by Max Overton
A challenge rang out and a body of men, arms at the ready, galloped up to them. After a brief exchange of words, the patrol fell into place alongside the column and escorted them into Zarmet. Crowds of men and women flocked around the warriors as they rode through the crooked streets. Children raced alongside, darting between the horses, leaping up to touch the prisoners. They screamed and shouted, laughing and pointing at the strange sight of the fair-headed barbarian reeling on his horse.
The cavalcade came to a halt outside a large, richly decorated house in the centre of the town. The horsemen pushed the crowding populace back with good-natured shoving and ribald jests, clearing a space around their three prisoners. The leader of the patrol leapt off his horse and strode up to a group of men waiting outside the house and loudly started to speak.
Timon supported Nikometros with one arm and strained to hear but could not make sense of the diatribe. He turned to a despondent-looking Agarus beside him. "What is he saying?"
"He says that he, Sparses of the Serratae, has captured the renowned Lion of Scythia, scourge of the East," muttered Agarus grimly. "When Dimurthes, their chief, returns, he will personally send the barbarians...that's you, Timon, and my lord Nikomayros..."
"Thank you, Agarus, I gathered that," growled Timon.
"...to their ancestors with much pain. The Massegetae warrior...that's me...will merely die at the hands of their champion as a sacrifice to the Mother Goddess," went on Agarus. "He calls for rejoicing and for messengers to be sent out to find Dimurthes."
Abruptly, the crowd erupted into cheers. Sparses grinned and raised his arms above his head, looking very pleased with himself. The men around him crowded round and drew him into the warmly lit interior of the house.
The warriors of the patrol dismounted and dragged the prisoners from their horses, jeering at the stifled groans of pain forced from a barely conscious Nikometros. Timon struggled to his side and half-supported him as the guards pushed and jostled the trio toward an imposing stone structure at the far end of the central open space. The crowd followed, calling out insults and pelting the prisoners with dirt clods and frozen lumps of horse dung.
The guards opened a heavy timber door and led the way inside, holding aloft a burning brand. The flickering light showed a large stonewalled room lined with thick tapestries. A rough wooden trestle table with accompanying benches and stools sat squarely in front of a small fireplace, in which crackled a small fire. Several guards immediately set to, building up the fire and preparing a meal from stores stacked along one wall. Others hustled Nikometros, Timon and Agarus toward another door, pushing them through into a cold, dank unfurnished cell. One of the Serratae men stood in the doorway and slowly let his eyes drift over the frost-rimed walls of the room.
"Hey, Lorcus," yelled one of the guards, "lock them in and be done with it. There is a cold draught coming in."
Lorcus grunted and growled a response without turning. "I will come when I am satisfied. Sparses will have our heads if these barbarians escape his wrath." He finished his inspection and turned to the three prisoners. "Be quiet and give us no trouble and you may be fed later." He turned to leave.
Timon nudged Agarus sharply and ordered him to translate what he said. He gestured at Nikometros' blood-soaked tunic. "We must have help or he will die. He has an arrow still within him."
Lorcus turned back and stared at Nikometros in the flickering light that came through the open door. He drew his sword and stepped forward cautiously. Holding the blade at Timon's throat, he roughly tore away the sodden cloth from Nikometros' shoulder. His nose wrinkled as he caught a faint whiff of putrefaction. Lorcus stepped back and shook his head. "He's dead anyway. It would be a kindness to let him die now rather than tomorrow." He stepped backward through the opening and slammed the door shut, bolting it securely.
Agarus stood morosely in the darkness, feeling the chill of the room seep into him. "It seems Diratha was the lucky one," he muttered. "At least she died swiftly under the arrows. Our deaths will be slower and infinitely more painful."
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Chapter Seventeen
Tomyra peered through the swirling snow clouds at the distant lights of Zarmet. Bithyia and Sarmatia lay beside her on the bluff overlooking the river valley, the chill damp of the ground seeping into their clothes. Parasades crouched beside them, staring at the town and sucking the hoarfrost from his moustache. Prithia and Certes remained some distance behind them, guarding the horses: Prithia because she was good with horses, Certes because Parasades refused to have him anywhere near him.
Tomyra got to her feet and brushed the snow from her robe. "So, we are none the wiser. We must assume Nikometros and Timon are in Zarmet, but I can think of no easy way to get them out."
"They must be there," said Sarmatia. "We followed the tracks of the patrol."
"We do not even know where they are being held in Zarmet," commented Bithyia. "It could make all the difference."
"They may even be dead already. All right, all right!" Parasades held up his hands defensively as Tomyra and Bithyia rounded on him. "I have to say it, my lady. I'm a trained warrior chief of the Massegetae, which you women seem to be forgetting. I know these people, I've been fighting them all my life." He dropped his arms and held them out toward the women in a placatory gesture. "Be reasonable, my lady. You can see how large Zarmet is and how many men defend it. How can six of us invade the enemy stronghold?"
"I have told you already," said Tomyra stubbornly. "I will not leave without my Nikometros."
"Nor I without my Timon."
Parasades sighed. "Think then of your people. Would you deprive them in their hour of need of their priestess and one of their foremost warriors?"
"If you are afraid of the enemy, my lord Parasades..."
Parasades stiffened. "You dare to say that?" He clenched his fist and stepped toward Tomyra. Bithyia interposed herself and Sarmatia's hand slipped to the sword at her side. "If you were not priestess, I would have your life for that," he hissed.
"My lord, no insult was intended," said Tomyra softly. "If you took offence at my words then I offer my apology freely. We are six among the vastness of the enemy lands and people, there should be no quarrel between us." Tomyra put her hands out to gently push the women aside, standing alone within range of the man's fists. "I say only that I and my women mean to enter Zarmet and attempt the rescue of our men. If you wish to leave us and return to the lands of the Massegetae, you have my permission."
Parasades stood, the colour rising in his cheeks and his hands clenching and unclenching as his anger fed upon itself. "Gods save us from women who think themselves warriors!" he roared. "Do as you please, you fools. It is obvious I cannot save you from your fate." He turned on his heel and took several deep breaths of cold air, his exhalations white and swirling in the storm. His hunched shoulders slowly relaxed. "I don't need your permission to leave, Tomyra," he grated. "If I choose to leave, I will. As it happens, I choose not to. I'll join you in your mad quest for death. It may be that I can yet save you."
"Thank you, Parasades." Tomyra stepped closer and put one slim hand on the man's shoulder. "We have need of your strength, knowledge and skills." Turning to the others she said briskly, "Come, let us return to the shelter of the brush. We must make our plans."
The women walked back, shielding their faces from the icy storm, leaving Parasades to follow, cursing under his breath.
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Chapter Eighteen
"Identify yourself!" The challenge rang out. Figures moved obscurely in the darkness, muffled by the swirling clouds of snow, backlit by the sputtering orange glow of a watch fire. The figures resolved into three men, spears held at the ready, who moved into the path of the three riders. "Dismount and identify yourselves!" shouted the man in the lead once more.
Tomyra took a deep breath and forced some measure of calm into her voice, hoping her racing heart wa
s not as loud as it sounded to her. "The Mother Goddess seeks an audience with the chief of the Serratae," she called. In a whisper she added to Bithyia, "With any luck the absence of Dimurthes will make them uncertain."
The men made a quick placatory gesture toward the ground. "The Mother Goddess? What do you mean?" They peered at the three riders as if expecting to see a deity come to earth. "Who are you?"
"I am a holy one of the Mother and these are my servants," called out Tomyra. Silence met her, dragging out in the howling wind that whipped at their cloaks and stung their bare skin. "Do you mean to show disrespect for the Goddess or are you just foolish men?"
The men muttered then reluctantly stepped aside. The leader gestured with his spear. "If you would accompany us into the shelter of the gate, we can decide this out of the storm."
"Could be awkward," whispered Bithyia as they urged their horses forward between the guards. She slipped her hand toward the hilt of her sword. "Perhaps we should take them?"
"No. Stay calm and aloof. I am the priestess and you are my guardian maidens. Keep to the plan."
The guards ushered the three riders through the gate and into a small enclosure out of the direct blast of the storm. Brushing down his cloak, the leader gestured for the riders to dismount. Several other men appeared from a lean-to by the palisade, dragging spears with them.
Tomyra slid from her mare and drawing herself up, stood firmly in front of the guard leader. "I am Tomyra, priestess of the Great Goddess and these," she gestured toward Bithyia and Sarmatia, "Are my maidens. I have business with Dimurthes, chief of the Serratae. On what authority do you deny me passage?"
"I do not deny you passage, lady," said the leader equably. "But these are troubled times. I wish merely to be sure of any who come calling in the night."
Tomyra held out Atrullia's staff. "You recognise this symbol of my authority?"
The leader knuckled his brow respectfully. "Of course, lady." He hesitated. "It is my duty to assess any threat to the safety of this town."
"And you see a threat in three women?"
The man stared at Tomyra then at the other two women standing by their horses. "Your women carry bows and swords, lady. Why?"
"As you say, these are troubled times. Would you have priestesses wander the land unescorted and unprotected?"
The man grunted. "Why do you want to see Dimurthes?"
"That is between him and the Goddess." Tomyra smiled. "Are you perhaps Dimurthes, paramount chief of the Serratae?"
One of the men guffawed and the leader rounded on him, silencing him with a gesture. "No, lady, I am not." He came to a decision and beckoned two of his men over. "These men will escort you to the chief's house."
"I would not want to trouble you further on such a cold night," said Tomyra. "Just point us in the right direction and we will find our own way."
The man wrinkled his brow and cocked his head to one side. "I have not seen you before in Zarmet, lady. It would be best if you were escorted." Turning to one of the two men he barked. "Thysis, you will escort this lady and her two companions to Dimurthes' house. See that no harm comes to them." He paused briefly. "See too that they go straight there and wait to see that they are admitted." He bowed to Tomyra. "My lady."
Tomyra inclined her head graciously. "Thank you...May I know your name?" she enquired. "I would commend Dimurthes on the zeal of his men."
"Myres." He grinned then nodded to Thysis and his companion. "Go quickly, my lady, the storm worsens."
Tomyra remounted her mare and with Bithyia and Sarmatia on either side of her, walked her horse into the streets of Zarmet. Thysis and the other man walked ahead of them, holding a burning brand aloft. The howling wind scattered sparks that died quickly in the driving snow, the fitful glare rapidly dampened by the gloom. After what seemed an interminable time, winding through the crooked streets, the space between the wooden houses and tents opened out into a space in which the snow gusted into drifts.
Thysis pointed ahead. "There is Dimurthes' house, my lady. Pallos, carry word of our arrival." The other man scurried away. He pushed aside the heavy entrance flap, letting a slab of golden light fall over the piled snow, and disappeared inside. A few moments later he reappeared with several other men.
Thysis brought Tomyra's mare to a halt in the light cast by the open flap, holding the bridle in one hand. "A priestess of the Great Goddess come to see Dimurthes," he said importantly.
"Thank you, Thysis," replied a heavyset man. "Welcome, my lady," he added, turning to Tomyra. "May I offer you the hospitality of my humble dwelling?"
Tomyra dismounted and waited until Bithyia and Sarmatia joined her. She inclined her head toward the man. "May the Mother bless you for your hospitality."
The man stepped aside and ushered the three women into the house. The interior was warm and draught-free when the heavy flap closed behind them. Several braziers poured out a fierce heat and burning brands supplied a warmly welcome glow. Cushions and rugs covered the floor around a long trestle table in the centre of the circular room. The smell of cooking meats and fresh baked bread made Tomyra's mouth water. Seated at the table, looking at the women with great interest, were at least a dozen men, eating and drinking. Several hounds lay scratching and picking at scraps under the table. One of the dogs ran over to the women, growling, only to be kicked aside by a guard.
Tomyra threw back the hood of her cloak and brushed the snow from her hair. She turned to face the heavyset man who had followed them in, together with several men. "I thank you again, in the Mother's Name, for your hospitality." She held her face expressionless and asked carefully, "I have a message from the Goddess for Dimurthes, chief of the Serratae. Are you he?"
"No, lady," replied the man. "I am Sparses, his deputy. My lord Dimurthes is expected to return shortly." His eyes raked over Tomyra then over the other two women. "I have not seen you before. What is your name?"
Tomyra inclined her head and smiled. "I am Tomyra, priestess of the Great Goddess. These are my guardian maidens."
Sparses narrowed his eyes. "Tomyra? I have heard that name before somewhere. Where are you from?"
"From the east," she replied, waving her hand vaguely. "A small village, but loyal to the worship of the Mother." Tomyra looked around the room and smiled at the men. "If I may impose on your hospitality further, we have ridden some distance today..."
Several men at once got up from the table and gestured for the women to seat themselves. Platters, piled high with smoking meats and bread, were pushed in front of them and cups of wine poured. Bithyia and Sarmatia immediately started to eat, making an effort to hide how hungry they felt. Tomyra sipped her wine and picked at a piece of bread. She continued to smile at the men around her, thanking them for each proffered morsel.
"East of here you say?" asked Sparses softly. "Your robes are like those of the Mount Mora priestesses, yet the leather garments of your maidens are like those of the Massegetae." He advanced to the end of the table and put his hands on the wood, staring down at Tomyra. "Please explain this, my lady."
Tomyra put down her wine and swallowed before turning to face Sparses. "I had business with the lady Atrullia at Mount Mora," she replied calmly. "She gave me these robes as my own were inadequate for this storm. As for my maidens," she gestured at Bithyia and laughed softly. "A warrior maiden must be chaste and ready to defend her priestess at all times. The garb of the Massegetae women warriors seemed suitable."
Sparses grunted and turned away from the table. He gestured to one of the men standing around the table and whispered in his ear. The man hurried out into the cold. Sparses returned to the table and, ousting one of the seated men, took his place at the far end.
"So you have come from Mount Mora today?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And you saw the lady Atrullia there?"
"I have said so, yes."
"Yet you did not see the lord Dimurthes?" Sparses picked up a dagger and began picking at the tabletop with the point
. "I find that strange, my lady, as he took the lady Atrullia back to her sanctuary yesterday."
"Oh?" Tomyra fought to keep her voice even. "I was already there when she arrived. Perhaps he left again immediately. I did not see him."
Tomyra returned to her eating amid a general silence. Sparses sat and continued to pick at the wood with his dagger, his men standing around awkwardly, unsure of what was happening.
"And this message for my lord Dimurthes?" Sparses asked at length.
"Is for his ears only."
The entrance flap parted, sending a gust of cold air into the room. The man sent out some minutes before returned and hurried over to Sparses. He bent over and whispered to the chief then, at a flick of Sparses' hand, withdrew to the edge of the room. Sparses tapped the blade of his dagger on the fingers of his other hand.
"Tomyra, daughter of Spargises, chief of the Massegetae," he stated flatly. He nodded and steel whispered behind the three women. Bithyia pushed herself upright, only to be hurled back down, a sword at her throat. Sparses pushed his seat back and strode around the table. He gripped Tomyra's long hair in one hand and pulled her head back savagely. "I knew I had heard your name before."
"My lord Sparses," whispered Tomyra, tears starting in her eyes from the pain. "You lay hands on a priestess of the Goddess at your peril."
Sparses bent low, thrusting his face close to Tomyra's, his dagger pricking her throat. "I don't believe you are a priestess, bitch. I think you came here to kill our chief."