by Max Overton
The riders stopped at the junction of two larger streets. Tomyra peered down each then pointed up the left one. "That way, I think." She turned her head and coaxed it over the icy ground, staying in the lea of the buildings.
The street twisted and curved, smaller lanes and alleys branching off in all directions. The darkness surrounded them, leaving them to move in a cold shell of driving white, the horses picking their way carefully over the uneven surface.
"A light, my lady," yelled Sarmatia, over the noise of the storm. "There, to our left."
Tomyra squinted into the darkness, wiping the icy crust from her eyelids. "Yes, I see it. Let us hope it is the gatehouse." She turned her horse toward the light.
The glow ahead of them came stronger and resolved into several points of light, moving and swaying. The buildings fell away on either side and Tomyra pulled her horse to a frantic stop in the open ground. "We are back where we started," she groaned.
A shout came from the lights in front of her then a challenge, and the muffled sound of running feet. Tomyra pulled her horse round sharply, colliding with Sarmatia's mare. The horses squealed and shied before being kicked into motion again. The three women pushed their horses back into the dark streets, rapidly leaving the running men behind.
They pushed their mounts as fast as they dared in the icy conditions, back the way they came. Arriving at the junction again, Bithyia urged her horse down the right hand fork, followed by the others.
"Do you remember the wind direction when we came in?" screamed Tomyra, above the howl of the wind.
"I think it was behind and to the left," yelled Bithyia in reply.
"No," shouted Sarmatia, "It...It was behind us at the start, but to our left only w...when we came out in the open space."
"I think you are right, Sarmatia, about the direction when we arrived." Tomyra pulled her horse to a halt and rescued her cloak that had flapped free. "But I remember it more to our right when we came to the gate."
Sarmatia shrugged, her teeth chattering. "S...so, wh...which way now?"
"Into the wind, but keep it to our left."
Bithyia nodded and led the way down the street. She turned into a side street that rapidly narrowed, forcing them into single file. The wind direction swirled and gusted, blowing first one direction then abruptly changing. They struggled on for several more minutes before pulling their horses into the shelter of a large wooden house.
"This is madness, my lady," said Bithyia, pitching her voice over the moaning of the wind. "We could wander all night."
Tomyra nodded. "We have no option, we must ask for directions."
"Ask?" Sarmatia gaped at her mistress. "They will kill us or at the very least raise the alarm."
"Maybe. We must pray the Mother is with us." Tomyra slid off her horse and, handing the reins to Sarmatia, strode to the door of the wooden house. She pounded on the door with her fist, waited a few moments, and pounded again. Movements came from within the structure, followed by a muffled voice.
"Who is it?"
"Your priestess, Rhynna. Open in the name of the Mother."
Silence followed then voices could be heard in argument. Tomyra pounded on the door again. "Open. The Mother demands it."
The door rattled and then creaked open a hand width. A bearded face peered out.
"My lady, what is it you...? You are not Rhynna." The man started to close the door again.
"Of course I am not Rhynna, you fool," screamed Tomyra at the closing door. "I am sent by Rhynna. She requires your urgent assistance."
The door creaked open again. The man peered out suspiciously, eyeing the two other women standing by the horses. "How do I know you are sent by the priestess?"
Tomyra groaned softly then dug into the soft hide bag at her waist. She pulled out Atrullia's short carved staff and held it out. "Do you recognise this? It is my authority as a priestess."
The man's eyes widened and he bobbed his head, opening the door wider. "Yes, my lady. All men recognise the authority of Mount Mora." He backed away from the door, waving his arm toward the inside of the room. "Enter, my lady. Be at ease."
"Wait here with the horses, Sarmatia. I will be quick." Tomyra stepped over the threshold and threw back the hood of her cloak. Bithyia entered after her, darting her eyes quickly around the room. Her hand rested on her short sword beneath her cloak.
"Please, my lady, will you take refreshment? My wife and I..."
Tomyra forced a smile. "Thank you, no. I merely wish directions."
The man scratched his hairy chest and looked at his wife. The woman, a short fat woman of indeterminate age, shrugged and tucked her long skirts about her. She scowled at Bithyia, standing by the open door, and at the drifts of snow blowing in, but said nothing.
"Directions, lady?" The man looked puzzled. "Directions to where?"
"The south gate."
"Why would you want to go there?" asked the man, darting another look at his wife.
"Surely it is enough that your priestess wishes it," burst out Bithyia. "What business is it of yours?"
"Gently, Bithyia," interposed Tomyra. Turning back to the man, she smiled. "I must get back to Mount Mora at once. The Mother demands it of me and I must obey. Will you help me?"
The man nodded glumly and scratched his chest again. "Go down the street of the cloth merchants then turn into the street of the tanners. You will see it ahead of you."
Tomyra shook her head. "I am a stranger here; else I would not need your help. Will you show me?"
The old woman clucked her tongue in annoyance and stamped off across the room, pushing some hangings aside and disappearing from view. The man looked after her then picked up a felt jacket from a bench near the door. He shrugged into it, and sat to pull on leather boots. "Very well, my lady." He grabbed a cloak and pushed past Bithyia into the frigid night.
The man waited until the women were mounted once more then beckoned and led the way down the street. After a while he turned into an alley that looked no different from any other and pointed. "See, the lights of the guard house."
Tomyra peered into the night and nodded. She smiled down at the man. "May the Mother guard you and bless you in these troubled times." The man flashed a quick smile, bobbed his head and disappeared into the night.
Tomyra walked her horse on toward the gate, the others on either side of her. The snow muffled the sound of the horse's hooves, the wind carrying away the soft creak of their leather tack. The distance to the guardhouse closed steadily, the light of the fires growing stronger. Voices rose and fell on the wind gusts, the guards laughing and joking as they huddled in their shelter. The women came alongside the guardhouse, staring straight ahead, afraid that even to look at the guards would draw their attention. They rode past, into the darkness between the earthen ramparts, to the gate. It was closed.
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Chapter Twenty-One
"Out! Hurry!" yelled Parasades. He ran a few paces and spun on his heel in the deepening snow, searching for signs of trouble, his sword at the ready. He ground his teeth at the slowness with which Timon staggered from the prison, Nikometros cradled protectively in his arms. Certes and Prithia stood ready, with swords drawn on either side of the door and Agarus hovered behind them, a long spear gripped in his gnarled hands.
"Which way?" grunted Timon. "I cannot remember the way we were brought in."
Parasades pointed across the open area to the darkness of the town. "Over there." He ran back to the others. "I will lead the way. Timon, follow with your master. Agarus, stay with him and keep up. Certes, you and Prithia are our rearguard. Move fast." He stared at Timon for a moment, noting the lolling blond head of Nikometros then shrugged and turned away. "Come." He ran off into the night.
The others followed more slowly, limited by the pace of the burdened Timon. They were barely in the middle of the open space when shouts from behind made Timon stop and turn his head. A flare of light cast long shadows ov
er the frozen ground. The door of the house beside the prison gaped wide and men streamed from the building, some bearing blazing torches and all armed.
Timon cursed softly and turned away, staggering forward again. Certes moved up alongside him, urging him onward. Prithia turned and backed after them, her sword ready for anything. Agarus snarled savagely and leveled his spear, backing away alongside her.
The wind picked up as they stumbled across the open area, out of the meagre protection afforded by the buildings around the prison. Swirling snow obliterated the glow of the torches around the prison door, though not before Prithia caught a glimpse of several men following their tracks in the snow.
"They follow," she called urgently. Prithia turned and sprinted to catch up with Certes and Timon. "They found our tracks." Her voice shook and she glanced back at the blackness behind.
Certes gripped her arm firmly. "Courage, Prithia. They are only Serratae after all." He grinned at her then tapped Timon on the shoulder. "Let me take him, Timon." He held out his sword to the old Macedonian. "Here, you might enjoy using this."
Timon gave Certes a sharp look then set Nikometros' feet down, still supporting the half-conscious man. When Certes relieved him of the weight, he grasped the proffered sword. "With pleasure," he growled. Certes bent and hoisted Nikometros over his shoulder and broke into a slow run.
Timon turned to Prithia and Agarus as he joined them. The moving glow behind them resolved into two running men with torches held high. The warriors came on with eyes cast down, following the rapidly disappearing tracks in the snow. Timon pointed left then right, sending Prithia and Agarus off a few paces. "This will indeed be a pleasure," he snarled.
The Serratae burst out of the snowstorm and saw the three figures waiting for them. The first man abruptly stopped then staggered forward when the man behind collided with him. Agarus threw his spear. It missed the first man as he fell but impaled the second man in the leg. He fell back with a scream, dropping his torch, which sizzled and went out in the deep drifts. Timon ran forward and chopped down at the warrior struggling to get up. The blade caught the man on the side of the head, dropping him again.
Prithia joined him and pursued the man wounded by Agarus' spear. She stabbed at him and missed, the man scrabbling backward, bellowing at the top of his voice. Other figures appeared out of the darkness, their torches held high and their swords glinting. Prithia engaged one with a clash of metal, forcing the man back. Timon took on another one, hacking and slashing, battering down the man's defences.
The man slipped in the snow and Timon gave a roar of triumph and plunged his sword into the man's chest, twisting it as the man went down. He turned to see Prithia fighting furiously, blocking and parrying the warrior's blows. Timon's feet crunched in the snow as he ran up behind them. The warrior turned his head quickly and Prithia saw her advantage. She stepped forward, gripped the man's wrist and pushed it aside a fraction, pivoting as she closed with him, her sword slicing across his belly. The man gave an agonised cry and dropped his sword, clutching his abdomen. Timon ran him through from behind. The pristine white snow was now splattered with blood.
Timon nodded to Prithia and pointed back. "There will be others here soon enough and we can't cover this up." They turned and ran. Agarus limped out of the night beside them, clutching his spear in one hand and a bloody sword in the other.
"Got the fornicator with his own sword," he grinned. Timon grinned back and slapped him on the shoulder before resuming his headlong run after Certes and Parasades.
Certes leaned against a rough wooden building on the far side of the great square, catching his breath. His burden, Nikometros, stood slumped against him, conscious now but muttering incoherently.
Three figures loomed out of the darkness and Certes tensed then let his sword point fall as he recognised his companions. "What in Hades kept you?" he rasped.
"Our right to leave was disputed," grinned Timon. "We persuaded them to reconsider." He looked around. "Where is Parasades?"
Certes cursed softly. "I don't know. He wasn't here when I arrived."
"I'm here," came a laconic voice from the darkness. A figure moved out of the night, followed by a towering shadow. "I could not, in conscience, leave this beast behind."
The great form of Nikometros' stallion loomed out of the night. It caught sight of Nikometros slumped against Certes and pushed its muzzle into the man's face, snorting softly. Nikometros struggled to focus his eyes, a painful smile on his face.
"Diomede," he whispered.
The great golden stallion rubbed his soft nose against Nikometros, blowing warm air into his face and neck.
"Excellent thought, my lord," grinned Certes. "Nikomayros can ride." He and Timon hoisted Nikometros onto Diomede's broad back and steadied him. Nikometros wound his fingers into the stallion's white mane and slumped forward over its neck.
Parasades grunted. "Try and keep up." He turned and taking the bridle, pulled the stallion down the alley, not looking back to see if the others followed. Timon ran alongside, keeping a hand on his friend, steadying him. Agarus joined him, supporting his master on the other side. Certes touched Prithia on the arm and peered at her in the dark, feeling her tremble beneath his touch.
"Be strong, Prithia. We all have need of each other."
The girl nodded. "I am all right," she said shakily. "I have never killed a man before tonight."
Certes stared at her for a moment then nodded. He put his arm around her and coaxed her into the alley.
The others were waiting at the far end of the lane. Parasades pointed to his right. "The gate lies that way," he said. "To get to it we must pass the street of taverns. We risk all if we are stopped, but it would take too long to find our way around. We will be pursued."
"We cannot delay," said Timon. "Niko will die unless we can get him to shelter soon."
"I agree, my lord." Certes nodded vigorously. "We must take the risk and go by the route we know."
"God-cursed fools," breathed Parasades, his words whipped away by the gale. "You will get us all killed for the sake of a man already dying. Come then," he raised his voice. "Keep close together. We are a party of friends returning to our lodging after a drinking party. At least our friend here," he indicated Nikometros leaning heavily on Diomede's neck, "Already looks the part." He sheathed his sword, wrapped his cloak tighter about him and plodded off down the street.
The others hurried after Parasades then fell into a tight grouping behind him, their weapons out of sight except for Agarus' spear, which he used as a staff. They reached the end of the street and turned into another, narrower one.
Certes, who was bringing up the rear, tapped Parasades on the shoulder and shouted hoarsely at him. "Men, coming up behind us." They stopped and listened. Behind them, in the night, footsteps crunched in the snow and presently the glow of torch brands became apparent.
"We must run," hissed Prithia, taking a few steps forward.
Parasades grabbed her arm. "Too late. Quick! To the side of the street, against the buildings. Hurry!" He pulled her across and thrust her down into the snow against a wooden wall. The others hurried after them, pulling the stallion into the deepest shadows. Timon put his hand on the horse's muzzle, calming it. They reached the building just as the first of their pursuers came into sight.
A dozen men loped steadily down the street, the faces of all but the leading man cowled against the storm. The man in front darted looks to either side as he ran, a burning brand sputtering in his left hand and a sword in his right. His gaze swept over the obscure huddled shapes by the building and moved on. For the barest fraction of a moment he faltered and half turned his head back then he resumed his running.
The running men turned down the street of taverns and darkness returned. Parasades held up a hand to restrain Certes from moving out from the wall. Minutes passed, with the only sound the howling of the wind. Impenetrable blackness enveloped them. At last Parasades relaxed. "Let us go. Keep to the sides of
the street." He moved on cautiously.
They reached the street of taverns and peered down it. No longer was the street in darkness and quiet. Several doors let out slabs of golden light as men hurried to and fro between the buildings. Arguments and shouting erupted from one or two of the taverns, together with some coarse laughter.
Parasades nodded and moved on down the street, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, his cloak and hood obscuring his features. The others followed on his heels, with Nikometros muttering on the stallion's back. They passed an open door, the light from within briefly illuminating them then another. A man hurrying across the street nearly collided with them, muttered an apology and entered one of the taverns.
They reached the midpoint of the street, where shafts of light broke unevenly across the whole expanse. Keeping their heads low they strode across the lit area, trying to appear unhurried. Several faces looked up as they passed and one man called after them. Without pausing, they walked on.
A man's voice came again, more insistent. Parasades cursed softly and turned. "Carry on to the end of the street then left," he muttered to Timon, handing him the reins of the horse. "Wait for me there." He walked back to the man standing in the street, just beyond the well of light thrown by the open tavern door. "What is the problem?" he asked casually.
The man peered around Parasades at the figures disappearing into the night. "Who are you and what is your business?" asked the man. "Have you not heard that everyone is ordered off the streets until they are found?"
Parasades nodded, standing half turned away, his face in deep shadow. "Aye, something about an escape I was told. My companions and I were out drinking. We are in a hurry to get back to our lodgings."
The man looked at Parasades, his brow wrinkling in suspicion. "Who are you? You are not Serratae."