Scythian Trilogy Book 2: The Golden King

by Max Overton

  Tomyra looked at Sarmatia then at Prithia, who nodded her head in agreement. She sighed and turned back to Bithyia. "Sister, my dearest friend, you forget I know you too well. I mourn the deaths of our sisters but I know you and I know my Owls." Tomyra put her hands on the other woman's shoulders and gazed into her dark eyes. "Your sisters are loyal but honest, Bithyia. If they say you are not at fault then you are not." Her look hardened. "Put it behind you. I have need of your experience, my friend."

  Bithyia drew a shuddering breath. "Aye, lady. I am yours to command, as always." Her eyes darted over Tomyra's shoulders and her hand flew to the sword at her side. "Someone comes," she hissed.

  Tomyra turned quickly and spread her arms out protectively as Atrullia's mare ambled out of the forest. "Put your weapons up, sisters. This is the lady Atrullia, priestess of the sanctuary of Mount Mora."

  Sarmatia and Prithia stepped back quickly, heads bowed. Bithyia sheathed her sword and bowed low. "Forgive me, lady," she said boldly.

  Atrullia inclined her head toward the woman warriors. "My women informed me of your presence...and of the deeds you performed on the portals of our sanctuary." She glanced about her. "I trust that you have given them at least a token burial."

  "Aye, lady, though such as they deserve no rest." Bithyia smiled coldly. "They lie under rocks in a small ravine over there." She gestured off the track in the direction of the mountains.

  Atrullia nodded. "I will see they have the proper rites." The old woman tossed her head, dismissing the slain men from her thoughts. She turned to Tomyra, holding out a short carved staff. "Tomyra, go with the blessing of the Great Goddess. You will need to ride fast for your own lands, for once the news of Dimurthes' death is revealed, there will be many who would seek to do you harm, priestess or not."

  "Are the Serratae so ungodly that they would knowingly harm a priestess of the Mother?" hissed Sarmatia.

  "Perhaps not," observed Atrullia quietly. "Yet he was much loved and respected among his people. Some will seek vengeance, if not upon Tomyra herself then upon her companions."

  "We will go quickly, my lady," said Tomyra. "I long to see my homeland and my Niko." She grinned. "There is nothing to keep us here." Tomyra gestured toward her woman companions. "Come, it is time." Prithia disappeared into the shrubbery and emerged a few minutes later, leading several horses.

  "Ours, and a few others we acquired," she grinned.

  Atrullia held out her short staff again. "Take this, my child. It is known as a symbol of the power of the Mother. It may provide you with safety if all else fails you."

  Tomyra took the short staff and ran her hands over the smooth dark wood, feeling the ornate carvings and the warmth of the wood, despite the chill air. "Thank you, my lady. I will honour it." She leaned over to the old woman with a smile. "Thank you too for saving my life."

  Atrullia shrugged. "Thank our Great Mother, and remember the charge she puts upon you." The old woman gripped Tomyra's arm tightly. "Go in peace, my child. Both of you," she added softly.

  Bithyia shot Tomyra a questioning look but said nothing. She leapt up onto her horse and gathered the reins of one of the spare horses. Sarmatia and Prithia followed suit. Tomyra turned back to the old priestess.

  "Farewell, my lady Atrullia. May the Great Goddess bless you," she intoned formally. Tomyra flashed a warm smile at her and added, "I will always remember your kindness." She wheeled her mare and urged it after her companions, up the narrow trail that led out of the valley.

  Tomyra looked back into the valley as she crested the ridge. Below her the winter landscape of the rocky mountainside merged into the forests of the sanctuary. There was no sign of Atrullia but Tomyra raised her hand in salutation anyway before allowing her mare its head as it picked its way carefully down the far side of the ridge.

  The group of women forded the shallow rushing stream in the gully and scrambled up the far side. The wind tugged at their cloaks as they wound their way down the mountain, heading for the thin ribbon of the road far below them. Tomyra sat astride her mare in silence, thinking her own thoughts. The women kept quiet too, respecting their mistress' privacy, concentrating on the trail in front of them.

  They emerged onto the road by late morning and turned toward the east and the town of Turkul. Tomyra reined her mare in and sat staring in turn along the road in either direction.

  "My lady?" enquired Bithyia. "Our way lies to the east." She pointed along the road.

  "You saw no sign of my lord Nikomayros?" asked Tomyra.

  "No, lady." Bithyia hesitated then added, "He knew of your capture and is certain to be looking for you, but we have not seen him."

  "He would come for me, I know it. I fear something has happened to him, Bithyia."

  "Perhaps he looks for you elsewhere. We were fortunate to come across your trail early. I am sure we will find him when we return to our people, my lady."

  "What sort of welcome will we get there?" asked Tomyra with a bite in her voice. "My father lays dead and my brother rules in..."

  "Horses," hissed Sarmatia, pointing to the west. "I can hear horses coming."

  Bithyia listened for a moment then signaled the party off into the scrub beside the road. She ushered Tomyra ahead of her, impatient with her mistress' obvious reluctance to move into cover. She dismounted and, drawing her bow, joined Sarmatia and Prithia at the edge of the scrub. The noise of the horses' hooves grew rapidly louder then slowed to a stop at the junction with the mountain trail to Mount Mora.

  Bithyia peered out, sighting her arrow on the nearer of the two horsemen. "Hold," she whispered. "Only kill them if we are discovered."

  Beside her, Prithia gave a squeak of excitement and lowered her bow. "Certes!" she cried.

  The horsemen swung round at the sound of her voice, their hands sweeping their swords from their belts. Sarmatia released her arrow. It flashed toward the more muscular rider, tugging at his cloak. The man gave a roar of anger and leaned low over his horse's neck, spurring it toward the women.

  Prithia screamed and pulled at her companion's arm. "It is Certes, do not kill him!"

  Bithyia swore as she recognised the men. She stepped out with her hands raised above her head into the path of the charging rider. "My lord Parasades!" A moment later she dived to her right, scrambling to avoid the downward slash of his sword.

  Parasades pulled back on his horse's head with an oath, the animal slipping and skidding in the loose scree as it turned. His eyes swept over the figures standing before him then he grunted and shoved his sword back into his belt.

  "I know you," he grated. "You are one of Tomyra's women."

  "Bithyia, my lord. I, and these others, came in search of our lady."

  "And they found me."

  Parasades whipped round at the sound of Tomyra's voice. He stared at the slim woman dressed in fine robes of Serratae design pushing her way out of the willow scrub then grinned. "Tomyra, by the gods. We came to rescue you but it seems your own women were enough."

  Tomyra looked up at the mounted horseman, her eyes searching his face. "We?" She looked over at Certes, who had leapt off his horse and was embracing Prithia. "Just the two of you?"

  Parasades pursed his lips. "No," he said slowly. "My lady, I bear ill tidings."

  Tomyra sucked in her breath, forcing herself to control her suddenly trembling lips. "What tidings?"

  "The lord Nikomayros, my lady." Parasades beckoned to Bithyia. "Attend to your mistress," he snapped. When Bithyia put her arm around Tomyra, a look of intense concern on her face, Parasades continued in a low voice. "There were five of us, my lady. We were ambushed out on the plains. The lord Nikomayros is dead, together with his man Timon and his crippled servant."

  Tomyra gave a small cry and collapsed against Bithyia. The other woman stared up at Parasades with tears in her eyes, a soft moan of anguish escaping her lips. Her arms cradled the trembling Tomyra.

  "You are certain of this?" Bithyia asked in a small voice.

  Para
sades nodded. "It brings me much sorrow to bear such news, ladies." He hesitated and looked around him. "It is imperative that we ride on immediately. There will be enemy riders out looking for us."

  Tomyra wiped her face with the sleeves of her cloak and drew a ragged breath. "How is it that you and Certes survived this ambush?" She glanced over at Certes who was in animated conversation with Prithia. "I see no wounds or evidence of battle."

  "We were at some distance from the others when it happened, my lady," said Parasades smoothly. "A large patrol happened upon them and overwhelmed them before we could ride to their aid." He shrugged. "I thought it foolish to throw away our lives when we still sought you."

  Sarmatia had been listening to the conversation. She approached, putting her arm around Tomyra, supporting her from the other side. "Where are their bodies? Can we at least give them the rites of burial?"

  "They took the bodies and rode toward Zarmet." Parasades leaned toward the women. "My lady, I must stress the danger of our situation. We should leave here immediately."

  Tomyra gazed up at the horseman listlessly. "How can I leave my beloved Niko in the hands of his enemies? He should..." Her voice broke. "He should at least have the rites."

  Bithyia nodded through her own tears. "I would rather die than leave my Timon dishonoured."

  Parasades swore under his breath, controlling his sudden urge to strike the women. "My lady, the lord Nikomayros and Timon sacrificed their lives to rescue you and bring you home to the tribe. Will you make their efforts valueless? For their sakes, if not for mine, come with me. Now."

  Tomyra clutched Bithyia to her and bowed her head. "Mother Goddess," she muttered. "Where is your purpose in this? Why did you send him to me only to snatch him from me?" She raised her head, wiping her tear-streaked face with the back of her hands. "You are right, my lord Parasades. Though it tears my heart apart to leave my beloved, we must do as he wished." She hugged Bithyia and Sarmatia then turned away to where the horses were tethered.

  Sarmatia helped her mistress onto the back of her mare, adjusting the folds of her cloak, making sure that as little as possible of her skin was exposed to the biting wind. She looked up as Prithia approached, arm in arm with Certes. The look of intense sorrow on her face vanished, replaced by a growing anger at the smiling young woman.

  "Have you no thought for the feelings of our lady?" she hissed.

  Prithia stopped dead, the smile giving way to concern. "I did not mean to make light of her grief, Sarmatia. It just seemed to me that the situation is not hopeless. Certes told..."

  "Are you a fool, girl, or just heartless?" interrupted Bithyia. "The lord Nikomayros and...and my Timon are dead, lying cold in this hateful land without even the rites of burial and you say the situation is not hopeless? Ahhh!" She turned away with a look of disgust. "Go, get ready. We ride for the Oxus immediately."

  Prithia paled, her voice stammering. "B...but they are not dead. At le...least not yet. Surely if they are captive there must be hope?"

  Parasades pushed his horse closer to the group, a thunderous expression on his face. He opened his mouth to speak then thought better of it, closing his mouth with a snap.

  "Captive?" asked Tomyra, her eyes wide. "What do you mean? They are dead."

  "No, my lady." Prithia shook her head. "Certes here says they were captured and led off toward Zarmet unharmed." The young woman wrung her hands. "Oh, my lady, they will surely die unless we go to their aid." She swung round and grabbed Bithyia's sleeve. "How can we just ride off and leave them to die?"

  Tomyra looked across at the glowering Scythian warlord. "Parasades," she asked quietly, "Is this true?"

  Parasades stared down at Certes, who blanched and stepped back. The warlord's face twisted in anger as he wrenched his gaze up to the young priestess. "This young man is a fool," he hissed. He fought for control of his anger and continued in a more even tone. "I thought to spare you the anguish of a hopeless situation. If they are not dead yet, they will be as soon as they reach Zarmet. Dimurthes will put them to death immediately."

  "But they were alive when you saw them last?"

  "Yes, lady," said Parasades impatiently. "But they will be killed as soon as they arrive at Zarmet. Dimurthes will see to that."

  "Dimurthes is dead."

  "Dead? How?"

  Tomyra shook her head. "It is enough that he is dead." She pursed her lips and thought for a few moments. "There will be uncertainty at Zarmet for at least a day, until the news arrives. That may give us time."

  Parasades' eyes widened. "My lady, don't even consider it. We cannot rescue them from Zarmet. We would all be killed and I cannot allow our priestess to die."

  "Then you'll have to make sure I remain alive," Tomyra said grimly. "For I tell you now, I'm not leaving unless my beloved Niko comes with me."

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  Chapter Sixteen

  Timon sniffed the air and stared up at the rapidly clouding sky. "Snow," he muttered. "And soon." He turned his attention back to the man at his side, swaying awkwardly on the back of a small Scythian horse. A look of concern came over his face and he edged his horse closer. "My lord," he whispered.

  Nikometros paid no attention. His eyes remained closed and only the involuntary clenching of his hands on the reins and the largely automatic flexing of strong thigh muscles in response to the horse's movements showed signs of continuing life within him. A spreading red stain over his left shoulder and chest told of an injury that drained him of life.

  Timon called softly to Agarus who rode a few paces back. "Agarus, we must stop. Nikometros' wound needs attention. Tell the guards we must stop or he will die."

  Agarus nodded wearily. "I will try, lord, but I fear we will all be dead very soon." The crippled servant at once began to talk to the men around him, quietly, as if talking unconcernedly about mundane affairs.

  Timon listened, his ears catching the occasional familiar word or phrase. He cursed his own difficulty with languages, his eyes flicking from man to man, hoping to see some concern or hope.

  At length the leader of the Serratae war patrol rode back down the column and ended the argument with an angry outburst. He pulled his horse alongside Nikometros' and prodded the wounded man with the tip of his bow. He grunted and looked across at Timon. "He live," he said in passable Massegetae dialect. "At least for now. Soon, maybe not." The man roared with laughter and spurred his horse back to the front of the column. Timon swore colourfully in Macedonian patois at the man's retreating back.

  "That's my Timon," came a whisper from beside him. "I'm glad to hear you are still a Macedonian at heart."

  Timon whipped round, nearly overbalancing in his haste. "My lord!" he cried.

  "Easy, Timon. Do not let them see us talking."

  "Gods, Nikos, I thought you were dying on me."

  "I may yet, my friend," grated Nikometros through clenched teeth. "This arrowhead must come out soon. Already I can feel it burning within me."

  The effort of the few words brought perspiration to Nikometros' forehead, despite the chill air. He opened his eyes, the pale blue of his irises staring unfocussed at the man riding in front of him. "Where are they taking us, Timon, do you know?"

  "Zarmet. I gather we'll be there by sunset."

  Nikometros shook his head gently, grimacing with pain. "It seems we've done this before, Timon." He chuckled weakly and coughed. After a few moments of silence he went on. "No doubt we'll be offered up as sacrifice but this time there'll be no beautiful priestess to save us."

  "Parasades is out there somewhere. Maybe he'll rescue us."

  "You don't sound very confident of that, my friend," whispered Nikometros.

  "I'm not, my lord," Timon growled. "I don't trust the man. It seems odd that after the prisoner escaped on his watch that he should go in search of him, only to avoid capture when the prisoner returns with this patrol. If it weren't that he desires the finding of his priestess, I would swear he betrayed us."<
br />
  "Ah, Tomyra. What's to become of her, Timon?"

  "The Goddess will look after her, my lord. Even Dimurthes will come to his senses and set her free. All the tribes honour the Mother Goddess and her priestesses."

  "I pray you're right..." breathed Nikometros. "I'm sorry, Timon, I must..." He slumped forward over his horse's neck, almost falling.

  One of the Serratae guards shouted and brought the column to a halt. Slipping off his horse, the guard moved up and secured Nikometros to his horse with a leather strap passed under the horse's belly and another round the horse's neck. With a laugh he remounted and, taking Nikometros' reins in hand, waved for the others to proceed.

  The column of horsemen rode slowly north and west, following the road across the rolling plains of grass. The bright morning sky clouded over, darkening, and the wind veered to the north. The sun sank toward its western home, the light dimming, as the riders came to the edge of a river bluff. Below them the land dropped steeply away to a flat riverbed and a broad expanse of water glistening in the last rays of the setting sun.

  On the far side, in the shadows of the opposite bluffs, lay a sprawling collection of tents and wooden structures. Campfires flickered in the open spaces and lanterns and oil lamps glowed behind curtains in the dwellings. Outside the rough wooden palisade atop an earthen rampart that surrounded the town, milled vast herds of horses and cattle. Riders could be distinguished, guiding the herds out toward the pastures and back in again to the relative security of the town.

  Timon looked down at the scene with a sour expression on his face. He leaned toward one of the Scythian guards and asked what the town was in the Massegetae tongue, hoping that the question in his voice would overcome the differences in language.

  The guard grunted. "Zarmet," he said, adding a string of other phrases to his answer. Timon could make little of the words except one that possibly meant 'food'. He hoped so.

  The column edged over the bluff, working its way down a steep path. As they descended, the first large flakes of snow fell. By the time they reached the valley floor, a thin covering of white muted the outlines of rocks and the bare scrubby trees along the river's edge. The riders splashed into the shallow river, a rim of ice crackling beneath them. The water proved to be no more than waist deep and Timon's legs were the only part of him to feel the icy current. Despite this, he was grateful when they emerged onto the far bank, into the lee of the hills. The snow fell faster, straight down; rapidly obscuring the town that now lay close in front of them.