Scythian Trilogy Book 2: The Golden King

by Max Overton

  They clattered down to the shallow river, the darkness falling in around them once more as the town receded. They slowed, the horses picking their way carefully over the icy rocks. As they clambered up the inclined road on the far side of the river, Tomyra turned to her companions. "Pray that the others have reached safety too. We will find them in the herder's hut."

  "And if they are not there?" asked Sarmatia quietly.

  "Then we wait for them." Tomyra dug her uninjured heel into her mare's flanks and it broke into a reluctant trot.

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  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The herder's hut lay off the main road leading south from Zarmet, its rough stone walls and thatched roof mellowed by the blown drifts of snow against its walls. Tomyra reined her horse in and looked across the pristine white fields to the hut, searching for signs of occupancy. Nothing stirred in the darkness, the hut itself squatting cold and lonely in the open plain. She looked up at the sky and smiled to see great rents in the cloud cover, the stars blazing through in the icy air. The snow died as she watched, the only flakes being the myriad of fallen particles driven by the strong wind. Faint patches of moonlight flitted across the landscape, dancing between the shredding clouds.

  "Smoke!" Tomyra cried. "They are here." She pointed across at the hut and the faint smudge of white wood smoke oozing through the thatched roof. She nudged her mare into motion, off the road. The animal stumbled across the open ground, sinking up to its fetlocks in the drifting snow.

  Bithyia and Sarmatia followed. Bithyia leaned across to the other woman and whispered, "At least someone is here. Be prepared." She drew her sword and laid it across the horse blanket in front of her.

  The trio crunched through the snow to the front of the hut and halted there, looking at the shut door. A faint glimmer of light shone through a crack but apart from that there was no sign of life. Sarmatia slid off her horse and rapped on the door with the hilt of her sword.

  A few moments passed then the door opened a crack and a face appeared, shadowed by the light behind it.

  "Who is it?" asked a coarse voice in the Serratae tongue.

  "Travelers," said Sarmatia. "We ask shelter."

  Tomyra hesitated then spoke quietly, "Tomyra."

  The face disappeared abruptly and the door slammed open. A flood of light poured across the snow and the three riders. A burly figure filled the doorway, staring at the two women on horseback.

  "Bithyia!" roared Timon. He strode out and plucked the woman off her horse, enveloping her in his strong arms. She laughed delightedly and flung her arms about him, kissing his face.

  "My Timon," she cried. "At last!"

  Other figures now crowded out of the hut. Prithia ran over to Sarmatia and hugged her then started dragging her toward the hut, chattering. Certes and Parasades looked at each other then helped Tomyra from her horse.

  "My lady," said Parasades simply. "I am overjoyed to see you safe."

  "Thank you, Parasades," replied Tomyra, her eyes drifting toward the door. "Niko? Where is he? Is his wound serious?"

  Certes looked away, busying himself gathering up the reins of the horses. Parasades coughed and stood aside. "See for yourself, my lady. I fear his spirit stands ready to cross the barrier."

  "No. That cannot be. The Mother..."

  Timon disengaged himself from Bithyia's enthusiastic welcome and turned toward Tomyra, his features showing his concern. "My lady..." His voice cracked.

  Tomyra paled and limped into the hut, supported by Bithyia. Timon and Parasades followed them in while Certes led the horses around the hut to a solidly built lean-to. Here he fed and groomed them, stabling them with the others.

  Tomyra stopped inside the hut and looked round. The small one-room structure was crowded. A roaring fire blazed in a stone circle close to the middle of the room, sending pulses of heat across her. Despite this, the stone walls of the hut remained damp and cold, thin blasts of icy air whistling through chinks in the stonework. A rickety table stood in one corner, with the remains of a meal scattered over it. Stools sat or lay beside the table on the bare earth floor. Crouched beside the table, fumbling through bags and bundles, an old woman clothed in rags looked up at her.

  Beside the woman sat the man who had opened the door to them. He looked away as Tomyra met his eyes, an expression of fear on his face. On the far side of the fire lay a pile of ragged skins and fleeces, arranged as a bed in the warmth. On it lay a still figure, covered with a torn wool blanket.

  "Niko!" Tomyra ran over to the bed and dropped to her knees beside it. She scanned his pallid face and arms with a look of horror, her hands reaching out then drawing back in indecision. At last, she rested her hands lightly on his brow, his cheeks then took his right hand. The skin was icy. She ran her hands up his arm and across his throat, feeling a searing heat beneath his skin. Trembling, she drew back the old blanket and gasped at the wound in his left shoulder.

  The ragged wound stretched from his collarbone to his armpit, a raging red rupture that seemed to pulse with its own heat. The skin across his chest and down his arm was inflamed, streaked with red blotches. A thin yellow fluid dripped from the wound, soaking the cloth beneath him. Within the fluid were streaks of creamy white pus. Tomyra bent over her lover, her nose wrinkling involuntarily.

  "How long ago did this happen?" she whispered.

  Timon came and crouched beside her. "About a day ago. The fever struck quickly and he has been like this since nightfall."

  Tomyra probed the wound gently with her fingers. "What caused it?"

  "An arrow. The head broke off and remained in him till an hour ago. We removed it when we reached this hut."

  "An arrow should not do this," said Tomyra, her voice trembling. "Not within a day."

  "The Serratae have been known to put things on their arrows," commented Parasades. "They sometimes smear feces on the point. They did with this one." He shrugged. "I always thought it was designed to insult their foes. Why should it cause a wound to go bad?"

  "Can you help him, lady?" asked Timon quietly.

  Tomyra stared down at Nikometros, watching his chest rise and fall with his shallow, shaky breaths. "If we were home," she said dully. "Here I have none of my herbs."

  "Can't you find them?" Timon turned and gripped Tomyra by her shoulder, shaking her. "By the Mother you hold so dear, do something! Find the herbs! He'll die if you don't help him."

  Bithyia leapt forward to restrain Timon. Prithia cried out in horror. "My lord, you must not lay hands on the priestess."

  "Hush, Prithia." Tomyra gently disengaged Timon's hand and stood up. "He's right, though." She looked around her at the squalid hut and its contents. Her gaze ran over the old woman and the bags and bundles scattered around her. She walked over and knelt by the old woman. "Do you worship the Mother?" she asked gently.

  The woman's gnarled face looked up suspiciously. She nodded slowly, hunkering back into her ragged clothes.

  "I am Tomyra, a priestess of the Mother. What is your name?"

  The old woman stared at Tomyra then at the other people in the room.

  "It's true," growled Parasades in the Serratae dialect. "She speaks for the Mother."

  The old woman bobbed her head. "Millpa. H...how may I serve?" she quavered.

  "You have medicines, Millpa? Or the herbs to prepare them?" asked Tomyra. "I need cattle-tongue, Mother's cloak and hoof-plant if you have them, also..."

  Millpa shook her head. "I do not know this cattle-tongue."

  "It grows in moist places. It has a ring of leaves at the base, soft like a cow's tongue, and a tall spike of drooping yellow flowers."

  "Ah! You mean deer's lip. I know it." The old woman nodded and gave Tomyra a gap-toothed smile. "It's good for wounds."

  "Also I need Polemonion and myrtle," went on Tomyra. "You have them?"

  Millpa shrugged. "Possibly Polemonion." She got up and hobbled over to a small wooden chest in a corner of the room. She
lifted it with a groan and staggered back to the fire with it. Timon stepped forward to help her, grabbing the box. The old woman screeched and wrestled the box away from him then kicked him in the shins. "Keep your hands to yourself," she mumbled, turning her back on him and sitting herself down by the fire, the box in her lap.

  Timon retreated in confusion. He sat down and rubbed his leg. Bithyia came over with a laugh and put her arm around him. Together they watched the old woman as she dug into her box of herbs.

  "So," muttered Millpa, sorting through bundles of dried herbs tied with twine and small cloth bags. "We have Mother's cloak, yes indeed. And Polemonion. Also...where is it? Ah, here...deer's lip. What else, lady?"

  "Hoofplant, myrtle, gead would be useful."

  "No hoofplant. We are too far from the woods," whined Millpa. "I cannot move well these days." Timon snorted softly, earning him a leer from the old woman. "I have a few leaves of myrtle," she said, holding up a withered branch, "But no gead unless I know it by another name."

  "May I see?" asked Tomyra, holding out her hand toward the herb box.

  Millpa pursed her lips in thought then nodded, holding out the box. Prithia leaned forward eagerly, peering at the contents. "Not you!" screeched the old woman, snatching the box back, "Only her."

  Tomyra smiled, waving Prithia away. "No one shall see but myself, Millpa." She knelt and lifted dried bundles to the side, digging down through the dusty bags. A rich and heady scent of summer herbs filled the small room. Tomyra nodded to herself as she picked out bags, opening them and peering at their contents. Some she sniffed, with a few she crushed a leaf between her fingers and tasted it carefully. Others she rejected with a look of distaste. At last she leaned back on her heels, her eyes on the small pile of dried vegetation beside the box. "It will do," she muttered. "It will have to do."

  Tomyra turned to the group standing about her. "Agarus," she said crisply. "Boil two pans of water. Make sure the pans are clean and that you use clean water." She picked out three bags and tossed them at Bithyia. "Grind these very fine then add a few drops of water when Agarus has boiled it. Make a thick paste." Tomyra weighed another bag carefully then passed it to Prithia. "Poppy gum. Pick out only as much as will sit on the tip of your dagger. Dissolve it in some wine."

  The old man, Millpa's husband, snorted softly. "Wine? You think I have wine? Look around you. Does it look like I have wine?"

  "Watch your tongue, old man," growled Parasades.

  "Never mind him," quavered Millpa. "Trorax is a fool, but a kindly fool."

  "My apologies," said Tomyra softly. "I didn't mean to draw attention to your poverty." She turned to Parasades. "You have a coin?" she asked.

  Parasades grunted and unfastened a small leather bag from his waist. He weighed it in his hand then passed it over. Tomyra picked out a silver coin and handed it to the man.

  "We are grateful for your hospitality and wish to pay you for your trouble."

  Trorax gaped and held the coin in the light, examining it closely. He grinned and slipped the coin into his tunic. "I have some koumiss, lady, and a little ale. Will they do?"

  "Thank you, Trorax. Perhaps the ale."

  The old man rummaged around beneath a pile of old skins and pulled out a flask made from badly cured goatskin. The contents sloshed as he gave it to Parasades. The warrior unstoppered the flask and sniffed.

  "Gods! What an evil odour." Parasades wrinkled his nose in disgust. He passed it to Prithia with a grimace.

  While the herbs and water were being prepared, Tomyra went back to Nikometros' side and held his cold hands, rubbing them to get some warmth into them. She dabbed a cloth at the weeping wound, wiping away the pus and clear yellow fluid. A few small fragments of wood and cloth came with it. "We must clean the wound," she murmured.

  Agarus poured some of the hot water into a rough earthenware pot and brought it to the bedside. Tomyra picked out a few wilted stems of soapwort and whisked them in the water. A scanty lather scummed the surface of the pot. She dipped a rag into the hot water and began cleaning away the debris from the ragged wound. Nikometros stirred and cried out, feebly trying to push her hand away.

  "Is this going to take long?" asked Parasades.

  "As long as it takes," replied Tomyra calmly. "Unless his wound is treated, he'll die."

  "Treated or not, he'll die if the Serratae find us," growled Parasades. "And the rest of us with him. We must be away from here before dawn."

  "Perhaps not," grinned Sarmatia. "They'll have their hands full putting out the fire."

  "Fool!" snarled Parasades. "We've just shamed and insulted the Serratae as a whole and Sparses in particular. Do you really think they'll just sit at home and allow us to show their weakness to the world?"

  "We'll leave by dawn, my lord." Tomyra held out her hands for the now boiling water. "Boil up these bear-dock leaves, Agarus, and add some wild garlic. When the water changes colour add these rags and take it off the heat. Let them steep."

  "Those rags, lady?" queried Timon. "I can probably find cleaner ones. The healers in Macedon swear by cleanliness."

  "Dirt doesn't matter, Timon, as long as the herbs are there to counteract the evil in the wound. Besides, this way we have all the elements working to cure him. We have earth on the rags, the water heated by fire, and open to the air. Now, Prithia, you have the poppy?"

  Prithia handed the small bowl of ale to Tomyra. She propped Nikometros up and dribbled the ale into his mouth. He gagged and spat, moving his head aside. She wiped his mouth and poured more in, until Nikometros swallowed, and again. "Good. Bithyia, you have the paste?"

  Tomyra removed the hot rags from the bear-dock and garlic steep, wrung them out and smeared them liberally with the herb paste. She laid the rags gently over the wound and pressed them down firmly, working the paste deep into the ragged flesh. Nikometros groaned and thrashed weakly for a few moments before collapsing back onto the bed, soaked in sweat. Tomyra bound the poultice in place with strips of cleaner rag then pulled the blanket up over him.

  "Will he be all right, my lady?" asked Prithia.

  "It is in the hands of the Goddess."

  "How long before we can move him?" queried Timon.

  "He should rest until he regains consciousness," replied Tomyra. "It would be better if we could remain here for a few days."

  "Impossible!" Parasades pushed away from where he had been looking out through a gap in the door. "The moon is setting and dawn will not be far behind. Search parties will arrive here before the sun is halfway to noon. We must be far from here by then."

  "We won't be able to travel fast, my lord," commented Certes. "Can we outrun them?"

  "No." Parasades slammed a fist into his open hand. "We cannot outrun them, therefore we must evade them."

  Timon nodded. "Something tells me you have a plan already."

  Parasades squatted and picked up a piece of wood. Clearing the ground of debris he quickly drew a few lines on the dirt floor. "Zarmet is here, with the river here." He drew a wavy line near the town. Our goal is to reach the Oxus River about five days travel to the east." He stretched his hand out. "Over here. Now, tracking us will be easy. Snow covers the ground and the storm has stopped. Our trail will be obvious even to a blind man, so how do we do it?" He sat back on his heels and grinned at his audience.

  Timon shrugged and looked at Bithyia. The others looked equally nonplussed.

  "We will leave tracks in the snow, so we must avoid the snow." Parasades chuckled. "Come, it is not hard. Where is there no snow?"

  Prithia stared at the rough sketch on the ground. "The river," she said slowly.

  "Excellent. And how do we use the river?"

  "We ride along it, in the water..." went on Prithia.

  "...until we reach the Oxus," completed Certes excitedly.

  Parasades groaned. "Five days ride to the east, I said. Even if the river went all the way, they would find us within a day or two. No, we ride upstream, to the west."

 
Timon furrowed his brow in thought. "West? We would add many stadia to our already long journey."

  "Half a day, maybe. No more. Then we angle north around Zarmet and head for the northern tribes along the Oxus. Perhaps seven days. The Serratae will expect us to head for home the shortest way. With luck we can evade their pursuit altogether."

  Tomyra thought it through and nodded. "It may work. I cannot think of a more reasonable plan." She looked around at the others enquiringly. The others looked away or shook their heads. "Then we shall follow your plan, my lord."

  Parasades got to his feet and brushed the dirt from his clothes. "Good. We leave within the hour." He beckoned to Agarus. "Find the largest hide sack among this pile of rubbish." He kicked the bags and bundles lying on the floor. We shall put our Greek in it and sling him on his horse. Counterbalance him with what food you can find."

  Agarus nodded and immediately started throwing the bags aside looking for a sack, or at least a good sized hide with which to make one. The others started gathering their things together.

  "My lord," said Certes quietly. "What about them?" He jerked a thumb at Trorax and Millpa, sitting quietly by the fire. Parasades turned and stared at them. Trorax flinched and pulled back. "Won't they tell our plans?"

  Parasades nodded slowly and drew his dagger. "I should have considered that. Still, no matter. I'll silence them now." He stepped rapidly across the room toward the old man and woman.

  Trorax let out a screech of alarm and bolted toward the door where he struggled ineffectually in Certes' grip. His wife made a dive for the pile of skins and burrowed into them, wailing.

  Tomyra leapt up from where she knelt by the bed and rapidly interposed herself. She grabbed Parasades by the arm. "No, my lord. You will not do this."

  Parasades glanced at Tomyra then at the struggling man near the door. "If we do not silence them, we may as well wait here for our pursuers."

  "No. We do not kill if there is another way."