Scythian Trilogy Book 2: The Golden King

by Max Overton

  This Greek apparently violated the priestess, though it seemed she sinned willingly enough. An attractive wench, Dimurthes thought, and fiery. He asked for and had been given her as prize from her brother. Her rape and degradation thrilled him to his core, though she disappointingly refused to beg for mercy, despite his efforts to break her.

  Such spirit! Under other circumstances...Dimurthes grinned then forced his mind back to his problem.

  The girl Tomyra is no longer a priestess but a legitimate spoil of war and as such, is mine to do with as I please.

  His forehead creased as he remembered the words of the old priestess Atrullia. She is priestess still...That was impossible, no matter what the old woman said. The teachings of the Goddess were clear on that point. A priestess was virgin...always. Her body was sacrosanct and death followed for any man who violated her. Death also for the priestess if she gave herself willingly.

  She gave herself to the Greek! It is common knowledge. She cannot be a priestess still.

  Dimurthes rose to his feet in agitation and tore a branch from the tree above him. He stripped off the twigs and leaves, crushing them in his hands then throwing them down violently.

  "She cannot be," he hissed between clenched teeth. He turned and hurled the branch across the stream at the silent women sitting below the temple entrance. "She cannot be!" he shouted.

  A young girl hurried down to the edge of the stream and retrieved the broken branch, carrying it up to the sitting women. She placed it reverently at their feet then ran back down to the stream. Facing Dimurthes across the shallow water, she spoke softly to him. "You must not damage the sacred trees, my lord."

  "Where is my prisoner, bitch?"

  "You must not damage the sacred trees," the girl repeated. "It is forbidden."

  "Then answer me or I will do more than just damage them," spat out Dimurthes. He wheeled and strode to the nearest tree, firmly grasping one of the branches. He pulled down hard, making the tree bend and sway. The bough creaked and groaned, the silvery bark splitting.

  "Hold!"

  Dimurthes looked over his shoulder and saw the women around the temple entrance running toward him. He grinned and released the branch, making the tree whip wildly. He turned and looked expectantly at the women clustered on the far bank.

  "The priestess Atrullia will see you now, my lord Dimurthes," said one of the women. "Please accompany us without showing further disrespect."

  Dimurthes nodded and leapt across the stream, pushing through the knot of young women. He half expected them to resist and block his progress but they moved aside, following him as he strode up the slope toward the dark entrance of the stone temple. He hesitated at the doorway, searching the dim interior for some sign of life.

  "If you would follow me, my lord," said a voice at his side. He turned to see the old woman, Solma, the companion of the priestess. She gestured into the temple then scurried on ahead, leaving Dimurthes to hurry after her.

  The interior of the temple was dark and cool after the bright sunlight of the valley. Dimurthes halted just inside and looked around, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness. His hand groped ineffectually at his belt for his sword before he remembered he was unarmed. He swore softly then shrugged.

  "My lord?" came Solma's voice from the twilight ahead of him. Dimurthes made out her figure and strode toward her, following as she turned and hobbled deeper into the temple.

  The walls of the temple closed in around them and after a few paces, Dimurthes was in a passage of dressed stone, lit only by infrequent oil lamps glimmering in small niches in the walls. Their faint yellow light served to accentuate the darkness rather than light their way. Gradually, the passage narrowed, the walls becoming rougher and the floor and ceiling uneven.

  "Where are we, old woman?" His voice threw back harsh echoes, overlain by a rustling noise that slowly died away.

  "Hush," whispered Solma. "You are on holy ground. Do not profane the sanctuary with your noise."

  Dimurthes held his hand out flat, low to the ground in a placatory gesture. "Where are we?" he whispered back. "This cannot be the temple, we have come too far."

  "That was but the entrance, my lord. The true sanctuary lies within the living rock of the mountain. You are..." Solma hesitated. "...honoured indeed. Few men are invited into the presence of the Mother Goddess."

  Dimurthes stopped, his hand pressed against the rock wall. "The presence of the Goddess?" He swallowed and made the sign again. He barked out a quick laugh. "You mean the priestess, of course." Exhaling loudly, Dimurthes gestured to Solma. "Lead on then, old woman."

  The passage dipped, plunging deeper into the mountainside. The rock walls grew warmer to the touch then, as the passage angled upward again, cooled. The dim yellow light of the oil lamps gradually faded and was replaced by a misty white radiance that increased until Dimurthes could plainly see the figure of the old woman in front of him. Then, between one step and the next, he found himself staring up at a shaft of light angling down through particulate air, plunging from a vaulted rock ceiling far above into a cavern that faded into darkness all around him. Tiny motes danced in the light as if alive, reminding him of mayflies swarming above the rivers of his youth, far to the north.

  Dimurthes gasped in awe, the sound sending whispers cascading around the cavern. He dragged his eyes down from the glory of the light to the cavern itself, to find he was alone. A faint noise from the darkness ahead indicated the direction of Solma's path. Moving forward, Dimurthes called out. "Woman! Where are...?" Echoes crashed back at him from the walls of the cavern, together with a rising tide of angry rustlings that quickly faded. He swallowed and called out again in a hoarse whisper. "Where are you?"

  Rustling echoes died into nothingness and silence beat down upon him for the space of several minutes. Then from the air around him, silence curdled, a whisper formed around the thudding of his heart in his ears. Words coagulated from the sibilance. "I am here, mortal man. Why do you seek me?"

  Dimurthes' hair prickled and his hand jerked placatingly downward. "I...You...I was sent for," he stuttered.

  Echoes of his reply died into silence. Dimurthes cautiously looked around. He stepped forward, moving stiffly, the muscles in his neck betraying his tension.

  "Stay!" cracked the voice. "You do not have my permission to move!"

  Dimurthes gasped, his heart racing. He felt a tiny trickle of warmth in his groin as fear gripped him. With an effort, he mastered himself and sank slowly to his knees on the rock floor of the chamber. Despite a lifetime of danger and battle, Dimurthes, for the first time in his life, felt terror. He had heard the power in the voice and felt awe and superstitious dread beating at his mind. The old stories of the Mother Goddess in all Her savage majesty, told in whispers around the fireside, returned. He waited, trembling.

  "Why do you come...man?"

  "I was sent for," Dimurthes whispered without looking up. "I wish to defend myself against an accusation of raping a priestess."

  Silence bore down on the cave like a suffocating hand.

  "My...my lady, Mother Goddess. I honour you. I would not..."

  "You forced her?" the voice hissed.

  "Yes, but she was not a priestess." Dimurthes looked up, his eyes searching the shadows in front of him. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, despite the cool air. "She was under sentence of death..."

  "You are chief of your tribe, the Serratae?"

  "Yes. I am Dimurthes, son of Sartes, of the Serratae."

  "You worship the Mother?"

  "Yes, lady."

  "How are my priestesses called?"

  Dimurthes knelt silently for a moment then..."I do not know, lady. I suppose they are chosen by you...by the Mother."

  "I make myself known to them."

  Silence descended around the man once more. White light from the vault far above slowly became golden, shifting as the day wore on. Dimurthes shifted on his knees, easing the pain where the rock dug into his flesh. />
  The whispers built again.

  "You knew she was my priestess?"

  "She said so, lady, but she was not a virgin. Everyone knew she violated her oath."

  "An oath that stands between me and my priestess, no one else." After a pause, the whisper continued. "You deny me my priestess?"

  "No, lady, of course not."

  "No man can take what is mine from me, but I can freely give. Do you understand?"

  Dimurthes shook his head, his sweat flying out to darken the rocky floor. "No, lady."

  The whispers rose in volume and the voice deepened. "I, through my priestesses, say when an oath is broken. Not you, Dimurthes, son of Sartes, nor any man. I have not withdrawn my power from Tomyra, daughter of Starissa. You have forced my holy one and the sentence on you is your death."

  "Lady, no!" Dimurthes threw himself forward, his hands groping in supplication. "I did not know. Have mercy, lady."

  "Neither Goddess nor woman in this place will claim your life, Dimurthes, son of Sartes. Arise and approach me."

  Dimurthes craned his neck, looking around at the shadows. He rose slowly to his knees then got to his feet, tentatively brushing the dust off his clothing. He moved hesitantly forward, peering into the gloom. Ahead of him, a small yellow flicker of light appeared. As he approached, he could make out a low table with an oil lamp burning brightly, casting a pool of golden light over the surroundings. By the lamp lay a dagger, its blade glinting.

  A figure moved in the darkness beyond the lamp glow. Dimurthes trembled, his hand pressing downward in superstitious terror as the figure approached, resolving slowly into that of a woman clad in a long robe. The woman came closer, her bare feet stepping calmly beneath the woollen folds of the robe that hung richly green to the rocky floor. Her head was bowed on her chest, her long black hair sweeping over her shoulders. Grasped in her slim white hands, held out in front of her, was an ornate silver cup, worked with enamel and gold. The woman stopped in front of Dimurthes and raised her head, looking straight into the shocked man's eyes.

  "You," he breathed. "Tomyra, I did not..." His voice trailed off into silence.

  The air rustled around the man and woman and the voice returned. "Dimurthes, son of Sartes. Drink from the cup."

  Dimurthes dragged his gaze from Tomyra's face and stared at the cup. He reached out for it then snatched his hand back. His features grimaced in a mixture of fear and anger. "Why must I drink from it? You seek to poison me."

  Dry laughter swept around the chamber. "I do not seek to poison you. See, my priestess will drink first."

  Tomyra, her face still and expressionless, lifted the cup to her lips and tilted it. She swallowed several times before lowering the cup. A thin dribble of blood-red wine trickled from the corner of her mouth. She held out the cup to Dimurthes.

  "Drink from the cup," repeated the voice.

  Dimurthes took the cup, his fingers brushing the girl's as he did so. He lifted the cup and sniffed gently then sipped, holding the wine in his mouth for a few moments before swallowing. He waited a few moments then drank again, more deeply, setting the cup on the table when he finished. "What now?" he rasped.

  "Look at the lamp."

  Dimurthes shrugged, his fear lifting from him as he did so. The Mother speaks only truth. Though I am guilty She will let me live. 'Neither goddess nor woman...' She said.

  The flame on the wick burned golden, flickering gently in the almost motionless air of the cavern. The glow surrounding it expanded and contracted as he looked, pulsing in time to his heartbeat. Colours paled as the glow grew, shedding light further into the chamber. In the periphery of his vision, Dimurthes became aware of other figures, standing motionless around him. He tried to look up at them but the flame held his attention. It fascinated him and he moved closer.

  "Dimurthes," said the voice. "Look at my priestess."

  He tore his eyes obediently from the lamp glow and stared at the face of the robed figure before him. His forehead wrinkled and he squinted, cocking his head to one side.

  "That is not..." he muttered. Dimurthes looked in confusion at the figure in the long green robe. He noticed with shock the thick beard and moustache set above dark eyes set in a pallid, sweating complexion. Who is that? I have seen him before somewhere. Memories of polished bronze and still waters floated past and recognition flooded over him.

  "It cannot be, I stand here myself," breathed Dimurthes. His eyes widened and his hand flew to his mouth as he heard a woman's voice issuing from his throat. His hand met soft lips, a smooth chin and finely sculpted jaw. He looked down at his hand, small and delicate, and at the woollen robe swathing the body beneath him. Across from him a man wearing familiar features stared back, hands plucking distractedly at the waistband of dusty leather leggings.

  This man has wronged me greatly, he thought. This man has forced himself...With a great cry of anguish Dimurthes swept the dagger from the table and hurled himself at the figure, burying the blade in the man's belly just below the ribs.

  A wash of pain swept over Dimurthes and the cavern darkened, the lamp glow once more illuminating just the table. He looked down at his fist, clutching the hilt of the dagger. A puzzled expression flitted across his face and he dropped to his knees. He pulled the dagger, groaning with pain as it came out in a flood of blood, rapidly soaking his undershirt and leggings.

  Dimurthes stared up at Tomyra, his eyes wandering over her face. He groaned and bent over, one hand steadying him, the other clutching his abdomen. Lifting his head once more, he opened his mouth to speak but fell before he could do so, his breath escaping as a gasp. Dimurthes rolled onto his back and lay still.

  Tomyra stood in silence looking down at the body of her captor and tormentor. She extended her foot from beneath her robes and nudged the body. It shifted slightly but otherwise showed no signs of life.

  "He is dead," Tomyra said softly. "I wish it had been at my hand but this will suffice. May his spirit never find rest."

  "Even one such as he, is with the Mother," answered a dry voice from the shadows.

  Tomyra turned as oil lamps flared around her, revealing the presence of a dozen robed women standing in a circle. One moved forward, hobbling painfully on arthritic joints, supported on each side by a young girl.

  "Lady Atrullia." Tomyra inclined her head toward the old woman. "I pray you are wrong about his spirit."

  Atrullia shook her head. "You are young, Tomyra, and young people are quick to judge. Despite the grievous wrong he did you, he was a good leader of his people and much loved by all accounts." She shook off the young girls and moved closer to Tomyra. "Yes, he deserved death for violating you but a case could have been made for his ignorance of the Mother's wishes. He chose instead to take his own life. The Great Goddess guided his hand. It was imperative that his blood not be on your hands."

  "I have killed men before, my lady. In my own tribe I ride out with the patrols. The blood of this one would have brought me much joy."

  Atrullia gripped Tomyra's arm with a strength that surprised the girl. "One day you will have to tell your daughter of her father. You will at least be free of his death."

  Tomyra opened her mouth then closed it, her eyes growing large. "My daughter?" she whispered.

  "Yes, child. Your daughter grows within you."

  "How can that be, my lady? I had my moon but...ten days ago. I have not lain with my man since..." A horrified expression swept over Tomyra's face as the realisation came upon her. "I bear his child?" Anger formed in her eyes and her throat worked convulsively. "I cannot," she whispered. "I must find the necessary herbs and...."

  "You will do no such thing, Tomyra," snapped Atrullia. "The Mother Goddess forbids such an action."

  Tomyra shook her head. "He raped me, my lady. I must be rid of his...his thing. Other women do so, with less cause. Surely I can too?" she asked weakly.

  "Do you question the Mother? Is her order too much for her priestess to obey? Speak now, girl, and perhaps you ca
n yet be dismissed from her service." Atrullia sniffed loudly. "No doubt we can find you a position as a serving girl or slut in one of the villages nearby."

  Tomyra lowered her head into her hands and sobbed softly. After a few moments she wiped her face with the back of her hands and raised her head. "I will obey the Mother in all things," she whispered.

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  Chapter Fourteen

  Parasades woke when the eastern sky paled. He stretched and looked about him at the remnants of the smoldering campfire. Several bodies lay wrapped in blankets near the embers, huddled against the chill night air. In a parody of his companions' efforts to keep warm, the corpses of the Serratae warriors they'd ambushed the night before lay piled on the edge of the clearing. Their tangled limbs and pale upturned faces, streaked and splotched with dark gore, bore a mute testimony to the chilling finality of death.

  Looking across at the stump of the old pine tree, Parasades could make out the form of the Serratae prisoner and, a few paces beyond him, the outline of Certes. The young man paced in the dawn light, shivering beneath the folds of his woollen cloak. His breath gusted white in the cold air.

  Parasades rose to his feet, wincing at the stabs of pain in his muscles. He flexed his arms and legs and ran his fingers through his long black hair. He hawked and spat on the ground then walked over to the prisoner who sat, head on chest, against the tree stump. Squatting beside the man, Parasades nudged him in the shoulder. The prisoner at once raised his head and glowered at his captor.

  Parasades drew his dagger, fingering the point absently as he examined the bound man. "What should I do with you?" he mused.

  The prisoner sat silent, staring up at Parasades with hate in his eyes.

  "What would you do if I set you free?" asked Parasades in a low voice. He waited a moment then continued. "Not going to answer me? No matter. There are only two options available to you. If you are a coward you could run and hide, but if you wanted revenge for the deaths of your companions, you would gather your fellow tribesmen and return quickly." Parasades smiled coldly, tapping his teeth with the point of his dagger. "Of course, you have no way of knowing that a Serratae patrol is no more than three hours from here on the Plains road." He sighed and looked over at the campfire.