Scythian Trilogy Book 2: The Golden King

by Max Overton

  The three men and a woman pushed through the undergrowth into the small clearing on the summit of the hillock. Agarus slid off his gelding and limped across to a heap of scuffed dirt. He squatted beside it and raked the soil back, digging his gnarled fingers into what lay beneath.

  "There has been a fire here," he said. "Recently, too. The ashes are still warm."

  "Aye, and horses." Timon bent down and picked up a few grains of feed. "Somebody stayed here long enough to rest and feed their horses. Three, I'd say, from the signs."

  "It must be Bithyia," exclaimed Diratha. "With Prithia and Sarmatia. We must ride after them."

  "Be patient, Diratha," said Nikometros. "We must wait for the others to get back from the village. Besides, if Bithyia is only a few hours ahead of us then so are the ones they follow. We do not want to ride into them unawares." He dismounted and stretched. "Get some rest. I will take the first watch."

  Agarus and Timon unloaded the horses and rubbed them down, giving them a drink of water and a handful of dried grass from an almost-empty sack. Diratha sat with her back to a large pine tree and drew her sword from its sheath. Spitting on a small piece of worn sandstone, she started honing the blade with careful strokes. She sang beneath her breath as she worked, the words indistinct. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears as she sang.

  Timon jerked his head at the young woman. "What is she singing, Agarus?" he asked. "I thought I knew most of the campfire songs but I haven't heard this one before."

  Agarus hawked and spat. "It's a death song, my friend. A warrior sings it before he goes into battle, knowing he'll be killed." He grimaced. "I've never heard a woman sing it though."

  Timon sat down under another tree across the small glade from Diratha, watching the young woman as she honed her blade and sang her welcome to death. He turned his mind to his own woman, Bithyia. Although not a consecrated virgin like her mistress Tomyra, her dedication to the service of the priestess of the Great Goddess had kept her away from the attentions of men. By custom rather than law, the female companions of the priestess were also viewed as sacrosanct. Falling in love for the first time with Timon, Bithyia's passion had raged uncontrollably. Their affair had no doubt deflected attention from the forbidden love of the priestess for her Greek champion.

  Timon grinned, remembering the nights of love beneath the summer stars and the thrill of the chase, pursuing deer through the thickets by the riverbanks. Bithyia, like most Scythians, seemed as if she had been born on horseback. She could hunt with the most skilled of the men, hold her own with arrow and sword and even wrestle many young men to a draw. Despite her slight body, her courage and determination drove her to excel in traditionally manly pursuits. Only with Timon had she surrendered, after a suitable time, willingly allowing the Macedonian soldier to claim the prize of her own body.

  A low cough brought Timon back from his memories. He saw that Agarus lay curled up over the dirt-covered ashes of the old fire, extracting a last remnant of heat. Diratha had ceased her efforts to sharpen her weapon and leaned back against the pine bark. Her eyes were open but unfocused. Timon looked around and saw Nikometros beckoning to him. He crawled over and looked toward the road, in time to see a man on horseback disappearing at a fast trot away from the village.

  "Parasades?" he asked.

  "No. A soldier though. I hope they haven't run into trouble." Nikometros glanced round at Agarus and Diratha. "Get everyone ready to move. I think we should move closer to the village in case they need assistance."

  Nikometros and his companions moved cautiously back to the road then along it toward the village. At a bend in the road, at the point where it dropped over a low ridge, they left the road and worked their way slowly along the crest. From this vantage point they could see down into the village, making out some of the marketplace and square over the roofs of the houses.

  "I don't see them," muttered Timon.

  "There are a lot of people down there, though I don't see any soldiers," remarked Nikometros. "The activity seems to be centred around that large house there."

  "Probably the inn," said Agarus, licking his lips. "By the dust demons, I could do with a beer right now. Perhaps my lord Parasades will bring some back with him," he added hopefully.

  "There." Nikometros pointed. "See, at the door of the...inn. I'm sure that is Certes." The figure of a man rapidly crossed the open space, disappearing behind one of the intervening buildings. A few moments later he reappeared, leading two horses.

  The unmistakable figure of Parasades exited the inn, together with a tall, thin man and a burly man--a soldier--armed with a spear. Parasades and the thin man stood, apparently in argument, with much waving of hands and pointing. The armed man stood stolidly to one side, watching them. Certes pushed past the group into the inn, reemerging a few moments later with two bags that he slung over the backs of the horses.

  Parasades clapped the man on the shoulder and turned toward his horse. He and Certes mounted and kicked their horses into a walk, disappearing among the houses.

  Nikometros pulled the reins of his stallion back toward the road, the others following. They reached the bend just as Parasades and Certes clattered up. Parasades checked his horse momentarily as he caught sight of Nikometros then came up alongside him.

  "Nikomayros, you startled me," he said. "I had thought to see you farther from the village."

  "We were concerned when we saw the soldier ride past."

  Parasades hesitated. "He did not see you?"

  "No. What happened down there in the village? Did you find out anything?" enquired Nikometros.

  "Did you bring any beer?" Agarus asked.

  Certes grinned. "No beer, cripple. We sampled it, though. They make a good brew hereabouts."

  Agarus scowled and turned away, muttering imprecations under his breath.

  "Tomyra was here," stated Parasades. "They are no more than two hours ahead of us. The headman was most forthcoming."

  Nikometros grinned. "Then we shall find them by nightfall."

  "If the gods so wish it, my friend Nikomayros. There is a complication or two to my tale though." Parasades frowned. "The headman tells me there was an altercation in the inn and the local priestess now rides with Dimurthes to her sanctuary on Mount Mora. The argument concerned Tomyra. Further, there is a patrol of Serratae hereabouts. We must be cautious."

  Nikometros looked puzzled. "Dimurthes is no longer going to Zarmet?"

  Parasades shrugged. "The headman was unclear on that point. Dimurthes has undertaken to bring the old priestess and her servant to her mountain sanctuary, but whether he will do so himself or assign his men is uncertain."

  "So we must still follow as before," frowned Nikometros. "Well, let us away while there is still light."

  The sound of hooves on the hard packed road intruded on the conversation. Parasades pointed off the road and spurred his horse into the forest. They reached the shelter of the first trees, though still in view of any who might turn their heads, before the lone rider thundered up from the village and past them.

  "The soldier," muttered Timon. "Where is he off to in such a hurry?"

  Parasades turned and looked at Timon. "The soldier? You have seen him before?"

  "In the doorway of the inn," replied Timon. "We saw him through the trees when you talked to the headman."

  The Scythian frowned then nodded. "Come," he said. "As the lord Nikomayros says, we must make the most of the light." He walked his horse back down to the road.

  Timon caught Nikometros by the arm as he rode past him. "My lord," he whispered. "There is something wrong, I can feel it." He grimaced at Nikometros' questioning look. "He looked alarmed when I said I had seen the soldier, just for a moment. There's something else he's not telling us."

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  Chapter Ten

  Gorinax cursed under his breath as he forced his horse into a gallop, thrashing it across its rump with a willow wand. Despite the cold late afterno
on air he sweated, the odours of his fear and apprehension mingling with the unwashed stench of his body. His eyes darted nervously over the rocky hillsides and gullies with their sparse coverings of scrubby vegetation. Somewhere out here, he knew, was the enemy.

  A pox on that bastard son of a fornicating goat, he thought savagely. Sending me out alone with the gods only knew what dangers. Gorinax pulled his horse to a halt on the crest of a low rise and looked about him, searching his memory for a landmark. "May a demon take Portrax and use his guts..." he muttered. Ah! There it is. He scrutinised the massive table of rock jutting out from the ridge far above him then looked back down the road toward Turkul. I should be home with my woman and a good hot meal inside me. He hawked and spat, the action sending a spasm of pain through his bruised chest and belly. Gods curse all fornicating horse-warriors, he thought sourly, remembering the agony as the spear haft had thudded into him earlier that day. And now that fornicating Portrax wants me to find that fornicating Serratae patrol.

  He jerked his horse's head, urging it off the road and up the line of the ridge. It balked at the loose stony ground and he slashed it with his willow branch. Reluctantly, the horse started forward, picking its way carefully uphill.

  The sun dipped below the horizon before he reached the flat rock. He moved past it to stare over the ridge into the next valley, straining to make out the road far below in the deepening shadows. Already, Gorinax regretted taking this shortcut, though he knew it would cut many miles off his journey. The passage down into the darkened valley before him would be fraught with dangers from the icy, loose rock. At least those cursed Massegetae warriors reported to be hereabouts would be keeping close to the forest roads.

  An hour later, the soldier reached the road, having been thrown no more than twice. He turned north, toward Zarmet, riding down through the foothills toward the plains of grass that stretched out to the northern snows. As night fell he slowed his horse to a walk, letting the animal pick its way cautiously along the faint glimmer of the path. Hours yet to moonrise, he thought. Not that a waning moon will be much use. He shivered and drew his patched cloak close about him.

  A faint smudge of ruddy light drew his attention. Off to his left and down in a wooded gully, the glow flickered and danced. Gorinax stopped and rubbed his eyes. Ah, those fornicating Serratae, he thought. Or the Massegetae? No, they would not dare a fire. He glanced back the way he had come then urged his horse off the track toward the glowing light. The glow grew larger and brighter as he approached and the smell of wood smoke assailed his nostrils.

  A faint clatter of pebbles sounded from his left and Gorinax turned quickly, his hand moving toward the sword at his waist. He gave a muffled cry as hands reached out from the darkness behind him, drawing him swiftly to the ground. He felt hands over his mouth and nose, suffocating him, and cold steel at his throat.

  "Bind him," muttered a voice. "Bring him to the fire."

  Rough hands fumbled at Gorinax's back, tying his hands with a leather rope. The hand over his face eased and he drew a noisy breath. A voice with a wash of breath redolent of meat and herbs, whispered in his ear.

  "You feel my blade?"

  Gorinax nodded, his eyes bulging.

  "Then remember it," the voice went on. "And keep silent."

  The hand withdrew and Gorinax drew a quavering breath. Hands reached out and hauled him to his feet, pushing him toward the fire. Gorinax stumbled and fell to his knees in the orange light. He looked around at a number of bearded and moustached men, clad in Scythian leathers. A man detached himself from the circle of onlookers and walked around the fire toward Gorinax, fingering a short dagger as he approached.

  "Who are you?" the man grated. "Why were you trying to spy on us?"

  One of his captors guffawed. "He was as quiet and subtle as a stallion at rut."

  The man glanced up at the grinning faces and frowned. The laughter died, the men looking down at the ground or staring stonily at their prisoner.

  "Who are you?" the man repeated.

  "G...G...Gorinax. I am a soldier at Turkul."

  "What are you doing here, Gorinax?"

  Gorinax looked around the circle of faces and licked his lips. "I...I seek warriors of the Serratae. I was told there was a patrol here." He looked up at the man standing over him, dagger in hand. "Are...are you Serratae?" he quavered.

  "Why do you seek the Serratae?" asked the man, ignoring the question.

  "Portrax sent me. A stranger came to Turkul today, asking questions. He..."

  "And who in the seven levels of Hades is Portrax?"

  "He is Elder of our village, the Headman. He said to tell you about the stranger."

  The man yawned and picked at his nails with the tip of his dagger. "I am getting bored with this conversation." He looked over Gorinax's head at the men standing behind him. "Take this sorry fool into the bushes and kill him."

  Gorinax let out a high-pitched scream as hands hauled him to his feet. "My lord, no! Please, my lord, Massegetae are here...Portrax said I should find you...the Lion...nooo!" The words tailed off into an inarticulate scream as the men dragged him out of the circle of firelight. Steam rose from his leggings as his bladder let go, the stench of urine mixing with smoke in the cold night air.

  "Wait!" The command halted the Scythian warriors. The man crossed swiftly to the little group and stared into Gorinax's tear-streaked face. "Massegetae are here?"

  "Yes, lord," sobbed Gorinax. "Please don't kill me, lord. I was only bringing a message from Portrax. He said...the stranger said..."

  The man flicked his dagger across the face of the crying figure in front of him, a look of disgust curving his mouth downward. "Be quiet." He waited for the sobs to die down before he continued. "Think carefully before you speak. If you babble I will kill you. Now tell me in as few words as possible about the Massegetae."

  Gorinax gulped and licked his lips. "He...they..." He gave a low sob and drew a quavering breath. "T...two men came to Turkul today. They were Massegetae warriors with one they called the Lion of Scythia. They hunt the Lord Dimurthes."

  The man stared at Gorinax for a moment. He nodded to the men holding the soldier. "Bring him to the fire." To Gorinax he added, "You have bought yourself a few minutes more of life." The man strode back to the fire and seated himself on a large boulder. He grimaced as Gorinax was thrust at his feet. "Not so close," he growled. "He stinks."

  The man held out a hand to one side. "Perisces," he said softly. "Bring me koumiss." He waited until a hide flask was thrust into his hand. He took a long drink and belched softly, an odour of fermenting milk wafting over his prisoner. "Now, Gorinax, soldier of Turkul," he said. "Tell me about this Lion of Scythia."

  Gorinax trembled and shuffled on his knees, the stony soil digging into his flesh. "I do not know about this Lion, my lord. I only know what the stranger told my headman, Portrax."

  "And what was that?"

  "He said five Massegetae, including one called the Lion, followed the lord Dimurthes and a woman captive of his. They left Turkul just before sunset. Portrax told Lodas to find and warn my lord Dimurthes and sent me to find you." Gorinax looked into the man's face in doubt. "You are Serratae, my lord?" he asked tremulously.

  "Indeed I am," mused the man. He inclined his head a fraction. "I am Sparses, advisor and deputy to Dimurthes." The man stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Where is Dimurthes now?"

  "He left with his men and the old priestess of Mount Mora. He was to escort the old woman to her sanctuary but whether he meant to go there himself or send his men, I know not."

  "So either way he takes the Zarmet road via the Holy Mountain? And the Massegetae follow him, you say?"

  "Yes lord. And there are but five of them."

  "How many men does the lord Dimurthes have?" asked Sparses.

  Gorinax shrugged. "A dozen or so, my lord."

  "Then they are in no immediate danger." Sparses turned to his men and beckoned one of them forward. "Lorcus, how long until moo
nrise?"

  Lorcus shrugged. "Three hours, my lord. Perhaps four. Without the stars it is hard to be certain."

  Sparses nodded. "Then get some rest. We ride at moonrise."

  "What of this one?" asked Lorcus, indicating the kneeling figure of Gorinax.

  "Cut him loose and let him dry himself by the fire," sneered Sparses. "Then feed him and guard him. He rides with us."

  Lorcus gestured and barked out a string of orders before turning back to Sparses. He lowered his voice. "Who is this Lion he mentioned?"

  Sparses gave a savage grin. "A Greek invader of the Persians to the south of our lands. He has grown in power among the Massegetae and now desires to be known as the Lion of Scythia." He laughed. "I have greatly desired to meet this man in battle and kill him. I rejoice that he is near. I will find him and take his life."

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  Chapter Eleven

  The small party of three women and four men trudged uphill, the horses' hooves slipping in the loose rock. The old servant of the priestess, Solma, rode in the lead, followed by the priestess Atrullia herself then Dimurthes and Tomyra. The three Scythian guards brought up the rear. As they rode, the men cast apprehensive looks about them in the gathering twilight, staring with distrust at the long, steep slopes of unstable rock devoid of all vegetation.

  Tomyra felt the first faint stirrings of hope. She was aware, still, of the undercurrents of power that stemmed from the Mother, but had wondered these last few days whether perhaps this was just her imaginings. Now the old priestess had reaffirmed her status, staring at her in the inn with her bird-bright eyes, Atrullia's gnarled and ancient hands gripping hers. She felt her spirits surge for an instant before the backwash of despair clutched at her heart again. Domra, she recalled. Domra and the others...A tear formed at the corner of one eye and she brushed it away angrily. I will mourn later, she thought. I have so many to mourn for now--my father, Domra, the others who tried to rescue me...my Niko?