed. Then
*Nikko Kumalo’s translation runs:
Cruel Kazi, vast host shattered,
dream of conquest broken, trampled,
strode toward the youthful hero.
Killing him his one intention.
Over grassy, flower-grown meadow,
raging, roaring, howling hatred,
great sword gripped in fists so fearsome
charged toward the waiting Youngling. . . .
109
Shakir spoke again, soberly. “Tell him that while I do not understand the words, I know his poem is excellent from the very sound of it. What is his name?”
“He is Senig Hans, Gunnar’s Son,” Nils said, and followed that with clan and tribal affiliations. Baver caught the change of cognomen from “Skinny” to “Sinewy,” and realized how apt it was. Despite all the running and walking, the tiresome diet and frequent sword drill, Hans had gained considerable weight since they’d left the ting. But none of it was fat; he was whipcord-lean.
Shakir nodded acknowledgement. “Tell him I am Shakir, Son of Rashid, of the Súbhi Band of the Kazakhs.” He gave orders to two of his men then, and they led a string of four horses to where the travelers’ horses were picketed.
“Tell Nils these horses are my gift to him,” he said to Achikh. “In case our debts were not quite even.” He cocked an eye at the Buriat. “Tell him the Kazakhs are not a stingy people like the Kalmuls.”
Achikh’s face tightened with anger, and he got to his feet, hand on his sword hilt. Nils rose with him, and laid a hand on Achikh’s shoulder, his gaze on Achikh’s eyes. “Good friends,” he said, slowly for Shakir’s sake, “please do not fight.” He looked then at the Kazakh, who had also gotten to his feet. “Achikh is my good friend, who has traveled far with me. He shared his horses’ milk with us, before a great storm killed most of them. We have become like andat, sworn brothers.”
He turned back to Achikh. “You told of watching me in the arena, in the City of Kazi. But you did not mention that I broke my sword in killing the lion. Do you remember it?”
Achikh nodded glowering.
“And then I dueled the Orc officer, and killed him. Do you remember where I got the sword to do that?’
“Someone threw one to you from the stands.”
“The one who did that was Shakir. Though I was a stranger, he would not see me toyed with by an Orc, mutilated and slowly killed before the crowd.”
110
Aehikh relaxed somewhat. “He intended to insult me,” lie answered slowly, “thinking me a Kalmul because we speak the same tongue, or very nearly, and because I’ve learned his own. I am not a Kalmul, I am a Buriat, but I took the thought for the act.” He shrugged big shoulders. “Nonetheless—”
Then Shakir spoke, facing Aehikh:
“Tell Nils that if Aehikh is like a sworn brother to him, then I withdraw my offense against Aehikh, if Aehikh is willing.”
Aehikh translated.
“I hope you are willing,” Nils said to the Buriat.
It was hard for him, but Aehikh nodded. “What he did for you was a very good thing,” he said. “Very brave. And it defied Kazi. Few would have dared it. Besides, the Kalmuls are a difficult people. I cannot blame him for disliking them.”
He turned and thrust out a hand toward Shakir. For a brief moment Baver feared the Kazakh would refuse it. Then Shakir reached, and met it with his own. For a moment their handshake threatened to turn into a grip-down contest. Finally Aehikh grinned. Shakir laughed. Then both men laughed together, embracing and slapping each other on the back. Baver stared astonished.
Shakir turned to Hans. “And you, poet: Your work will be famous beyond your people. I know it.” While Aehikh forwarded this added praise in Anglic, Shakir unfastened his belt and removed from it a curved knife in a sheath of intricately carved horn. “This I give you in admiration.”
He held it out. The poet’s apprentice stared, hesitant, then took it and drew the blade. It was slender, razor-sharp, engraved in some hair-thin script.