Hahq spat to express his frustration. His black mood was not lost on the others. The men were a team. With the exception of Sava they had been going out on daring raids together since boyhood.
“Feliks you never know when to stop,” Voron hissed at him.
Hahq tried to tone down his anger – So far the king has given Sava an empty title with nothing behind it. It remains to be seen whether he can unite a bunch of warring tribesmen whose most noble achievements are the number of scalps and heads they take – from each other.
And those Man Eaters? Ah-Gin’s hairy balls, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t walk into an Androphagi camp without a whole army at my back. Raymaxos expects us to do it with eight men?!
After riding in silence a short while, the men began teasing Feliks to alleviate the tension and balance the score between he and Hahq.
“Feliks, why do you ride that shaggy pony?!” Voron scoffed. “Mitya’s legs are so stubby, your feet drag the ground!”
“Hah. That’s why Feliks has to ride with his feet up in the air,” Miron observed.
“I do not!” Feliks grinned, irrepressible.
“The first time I saw Mitya, I thought there was shaggy brown bear amongst the horses,” Tikhon chimed in. “I almost shot him with an arrow.”
“Feliks you should sell Mitya to the Sindhi. They will put him to his true calling - pulling a plow!” Voron put in.
“My brave little Mitya may not be that fast but you have never ridden anything so comfortable.” Feliks leapt to his horse’s defense. “I could stretch out on Mitya’s broad back right now and go to sleep. He would just keep on going, steady and quiet as a river. My Mitya never gives up.”
They kept on kidding until the sky took on an ominous hue, darkening with storm clouds.
“Hey Sava - How about a song to lighten our way?” Voron called out.
“Aye a song!”
Reaching into his saddlebag Sava pulled out his duduk pipe, made from the leg bone of a golden eagle. He played a tune set to the trotting rhythm of the horses’ hooves. Then he began singing in his rich baritone. He teased Feliks by featuring him and his trusty pony in the song –
O the brave horseman sets forth,
Iron-eyed Feliks, fearless warrior!
His sturdy steed bounds over mountain tops
Feliks thou art born of eagles!
VOI YAH! - The men called out the rumbling refrain.
See how Feliks descends from the mountain
His flaming steed Mitya rides on air!
Live coals issue from Mitya’s red nostrils
See how his way catches fire!
VOI YAH!
Immersed in the song, the men dropped the reins and clapped to the beat. With every clap their hips rocked slightly in the saddle until it was like a slow dance on horseback. The horses felt it too, trotting with arched necks in a softer, more collected frame, putting more heart into their steps. Time passed yet stood still. Sometimes it happened that way. People called it, Bringing down the Spirit. Sava sang –
Iron-eyed Feliks - fearless warrior
See his eagle as it circles overhead
On Felik’s right side the brilliant sun shines
On his left side the snow falls heavily!
VOI YA-AH!
Above the Goddess watches over him
Iron-eyed Feliks rides speedy Mitya
Undefeated in the Race of Kings
He sets forth on his way!
VOI YA-AH…
Chapter 5 – The Earth in Motion
Once a year the chief mixes a bowl of wine
From which every Skythian who has killed
His man in battle has the right to drink.
Those who have no dead enemy to their credit
Are not allowed to touch the wine,
But have to sit by themselves in disgrace
The worst indeed which they can suffer –
Herodotus, The Histories
The cheerful confident voices of his companions echoed in Sava’s ears as he rode on alone.
Little did we think it would end so soon. Or so badly.
The nomad was well aware of his precarious position, alone on the vast Sea of Grass. Steppe lions, packs of wolves and raiders were rampant, but the powerful stallion’s calm, rocking canter rolled onward. The horse’s hooves beat a cadenced rhythm on Mata Drakaina, Mother Drakon’s, earthen breast.
At long last the white feathers of winter had melted away, leaving a vast green stretching as far as the eye could see. The grass waved, rolling like a vast inland sea. Birds swooped by, diving through crystal clear, invigorating air.
The earth was in motion and Sava felt in rhythm with it. To his ears the stallion’s hoof beats were the cadenced beat of a sacred drum. For The Horse was his world. His life was intricately bound up with this spirited animal. This Being who enabled, nay invited him to vault upon its back and glide across the face of the earth like an eagle.
Through his thighs he felt that warm, intimate connection of joined muscle and power with this noble animal who bore him so willingly.
The sun’s lengthening rays glinted off the metallic golden coat and silver mane and tail of the stallion. The horse’s uniquely metallic coat color shone like polished bronze. It was one of the outstanding traits developed by the nomad’s people over untold years of selective breeding.
The brow band of the horse’s bridle was emblazoned by a gold star, marking him as a Champion of the 1,000 Mile Race.
The stallion’s bridle had no bit, only a heavy noseband. Sava saw no need to put hard metal into the horse’s tender mouth when control was so effortless. He had but to squeeze his thighs, shift his weight, lean and press right or left and the golden horse responded almost effortlessly. So well did they know each other.
In fact Sava had only to look which way he wanted to go and the golden horse obeyed. Sometimes he swore he only just thought what he wanted and the sensitive golden horse obeyed, as if they were melded into that one mythical being - centaur.
With the approach of dusk, the nomad halted at a spot where a rippling stream flowed into a deep blue pool. Here a few trees and bushes provided cover. The grass was lush and green. The stallion dropped his head and began to graze but Sava did not dismount. Breathing deep, taking it all in, he sat the horse awhile. Watching. Listening. Sensing vibrations in the atmosphere.
For now, all seemed at peace in the lowering rays of the burnished sun. That could all change in a heartbeat when darkness struck and the night hunters emerged. Vaulting off the stallion’s back, the nomad landed lightly on the balls of his feet.
He undid the girth strap and removed the saddle, placing it on the ground with care. Tonight he would sleep with his head on it. One of the saddlebags contained the gem-encrusted gold jewelry King Raymaxos had given him as goodwill gifts. Gold was known to work wonders when it came to easing one’s way into the good graces of those in power.
The nomad waited patiently as the horse took a long satisfied drink at the pool, then undid one rein from the noseband and tethered the stallion to a small tree, the bitless bridle now acting as a halter. With long flexible fingers he massaged the stallion’s tired back, kneading in a circular motion around each vertebra down the twin muscles of the horse’s spine to the base of its tail.
Using his fingers deep and hard he scratched the base of the stallion’s arching neck and broad chest. His massaging finges moved behind the elbow to where the girth rubbed, then on to the horse’s belly and inner thighs. All the most sensitive, itchy spots. The golden stallion stretched and arched his neck. His lower lip drooped, trembling with sensual enjoyment.
“You like that, eh Zlatna?”
This horse, Zlatna – Golden, inherited his golden coat from his grand dam, Tara. Golden Tara who was sacrificed 13 round moons before the nomad was born. Sarpedon, his mother’s first husband, had gifted Tara to her as a wedding present. The mare had carried Dragana safely through hunts and battles. The hardest thing
his mother had ever done was to stand by and watch as Sarpedon was executed by being burned alive. Then she was forced to lead her beloved Tara to the sacrifice altar.
Such a beautiful animal, so trusting, so loyal, so innocent - to be just slaughtered like that. The nomad hated to think that if he were to die before his time, the golden stallion would be sacrificed at his funeral. For every nomad must have his good horse to ride into the Other World.
The sacrifice must always be the best, the hardest thing to give. Young men, concubines and servants were sacrificed in the kurgan barrows of royalty. The grim gods who ruled Skythia and Sauromatia with iron and fire must be propitiated. Those who denied the will of the gods would be punished with sword and fire in this life and again in the next.
Darkness was falling. Soon the hunters would be roaming, howling and growling, sniffing the air for prey. Already Sava sensed their restlessness. Prides of steppe lions and packs of wolves roved these grasslands. Moving shadows in the darkness, nearly invisible, like trailing wisps of smoke.
Acting swiftly but without haste, the nomad used his akinake to cut fresh grass for the stallion and piled it high as the horse’s belly. He untied the water skin from the saddle and strode to the pool.
Before dipping it in the water, Sava did obeisance to the rusalki - water spirits. If he failed to show due respect, strong hands might reach up out of the dark pool and drag him under.
Crouching over the edge of the pool he pushed the mouth of the skin bag below the surface and watched it suck up water. Watching the pattern of wavelets he was suddenly confronted by a stranger’s face. The face stared up at him. An entity with anguished, piercing eyes. So familiar somehow. A cold tremor shook his body. And somehow he knew -
Sarpedon?
Its mouth moved… And the words came to him –
Because you cannot go against your true nature, you are destined to end as I did. Betrayed. Hated. Executed as a liar and a traitor.
Sava’s heart catapulted into a thousand stadia gallop.
“NAY!” He slammed his fist into the water, shattering the image.
It was a trick of the mind! That’s all! I will think no more of this strigoi who haunts me.
But in his heart he knew that was impossible. Tonight he could make no fire. The risk of drawing raiders to his position was too great. He would have to face his demons, both living and dead, alone in the darkness.
The nomad whispered a prayer – “Mata Drakaina, I invoke thee. Watch over me. Strike this fear from my heart.”
Tonight he would sleep little, waking every hour to check on his horse. As a precaution he took most of the gold jewelry from the saddlebag and slipped it around his neck, wrists and arms under his mailed tunic.
Pulling a piece of dried, salted mutton from his saddlebag he settled down with his back against the tree next to his horse. Tearing off chunks of jerky with strong white teeth, he masticated the dry meat with sips of water, every sense alert.
Shades of darkness found Sava unmoved. A lone figure in a boundless land, he sat cross-legged, wrapped in his red fox fur-lined cloak, staring at the endless stars on their slow sweep across the horizon.
Thoughts swarmed in his head like nervous bees, coalescing on the surprise attack of the night before. Everything about this mission was going wrong. The dead faces of Feliks and Gagik resurrected in his mind. He blamed himself.
The God of War has cursed this mission because of me, an Unbeliever. All my life I have refused to submit to Ah-Gin’s diktats and what has it brought me but shame and humiliation?
Feliks and Gagik’s lives were not expendable. Sava had grown up with Feliks. They had played, laughed, fought and vied with each other as boys. His parents had grown up with Felik’s parents and back through the generations. Their lives were part of a vast tribal web of families and clans that had evolved over hundreds, thousands of years. When one link in the web was broken, when one light was extinguished, the whole body felt it.
The least I can do for those men is to finish this mission instead of slinking home like a whipped pup.
Those raiders were Black Cloaks - one of the tribes I am to contact. I killed one of their men. How will I approach them about the alliance now?
Very carefully. That Other Voice in his head said.
Chapter 6 – Gamayun
Earth’s keys to thee, illustrious king, belong,
Its secret gates unlocking, deep and strong.
‘Tis thine abundant annual fruits to bear
For needy mortals are thy constant care.
Orphic Hymn c. 300 BC
Sitting in blind darkness, doubts about his mission swarmed in Sava’s brain –
Persia is the largest empire on earth. How can we hope to defeat such a huge army? We are not united. We are nomads scattered across a vast land.
Even if I locate the seven tribes - how can I convince them to join the alliance against Persia? They will claim THEY had no part in the invasion of Medea. They will say it was all the doing of Royal Skythia. And they will be RIGHT.
The elders keep waving the banner of `freedom’. We must fight Persia to keep our `freedom’. What freedom? The freedom to raid and kill each other?! What a heroic goal. I can’t think of a better way to live. He shook his head in a wry grimace.
Suddenly his thoughts were shattered by voices. Whispering voices.
Raiders!
Drawing his akinake Sava bolted to his feet, senses alert, reaching out for the source. Fearing the worst.
But the eerie whispering died away. The night air was filled with the chirping of frogs and crickets. The swish of leaves and tall grass in the breeze.
Was it just the wind shushing the leaves?
The nomad sat down again, muscles tense, ears cocked. The whispering started again. Louder, more distinct now.
The nomad shot to his feet, eyes straining to pierce the darkness. The Voices rose and fell, mumbling and muttering. He could make no sense of their words. Icy, foreboding fingers coiled around his heart. The Voices sounded eerily familiar.
I know those Voices!
From childhood the hissing, whispering Voices had invaded his dreams, turning them into nightmares. Nightmares from which he would burst awake, heart pounding, wrapped in cold sweat, still hearing the hissing whispers calling him in the darkness. Voices like poisonous vipers, calling him.
Commanding – Sssava… Come Sssava…Come HERE Sssava.
Somehow he knew the Voices went far deeper than mere childhood nightmares. Intuitively he knew that his familiarity with them stretched into an ancient Unknown. In Sava’s childhood mind he had identified the Voices as `They Who Have Always Been’ – nameless, deathless entities of malevolent power.
And he was not alone in his deep instinctive fear of these mysterious entities. His people also believed and gave them many names: Strigoi who come at night to suck the souls of men. Spirits of the Undead. Vukodlaki, Vampirs. Demons.
As a boy he had never dared tell his parents that he heard the Voices. He feared they would send him to be trained as an ennerei `half man’. Thus he had deeply repressed the insidious hissing Voices who called him, so that he could function in this, the `real’ world.
Now, alone on this black night, the Voices besieged his soul. The menacing whipers re-ignited the black fear of his childhood dreams, the insidious Voices whispering, hissing and muttering. Their ominous tones rose and fell. Was it a threat or a warning? He could not tell, but he felt a deep unease.
At last the Voices were silent. Having slept almost not at all the night before and then ridden all day, Sava was fighting exhaustion. He desperately needed a few hours of sleep. Wrapping his fur-lined cloak around him, he stretched his long, lithe body out on the ground, head resting on the saddle.
Akinake and dagger belted to his side, gorytos and lance within easy reach, Sava gazed up at the blazing firmament of stars stretching across the velvety night sky.
His hand clasped the gold amulet of a gryphon that hun
g from a chain around his neck. In the gryphon’s body was a tiny chamber with ashes from Sarpedon and Tara’s sacrifice pyre. When he was small his mother had hung this amulet around his neck. In it were the ashes of two great spirits to watch over him. He never took it off.
Sarpedon’s spirit rides golden Tara across the stars tonight. No harm will come to me. I feel it.
Two days later Sava was still following the sun’s track across the sky. Soon now, he would reach the Tanais River. Scattered signs of human habitation, small farms and hamlets sprang up. He came to a small orchard, the trees set in orderly rows.
A faint trail led through the trees leading west. The stallion trotted down the trail, his hooves a rhythmic clatter on the path. Then the day turned grey and the leaves shook with a sudden ominous shimmer. But there is no wind. Some spirit is at work here…
A chill heightened Sava’s senses. A clear voice rang out –
“Where are you going young sir?”
He sat back in the saddle and Zlatna halted. The voice sounded close but came from above. At first he saw only waving green leaves. Gradually his eyes discerned the outline of a large black shape within the rustling leaves of a nearby tree. Partially hidden, an elderly woman stood on a broad branch. Dressed in a shapeless black dress she perched there like a dark bird of omen.
It will not hurt to be friendly to this strange creature. She may be able to help me find my way.
“Hail Grandmother. I am Sava of Sauromatia, bound for the river Tanais and from there to Gelonus,” he said.
She stared into his eyes a long still moment, then shook her head. “Nay. You are the sudden gust of wind that warns of a mighty storm to come.”
“I am all that? Nay, I am a man like any other. Who are you Grandmother?”
“I am called Gamayun. My people are Sindhi. We are a humble people, vassals of the Sauromatae. We make our living as small farmers and fishers … of men.”
Serpent Goddess: The Horse Lords Book 1 Page 4
