Scythian Trilogy Book 2: The Golden King

by Max Overton

  The man paled further. "N...no, my Lord Dimurthes. My apologies. I did not know." He bowed again, sweeping his hand toward his house. "Please enter and refresh yourself. My name is Portrax, Elder of this village. My wife has not been well, but she is a good cook." He kicked the fallen guard as he passed. "These fools mistook my purpose, my Lord," babbled Portrax. "I will see they are punished..."

  Dimurthes scowled. "If I desired to know your name I would ask but I care not. Just feed my men and myself and your pitiful village will be your own again by nightfall."

  "Of course, my Lord, forgive me." Portrax hurried ahead of Dimurthes, pushing the wooden door aside and ducking to enter through the low doorway. He started shouting to his wife and a serving girl to fetch food and drink, cursing as he knocked over a stool.

  Dimurthes moved swiftly through the doorway on the heels of the other man, whirling to scan the room, with his hand on his sword. The room was large, occupying most of the ground floor of the house. Rickety stairs on one side led upward to the darkness of the top floor, which Dimurthes guessed were the living quarters of the Elder and his wife. At the far end of the room were two doors, covered with thick hides that flapped in the wind, pushing cold draughts of air gusting inward. Odours carried on the gusts told of the function of the open areas beyond the hides. The smell of baking bread and roasted meats wafted from the one and the stench of the eventual voiding of that same food carried to him from the midden behind the other.

  Dimurthes noted a large fire in the middle of the room, giving off welcome pulses of heat, the smoke billowing upward to exit through a hole in the ceiling above. Daylight showed through the hole, indicating the upper floor was considerably smaller than the lower one. Rough wooden tables with benches and stools were ranged around the fire, with several men at one of them and two old women at another.

  Taraxes and the other men entered noisily and ousted the diners from their table, pushing them to a corner of the room then calling loudly for food and drink. The serving girl hurried forward with platters of freshly baked bread and skins of sour beer. After a few slaps and pinches of the girl's ample assets, they fell on the food with gusto, calling for more bread and for meat.

  Dimurthes ushered Tomyra to another table and pushed her down onto a stool. He took his dagger and cut her bonds before thrusting a plate of bread and a cup of beer toward her.

  "Eat," he said. "We will not be staying long."

  Tomyra picked at the loaf and sipped at the sour beer. Despite her hunger, grief and anger constricted her throat. She stared at the rough-hewn table in front of her and tried to ignore the babble of voices filling the smoky room.

  Mother Goddess, she prayed silently. If you hold me yet in your favour, help me avenge my sisters who have died this day.

  She thought back to happier times, when in the first flush of her love for her handsome Greek lover, her honour guard of young warrior women had truly seemed like fleshly sisters, not just Sisters serving the Goddess.

  A rising tide of anger in a voice near her brought Tomyra back to her present sufferings. Dimurthes glowered up at a frail old woman standing beside the table. Another slightly less ancient woman stood a few paces back, a worried expression on her face, her thin, bony hands clasped in front of her chest.

  "A plague on you, old woman," snarled Dimurthes. "I told you this woman is a captive and no business of yours. Now get out of here before I have you thrown out."

  The old woman calmly stared at the angry man. "You would dare to lay hands on a consecrated priestess of the Mother Goddess?" she softly enquired.

  Dimurthes pushed back his stool, rising to his feet. He leaned over the table and glared at the old woman, his face suffused with rage. "How in the name of all the gods of the Underworld...?" He took a deep breath. "I don't know what tales you were told, old hag, but this woman is no longer a priestess. She took a barbarian as a lover and is under sentence of death." He dragged his eyes off the old woman and stared at his men, still eating hungrily at the other table. "Which of you loose-tongued jackals has been spreading tales?" he shouted.

  "I was not speaking of the girl," the old woman calmly went on, as if the enraged man was still sitting quietly in front of her. "I am Atrullia, priestess of the Mother Goddess in Her Aspect of the Huntress. Do not seek to anger Her."

  Dimurthes whirled back to stare at the old woman again. His flush of anger faded to pallor and his brow wrinkled in perplexity. "What did you say? You are..." his voice trailed off. With an effort, Dimurthes collected his wits and drew himself upright, throwing his unruly locks of hair back from his face. "My apologies, Lady," he grated. "I am Dimurthes, chief of the Serratae and these are my men. I am taking this woman back to Zarmet to face her just execution for her crimes."

  Atrullia nodded. "I defer, of course, to the authority of your position in all matters pertaining to tribal law," she agreed. "I was merely concerned that this girl has obviously been abused. I wished to offer my assistance." A troubled expression settled on her wrinkled brown face. "But you say this girl is, or was, a priestess. If this is so then no matter what her offence, I must intervene."

  The old priestess sat down on a stool and, assisted by the other old woman, drew it close to Tomyra. "Thank you, Solma." Atrullia squeezed the other woman's hand before turning to face Tomyra. She looked into the young girl's eyes for a few moments then her gaze slowly traveled over the rest of her, taking in her dirty, disheveled appearance and her torn cloak and shift. "Is there truth in what this man says, my dear?" she asked quietly.

  Tomyra closed her eyes for a moment then opened them again and nodded. "Yes, Lady. But there is more to it."

  Atrullia sighed. "There always is." She waited for a moment then as Tomyra continued to sit in silence, prompted her. "Go on, child. In what way is this man correct and in what way is he false?"

  "Enough of this," interrupted Dimurthes. "I have been more than patient with you, Lady. This matter is now a secular one and will be dealt with by me at Zarmet."

  "If this girl was a consecrated priestess then the offence, if there really was one, is of concern to the Mother Goddess," observed Atrullia. Her voice sharpened in tone. "I will examine her story now and will brook no further interruptions."

  "No. She is mine. I warn you..." grated Dimurthes.

  Atrullia rose to her feet and, despite the fact that the top of her head came only to the man's chest, stared him down. Her stature seemed to swell in the flickering firelight and she threw back her cloak to reveal a rich green woollen dress stitched with gold thread. On it, a huntress drew a bow at a leaping stag. "You warn me?" she icily inquired. "Remember who I am. The Mother Goddess rules us all, men and women alike. She was there at your birth, at your naming, at your ascension to chieftainship and at every ceremony or formal occasion you attended with your tribe. She will be there at your death. If you have any hope of the afterlife or of rebirth then you will behave with civility and courtesy to Her chosen ones. Do I make myself clear?"

  The conversation and laughter at the other tables died away when Atrullia spoke and her last question cracked like a whip in the silence. Dimurthes flushed and stepped back, knocking over his stool.

  Atrullia continued in a softer voice. "Go and sit with your men. I will question this girl." She waited until Dimurthes sat down at one of the other tables across the fire. The old priestess reseated herself with Solma's help and turned back to Tomyra.

  "Thank you, my Lady," smiled Tomyra. "It gladdens my heart to see that man..."

  A sharp gesture from Atrullia cut off Tomyra's thanks. "Do not think that was done for you, child. If you have truly sinned against the Mother then you will feel her wrath, both in this world and the next." She looked at Tomyra's stricken face and continued in a gentler voice. "Compose yourself, child, and tell me who you are and where you come from."

  "Yes, Mother," Tomyra whispered while smoothing her unruly hair with one hand. She collected her thoughts for a moment. "My name is Tomyra. I am the daughter
of Spargises, chief of the Massegetae and Starissa, priestess of the Sauromantians."

  Atrullia leaned forward. "How can that be? Do not Sauromantian priestesses consecrate their virginity to the Goddess? Or did your father rape her?"

  Tomyra shook her head. "My mother was captured in a time of war by the Triboi and sold in slavery. Eventually, my father bought her but he did not force her, even though it was his right. He married her and held her in honour."

  "I see. Go on, child."

  "My mother died when I was twelve. By then she had instructed me in the ways of the Great Mother and I consecrated myself to her service. Two years ago the old priestess died and I became the path of the Mother's goodness for my people."

  "And this Greek lover he refers to?" asked Atrullia, jerking her head toward Dimurthes, who sat glowering in the firelight.

  Tomyra's eyes softened and a gentle smile curved her lips. "Nikomayros, son of Leonnatos of Macedon. Last year he led a patrol into our lands under the orders of his king, Alexander. You have heard of Alexander, the Great King of the West?"

  Atrullia nodded.

  "He, Nikomayros, was captured and was to be sacrificed to the Great Goddess. The Mother saved him though." Tomyra smiled.

  "Saved him? A barbarian? How?" The old woman frowned down at the young girl.

  "Though unarmed, he overcame my champion and killed him with his own sword. Further, the champion's blow was turned by an old iron armband worn by Nikomayros." Tomyra leaned forward as she eagerly recounted the event. "It was an ancient armband of the Mother, serpent-bodied and gilded, and passed down from mother to daughter in his family. His mother passed it to him when he left home." Tomyra sat back and shook her head. "It was a sign. Then later, at the ceremony of brotherhood..."

  "Brotherhood?" gasped Atrullia. "What in heaven are you talking about, child? Barbarians are not made brothers of the True People."

  Tomyra picked up a morsel of bread from the table and rolled it between her fingers before she spoke. "I have never heard of it before," she admitted. "After my vision, though, my father greatly desired it. I could not refuse him. Especially as the Mother willed it."

  "What vision was this?" asked Atrullia sharply. "Tell me!"

  "It...it was strange, Mother. I have had visions sent by the Great Goddess before, of course, but this was strong, so strong." Tomyra shivered and lapsed into silence. She drew her cloak about her despite the warmth of the room. Her eyes became unfocused as she remembered and when she spoke again it was in a quiet, remote voice.

  "The Mother Sea. A tribe without a head. A king. Conquest. Change."

  Atrullia leaned forward, her dark bright eyes searching Tomyra's face as the young girl spoke.

  "From the blood of kings comes a warrior of the People. Great glory. A Golden King lies in his future. Death, and..." Tomyra broke off, her face flushing.

  "And?" enquired Atrullia softly. "Those were words of prophesy, child. I could tell, even hearing them repeated in this place. What else did the Goddess say that you fear to say to me now?"

  Tomyra coughed as a billow of smoke swept across the table, the hide covering of the door flapping violently in a gust of wind. "Fear? Once I feared, Mother." She shook her head and stared back at the old woman. "The Goddess told me I would love a man from the West and that he would take me away from my people and I would bear his children." The young girl smiled and pushed her long black hair away from her face. "Nikomayros the Greek is my lover and I will go where he leads. The Goddess wills it."

  Atrullia leaned back with a look of shock on her face. "You take too much upon yourself," she hissed. "The Great Mother does not give Her daughters to be the lovers of men. You have sinned, child. Do not pretend to have the blessing of the Goddess."

  Tomyra drew herself up and stared back at the old priestess. "I tell no lie, Mother. The Goddess herself guides me."

  The old woman sighed, fanning smoke away from her face with one hand. "Child...Tomyra. Priestesses are virgins. The Great Mother would not allow one of Her consecrated virgins to be taken by a man and still remain a priestess. You were deceived, either by your heart or by some evil spirit." Atrullia made a warding sign. "Admit your folly child, and I will do what I can to mitigate your fate." She reached across and took Tomyra's hand in her wrinkled one.

  Atrullia's brow creased and a look of puzzlement crept over her face, followed by astonishment. "What is this?" she cried in a thin voice. "The Goddess speaks through you!" She snatched her hand back and stared at Tomyra with wide eyes. "Power resides within you child," she whispered. "Your consecration is intact, despite..." She turned and looked across the room at Dimurthes in horror. "What has he done to you?"

  Tomyra turned her head and shot Dimurthes a venomous stare. "What has he not done?" she grated. "He helped my brother kill my beloved father and betray my people. When my brother told him to kill me, he took me captive and repeatedly raped me. I wish him dead in a most horrible way."

  Atrullia rose to her feet and tottered toward the fire. Solma hurried to her side and supported her as she stood in front of Dimurthes. She took several deep breaths to calm herself, coughing slightly in the smoky air. "Dimurthes of the Serratae, your captive accuses you of rape. What do you say?"

  The room quieted, the Scythian warriors looking up from their beer with interest.

  Dimurthes snorted and looked beyond the two old women to where Tomyra sat staring at him. "What of it? She is a captive, a spoil of war. What I choose to do with her is my concern only. She is nothing and has no rights in this."

  "She is also a consecrated priestess of the Great Goddess," hissed Atrullia.

  "Was, old woman, was," sneered Dimurthes, rising to his feet. "Now, if you have no further questions for the girl, we will depart from this lice-infested village."

  Atrullia pointed a bony finger at the chief. "She is a priestess still. I can feel her power within her."

  "Impossible. She has lain with a man even before I..." Dimurthes' voice trailed off. "She cannot be," he finished, his voice flat and emotionless.

  "Do you doubt my word?" asked Atrullia.

  Dimurthes shook his head then shrugged. "No, Lady. Yet it cannot be so. She has deceived you somehow."

  "Then we must find the truth of it. You and the girl will accompany me back to the sanctuary of the Goddess on Mount Mora. There she will be put to the question." Atrullia nodded to herself in satisfaction. "Yes," she muttered. "It is possible for even a priestess to be deceived, but no mortal can deceive the Goddess Herself."

  "Lady, I cannot. I must rejoin my army in Zarmet. I appreciate your concern but I will hand the girl over to my tribe's priestess when we get there." Dimurthes turned and called across to Taraxes, who stood gawking with the other men. "Come, we ride for Zarmet at once." He pushed past the old women and gripped Tomyra by the arm, pulling her to her feet.

  "Stay!" Atrullia's voice crackled with power. The warriors stopped and turned toward her. "You have no choice in the matter. You have been accused of raping this girl. If she is indeed a holy priestess then you may yet die for that action. Come with me and find the truth of the matter. If you refuse you will find your people turned against you on your return to Zarmet."

  Dimurthes paled. His mouth opened but no words came out. Several of his men held their hands low, palm downward and muttered brief invocations to the gods.

  Atrullia smiled coldly. "If you are afraid, you may bring three men with you. No more." The old woman, accompanied by an anxious-looking Solma, walked imperiously to the doorway of the inn and pushed through the hide hangings.

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  Chapter Seven

  "Rider coming...fast." Parasades held up a hand and listened intently. After a moment he nodded. "One horse." He snapped his fingers and pointed to one side of the track at the low cover of some medium-sized boulders. "Certes, get ready to take him." Turning to the other riders, Parasades smiled briefly. "My lord, if you would be so kind as to move of
f the path."

  Nikometros nodded and turned his stallion's head up the slope. Timon and Agarus followed, their horses picking their way carefully in the loose stony soil. When they reached the low boulders they slid off their mounts and crouched low, though the horses remained in full view should anyone look that way. Certes strung his bow and fitted an arrow after sticking two others into the dirt in front of him. He took aim at a point in the path just a few feet in front of Parasades.

  Parasades sat relaxed on his horse in the middle of the hill path, facing the now generally audible sounds of approach. He stroked his moustache gently with one hand while keeping the other on the hilt of his short sword. The reins hung loose over his horse's neck, tiny movements of the man's feet and legs keeping the restless mount from turning toward its fellows on the hillside.

  The drumming of hooves came louder. Around the shoulder of the hill burst a lone rider, crouched low over the neck of a lathered horse as it came at a full gallop toward Parasades. At the last moment the rider caught side of the man and with a low, inarticulate cry, dragged back on the reins, attempting to turn the horse's headlong rush. The horse went down on its haunches in a shower of pebbles and dust before struggling to its feet again. The rider half fell awkwardly to one side, desperately clinging to the back of the horse as an arrow thrummed through the space the rider's body had occupied a moment before.

  Parasades leapt to the ground and ran to the struggling horse. He reached up and dragged the rider down, cracking him across the head with the flat of his sword. The rider collapsed in a heap while the horse staggered a few paces then stood, its flanks heaving and legs trembling.

  Parasades reached down and turned the fallen rider over, keeping his sword ready. He stared at the hairless face for a moment, taking in the clothing and bow still strung across one shoulder. "Diratha?" he muttered. "What are you doing here?" He looked up as the others scrambled down to the path, leading their horses.