Serpent Goddess: The Horse Lords Book 1

by Diana Drakulich

  If anyone discovered him in the kurgan he was a dead man. Still, some unknown force slowed his steps. Changed his direction away from the doors and toward the altar.

  In a dazed, surreal state Sava mounted the altar. Thick crimson blood was pooled around the Sword in the Stone. Three naked bodies lay grotesquely sprawled on the stone slab. He crept closer.

  Slaughtered like sheep, a man and a woman’s convulsed bodies lay hunched near the embedded sword.

  The woman’s face, partly covered by long dark hair was turned to the side. The lower half of her body was painted with the black diamond scales of a serpent.

  The third victim lay slightly apart, face down in a pool of blood. Both men wore masks. Sava was grateful for this. He did not want to witness the frozen agony in their eyes.

  Creeping through the smoky haze he paused for a closer look at the third victim. The man was broad-shouldered. Well built. In the prime of life.

  What a waste. To be slaughtered like mute animals. Not in battle but at the hands of your own people. WHY? Why must the gods demand blood? Sava choked back shock and nausea.

  And those beautiful horses… I don’t believe `the gods willed’ this! It’s all a LIE.

  Something in his heart sickened and cracked. Lifting his face toward the ceiling the nomad loosed a long silent wolf howl of furious heartache at the sheer ruthless injustice of it all.

  He sensed a bitter anguish then, hovering close. Their spirits are near. They hear me. A freezing chill shuddered down his spine.

  A still small Voice in his head said –

  What you see is the will of the Black Serpent. Ah-Gin is but his servant. Velesh rules all them ALL.

  Chapter 40 – Still An Eagle

  Such is the penalty for men

  That defy the will of the gods,

  Retribution will pursue them

  In this Life and again in Death –

  Apollonius of Rhodes, Argonautica 300 BC

  Sava had seen enough. His nerves screamed that he had lingered too long already. He turned to go.

  Something grabbed his ankle in a vise grip.

  Hnnh-uh!

  Leaping back, he slipped and fell hard on the slick, blood-spattered stone. From behind the Herakles mask came a faint, gurgling agonized moan.

  Holy Mata Drakaina – He still lives!

  Kneeling, Sava gently turned the sacrificial victim over. Pulling his dagger from the sheath strapped to his thigh, he cut the strings holding the mask. Lifted it away.

  Ah...He is… an Eagle.

  Despite the blood smearing the victim’s face, here was a man of noble character. Blood pulsed slowly from a deep gash in his throat. The Black Cloak’s face and upper body were coated with blood. So much blood.

  Eyes half-open, rapidly glazing over, the victim uttered a final weak moan. His life spirit quickly ebbing.

  At first glance it appeared the Black Cloak’s thick muscular neck had saved him from an instantly fatal cut. But at this rate he would soon bleed out.

  Sava grabbed a black cape lying nearby and ripped off the silver border for a tourniquet. At the same time his rational mind, desperate to preserve his own life and to fulfill his mission, questioned his sanity.

  What am I doing?! If they catch me, the Black Cloaks will spend 100 days chopping me into a 100 pieces!

  But strange misfit that he was, Sava could not help trying to aid the victim in his last moments.

  “Do not fear, Mata Drakaina watches over you.” He whispered in the dying man’s ear.

  It was difficult to judge how tightly to wrap the tourniquet around the victim’s neck. It was impossible to stop the bleeding completely without impairing the victim’s breathing. But it had to be tight enough to slow the flow until the blood could clot.

  The nomad did the best he could. The oozing blood quickly stained through the tourniquet, but was less now.

  What can I do for him now? Sava’s mind raced, spinning, confused.

  If I leave him here, he will die. But how to carry him? If I lay him over the back of my horse, he will bleed out even faster.

  The man is so far gone…is it even worth the risk?

  Every muscle, every nerve in the nomad’s body surged with desperate energy. Frantic to bound away from this house of death like a deer fleeing a pack of ravening wolves.

  Every moment he expected to see the great doors creaking opening. To see the Black Cloaks had returned to find him here. Trapped.

  He fought to control his extreme foreboding. Blind panic hummed through his veins. He forced himself to stop and think.

  Some god has given this Black Cloak immortal strength to withstand such a grievous wound. It is an omen. For this purpose was I brought here. For my life - I must save a life.

  But that other relentlessly logical Voice in his head said – He will slow me down only to die on me. l will only prolong his suffering.

  I came to summon the Black Cloaks to the war council. If they discover that I took their sacrifice, they will NEVER join the alliance. What is one stranger’s life compared to the survival of my people?

  The penalty for stealing from a kurgan is death. My horse is sick and exhausted. I can’t run him to death. The Black Cloaks will hunt us down and we will all die. So in the end, what good will I have done?

  All these conflicting thoughts and emotions buzzed through his mind, pricking his heart with excruciating thorns. I cannot just leave him like this…But what choice do I have?

  Rising to his feet, Sava walked away from the dying Black Cloak.

  Leading Zlatna, he padded through the Great Hall to the massive kurgan doors. The great wooden doors were closed. He pushed against them. Hard.

  At first the heavy doors refused to give. He shoved harder, throwing all his weight, all his will against them. Finally the doors creaked open. He blew out a deep sigh of relief.

  The kurgan doors were not blocked – yet. This meant the funeral party would soon return to finish the burial ceremonies.

  The nomad and his horse stepped out into starlit darkness. Sava breathed deep the fresh air of freedom. Anxious to fly away. If I leave now, no one will ever know I was here.

  But his heart twisted. What about HIM?

  And then he saw the answer. Outlined in the moonlight was a large blocky shadow. A funeral cart filled with hay, dried food and weapons. The harness lay folded in the wagon bed.

  The cart contained everything the dead man would need in the Other World. Tomorrow at sunset the cart would be burned to follow the souls crossing over to the Other World.

  Moving swiftly, Sava hitched the horse to the cart.

  Why am I doing this?

  Because I am a stupid fool. That relentless Other Voice in his head said. I was sent to make the Black Cloaks our allies, not our enemies!

  But there was no more time. No time to think, to question. Only to act.

  The nomad led the horse and cart back into the kurgan. Grasping the victim’s naked, bloody body underneath the arms, he half dragged, half carried the dying man to the cart. Grunting with effort he lifted him up into the wagon bed.

  “Uhnh, you are as heavy as a bag of stones my friend.” He gasped.

  Hurry. Get out now before it’s too late! His nerves screamed, frantic to be away.

  Not yet. Scouting around the kurgan Sava found a few half full water skins. He took a deep swig from one and poured the rest into a large vessel for the stallion. Zlatna drank it all and Sava refilled it.

  He found a pair of boots and leggings. A fur-lined black cloak lay on the altar. He put the boots and leggings into the cart and threw the robe over the wounded man.

  The moon was at its apex in the black starlit sky when the nomad slunk out of the kurgan leading the horse and cart. Soon the sun goddess would mount her flaming chariot and ride across the skies.

  The nomad studied the star-crossed horizon. He had spent his life roaming these steppes and had an ingrained sense of direction. This was a dry area. Grazing was poor
so the Black Cloaks used it for their tombs.

  The closest tribe to the Black Cloaks was the feared Androphagi – Man Eaters. Their territory lay northwest across the River Boryesthenes.

  As soon as the enraged Black Cloaks discovered his theft they would waste no time following the tracks of the funeral cart. If he could reach the Androphagi kurgans before the Black Cloaks caught him, he might find refuge there.

  This was assuming the Black Cloaks would not dare invade the cannibal burial grounds. To do so would be tantamount to a declaration of war between the two tribes.

  Most Skythians were headhunters, but the Man Eaters were the most bloodthirsty of all the tribes. It was a huge gamble. But he could see no alternative. Androphagia was the closest territory and the most feared.

  Thus Sava set his course heading diagonally north between the moon in its trajectory west and the North Star.

  Now I KNOW I am well and truly mad. What about my DUTY? That relentless Other Voice in his head lashed his conscience. But he had no answer for it.

  Hahq and his men pulled up their horses at Mikon’s house in Gelonus. After Hahq introduced himself, Mikon embraced him like a long lost brother.

  “Come, you are most welcome here. Come inside. Eat. Drink. My servants will take good care of your horses.”

  Hahq was surprised at how friendly, how familiar Mikon acted. Indeed his whole family accepted the Sauromatian contingent with open arms. They entered the dining hall and reclined on couches in the Greek style.

  “I bear a message from our king, Raymaxos. We have come to invite the Geloni to a council of war in Royal Skythia.” Hahq told them.

  “Aye we heard about it from your kinsmen, Sava. We Geloni have agreed to come to the war council. Sava has already gone on, but he told us you would come.”

  Sava lives. Sweet relief filled Hahq. He had dreaded telling Skopasis that his favored son was lost forever. Especially since Hahq felt responsible for allowing Sava to go on alone. Although there was not much he could have done to stop him.

  “Your kinsman Sava has become a great friend of the Geloni.” Mikon said.

  “Where is he now?”

  “I took him to see the Budini to present your case for the alliance. King Konrad has also agreed to attend the war council. The last I saw of Sava, the Budini were taking him to the border of Melanchaenia to seek out the Black Cloaks.”

  “Many thanks Mikon for your kind hospitality to us and to my kinsman. We will not forget this. Sava’s family grieved, thinking he might not have survived alone on the steppes. How many days are we behind him?”

  “I would guess about nine days all told. He left Budinia six days ago.”

  “Will the Budini escort go with Sava into Melanchaenia?”

  “Nay, the Budini are not on good terms with the Black Cloaks of late. There has been much raiding. Sava must have crossed the border into Melanchaenia alone.”

  “We will ride straight to Melanchaenia then. Maybe we can catch up with him there.”

  “My wife and I have said that if all Sauromatae are like Sava then your people are worthy allies.” Mikon lifted his kylix, “To the Sauromatae – Brothers and allies! Arkatash!”

  The Sauromatae lifted their drinks in turn – “To the Geloni! Arkatash!”

  I wonder how Sava is doing with the Black Cloaks? Hahq pondered this as his lifted his kylix of potent Geloni rakia. His eyes flicked over the smiling faces of the Geloni arkhon and his family.

  Judging by his success in convincing the Geloni and Budini to attend the war council, our reception with the Black Cloaks should be good. It was foolish for Sava to go on alone though. He should have waited for us here in Gelonus. I hope he stays alive long enough for us to catch up with him…

  ***

  As Sava fled the kurgan with the mortally wounded Black Cloak in the funeral cart, time was running late. It was already almost too late. To make it worse he could not run the stallion. Zlatna was injured from the lion attack and weakened with hunger.

  And he had no answer for that insistent Voice in his head. The one that spoke the blunt, brutal truth -

  I was given a mission to bring the seven tribes to the war council, including the Black Cloaks. Instead I have put the alliance at stake for the life of one man. And he may not even live!

  Sava knew only that his heart compelled him to try. No matter the cost. He could not turn his back on such a One as this.

  His spirit may be at death’s door but he is still an Eagle.

  EXERPT - The Brazen Race, Horse Warriors Book 2

  Chapter 1 - Escape from the Dark House

  Sauromatian horses are famed

  For being hardy and swift –

  Tacitus, Roman Senator, Historian 100AD

  All night and well into the next day Sava walked and trotted on foot alongside the cart to save his exhausted horse. Within it lay a mortally wounded man, the sacrificial victim he had stolen from the Dark House of the Black Cloaks.

  Fear of Black Cloak vengeance for the mortal sin he had committed against gods and men pushed the nomad onward, giving wings to his exhausted feet.

  The sun glared down, boring into his brain. Exhausted, not having eaten or slept in two days, he tripped and staggered. Head down, panting, he stopped to lean against the sweating shoulder of his bone-weary horse.

  Soon now the Black Cloaks would come bounding. Hot on his trail. Howling like wolves with prey in sight.

  Wiping the sweat from his forehead, the nomad scanned the boundless Sea of Grass waving before his eyes. Then he saw what he was looking for. A boundary marker.

  “Come on son.” He murmured to the stallion and turned them onto a faint trail leading up a low rolling ridge.

  At the top of the ridge was a pyramid of black-sighted human skulls the height of a man. Protruding from the right eye socket of the top skull was a jagged edged flint sacrificial knife. The message clear - Death to Intruders.

  The boundary marker for the Androphagi, Eaters of Men.

  Standing on the ridge crest, the nomad studied the vast horizon. Far ahead a narrow, shimmering blue ribbon snaked through a wide shallow valley. On the other side of the river rose massive dark barrows.

  There it is - the Boryesthenes. If we can just get across the river ahead of the Black Cloaks and onto sacred ground, we have a chance.

  He was reeling with exhaustion. The golden stallion’s head hung low, his sides heaving. The horse trotted with a distinct limp in his right front from the lion attack two days ago. The wound was swollen red, raw and turning septic.

  There came a barely perceptible moan, like the wind rustling the sparse grass on this desolate ridge. Peering into the cart, Sava hovered over the dying Black Cloak warrior.

  The bleeding from the stab wound in his neck had finally stopped, but the man’s face was ashen. His mouth was clenched in a grimace. Eyes half open, seeing nothing.

  He suffers. Have I only prolonged his death?

  Gently lifting the Black Cloak’s head, Sava spent precious moments giving him tiny sips from the waterskin.

  “Don’t die my friend. Mata Drakaina watches over us. We are almost there.” He intoned, leaning close. Knowing their chances were slim to none.

  The nomad poured water for the stallion into a bronze bowl from the funeral cart. Fully stocked with supplies for the journey to the Other World, the cart was to have been burned after the sacrifice. But Sava had found a much better use for it.

  For his own desert dry tongue the nomad allowed himself only a few swallows. Sinking to his knees he touched reverent fingertips to his forehead, heart and then to Mata Drakaina’s sacred breast -

  “Mother Goddess – Hear me. I beseech thee. Give us strength to outrun the Black Cloaks!“

  At that moment a low, deep vibration shook the earth like the warning rumble of an earthquake. The nomad put his ear to the ground.

  The sound was unmistakable - the swelling thunder of many hooves pounding the ground. Lifting his head Sava gazed bac
k in the direction of the Black Cloak burial kurgan. A fine cloud of dust rose on the horizon.

  Here they come!

  Leaping onto the cart he grabbed the reins and slapped them on the stallion’s back.

  “Eeeyah! Yah! YAH!”

  Hearing the desperate urgency in his voice, the golden stallion threw himself forward in the traces. The wagon took off, jolting down the opposite side of the ridge along a faint stony trail, wheels bumping over rocks and ruts. After careening down the ridge, the cart hit the open steppe.

  Reaching into the wagon bed Sava grabbed a whip and cracked it over the stallion’s head, whistling encouragement. The golden horse responded, increasing his speed to a gallop. He hated to push his horse so hard, but there was no help for it.

  The grassland appeared flat but was riveted by narrow crevices. A deep crevice the width of a man’s outstretched arms appeared just ahead. The stallion saw it in time. Collecting his haunches, huffing with effort, the golden horse made a tremendous leap.

  The light cart flew over the crevice with the horse, but not quite far enough. The back wheels caught against the opposite edge.The cart hung precariously.

  “Yah! YAH!”

  Using all his weight the big stallion thrust against the breast strap. A sudden sharp lurch and they were off again, racing across the steppe. Sava glanced back to see the dust cloud rising higher, thicker, darker. The Black Cloaks were pushing their horses hard.

  The nomad stood up. Feet planted, balancing in the careening the cart like a chariot, he whistled and cracked the whip - “YAH! YAH!”

  Drawing on all his last remaining strength, the golden horse increased his speed to a hard gallop. Mile after mile the stallion ran, hooves beating the ground, running his heart out, body lathered white with sweat.

  Fierce screams rent the air. Sava glanced back to see a swarm of riders outlined on the ridge crest behind them. Black cloaks flying in the wind, they were lashing their horses in mad fury.

  Riding fresh horses unhindered by a bulky cart, the Black Cloaks were catching up. Seeing the cart, they screamed with rage.