Scythian Trilogy Book 2: The Golden King

by Max Overton

  Good, honest Timon, he thought. A proper Macedonian soldier, forthright and loyal. He has proven himself a true friend. He remembered back to the days when Timon was just another soldier in his small command. Was it only a year ago?

  Nikometros' promising career had been cut short by a wound--a head wound sustained in a minor skirmish against the Sogdians. As a junior officer in Alexander's own Companion cavalry, just starting to distinguish himself in battle, Nikometros could see only a glittering future ahead of him. The Macedonian army had shattered the barbarian Persians, mopped up all resistance and was advancing on to India, China and encircling Ocean to bring the whole world under Greek hegemony. Sogdiana was a minor province to be subjugated on the way, but they were fierce fighters. Then disaster--an incapacitating wound and a drawn out recovery found Nikometros left behind by the army as part of a local garrison.

  Nikometros shrugged his cloak to one side and reached for his skin of watered wine. He sipped, grimacing at the thin, sour taste. As thin and sour as my prospects of advancement away from the main army, he thought.

  Fighting depression, he had sought to further his career within the limited confines of local government, riding out to quell disturbances, hunting down bandits. On one such expedition his force was all but wiped out in an ambush. Scythians captured the three survivors, Nikometros, Timon and a young Persian recruit named Mardes. Their very lives had hung on the thread of superstition. Nikometros wore an antique armband of gold, plated over heavy iron, a gift from his mother. The band depicted a serpent-bodied woman, the unusual design catching the eye of the leader of the Scythian raiders, who identified it as the embodiment of the Mother Goddess, the titular deity of the roving tribes. It had bought Nikometros and his two surviving companions a brief respite.

  A low call from behind him stopped the column. Parasades pushed his horse up alongside Nikometros, indicating a gap in the trees off to one side. "A path. We should camp now."

  Already? thought Nikometros. "We have made no gain, Parasades. At least let us look for tracks before we stop." He gestured to Agarus. "Get your flint out, Agarus. See if you can light a torch."

  Once lit, the fitful light of the sputtering torch revealed hoof prints on both tracks. Nikometros felt his spirits sink. "Can you not distinguish Tomyra's horse?" he asked dully.

  Parasades shook his head. "We will have to wait until morning." He sat back on his heels and looked down both trails. He rose and handed Certes the torch. "Go down this side path. Tell me what you find." The man nodded and dismounted, moving off down the path with torch held high.

  Timon looked puzzled. "What do you hope to find?"

  Parasades did not reply but stood staring after the faint light bobbing down the path. After a few moments the torch moved first to one side then the other, dipping and rising. Shortly, Certes stood before them again, a grin on his face.

  "You were right, my lord Parasades. They camped."

  "Was there a path beyond the camp?"

  "No, my lord."

  Parasades turned to Nikometros with a smile. "As I suspected. They camped here for the night before resuming their journey along this path." He heaved himself up onto his horse. "Now we can make up some real time."

  The pursuit resumed. At first, Nikometros was buoyed by the thought that they were catching up, but after several stadia he settled back into a reverie, remembering.

  Brought back to the winter quarters of the Massegetae tribe, the Scythian town of Urul, their safe passage had come to an end. Despite the armband, or perhaps because of it, they were to be sacrificed to the Mother Goddess. Nikometros fingered the place on his left arm where the armband had so recently been. The bright iron had gleamed through the gold when he handed it to Tirses just five days before, a result of a sword cut. The sword would have ended his life in the single combat of sacrifice had not the armband blocked it.

  The Massegetae took it as a sign of the Mother's favour, urged on by the young priestess, Tomyra, and her father Spargises, the powerful chief of the tribe. Made blood-brother to Spargises, Nikometros, and his men, had risen swiftly within the ranks of the Scythians.

  That first battle did it, he thought. Eschewing the usual Scythian tactics of inflicting light casualties through fast but indecisive attacks, he had led his men and a group of young tribesmen in a cavalry charge that shattered the enemy, despite their numerical superiority. After that, he had become known as the Lion of Scythia, named for the lion emblem on his shield.

  The path left the forested slopes and angled westward again, dipping into the undulating grasslands that covered much of Scythia. The air grew colder away from the protecting shelter of the trees. The moon rose, casting yellow rays fitfully through the clouds, dimly illuminating the path ahead of them. Timon pushed his horse up alongside Nikometros.

  "We will find her, Niko," he murmured.

  Nikometros smiled briefly and nodded his head in agreement. "Yes. For the first time I feel we are catching up."

  Timon edged his horse closer and glanced back at the others. "Niko..." He hesitated then dropped into the coarse language of the Macedonian army, thickening his Greek accent. "Niko, can you trust the others?" he asked quietly. "Agarus follows you and is loyal. Even if he wasn't, he is no warrior and no threat. But I don't trust that fox Parasades. Why is he even here?"

  Nikometros turned and looked at his friend before answering in the guttural speech of the common Macedonian soldiers. "I have wondered that myself, Timon. He has been a friend but he is undoubtedly hungry for power. Why is he here with me instead of gathering an army to oppose Areipithes?"

  "The army would follow you, Niko. You have proved yourself in battle. And the lady Tomyra. Perhaps he wants to be sure of both."

  "I'm not sure they would follow me. I'm Greek still in their eyes. They will follow Areipithes, despite his crimes...or Parasades." Nikometros fell silent for a few paces. "They might follow Tomyra. The Massegetae love their priestess."

  Nikometros' heart surged at the thought of her. As a consecrated virgin priestess of the Mother Goddess and daughter of the chief, her person was sacrosanct. Yet he had felt an immediate bond, an attraction that grew and finally blossomed into love.

  Despite their better judgments they had become lovers, his personal honour guard, the Lions, turning a blind eye even as her personal guard, the Owls, gave in to their mistress' desires.

  Not all Massegetae were as understanding, however. Spargises, chief and father to Tomyra and brother in blood to Nikometros, would have killed them both if he had known of their acts. And died of a broken heart later, thought Nikometros. The chief's son, Areipithes, was another, though he would have taken great delight in their deaths. Half-brother to Tomyra, jealousy and rage ruled him. He hated Tomyra because his father loved her and he hated Nikometros because his father turned increasingly to the Greek for advice and trust. No longer sure of his place as heir, he had resolved to precipitate events. Calling in the help of the Serratae, a Scythian tribe to the west of the Oxus River, he had murdered his own father and banished his sister, to rule as chief of the Massegetae.

  A few days ago I was war-leader of the Massegetae, loved and trusted by all...by most, he amended. Now what am I? I lead but four men and I cannot be certain of the loyalty of three of them.

  Nikometros glanced across at Timon, riding silently beside him. "We shall find her, Timon. I know it."

  "Aye, sir," muttered Timon. "Maybe we shall also find others."

  A look of agony and comprehension swept over Nikometros' face. "Gods, I am sorry, old friend. In my own loss I was forgetting yours." He remembered the love that blossomed between the old Macedonian soldier and the young warrior-woman in Tomyra's guard. "Bithyia is safe, my friend. She is a worthy warrior and will have found others of the Owls."

  Timon grunted and slowed his horse, dropping back, losing himself in his own thoughts.

  The moon rose higher, smoky-gold through the dark clouds on the eastern horizon. As it rose, the colour c
hanged, softening and lightening, casting a pale glow over the rippling grasslands. The path ahead of them stood out as a dark ribbon of earth, disappearing into the distance. The land rose and fell slightly, undulating gently. It reminded Nikometros of the narrow strip of sea that the army crossed when first they invaded Asia. That was the only time he had been on a ship and it had terrified him, even as the wonder of it flooded his senses. Now he was crossing a vaster ocean, one of grass. The wonder was still there but the terror had been replaced by a fear, not for him, but for the woman he loved. Somewhere ahead of him, Tomyra was being carried off to an unknown fate...if she was still alive. Nikometros' mind shied away from the thought, returning instead to the heady days when he knew his love for the young girl was reciprocated.

  Death was the penalty for taking the priestess, yet they reveled in their illicit love, cautious at first then becoming more daring. There was no hope of hiding the affair from their respective guards and, despite efforts to weed out any whose loyalty was suspect, others came to know of it. Areipithes, the chief's son, used the information to precipitate his revolt. Parasades, too, had known. Nikometros was unsure still why the man had kept their secret. He was a friend but he also made no secret of his views about Nikometros. Only Scythians ruled Scythians.

  As if reading his thoughts, Parasades urged his horse alongside Nikometros' and looked up at him. "What is your intention when we catch up with Tomyra?" he asked quietly.

  "Rescue her. Beyond that I haven't given the matter much thought."

  "Then I suggest you do so. We're in hostile territory, trailing a group of over twenty men who, though they are only Serratae dogs, are still warriors."

  Nikometros sighed. "I know, Parasades. But what plans can I make? Our actions will depend on when and where we catch up with them."

  Parasades regarded the tall Greek on his towering stallion for several minutes, his expression hidden in the shadows cast by his hooded coat. "Do you seek merely to rescue the priestess or do you desire vengeance?"

  "I will be content to bring her away...unless they have harmed her." Nikometros' voice hardened. "If she has been hurt I will kill for it."

  "Remember we are only five and they number over twenty."

  "I will remember," growled Nikometros. "If you have not the stomach for it, Timon and I will continue alone."

  "You would not find her," stated Parasades flatly. "Do you think these lands uninhabited because we have seen no one since we started? Villages lie ahead of us and the winter quarters of the Serratae. You and your man could not pass for Scythians. You would die quickly."

  Nikometros drew back on his reins, bringing his horse to a stop. He glared at the other man. "Just why are you here, Parasades? Why aren't you back at the Oxus gathering support to oppose Areipithes?"

  Parasades smiled, his teeth showing as he turned his horse. "I'm your friend, Nikomayros. Perhaps your only one. I would see you reunited with your woman."

  "Horse turds!" snapped Nikometros. "You have more in common with Areipithes than with me. What are you planning?"

  Parasades' smile slipped. "Be careful, my friend. You're close to insulting me. Isn't it enough that I'm here, helping you find your woman?"

  Nikometros stared at him, his anger fading. "You're right. If I offend you, I apologise."

  "Then let us move onward." Parasades pointed out over the waving grass. "If we press on we can reach the next line of hills by daybreak."

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  Chapter Four

  After a night spent in fitful unease, Dimurthes' camp burst into frenzied activity an hour before dawn. Within minutes, fires were extinguished and the chief's tent struck and packed onto horses. Tomyra was hustled unceremoniously onto her horse, where she sat shivering in the cold pre-dawn wind.

  Dimurthes strode among his men, barking out a series of orders, gesticulating and scowling fiercely at anyone who hesitated. The column formed up, though in a different formation from the last three days.

  Tomyra found herself in the midst of a small group of riders with drawn weapons. Her hands were tied and a noose settled around her neck.

  Dimurthes looked up at her. "I think we shall remove a threat today," he said softly. "Your Greek has obviously caught up with us and will attempt your rescue. If you cry out or try to ride to him you will be killed immediately. My men don't need to seek my permission to kill you. They have their orders." Dimurthes smiled. "If you wish to live to enjoy my companionship another night, I would advise silence." He laughed and turned on his heel.

  Dimurthes leapt onto his horse and drew his bow, tucking several arrows into the cloth pack in front of him. His eyes flicked quickly over the men forming up behind him, noting their weapons and judging their demeanour. He nodded in satisfaction and signaled, following the small knot of riders around Tomyra as they set off down the trail in the slowly strengthening light. His men followed, alert and ready, scanning the hills around them as the features of the countryside emerged from the night.

  The path wound slowly through the foothills, narrow and rocky, often forcing the column into single file. When this occurred, three of Tomyra's guards rode ahead of her and two behind. The man immediately behind her kept a firm hand on the rope around her neck, tugging her back if her horse moved too far ahead.

  The light strengthened, though day arrived not with a flash of golden fire from a welcome sun, but rather as a slow seeping of grayness washing over the world. A heavy overcast with steely skies ahead of them presaged snow. The north wind picked up, scattering dead leaves and making the horses snort and sidestep.

  A rider urged his horse up the line from the rear, jostling the other horses that whickered and nipped at the flanks of the horse. He leaned over and murmured in his chief's ear.

  "We are being watched, my lord."

  "Where?"

  "In the trees upslope. Something moves, man-sized and purposeful."

  "Very well. Return to your place and watch for my signal."

  The rider slowed his horse, waiting as the column passed him. Dimurthes forced himself to casually scan the slopes around him, his eyes passing over the tree line on the slope above him, hesitating a moment before moving on. He saw nothing but he trusted in his man's abilities. If he saw something, something was there. Now they only had to catch it.

  The path dipped into a shallow valley, crossing a tiny rivulet of icy water tumbling over small boulders. A short expanse of frost-browned turf led up from the stream to the next low hill, the path passing into a line of heavier pine forest some fifty horse lengths above. Dimurthes smiled and nodded to himself. He rode to one side as the column crossed the stream then followed his men up the slope and into the trees.

  Within the shelter of the pine forest he halted and called softly to his men. At once, they turned their horses and gathered around their leader. The guard around Tomyra ushered her to one side and drew their daggers in readiness, one pressing the point of his blade to her throat.

  Dimurthes sat silently and watched the trees on the other side of the valley. For a long while, nothing happened. The wind soughed softly in the pine leaves and the distant burble of the stream came intermittently to their ears. Behind them, in the depths of the forest, came the staccato drum of a woodpecker searching out a meal. The horses blew impatiently and stamped their feet, their riders fidgeting as they waited.

  Then a figure appeared in the tree line on the far hillside. It emerged, holding the reins of a horse and stood looking out across the valley. Soon, it turned and waved, whereupon four other figures pushed out from the cover of the trees, leading their horses. One of them pointed back at the trees, gesticulating violently. The first figure stood firm, pointing down the hillside. For a few moments it appeared as if the confrontation might erupt into violence then the figure in front vaulted onto its mount, urging it down the slope. The others wavered then scrambled onto their mounts and rode swiftly down the slope to the stream.

  The waiting S
erratae warriors fitted arrows to their bows, drawing back the strings. Each face was taut with tension.

  "Wait," hissed Dimurthes. "On my signal." He leaned forward, scanning the riders as they rode their horses carefully across the slippery boulders. They started up the slope, their horses' hooves silent on the turf. Dimurthes chopped his hand down and with a whisper; a flight of arrows flew from the forest. A second followed before the first arrows fell among the riders and horses, and, as the third volley rose, Dimurthes, sword in hand, plunged from cover, his men screaming behind him.

  The riders milled in confusion near the stream, one already fallen, transfixed by three arrows, another screaming in agony from a wound in the stomach. Dimurthes burst into the group, a slash from his sword silencing the cries of the wounded rider. A blade flashed toward him. He contemptuously knocked it aside, his eyes darting over his adversaries, seeking the face of the Greek.

  These are all boys, Dimurthes thought. Not a bearded warrior among them.

  A javelin whiffled past him then the three surviving riders fled, pursued over the stream by his warriors. The Serratae surrounded another rider on the far side of the stream and cut him down quickly. Another fell as they fled for the cover of the trees on the far side of the valley. Only a single rider made it back to the dubious safety of the woodlands. Dimurthes gave a shout, recalling his men. They rode back, dragging the corpses of the fallen riders behind them.

  Dimurthes leapt off his horse and stretched, wiping his sword on the turf and sheathing it. He walked over to the body of the rider he had killed and kicked the arm away from where it covered the face. He stared down at the smooth and hairless face in its mask of bright blood for a moment then bent and ran his hand quickly over the body.

  "A woman?" he muttered softly. Straightening, he crossed to the other three corpses then ripped their tunics open. Dimurthes shook his head in wonder; his men gathering round with grins and ribald comments. One man bent and pulled the leggings of one of the corpses down amid laughter. Dimurthes stood and watched as his men took their pleasures then called Taraxes to him.