Scythian Trilogy Book 2: The Golden King

by Max Overton

  ***

  The figures melted into the darkness and in a moment, Diratha found herself alone. She crept to the ridge and peered over, selecting a spot that gave her good visibility of the fire and the enemy. She laid several arrows on the grass beside her, within easy reach, and fitted another to her bow. From her vantage point she could see the outline of the guard by the old pine tree and the one standing out to the right, but not the horse guards. The laughter and revelry by the campfire died down, men tending to their equipment and weapons. Already one or two were settling down for the night.

  Far to the left a horse nickered and stamped its feet in the shadows then was answered by another. One of the men by the fire raised himself on his elbow and called out an enquiry. A few moments later a rough voice called back something that was unintelligible to Diratha but appeared to satisfy the Serratae men below.

  A movement far to the right caught her eye. Despite the darkness of the night, Diratha could just make out the shape of a man creeping from tussock to tussock, toward the guard. Nikometros was approaching from above, working himself into a favourable position for a swift strike.

  Below her, a shadow detached itself from the dead tree and glided forward. A brief flicker of metal told of the weapon drawn for use. The guard turned and the shadow that was Timon froze, merging back with the tree. The guard advanced a few paces then, lifting his tunic, fiddled with his leggings and directed a stream of urine onto the stump, the liquid steaming in the frosty air.

  ***

  Timon held his breath as urine splashed over the tree trunk only inches from him. He waited, his lungs aching, as the man refastened his clothing and stretched, yawning widely. The guard started to turn away and Timon gently released his breath. The puff of water vapour blew whitely against the blackened tree and the guard stopped short in his turn. With an oath starting on his lips, his eyes opening wide in shock, the man swung his spear around.

  Timon lunged with his dagger and the guard, his spear swinging, caught the blade on the haft and turned it aside. The spear continued its sideways motion and glanced off Timon's arm, throwing him off balance. He stumbled and fell, rolling as he hit the ground. He groped his way upright again. The guard let out an incoherent shout and stabbed with his spear in the general direction of the intruder. The spear point passed under Timon's arm and Timon threw himself onto the man, his knife stabbing downward.

  Shouts from the camp made Timon desperate and he forgot the knife he held, instead hammering his fist into the man's head. His blows seemed to have no effect and he felt the guard's knee thud into his belly. Fingers reached for his throat and Timon struck the man on the side of his head again. The man desperately grasped Timon's throat and tightened his grip, his knee again seeking Timon's groin. Timon could feel himself sliding into darkness, wondering why his own blows were unfelt. He remembered the knife in his hand and, with the last of his strength, struck sideways.

  A rush of hot blood fountained up into Timon's face. The man tensed beneath him and gave a gurgling cry, his fingers loosening. Breath rushed into Timon's lungs and he rolled sideways, coughing and spluttering. Beside him, the body of the guard shuddered into death.

  ***

  Nikometros heard the cry and the answering shouts from the camp. The man in front of him at once broke from his bored reverie and turned back toward the fire, drawing his sword. Nikometros rose from the tussock grasses, sword in hand and charged at the man, now only some twenty steps from him.

  The man whirled toward Nikometros, sword rising in defence against the shadow hurtling out of the night. His blade was knocked aside and he felt a heavy blow to his shoulder. The guard struggled to raise his blade again but could not. He swayed, looking down with a detached expression at the sword at his feet, a hand and arm still gripping the hilt. His mouth opened to shout but only air gusted out as another crushing blow ripped into his ribcage.

  Nikometros did not pause in his downhill rush. His last slash at the guard unbalanced him and he almost fell. He realised all elements of surprise were lost as the camp below him erupted into a frenzy of activity. He ran down, leaping over the tussocks and waving his sword over his head, shouting a paean to the gods. Blood spattered in a fine rain over his head and shoulders. Ahead of him, men milled in the firelight, weapons glinting crimson.

  ***

  Beside the horse corral, itself nothing more complex than roughly piled branches, lay two bodies. Parasades and Certes crouched over the bodies of the guards, stripping them of their weapons and gold ornaments. Parasades grunted in satisfaction and clapped the younger man lightly on the shoulder.

  "Well done, Certes," he whispered.

  Taking advantage of the cover provided by the piled undergrowth and branches, Parasades and Certes had risen like wraiths at the feet of the unsuspecting guards. Throats gushed warmly in the cold air at the same moment and bodies were eased to the ground together. Only a branch breaking beneath one guard as he collapsed marred a perfect attack. The shout of inquiry from the camp was answered by a single gruff word of explanation from Parasades in the Serratae patois. It had been accepted without further question.

  Beckoning to Certes, the older man moved around the horses that snorted and stamped at the smell of fresh blood on the men. As they edged toward the camp, a sudden shout sent them diving for the sparse cover of the tussocks. A babble of cries arose ahead of them. Parasades looked at his companion and shrugged. He rose to his feet and started running toward the flickering light of the fire.

  Parasades and Certes burst out of the shadows and into the turmoil of battle. A man lay sprawled across the fire, an arrow jutting upward from his neck. Black smoke roiled around him and the smell of charring flesh hit their nostrils.

  Parasades jerked his gaze back to the men jostling in the small clearing. Two had swords out and were hacking savagely at a figure pressed against the old dead tree. Another lay on his back across the clearing, blood pooling beneath a great rent in his side. Astride his body, stood Nikometros, blood matted in his long blond hair and soaking his upper body. He furiously parried the blows of three men in front of him, shouting some incoherent song Parasades assumed must be Macedonian.

  Parasades pointed at Timon, fighting for his life beside the tree and Certes grinned, drawing his sword. He raced across the sandy floor of the gully and swung at the nearer of the two men. The man turned and defended himself with a cry.

  Parasades ran to where Nikometros fought silently now, his breath coming in harried gasps as he slowly retreated before the onslaught. Parasades stood for a moment behind the Serratae warriors, sizing up the opposition then casually selecting a spearman, stepped up behind him and slid his blade into the man's side. Between the thrust forward of his spear and the pull back, the man died. Collapsing onto the sandy ground, the arm of the already dead man brushed against the leg of one of his companions. Startled, the man glanced around, into the smiling face of the Massegetae warrior.

  With an oath, the Serratan whipped around, his sword swinging. Parasades pushed the blade aside and slashed at the man's face. The man stepped back and swung again, the tip of his sword ripping through Parasades' tunic. The smile slipping from his face, to be replaced by a grimmer expression, Parasades moved forward, blade flashing.

  ***

  Nikometros' breath came hard, his arm numb from the repeated blows of his adversaries. Then, without warning, the pressure eased. His eyes flickered momentarily, taking in the dead man falling and the sudden appearance of his Massegetae companion diverting the attentions of one of his foes. His opponent's sword flashed across his inattention and he stepped sideways, narrowly avoiding a stroke to the head.

  Nikometros thrust, felt his sword parried and fell to one knee. His sword rasped along the blade of his opponent's then fell free. He swung low and heard a howl of pain. The man in front of him staggered back, clutching a wound that bloomed redly on his thigh. He tripped over the corpse lying on the sand and fell flat on his back. Nikometros regain
ed his feet and leapt after him.

  ***

  Timon's face glowed with his exertions as he grasped his sword in both hands, hammering his opponent. Freed from the necessity of holding himself back to prevent an enemy getting around behind him, he gave a great bellow of rage and leapt to the attack. He smashed the Serratae warrior's sword aside and swept his own sword downward, scarcely noticing the shock as metal met bone. He stood panting, looking around him for his opponent, ignorant of the red ruin lying at his feet.

  ***

  Certes smiled as he fought, confident in his youth and training. He smoothly blocked and parried the other man's blows; thrusting energetically forward, forcing the man back to the fire. At last, the man could retreat no further, the embers burning his feet as he fought. He glanced down involuntarily, as Certes knew he would, and looked up again just in time to see a glint of steel and feel the cold slide of death into his throat. The man fell back into the fire with a gurgling cry, his blood hissing angrily when it gushed over the flames.

  Certes looked around at the carnage. He nodded appreciatively toward Timon, standing bemusedly over the wreckage of his opponent then at Parasades, who still fought with his.

  ***

  Parasades slowly worked his man back into the clearing, content to parry the other's blows, making no real effort to kill the man. As his opponent stepped back into the full light, Parasades withdrew two paces and waved his sword above his head.

  The warrior in front of him slowly lowered his sword, a puzzled expression crossing his face. Something whispered behind him and his puzzlement was replaced by shock then pain. He fell to his knees, his sword slipping from suddenly numb fingers. The Serratae warrior swayed and looked up at the smiling Parasades then another blow shook his frame and he tumbled forward, two arrows buried deep in his back.

  ***

  The last survivor scrambled frantically backward on hands and knees, followed by Nikometros. The man turned, sitting on the sandy soil in the flickering firelight and stared up at the advancing apparition in its mask of blood. The warrior raised his sword, the tip trembling as he faced his death. Nikometros kicked the sword aside and dropped to his knees on the man, forcing him onto his back. He raised his sword, pointing it down at the man's eyes.

  "Where is she?" shouted Nikometros. "Where is Tomyra?"

  The man gabbled and cried, his fingers scrabbling in the sand.

  Timon moved across, his sword hanging by his side. "No sign of her my lord. She is not here."

  "Where is she?" repeated Nikometros in fury, pushing the tip of his sword downward. "Tell me or by the gods above and below I will..." A hand caught his arm and Nikometros swung round angrily.

  "My friend," Parasades quietly said. "Perhaps if you asked in his tongue. I fear he does not understand Macedonian." He released Nikometros' arm and patted him on his shoulder. "I will ask him if you like."

  Nikometros scowled then eased off the man, rising to his feet. "Tell him I will kill him if he doesn't answer."

  Parasades nodded then squatted beside the man. He spoke rapidly in a tongue that had similarities to the Massegetae language, but also many differences. He listened to the hesitant reply then fired off another string of questions. At last, he nodded and got to his feet.

  "Well?" asked Nikometros.

  "Dimurthes has taken both the old priestess and Tomyra to the Mount Mora sanctuary."

  "Why would he do that? And without his men?"

  Parasades hesitated. "He is unclear on that point but it seems Dimurthes may have angered the Goddess."

  Nikometros swore violently then flung his sword to the ground and looked up at the black sky. He took several deep breaths then ran his fingers through his matted and sticky hair. He stared down at the slime and blood coating his body as if seeing it for the first time. Closing his eyes, he groaned softly before looking up at Parasades. "Have any taken hurt?" Nikometros enquired softly.

  Parasades shook his head. "Nothing beyond a cut or two. These are only Serratae cattle," he sneered. "They were not warriors."

  Nikometros nodded slowly, looking at the Serratae man kneeling abjectly before him. "So we must go to Mount Mora, it seems," he said quietly.

  "It would seem so," agreed Parasades, "But in the morning." He held up a hand as Nikometros turned to him. "We cannot ride mountain trails at night and we could all do with a good meal and a warm night's sleep."

  "What of him?" asked Timon, gesturing at the fallen enemy with his bloody sword. "We cannot leave him behind."

  "Kill him," said Parasades, drawing his dagger.

  "No." Nikometros moved forward and caught the Scythian warrior's arm. "I gave him my word."

  Parasades stared up at the fair man in surprise. "I heard no such promise. You swore only to kill him if he did not answer."

  "Even so. I have my answer and I say he may live."

  Parasades shrugged. "As you will, my friend." He gestured to Certes. "Bind him well or we may wake to find our throats cut." The warrior laughed out loud then turned and called to where Agarus and Diratha led their horses down into the gully. "We camp here tonight, my friends. See what you can find in their supplies, this fighting has given me an appetite."

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  Chapter Thirteen

  Dimurthes squatted beneath a misshapen birch, in a stand of trees that gathered on the slope like sentinels, digging furiously in the wiry turf with a stick. Above him, the weak winter sun filtered down through a sparse canopy of leaves, still green and healthy, despite the bare branches of their kin on the surrounding slopes. There was little warmth in the sunlight, though he had loosened his leather tunic well before noon in response to the heat battening upward from the floor of the valley.

  Throwing the stick away from him, Dimurthes rose and started pacing along the strip of flattened grass between the grove of trees and the stream. The air grew warmer as he neared the brook, with wisps of steam arising from the tepid waters. Far above him, lost from sight amid the rocky hillside, the waters burst boiling from the Goddess-given hot springs. Gusts of air carried sulfurous fumes to his nostrils, prickling his skin with superstitious dread.

  Earlier that morning he tried to force the issue, to join the priestess and Tomyra in the small stone temple nestled under the crags of black rock. Several young women turned him away, gently but firmly. Dimurthes' face flushed as he remembered the shame of his failure. He had pushed his way through the women, shouting for the priestess. For a moment it seemed as if he would succeed in forcing his way to the temple then his muscles cramped and a wave of nausea swept over him. Groaning, he was led to the grove of trees and left to recover on warm turf.

  Across the stream, Dimurthes saw the young women patiently sitting outside the temple entrance, watching him but making no further move to restrain him. Bitches, he thought sourly. They must have fed me something last night.

  When Atrullia and Tallia, the young woman sent to guide them in the previous night, had reached the small stone village, Dimurthes was separated from his erstwhile prisoner, Tomyra, and housed in comparative luxury. The stone house was dry and warm, with a crackling fire to ward off any stray night chills that might invade the valley. Several young women attended to his needs, bringing heated water and soap root. A meal was served, plain but wholesome, followed by a flask of wine. Dimurthes cast his eye about him, weighing up the young women speculatively, noting with approval a tilted breast here and a firm buttock there.

  The dishes were removed and the young women disappeared with them, replaced by an old crone with a squint who turned down the furs on his bed, baring her gums at him in a toothless grin. With a shrug and a scowl he pushed her away and shut the rickety wooden door as she hobbled out into the night, cackling to herself.

  Morning found Dimurthes tired and apprehensive, despite his apparently unbroken sleep. He used the midden and washed his face before breaking his fast on fresh-baked bread and a pitcher of cold water. Moving out into the
crisp morning air, he saw Atrullia and Tomyra walking slowly up the valley toward the stone temple, accompanied by several other richly dressed women. With a shout, Dimurthes raced after them, only to be ignominiously hustled away before he could get near.

  Several hours passed. Dimurthes paced, wearing a flattened path in the tough grass, seething with anger. As the day slowly grew older, his anger abated and worry took its place.

  What is that bitch Tomyra saying?

  He removed his jacket and threw himself down on the turf beneath the trees. He dozed fitfully, his mind conjuring frightening visions that sent him starting up and panting. Wandering downstream, he found a shallow backwater where the brook had cooled and splashed his face and head, feeling the water trickling refreshingly down his linen undershirt.

  He walked back to the grove and sat down on the grass, looking across at the silent temple. What is going on in there? The words of the old priestess worried him, he was forced to admit. Despite his air of bravado and lifestyle as a tough and battle-hardened Scythian warrior, Dimurthes was as superstitious as most of his fellows. The power of the Mother Goddess was very real and one slighted Her at one's peril. But I have done nothing wrong!

  Dimurthes chewed his lip and cast his mind back. Areipithes, war-leader of the Massegetae had approached Dimurthes through intermediaries and invited the Serratae to help him overthrow his father, chief of the Massegetae. Areipithes intended to kill his sister, the priestess Tomyra, at the same time and some troublesome Greek who had wormed his way into the tribe.

  Why in Hades would Scythians adopt a Greek?