by Max Overton
"It will be light soon. If you were to escape it would have to be now." Parasades slipped his dagger between the ropes around the prisoner's legs. "You will need a horse. The gray gelding stands ready." Parasades turned the man and sliced through his wrist bonds. "Run and hide, fellow."
The prisoner got to his feet slowly, rubbing his wrists. He glanced over at Certes, who stared back at him, spear in hand. Parasades gestured, waving Certes away, and the prisoner, with a puzzled look, took to his heels in the direction of the horses. A few minutes later, the two men heard the muffled sounds of a single horse dissolve into the silence of the grasslands.
Certes turned to his chief. "My lord?" he queried.
"Keep silent, my friend," grinned Parasades. "You were on guard on the other side of the camp when he escaped."
The warrior inclined his head. "As you command." He turned and walked away.
Parasades watched Certes moving away then stretched and walked back to the fire. He stirred the embers with a stick and threw on more wood. The crackle of the flames soon intruded on the silence of the streambed camp. A wave of warmth emanated from the fire and Parasades sat, with hands outstretched to the flames, deep in thought.
The dawn light strengthened and a chill breeze blew from the direction of the mountains. Certes moved over to the fire and stood in its warmth, looking at his lord with troubled eyes.
Nikometros sat up and yawned then reached over and shook Timon's shoulder. He arose and stretched, nodding at Parasades. Other yawns and grunts emanated from Agarus and Diratha on either side of him. Diratha mumbled something indistinctly then got up and moved rapidly in the direction of the horses.
"Morning, Parasades," greeted Nikometros. "You slept well?"
"Too well, it seems," replied Parasades quietly. "Our prisoner has escaped."
"What?" Nikometros spun round and stared at the tree stump and the ropes lying at its base. "How in Hades did that happen? Who was on watch?"
Parasades shrugged. "Certes. I have already questioned him. He heard a noise and investigated. When he returned, the prisoner was gone. He then woke me."
"And you did nothing?"
"What could I do?" asked Parasades. "We searched the surroundings. He took a horse. We could not track him at night."
Timon scowled. "Something stinks, sir. When I passed over the watch to Certes, the prisoner was secure. I checked his bonds myself." He strode over to the ropes and picked them up. "They have been cut! He was helped to escape."
"Or else you missed a knife when you tied him," observed Parasades dryly.
"I searched him. He had no knife, I would swear to it," spat Timon.
"Then someone aided him," said Parasades quietly. "Tell me, Macedonian, who do you accuse?"
Timon glowered at the Scythian lord but said nothing.
"Perhaps you accuse me, or Certes? Of course, we have been fighting the Serratae since we first bore arms. We have no reason to aid an enemy." Parasades put his hands on his hips and smiled at Timon. "If you remember, I wanted to kill him last night. Only the intervention of my lord Nikomayros," he inclined his head, "Saved him then." He stabbed out an arm at Agarus, still seated by the fire. "Perhaps the cripple, or the woman?" He looked around. "Where is she, by the way?"
"Here my lord," replied Diratha. The Scythian woman walked out from behind the low hillock by the horse lines, refastening her tunic as she came. "What has happened? There is a horse missing."
"The prisoner escaped," said Parasades. "Our Macedonian companions think one of us let him escape."
"That is nonsense!" exclaimed Diratha. She flushed then continued. "With respect, my lord Nikomayros. No Massegetae warrior would allow a Serratae dog to live, save by your command."
"Well, if it was not one of us then he must have used a hidden knife." Parasades turned to Timon with a blank face. "Unless my lord Nikomayros helped him to escape?"
Timon dropped his gaze, a flush of anger reddening his features. "Maybe he had a knife hidden," he ground out.
Nikometros clapped Timon on the shoulder. "It is past, my friend. At least we were not knifed in our beds." He looked thoughtfully at the dawn sky. "We shall have to find him though, and quickly."
"My thoughts too, my lord," agreed Parasades. "I feel a measure of responsibility over the affair. After all, he escaped while my man was on watch." He glanced quickly at Certes, who stared at the ground. "I will take Certes and search for him. He cannot have got far."
Nikometros nodded. "Thank you, my lord. We will be ready to move out when you return."
Parasades snapped his fingers at Certes and shouldered his way past Timon. The two men trotted over toward the horse lines, picking up their bags as they went. A few minutes later, as the first rays of the sun broke through the ragged cloud on the horizon, the sound of hooves drumming on the earth died away.
The two riders broke out of the dewy grassland onto the narrow dirt road. Parasades brought his horse to an abrupt halt and swiveled in his seat, looking about him.
Certes reined his horse in further down the road then walked it back to the other man. "My lord?" he enquired. "Are we not to look for the prisoner?"
Parasades ignored his question and pointed to a small stand of pines several hundred paces further down the road. "That looks satisfactory," he said. "Come." He kicked his horse into motion and led Certes down the road and into the cover of the trees. The men dismounted and tied the reins of their horses to a small sapling on the far side of the stand within reach of the grass. Parasades cleared a patch of ground of fallen branches and stones and settled himself comfortably. Certes squatted beside him, peering out through the foliage at the road and the swell of grassland where their companions camped.
"I don't understand, my lord," said Certes. "First you release the Serratae then you say he escaped and will fetch him back. Now we sit and do nothing."
Parasades picked at his teeth with a broken twig. "What do you know of our Greek, the lord Nikomayros?" he asked.
Certes shrugged. "Only what most men know. He is a good fighter and nearly as good a horseman as any man of the plains."
"Would you follow him into battle?"
"No," replied Certes after a moment. "He can lead men bravely, but..." His voice trailed into silence.
"But what?"
"My lord, I know he is your friend but I am unsure of his intentions."
Parasades glanced up at the other man. "What do you mean?"
Certes got up and walked over to the edge of the pine grove. He stared out at the road and the dew-soaked grass sparkling in the weak rays of the winter sun. "He is not of the People, my lord."
"That makes a difference?"
"May I speak freely, lord, without fear?"
"Of course."
"Then, yes, it does make a difference. I would follow you, my lord, or any worthy Massegetae warrior into any battle, regardless of the odds." Certes swung round and faced his lord, his sword arm tensing as he spoke. "Forgive me, my lord, but I would rather follow the traitor Areipithes than the Greek."
Parasades' mouth gave a quick, jerky smile. "Do others think as you do, Certes?"
"Yes." Certes waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, there are a number of young men, the ones who shave and like to call themselves his 'lions', who would follow him anywhere. But most men distrust him. They followed as long as Spargises supported him, but now?" He shrugged. "Many would look to a true-born son of the Massegetae to lead them. If Areipithes is the only leader then they will follow him."
"Then I shall have to give them another leader."
Certes grinned. "Aye, lord. Many would follow you if you gave the sign. But what of the Greek?"
"I spoke truly when I told the prisoner of the Serratae patrol on the Plains road. The headman of Turkul will have sent word to them already. It only remains for our freed prisoner to guide them to their prey."
Certes' mouth dropped open. "You would betray the Greeks...and our own tribesmen with them?"
"
Certainly," laughed Parasades. "A crippled servant and a woman. I regret their deaths but their sacrifice will rid our People of a troublesome man."
Certes shook his head uncertainly. "Then what has this all been about?" he asked, waving his hand in the general direction of the mountains. "Why did you not let the Greek ride to his death alone? Why this pretense?"
"The girl is important. Whether or not she is still a priestess is immaterial. The people love her and she is a daughter of Spargises. I need her support if I am to make a bid for the throne."
"Throne, my lord?" gaped Certes. "The Massegetae are a strong tribe and Spargises was a redoubtable warrior chief but he never claimed to be a king."
"He never saw what was plain to others. The Jartai, the Dahai and the Dumae recognise the authority of the Massegetae. Others will follow. There is a kingdom waiting to be claimed. You can be sure Areipithes has seen the potential."
"Will the priestess support you if you have let her champion die? Some say he was even her lover."
"He was, and she must never know. There are no certainties this far into enemy lands. He fell by some chance encounter with superior forces. We escaped to rescue her as the lord Nikomayros wished."
Certes nodded slowly. "Then we continue to search for the priestess?"
"Indeed. Dimurthes has no more than two or three men with him now. I dare say we can free her of his clutches." Parasades patted the ground beside him. "Wait until the patrol has done its work and we can be on our way."
Certes sat against the bole of a pine tree, his arms wrapped around his hunched knees, looking out toward the road. Parasades lay back and closed his eyes, listening to the soft sighing of the wind above them.
Time passed slowly, the sun creeping higher in the sky as they watched and waited. Twice, a tiny figure appeared briefly on the road near the camp. It shaded its eyes against the low sun and searched the road and surrounding plains for a few minutes before hobbling back out of sight. Certes woke his master and pointed.
"The cripple," observed Certes. "They grow impatient for our return."
Parasades nodded. "That is the one thing that concerns me. If they decide not to wait for us they may yet escape the patrol. Ah, see there!" He pointed at movement far up the road.
The movement, vague and unformed, swiftly resolved itself into a body of horsemen approaching at a fast pace. As they grew closer, Parasades thought he could make out a familiar gray gelding and nodded in satisfaction. The riders slowed then divided, fanning out over the undulating grasslands in a thin line, encircling the as yet unseen campsite. At a signal the horsemen turned and moved inward, bows drawn and ready. They disappeared behind the ridges and once more the plains became silent and empty.
"How long do we wait, my lord?"
Parasades pursed his lips. "How long to kill three men and a woman? A few minutes, unless they seek revenge." He shrugged. "No doubt they will give their comrades at least some sort of burial, gather up the horses and gear. We will be on our way within the hour."
They sat silently, wrapped in their own thoughts, as the morning grew older. A thin wisp of smoke appeared over the grassland and several kites could be seen, circling far above, drawn by the presence of men. At last, the smoke dissipated, and shortly after, a body of horses emerged onto the road. Parasades and Certes leapt to their feet and pushed through the screen of pines cautiously.
Four riders set off along the road toward the village of Turkul, each trailing a long rope with several horses in train. The others, perhaps a dozen or more, turned in the other direction, their main concern being the three figures bound to the backs of the horses in their midst.
"They did not kill them all," exclaimed Certes. "I can see three prisoners there. But who?" He screwed up his eyes and stared at the party of men moving off to the northwest. "I cannot make them out, though that big one at the rear could be Timon."
"The tall one is the Greek, I am sure. So they did not kill him immediately. I wonder why not?" Parasades chewed his lip, his brow furrowed in concentration. "They take the road to Zarmet at least. He will die there for certain." He exhaled loudly and turned back to the horses. "No matter. We must find Tomyra and rescue her, my friend. It is time to move on."
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Chapter Fifteen
Bathed and rested, a good hot meal in her belly and thick woollen robes protecting her from the chill morning air, Tomyra rode out of the sanctuary of Mount Mora, her mood buoyant but her mind troubled.
The events of the previous day were hazy, the edges of memory clouded by the withdrawal of the Goddess' spirit. Last night, the clarity of her perceptions had startled and delighted her. The unfolding of the Great Goddess' purpose was apparent and breathtaking. This morning, her awareness of this purpose had waned, dissipating even as the drugged smoke and ritualised chanting dissolved with the dancing shadows in the cave of the Mother.
The bright light of the winter's morning brought forth a whole new array of possibilities but brought with them the realisation of what had happened to her. Tomyra's hand strayed toward her belly and for a moment she felt the warmth of future motherhood before she thrust it firmly from her. This was no child she could love, but rather a growth that had been thrust into her by a hated enemy. Oh, Great Mother, how could you do this to me?
"Do not fight it, child." The quiet voice at Tomyra's side startled her and she looked round, wide-eyed.
"Lady Atrullia," she gasped. "You startled...fight what, lady?"
Atrullia smiled and urged her mare closed to Tomyra's. "Your thoughts are open for anyone to see, my child."
The two women walked their horses through the shallow stream and encouraged them up the steep bank on the far side. They passed into the leafless birch and alder forest of the valley edges, the sunlight streaming through the bare branches warming them despite the cold breeze from the mountains. Twigs and dry leaves crackled beneath the hooves of their mounts.
"Have you already forgotten the Mother's purpose, child?" Atrullia spoke softly, as if addressing her mare, but her words clearly carried in the crisp air. "You hate the unborn one inside you for no other reason than your hatred of her father. Beware of your hatred, Tomyra. Turn against your daughter and you turn against the Mother."
"You need not fear," snapped Tomyra. "I will obey you as I have sworn to do. The child will be unharmed."
"Only unharmed? Unloved too, I fear."
"You ask me to love this...this thing I carry?" Tomyra shook her head. "I will not get rid of it as I long to do, but you cannot ask me to love it."
"I do not ask it, my child. The Great Goddess who rules us all, from the bellies of our mothers to our graves, asks it of you." Atrullia reached out a hand and grasped Tomyra firmly. "Learn to love your daughter, Tomyra."
Tomyra drew back on the reins of her mare and turned to face the old woman. She stared grimly at her for a few moments then dropped her eyes. "It is hard," she breathed.
She shook herself and looked around her at the bare forest. "What is to happen when I leave the sanctuary, my lady?" she asked in a small voice. "His men are waiting for me."
"I did warn them, did I not?" said Atrullia dryly.
"What do you mean?"
"The sanctuary of the Mother is not a good place for men to come with violence in their hearts," chuckled the old priestess. "It seems they were visited by the women who were following us when we arrived. I regret they did not survive the encounter."
"They are my women?"
"So I am told. Come, let us ride to meet them."
Tomyra pushed her mare on eagerly through the thinning forest toward the boundary of the valley sanctuary. Atrullia followed more sedately, a smile on her wrinkled face. As the trees gave way to bare scrubby willow and bush alder, a woman stepped out of the cover, a drawn bow in hand. For a moment, the look on the dirty unkempt face of the woman was one of pure astonishment, followed by one of intense joy.
"My lady? Oh, Great Moth
er! It is you." The woman turned and gesticulated wildly at the scrub. "Sarmatia, Prithia! It is our lady. Come quickly!" She turned back to Tomyra who was sliding off her mare and threw down her bow. "My lady," she cried again, tears running down her cheeks. "We have found you at last."
Tomyra ran toward the woman, her thick woollen robes flapping. "Bithyia! My dearest Bithyia! I feared you were dead." Tears coursed down her face as she clung to the woman dressed in warrior leathers, hugging and kissing her.
Sarmatia and Prithia ran from the cover of the willows, discarding their bows as they came. They hesitated a moment then dropped on their knees, clasping the folds of Tomyra's cloak.
"Lady," breathed Prithia.
"My lady," added Sarmatia. "We are here to serve you."
Tomyra looked down at the two of them and brushed her tears away, her lips quivering in a smile. "Faithful Sarmatia, and Prithia too. I dared not hope you were still alive. When I saw what they did to Domra..."
Bithyia's face clouded. "Domra, yes, and others. That man will answer for it when I find him."
"He has already, Bithyia. Dimurthes..." Tomyra spat his name out, "...died by his own hand in the Mother's sanctuary. Domra is avenged." She paused then in a quiet voice, "You said others? Who?"
"Tarmia, Stallias..."
"Not gentle Stallias?"
"...and Portas, my lady." Bithyia hung her head, fresh tears staining her cheeks. "I failed them, sending them to their deaths. I have failed you too."
Tomyra reached out her hand and raised Bithyia's face, brushing away the streaked grime with her sleeve. "What happened, Bithyia?"
"Her only fault is one of trust, my lady," said Sarmatia grimly. "We needed food. Rather than send us out alone to forage in enemy lands, she led us, leaving Domra in charge."
"Enough, Sarmatia," Bithyia said dully. "I was commander, the fault is mine."
"No, it is not," interrupted Sarmatia. "Forgive me, my lady, but Domra was left in charge of our sisters and Domra led them into a trap by disobeying her commander."
