Scythian Trilogy Book 2: The Golden King

by Max Overton

  "Remove their heads, leave their bodies for the carrion-eaters." He vaulted back onto his horse and waited as Taraxes and two other men completed their grisly work. Taraxes soon approached, bearing their grisly trophies. Leaning down, Dimurthes grasped the matted locks of the bloody heads. He turned his horse and rode back up to the pine forest, keeping his hand with its dreadful contents behind him. His horse shied as the heads bumped its flanks and he jerked its head savagely, kicking his heels into its sides.

  ***

  Tomyra had heard the distant shouts and screams, knowing she was helpless to aid her Niko. She strained against the noose, feeling blood trickling from the sharp pain in her throat as the dagger dug deeper. Her eyes moved restlessly and she moaned softly, numb to the pain in her throat as she strained toward the sounds of battle. A wash of despair came over her as the sounds died away. Soon, the sound of a single horse, its hooves muffled by the thick carpet of pine needles, roused her. She looked up, hope disintegrating as she recognised her tormentor.

  Dimurthes rode up close to her shying horse and stared dispassionately at the woman. He jerked his head and his men backed off, though keeping their weapons in a state of readiness. He tossed the heads at the foot of Tomyra's horse, which shied and reared, forcing her to cling to its neck. The heads rolled to a stop, presenting blood-spattered faces smeared and covered with dirt and pine needles.

  Tomyra gasped and went white. She reeled and almost fell then with an obvious effort, steadied herself, breathing hard. With anguish in her eyes she stared down at the head closest to her. "Domra...," she whispered. She tore her eyes away to look at the other heads but long matted hair obscured their features. Tomyra looked back to Domra's head resting against a tree root, its features distorted by death agony. "Oh, Domra," she breathed. "What made you come? You were always so gentle."

  "I am amazed women should be following us," sneered Dimurthes. "Is your Greek so cowardly that he sends women to do his work? Or is it that the only real men among the Massegetae have nothing between their legs?"

  Dimurthes' question drew appreciative chuckles from the guards. Tomyra glared at the Serratae chief. "Do not think to judge others by your own shortcomings," she hissed. "You will know the difference when my Nikomayros finds me. You will pray to the Mother Goddess for an easy death but She will not hear you."

  The smiles disappeared from the faces of her guards as she spoke, and some made warding signs, holding their hands low by their sides. Dimurthes' grin also slipped, his hand twitching in an automatic response before he caught himself.

  "Perhaps I should leave your lovely head here on a spike to greet him then," he grated. He edged his horse alongside Tomyra's and drew his sword. Raising it slowly, he laid it alongside the girl's neck. Tomyra flinched momentarily as the steel touched her but then her eyes flashed defiance and she straightened her back, glaring at Dimurthes.

  For a long moment they sat and stared, the woman rigid and unsmiling, the man fighting to control his urge to kill her. His arm muscles trembled before he blinked and turned away, sheathing his sword. He moved his horse a few paces then looked back. "I really would like to see your face when I bring you his head, though."

  Dimurthes touched his heels to his horse, guiding it back onto the path. "Come," he said. "We shall ride for the village of Turkul." His men reformed around Tomyra and, rejoining the other warriors, turned westward once more.

  Silence descended on the pine forest, broken only by the wind in the trees and the distant tapping of the woodpecker. Long afterward, as the sun slipped toward the western horizon, a pine marten, foraging for mice and insects, happened upon the stiffening remains of the maidens. It sniffed, its bright eyes suspicious of the smells and unfamiliar shapes. It edged forward, whiskers twitching, circling the head that had been Domra's before ambling off into the depths of the forest.

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  Chapter Five

  Bithyia sat relaxed and at ease astride her mare as it picked its way slowly across the bare hillside. Her spirits were high, her mind freed from the concerns of the last few days while tracking her mistress' abductors across the frozen land of the Serratae. She idly gazed at her two companions riding ahead, talking quietly but animatedly to each other. They seemed like different people. No longer tense and absorbed in their duties, the young women's cheerful natures had reasserted themselves.

  I must make sure we can all have a break from our duties, she thought.

  Bithyia reached out to stroke the ruffled feathers of the brace of chickens dangling across her mare's back. They were lucky to stumble across a small farm in their foraging expedition. A couple of chickens gratefully liberated and a small sack of some non-descript and moldy roots would provide a welcome change from the half-cooked squirrel meat and berries that was their recent fare.

  Bithyia grimaced briefly as she recalled the indignation of the farmer and his two sons when the armed women descended upon his hut. Serratae women were generally downtrodden and they never used weapons. By the time the men recovered from their shock, they were disarmed and could do no more than splutter in rage as Bithyia and her companions took what they needed. It was a poor farm, eking out an existence from the thin soil and truth be told, the loss of even a chicken or two and roots fit only for cattle would bring hardship in its wake.

  Still, reasoned Bithyia, our need is greater. She shrugged. Call it a tax for the service of the Great Goddess and her priestess.

  The tiny campsite was empty and desolate when they reached it. The only signs of recent occupation were mounds of horse dung, cold but not yet frozen and the scuffmarks in the lea of a pile of rocks where people had huddled from the bitter wind. Bithyia looked around then dismounted and ran quickly up the slope. She peered cautiously over the lip of the rise toward the main track below and the encampment of the Serratae tribesmen.

  "Gone. Domra follows them," she muttered to herself. Bithyia rose and ran back down to her waiting companions. "Come, we must hurry. Our foe has moved on and Domra leads our companions after them." She swung up onto her mare and kicked it into motion, up over the lip of the small depression and down the hillside, following the tracks of her friends.

  Glancing up at a leaden sky, Bithyia noted the direction of the wind. Snow coming. She sat up straighter and called to her companions to ready themselves. She pointed down the slope to their right, at the track that wound around the hill toward the woods.

  "Prithia, Sarmatia, be on your guard. We do not know how far ahead the others will be."

  The two young women nodded their assent and unshouldered their small double-curved bows, slipping an arrow from their quivers into the rolled cloth across their horses' necks. The horses turned from the rough goat track they were on and cut downhill to the main track, their hooves slipping in the loose soil and rocks.

  Bithyia stopped when she reached the trail and bent down, scanning the ground. She noted the presence of many hooves then grunted and smiled as she recognised the distinctive hoof print of Tomyra's horse. She twitched the reins and urged her mare along the path.

  An hour later they found the tracks of several horses that left the main path, angling across the shoulder of the hill and disappearing into the sparse woods. Bithyia examined the path again then pointed to an unobtrusive pair of stones, sitting one atop the other.

  "Domra led them to one side," she said. Bithyia scanned the hillside, judging the route of the main path and the direction taken by Domra's group. "She seeks to close with our enemies and keep them in sight. She is brave but she is not trained as a warrior. I hope she realises the dangers."

  "The others will advise her, help her," said Sarmatia.

  Bithyia nodded and pointed along the main path. "We must catch up. It will be faster to follow our prey rather than have to track our friends." She kicked her mare into a slow gallop along the muddy path. As she rode, her eyes moved restlessly over the path in front and the tree line above them, seeking any sign of the
ir companions.

  The path crested a small rise before dropping down into a shallow valley with a rocky stream. Bithyia abruptly reined in her horse and slid from its back, pulling it back over the crest as Sarmatia and Prithia joined her. Leaving Prithia with the horses, she crept back up the trail with Sarmatia and stared down into the valley.

  Sarmatia nudged Bithyia and pointed downstream toward a pile of rocks. "Bodies," she murmured. "There was a battle."

  Bithyia shaded her eyes and squinted. "Can you see who they are?"

  Sarmatia shook her head. "They are dressed as warriors, but then, so are we." She turned her head to the other young woman. "What do we do?"

  Bithyia carefully examined the far hillside, watching the margins of the pine forest for any sign of activity. There was no movement anywhere, save for the swaying of the treetops and the wheeling flight of carrion crows. She turned her head, searching the path in front of her before moving cautiously over the rise and down to a pile of horse dung. She stuck her finger into it and held it there for a moment before wiping it on the ground and retracing her steps.

  Bithyia dropped down beside Sarmatia. "The centre of the dung is faintly warm. They passed here but an hour or two ago."

  "If it was indeed them and not some itinerant peddler or farmer," muttered Sarmatia.

  "A well-off merchant perhaps, or else warriors. That horse had fed on grain." Bithyia chewed her lip then edged back from the crest and stood up. "We must know who lies below, but I will not risk us all. Wait here. If it is a trap then leave me and follow our priestess as best you can, Sarmatia." She swung onto her mare without waiting for a reply and trotted over the crest and down into the valley.

  The girl kept her eyes fixed on the pine forest ahead, her shoulders braced unconsciously for the impact of a killing arrow. None came, and as she drew near to the stream she saw a squirrel run along a branch of a tall pine then leap to the ground. Bithyia grinned, her shoulders slumping slightly in relief. No squirrel would leave a tree if there were anyone near.

  She urged her mare through the shallow ford then turned her downstream toward the bodies. Two crows flew up from the nearest body as she approached, cawing loudly in protest. One perched on a nearby rock, gulping a thin ribbon of flesh, staring disapprovingly at the intruder.

  Bithyia scanned her surroundings once more then slipped to the ground. She walked around the corpse, her face blanching at the savage hack marks on the neck. She dropped to her knees and examined the body more closely, her face flushing with anger as she saw the ripped tunic and leggings. Small breasts pointed coldly at the sky, sullied with bloody handprints. Bithyia pulled the tunic about the young girl's body then rose and strode over to the others, rearranging their clothing and covering their ravaged shoulders with cloths from her horse.

  She signaled for Sarmatia and Prithia to join her.

  "Who...?" asked Prithia in a stricken voice.

  "This one is Tarmia," choked Bithyia. "I recognise the tattoo on her shoulder." She shuddered and looked away. "I cannot be sure of the others; they were stripped of their jewelry and...violated."

  Sarmatia squatted beside the body of Tarmia and picked up her cold hand. "What manner of beast would violate a corpse?" she grated.

  "Were...were they dead...when...?" quavered Prithia.

  Bithyia pointed at one of the other bodies. "She was. There are three arrows in her." She turned and stared at Prithia. "Servants of the Mother do not allow any man to take them unbidden. You know that. Would you be forced or would you die first?"

  Prithia blinked. "I...I would choose death, lady."

  "Just so. As did our sisters. Now let us protect their bodies from the carrion eaters before we ride to find their killers." Bithyia turned to the streambed and picked up a large smooth rock then laying it beside the headless body of Tarmia.

  "There are but four bodies here, Bithyia," said Sarmatia. "Where is our other sister?"

  Bithyia pointed to scuffmarks and blood on the far bank of the stream. "The dead were brought here for...for their violation. Our sister survives but she will be far from here, else she would have seen us. We cannot waste time looking for her."

  Prithia looked horrified. "How can we not search for her? She may be wounded."

  "It grieves me," whispered Bithyia, putting her hand on the shoulder of her companion. "But we dare not drop behind our enemy. Our Lady is our only concern."

  "I could go and look..."

  "No, Prithia. I will not divide our group again. I erred and as a result, four of our sisters lie dead. I am responsible for all of you." Bithyia thrust away her bitter anger and replaced it with an iron determination. "Now help me do what little we can for our companions." She bent to lift another stone. The others joined in and a cairn of rocks swiftly rose above the four young women.

  At last, Bithyia stepped back. She lifted her eyes to the sky and the circling crows then down to the earth beneath her feet. "Take your servants to your bosom, Mother. They served you well in life. We shall make a blood sacrifice for their spirits in due course." She lifted a hand, joining Sarmatia and Prithia in a last farewell. "Be safe with the Mother, beloved sisters. Until we meet again in death."

  The three women mounted their horses and rode slowly back to the muddy track then up the hill and into the silent pine forest without looking back.

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  Chapter Six

  The village of Turkul nestled comfortably in the lea of a small hill just beyond the rolling expanses of pine forest. Sheltered from the cold northerly winds, the dozen or so timber houses huddled together as if in mutual defence against the hostile world beyond its boundaries. An imposing two-story structure in the centre of the village doubled as an inn and the home of the village elder. An open space in front of it harbored a stone-lipped well and a few rough trestles sparsely covered with the miserable offerings of local farmers and hunters. Smoke coiled from soot-stained holes in the roofs of several houses, adding the sour smell of wood smoke to the stench of open middens and animal dung.

  Dimurthes rode into the open space at the head of his men, his hand on the pommel of his sword as he looked keenly around. Traders and their customers glanced at the column of Scythian warriors with interest, noting the armed readiness of the men. They quickly avoided eye contact before averting their heads and busying themselves with their trades or hurrying off as if suddenly remembering an urgent appointment elsewhere. Women gathered children away from the stalls into the relative security of their homes.

  Taraxes led the men, with Tomyra still bound on her horse, toward the inn, while Dimurthes dismounted at the well. He drew up a hide bucket of water and scrubbed dried blood from his hands before splashing his head and face with cold water. Tossing back his sodden hair, he strode over to a nearby midden and relieved himself with a great sigh of contentment in full view of the remaining villagers. He fastened his leggings back around his waist and walked over to the inn, snatching a loaf of coarse unleavened bread from a stall as he passed. The trader opened his mouth to protest then obviously thought better of it and turned away.

  Approaching the inn, Dimurthes was accosted by a tall, thin man dressed in patched and grubby clothing. Despite the grime and stench of wood smoke and food in his clothes, the man carried himself with an air of authority. Accompanying the man were two burly men carrying spears and short swords. They wore expressions of sullen indifference as they stood silently a few paces behind the thin man. With a glance at his companions as if for reassurance, the man deliberately stepped into the Serratae chieftain's path.

  "Your business?" he grated.

  Dimurthes slowly looked the man up and down before answering. "My business is my own."

  The tall man flushed. "I am the Elder here. All that happens in Turkul is my concern."

  Dimurthes turned his attention to the two men with the Elder. He caught a movement from his own men as they stood off to one side of the inn's entrance, tending to their
horses. As Taraxes stepped forward, Dimurthes waved him back and turned to the Elder once more.

  "I did not know that Turkul warranted an Elder. It seems a miserable collection of huts but it will suffice for my needs. Be so good as to see that my men are fed. We will not be staying long." He moved to push past the man.

  The Elder gave an inarticulate cry of outrage and shouted to his bodyguards. One of them clumsily pushed his spear toward Dimurthes as the other yanked his sword from his belt. Dimurthes moved quickly to one side, grasping the spear shaft as it probed past him. He tugged on the shaft then rammed it hard into the belly of the guard. The end of the shaft caught the man just under the ribcage, expelling the air from his lungs and doubling him over in agony. Before the first guard could collapse to the ground, Dimurthes snatched the spear from his hands and thrust it at the second guard who had just freed his sword. The spear point stopped an inch from the man's throat. The guard's eyes bulged and his sword slipped from his hand.

  "Shall we reconsider your welcome?" asked Dimurthes softly.

  The Elder looked at his two guards, at Dimurthes with the spear held rock-steady at the man's throat, and at the other Scythian warriors now ringing the small group. He paled, his throat working convulsively as he fought for words.

  "I...I bid you w...welcome, my Lord," he stammered. "I am happy to provide food for you and your men."

  Dimurthes smiled. "A sensible decision." He tossed the spear to one of his men and gestured to the Elder to precede him into the inn.

  The elder bowed obsequiously. "May I enquire as to your name, my Lord?" he asked.

  "I am Dimurthes, chief of the Serratae. My people are at Zarmet, just three days from here." Dimurthes smiled pleasantly at the man. "Would you like me to bring them here to meet you?"