Scythian Trilogy Book 2: The Golden King

by Max Overton

  "Perhaps. I don't trust him. Will you do it?"

  Scolices grinned. "A pleasure."

  Areipithes turned away, swinging his sword, feeling the balance. He fitted the straps of the small round shield more snugly to his left forearm and flexed his limbs, feeling for any catches in his clothing. "Ready!" he called out.

  Parasades stepped out from the other side of the circle, still fitting his own shield. The watching armies fell silent, all eyes on the two men advancing into the centre of the ring. The protagonists stopped about five paces apart and glared at each other. Areipithes dropped into a crouch and started moving to his right, circling the other man. Parasades edged around also, carefully watching his foe.

  "Wait!" cried Tomyra. Parasades' eyes flicked toward her and Areipithes lunged, his sword slicing through the other man's tunic as Parasades twisted away.

  "Wait!" called Tomyra again. "This is a holy ritual, not a simple fight. The Mother must be invoked."

  Parasades moved back, his eyes never leaving his enemy. "She's right, Areipithes. I have formally challenged you. The priestess must invoke the Goddess."

  Areipithes gave out a bark of derision. "What priestess? This bitch is forsworn. She cannot invoke the Goddess and no priestess is closer than Urul." He leapt forward, his sword clanging on Parasades' shield.

  Parasades fell back, circling, his feet feeling the uneven ground behind him. "The priestess at Mora declared her holy still." A murmur ran through the watching armies and Areipithes faltered in his advance. Then he shrugged and lifted his weapon again.

  "I only have the word of my enemy for that. You must think me mad if you believe I would ask a blessing from the Mother through my sister. She would bring down a curse on me." Areipithes laughed, his eyes icy.

  "Then let the loser go to his grave unblessed," said Parasades softly. He stepped forward as he spoke, feinted to his left and swept his blade across the face of Areipithes. The king lifted his shield, momentarily blocking his sight, and Parasades punched the edge of his own shield into the other man's belly.

  Areipithes grunted, his own sword arcing across and into emptiness as Parasades danced back. Areipithes followed, his sword weaving a complex pattern in front of him. He lunged, caught a sweep on his shield and thrust again, jarring his arm as his sword tip connected with the brassbound leather shield of his opponent. He wrenched it free, blocking a series of blows with his own shield.

  The fighters fell apart, circling slowly and cautiously on the broken ground. Areipithes stumbled slightly, his foot catching on some obstruction and he glanced down involuntarily. Parasades jumped in close, his sword thrusting toward his opponent's eyes. As Areipithes stepped back hurriedly, Parasades hooked his foot around the other man's, colliding with him, swords locking. Areipithes fell backward, his sword arm flinging wide. Parasades grinned, stabbing downward.

  Areipithes rolled, and rolled again as Parasades stabbed his sword into the ground. He scrambled to his feet and ran a few paces then turned to catch his breath. A sigh went up from the watchers. Parasades ran in pursuit, his weapon held low, arcing upward and clashing on the other sword. Areipithes fell back a pace, parried, desperately holding his shield across his body. A sword flashed at his head and he fell to one knee, slashing out wildly. Parasades stepped back to avoid the blow then forward again, his sword high above the king's unprotected head.

  Areipithes, his arm still outstretched from his previous, unsuccessful attempt, swept his fist back, the hilt of his sword hammering into Parasades' side. Parasades uttered a cry of agony and fell sideways. He stumbled and fell as Areipithes gripped his sword two-handed and, still on one knee, hacked downward with all his strength. Sword met shield, hacking through leather and bronze fittings in the ferocity of the blow. Parasades cried out again as the shock raced through his arm, numbing it. He pushed himself away, feet scrabbling at the earth, sword raised in a desperate attempt to block the next blow.

  The blow came, at the limit of Areipithes' reach, swords clashing. The king overbalanced and he flailed his arms, trying to break his fall. For a moment, both men lay on the ground within a pace of each other, breathing hard and feeling hearts pounding with exhaustion.

  With groans, Parasades and Areipithes pushed themselves to their feet again. They stood swaying, only a few feet between them and traded blows, swords hammering down on upraised shields or meeting in ringing clashes of steel, sparks showering them with silver. The men's movements slowed, the effort necessary to lift a sword, let alone aim and deliver a cut or a thrust becoming too great. Bruised and weary they sank simultaneously to their knees a few paces apart then leaned on hands, panting.

  At the edge of the circle, Tomyra looked with growing concern at the circling fighters. She dreaded the thought of her brother winning but remained unsure about what the survival of Parasades would mean. "This is not right," she muttered. "The Goddess must decide who becomes chief of Her People."

  "Mistress?" murmured Bithyia. "What would you have us do?"

  Tomyra shook her head. "I couldn't force them to pay me heed before the duel, but I can invoke the Mother nonetheless." She beckoned over Prithia and three of her Owl Patrol. "Prithia, you have the sacred drum, or the flute?" Prithia withdrew a small drum from her cloak, evoking a smile from her mistress.

  "I have a flute, my lady," said one of the Owls.

  Tomyra nodded. "Binara, is it not? Good. If my brother refuses the rite of blessing we shall perform another rite. Let the Mother speak through her holy drum." She turned back to face the fighters just as Areipithes collapsed forward onto the ground in front of the supine body of Parasades.

  The drum started throbbing like a low, insistent roll of thunder, the flute breaking in with high-pitched squeals that set teeth on edge even as the drum set fingers tapping. Around the circle of men, soldiers recognised the ritual, even though few remembered the last time it was enacted, when Spargises, father of Areipithes successfully contested for the leadership. Hands twitched and beat, softly at first, in time to the staccato drum, on shield or thigh.

  Tomyra lifted her arms and broke into a clear melodic song. The words were strange, unlike the Scythian tongue of those parts, archaic in form, harking back to a day when the Earth Mother ruled all men and none lived or died save by Her will. The song rose and fell, dragging the drum beat with it, the flute wailing like shades condemned to wander the earth with none to say the rites for them. Men shivered, the hair rising on their forearms, the pulse in their chest rising and falling in time with the song, their breath gushing noisily.

  In the centre of the circle, Areipithes and Parasades heard the drum, the flute and the song. For a long moment they lay and listened, hearing the breathing of the Great Goddess within the susurration that rose from a thousand lungs. Areipithes stirred first. He got slowly to his feet and stared blankly at the armies beating steadily on their shields. A smile flitted across his face, as if a stray memory from a happier time broke over him. Parasades joined him after a moment, standing a few paces away, his sword hanging by his side. Neither moved, just stood, watched their inner thoughts and listened to the will of the Mother Goddess.

  The wailing died away, fading into a measureless distance, the flute following in its wake, leaving only the low, muted rumbles of the drum. The beat slowed, paused and settled into a double beat, the vibrations permeating the air and ground as if the heart of some great beast or demon pulsed in the earth beneath them.

  Areipithes twitched, his arms jerking spasmodically as he surfaced from the dream that surrounded him. He stared at the circle of men as if seeing them for the first time. His eyes flicked over Nikometros and Tomyra then settled on Parasades. Areipithes growled, the insistent heartbeat working on him, feeding his anger.

  Parasades too, felt the passion rising in him. He hefted his sword and moved slowly toward the Massegetae king. "Areipithes!" he called. "Make your peace with the Mother. I will kill you."

  Areipithes yawned and stretched then started whippin
g his blade back and forth. "You think so? Come and try it then." He strode forward with a laugh, his sword flashing as he ducked and weaved, carrying the fight to Parasades, pressuring him and pushing him backward. Parasades moved in a desultory fashion, barely blocking his enemy's blows and retreating before him.

  Nikometros, closely watching the battle from the circle rim, leant toward Tomyra. "What was the purpose of that singing?" he whispered. "Your brother has had his strength renewed."

  "As the Mother wills," Tomyra replied quietly. "Watch." She nodded at Prithia and the drumbeat sped up slightly. All around the circle men gasped and swayed forward as the rhythm gripped them anew.

  Areipithes laughed again. He stopped his forward motion, letting Parasades flex his still-aching arm. Looking at the small knot of men standing near his sister he yelled, "Get ready, Nemathres! You're next!" He unbuckled his shield straps and shook his arm, sending the small battered leather buckler spinning to the ground. Gripping his short sword in both hands, Areipithes leapt forward and delivered a smashing overhead blow.

  Parasades blocked the blow on his already shattered shield, feeling his knees tremble beneath the force of it. He stumbled as Areipithes came at him again, hammering him backward. The drumbeat increased its tempo and Parasades felt himself stir within, the blood rushing faster in his veins as his heart sped to keep up with the beat.

  Areipithes blinked, the pressure in his head from the insistent pulse making his eyes water. His breath came in great whooping gusts as he swung his weapon, pounding the other man backward, ever backward. Sweat burst out, slicking his skin, running in rivulets down his face. He stopped again and thrust his sword into the muddy earth. Fumbling with thongs and clasps he ripped his leather tunic off, tearing his undershirt and throwing it from him.

  Areipithes roared, the veins on his neck standing out on his molten skin. Snatching up his sword he stumbled forward, slashing and cutting wildly, two hands gripping his weapon. Around him the pulsing quickened. Areipithes breathed faster, the cold air raw in his throat and the sweat stinging his eyes, cascading over his body, making his hands slippery. Still he hammered at his enemy and still his enemy retreated before him.

  Parasades too, felt the wild rhythm within his body. It beat around him, rising up from the earth through his feet, strengthening his weary muscles. He felt a strange mirth bubble up inside, energizing him. Either the blows raining down on shield and sword weakened or else he himself gained in strength. More often now he turned the strokes with the edge of his sword. He still moved back but firmly, giving way rather than being forced.

  Areipithes panted and cursed the man in front of him. He swung wildly and missed, recovered and missed again. The other man's sword flicked forward and Areipithes stopped dead, staring down at a welling cut on his left bicep. He roared with rage and delivered a whirlwind series of blows before stepping back, purple in the face and struggling for breath. Two more cuts dripped blood down his arms.

  Parasades felt a cool wind on his body, refreshing him. He frowned at the swaying figure in front of him, puzzled by the stress evident on the king's body. Increasingly, Areipithes' blows failed to connect. He smiled then, recognising the balance of the duel turning in his favour. For the first time in many minutes, Parasades moved forward, his blade dancing.

  Areipithes fell back before the onslaught, his arms leaden. The flashing steel in front of him weaved mesmerically, flicking effortlessly through his guard. His sweat flowed red over a body laced with stinging lines. Strength washed from him and the bitterness of defeat soured his dry mouth. He glanced across at his sister, feeling another slash across his naked chest as he did so. He caught a quick look of triumph strangely mixed with compassion in her eyes. Rage boiled again and Areipithes leapt forward, his sword raised above his head, roaring his defiance.

  Pain ripped redly in his belly and Areipithes halted abruptly, leaning up against his opponent. He stared into Parasades' face, eyes wide, seemingly fascinated by the fine lines in the corners of his enemy's eyes. Glancing up at his upraised arms, he saw steel glinting in the afternoon sun. He opened his sticky fingers and watched the sword fall slowly to the ground. A smile creased his lips and he opened his mouth. "Where is my father?" he whispered.

  "Go to him," answered Parasades and pushed Areipithes back, wrenching his sword out as the Massegetae king fell to the ground, blood flooding over his ripped abdomen. Areipithes cried out, then whimpered and drew his legs up, curling around his dreadful wound. Parasades stared down at him for a moment then raised his bloody sword toward Tomyra. The drum fell silent and Parasades spoke clearly into the hiatus. "I claim the tribe by right of combat." Turning, Parasades positioned himself and hacked downward, twice. He stooped and curled his fingers into blood-spattered hair and lifted the head of Areipithes aloft.

  Parasades turned slowly on his heel, watching the now silent armies. He tossed the head into the middle of the circle. "I claim the leadership of the Massegetae by right of combat. Do any here dispute my claim?" He waited, listening to the shuffle and creak of armour and the high, distant call of a lark somewhere in the blue sky above him.

  Turning toward the Massegetae army, he sought out Areipithes' commanders. "Thoas," he called. "Do you challenge me?" Thoas stared down at his feet then shook his head.

  "No. I recognise your claim, Parasades."

  "Scolices. Do you dispute me?" The thin man scowled and, turning, pushed back through the packed ranks of warriors and disappeared.

  Parasades frowned, then dismissing Scolices from his mind, turned across the circle to the Dumae forces. "Nemathres? Do the Dumae continue to feel enmity for the Massegetae?"

  Nemathres shook his head. "We fought the usurper Areipithes. He lies dead and the Dumae remember the bonds of friendship we had with the Massegetae."

  "And what of the Jartai? Jaxes, do you challenge me?"

  "I do not," declared Jaxes. "Though your people and mine can no longer be friends. Too much has passed between us."

  "What do you intend?" asked Parasades.

  "I will take the scattered remnants of my people and leave this place. I will seek a place for them in the northwest."

  Parasades nodded. He looked across at Nikometros, standing tensely beside the rugged figure of his friend Timon. "And what of you, Nikomayros the Greek, whom men style Lion of Scythia? Do you challenge my right to lead the Massegetae?"

  Nikometros sighed and glanced across at Tomyra. He smiled at her, striving to read her thoughts in her dark eyes. "There is only one thing I want," he muttered. Raising his voice to carry across the gathered armies, he addressed the new chief of the Massegetae. "I do not dispute your right to lead the Massegetae, Parasades. You have won that right before us all."

  Parasades nodded solemnly. "The tribe has suffered enough in recent months," he said. "I offer a full amnesty to all who will acknowledge me as chief." He turned back to the Massegetae warriors, now noisy with speculation and chatter. "Thoas. Form up your army and proceed to Urul." To Nemathres, "You are welcome to join us, my friend and ally, though I deem it best if you took your army home now and joined us later."

  Nemathres nodded and turned to his commanders, issuing terse orders. He clasped Nikometros' arm wordlessly in passing then strode off among his men. Thoas, too, marshaled his troops and led them off the field of battle.

  Certes, a huge grin on his face and his chest puffed up, swaggered across to Parasades. "A wonderful victory, my lord. I never doubted you."

  "I seem to remember a few occasions," remarked Parasades sourly. "However, I confirm you as my deputy for now." He gestured around him at the carnage of the battlefield. "Take a hundred men, more if you need them, and arrange a decent burial for all the fallen. All," he added sharply. "They are all one People now."

  Parasades sauntered slowly across to the group around Nikometros. "Now what do I do about you?" he asked softly. He held up a hand as Nikometros opened his mouth to reply. "No. I must think on this. Go back to Urul, all of you. I
will consult with my advisors and the priestess...no, not you, Tomyra...before I reach a decision." Parasades nodded dismissively and walked over to where Certes was gathering loyal men about him.

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  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Urul glowed in the darkness like a jeweled crown, the fires that sprinkled the city and surrounding countryside casting a warm flush over the myriads of people who swarmed through the city. The faces of the people reflected a muted festivity. The deaths of so many of their men, only a week past, dampened the normal ardour of the Scythian spirit, though pragmatically, life went on. The natural optimism of the plains people encouraged them to happiness. And they had reason for joy. A new chief led them, one whom the Mother Goddess blessed, one who did not carry the stain of parricide. As if awakening from a nightmare, the tribe put the past behind them and stirred itself into a happy anticipation of times to come.

  For several days, Parasades held court under a vast felted tent erected in the great square in the centre of the city. Officially confirmed as chief--having denied the title of king--he met openly before his people, organising and deliberating. The great tent remained open on three sides, day and night, despite the residual winter chill. Fires warmed all who came to see the new chief and the slaughtered bodies of a hundred cattle fed the multitudes.

  Parasades sat on the great chief's chair, set up in the back of the tent, surrounded by his advisors. If he tended to pick his advisors and commanders from among those who had remained loyal to him in the times of trouble, none saw anything amiss in this. If his decisions favoured his friends, well, that was his right as chief. Any of them would do the same. The common man rejoiced in the newfound peace and promise of prosperity. What did it matter if others, self-styled leaders, now wore glum expressions, passed over for promotions by the new chief?

  The crowds at the front of the tent stirred and parted. Parasades looked up from a discussion of his plans, the animation in his face fading to careful neutrality. He watched as Nikometros, with Tomyra by his side, walked up the aisle of people and stopped before him.