Scythian Trilogy Book 2: The Golden King Page 2

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  Two women on horseback watched the column of men from a dense thicket of birch trees further up the slope of the hill. The taller of the two peered fiercely out from beneath dark locks of hair that fell in waves about her pale face. Clad in thick leather tunics, jackets and leggings with felted undergarments, the women looked indistinguishable from male Scythian warriors, save for their hairless faces. Any hints as to their gender lay hidden beneath voluminous clothing.

  The taller woman turned to her companion with a savage grin. "Soon, Domra. They grow careless."

  The other woman shivered, despite her thick leggings and cloak. She nervously fingered a small double-curved bow, checking every few moments that the quiver of arrows, slung about her slender waist, was still in place. "We are greatly outnumbered, Bithyia. It may be better to wait. Who knows what the Goddess will send?"

  Bithyia raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Will you wait until those wolves tire of our lady and do away with her? You can see she is ill-used." The woman scowled, her hand gripping the hilt of the short sword in her belt. "We must take some action. If nothing else it will lift her spirits to know she is not forsaken. Besides," she added with a grin, "we can shorten the odds somewhat."

  The horses stamped their feet and blew out great gusts of air, nickering softly to each other. Their breath wisped like smoke in the cold. Bithyia thought back over the last few days--how she had gathered a handful of warriors about her and tracked the beasts that held her mistress, the beloved priestess of the Mother Goddess.

  Soon, if the gods are with us, we will free her.

  Domra stared out over the barren hillside toward the slowly moving column. "What would you have us do?"

  Bithyia grinned again, her eyes icy. "They think themselves safe in their own lands. See how their line is drawn out, and their lack of scouts? We shall take a straggler or two come nightfall, quietly, without alarming the rest. With good fortune we may learn something of their plans before we kill them."

  "If we are caught, we are dead."

  "All men...and women, die. Better our deaths now than to live on knowing we failed our lady. Remember we are 'Owls', Domra. We are the chosen warrior women of the Goddess, sworn to defend her priestess."

  Domra shook her head, shivering again. "I would die for my lady, Bithyia, you know that. But I am no warrior. I am only a maidservant and untrained with weapons."

  Bithyia glared at Domra for a moment then softened her fierce expression. "You came, Domra, because your love for our lady was greater than your love of safety. You will do your duty, I know. Now come, let us rejoin the others."

  The riders pulled their horses' heads around and walked them slowly through the birch grove until they were out of any possible sight of the column of Scythian men. They kicked their mounts into a reluctant trot, back down the hillside toward six other women huddled in the lea of a rocky outcrop.

  The horses disturbed a lark that burst upward in panic, meeting death in the rushing talons of the patient sparrow hawk. The tiny raptor crouched over the cooling body of the lark for several minutes, its fierce yellow eyes blazing defiance in the direction of the disappearing horses. When silence reigned once more on the frozen hillside, the hawk bent its head and started to feed, tearing into the breast of its prey. The first snowflakes fell.

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  Chapter Two

  Dimurthes roared in anger, his fist gripping the leather jerkin of his deputy. "What do you mean...missing?" He lifted the man bodily from the ground then flung him down and stood over him. "How can three men go missing?" he hissed.

  "My...my lord," stammered the man, fingering his throat. "When we made camp tonight three men did not report in. No one can recall seeing them since just before nightfall."

  "And where did they last see these men?"

  "Er, it seems Rhitores stopped to relieve himself and his brother stayed with him," said the deputy, struggling onto his hands and knees. He looked up at Dimurthes apprehensively. "Just after we crossed the stream on the other side of the forest. No one can recall having seen them since."

  Dimurthes wrinkled his face in disgust. He strode to the tent entrance and lifted the flap, startling the guard outside. He hawked and spat, narrowly missing the guard, before turning back to his groveling deputy.

  "Get up, Taraxes, you look ridiculous," snarled Dimurthes. He waited until the man scrambled to his feet before continuing. "And the third man?"

  Taraxes shrugged. "Nerraces. He was at the rear. Nobody saw him leave or stop. He just wasn't there when we camped. Nor have Rhitores or his brother shown up," he added hurriedly.

  "Have you thought to send anyone to look for them?" inquired Dimurthes.

  Taraxes flushed. "No, my lord. I thought..."

  "Then do so." Dimurthes stood and looked at the other man who continued to look expectantly at his leader. "Now, you fool!"

  Taraxes stepped back and gave a sketchy salute. "Yes, my lord, at once." He turned and hurried across to the tent flap.

  "Taraxes." Dimurthes spoke softly. When the man turned, Dimurthes went on, "Send at least five men. If those fools have not got themselves lost or hurt then we must allow for the possibility of hostile action."

  Taraxes saluted again and ducked out of the tent, letting another flurry of cold air past him.

  Dimurthes pulled his woollen cloak tighter about him and turned back to the interior of the tent. He eyed his surroundings with distaste, longing for the comforts of his base camp. Only the barest necessities could be brought on field expeditions. The tent linings themselves were made of thick felt, dyed a deep red with inlaid designs of men and horses. These were, however, the only things approaching luxury in otherwise Spartan surroundings. The floor was bare earth or naturally carpeted in drifts of damp, dead leaves. In the far corner burned an oil lamp, giving out a plume of black smoke from its badly trimmed wick and a small brazier, struggling to dispel the cold and damp.

  A faded carpet, replete with bare patches and tears, lay in one corner, with a pile of furs and a few battered cushions. Dimurthes walked over to the pile of bedding and snatched back the bearskin lying on top. A woman, her long black hair matted and dirty, hugged her torn green cloak to her and sat up, glaring at the man. She edged away as Dimurthes advanced on her with a smile.

  "Come, Tomyra." Dimurthes smirked. "It is time for you to repay my hospitality again." He reached out and gripped Tomyra by the shoulder.

  "Get away from me, you animal," she hissed. She wrenched her shoulder free and struggled upright. Her cloak fell open briefly, revealing a ripped linen shift, through which a pale breast swelled.

  Dimurthes licked his lips and moved forward, removing his jacket as he did so. "Come, my dear," he breathed. "A little cooperation and we can both enjoy this."

  "Bastard son of a Serratae whore," snarled Tomyra. "I would rather rut with a pig."

  Dimurthes chuckled. "I assure you there are no whores in my tribe, Tomyra. Can you say the same of your Massegetae?" He moved closer and reached for the girl. Tomyra slashed at his hand, scoring a deep furrow across the back of it with a nail. Dimurthes swore and snatched his hand back. He licked the wound then smiled.

  "How is it you hold your virtue so highly, woman?" Dimurthes stared at the girl standing against the felt wall of the tent, defiance blazing from her eyes. "I could understand if you were still a priestess of the Mother Goddess." He dropped his hand in an unconscious motion, palm down, as he spoke the Holy Name. "But priestesses are virgins and you whored with that Greek warrior, the one they call the Lion of Scythia. Now you are nothing more than a common slut, to be used by the strongest." Dimurthes grinned again. "And I am the strongest, woman. Make no mistake about that."

  Dimurthes leapt forward and grabbed Tomyra, pinioning her with his strong arms. Tomyra struggled silently, knowing it was useless to cry out. She raised her knee swiftly, striking at his groin but he shifted as she did so and the blow fell on his thigh. He
grunted then pulled her head back violently and kissed her on the mouth.

  Tomyra turned her head as far as she could, pressing her lips together. She worked an arm free and lashed out at his face with her nails, seeking his eyes.

  Dimurthes cursed and fell back, though retaining a grip on the young girl. He drove his fist into the side of Tomyra's head and she collapsed with a small cry of pain.

  Swiftly, the man dropped to his knees and loosened his heavy trousers. He pulled her cloak to one side and forced her shift above her waist.

  Tomyra groaned, forcing herself back to consciousness. She clamped her legs together and rolled away from him. His breath coming fast, he forced her onto her back again then slammed his fist into her belly. Tomyra cried out in agony, clutching herself then screamed as the man forced himself between her legs.

  Tomyra continued to writhe beneath the man as he went through the perverted motions of love, his excitement building until he collapsed exhausted on top of her. A moment later he swiftly rose to his feet, easily avoiding a weak kick from the girl.

  Dimurthes grinned and readjusted his clothing. He looked down at Tomyra as she pulled her ragged shift and cloak about her, grimacing at the look of hatred on her face. "Really, woman. You do take it so personally. Enjoy it while it lasts. I ought to kill you as your brother requested, but I may set you free when I tire of you." He refastened his jacket and adjusted his cloak. "If you continue to resist me I could just give you to my men. You would find them less considerate than I."

  "Bastard!" gritted Tomyra. She furiously willed away the tears of rage and shame that threatened to spill from her eyes. The pain from her renewed violation made her grimace as she moved, sitting up. "I promise you, in the Mother's name, you will die for this."

  "You call on the Mother still?" asked Dimurthes in an amused tone. "I doubt she will answer the prayers of a whore."

  "She will answer the prayers of a violated priestess."

  "I have not violated you, woman, merely used you. You forfeited any rights when you whored with the barbarian."

  "As I have told you, I am still a priestess of the Mother Goddess. You abuse me at your peril."

  Dimurthes laughed. "I don't see anything to be afraid of."

  "My Nikomayros will kill you himself, if I do not."

  "Nikomayros? Oh, you mean that Greek barbarian, the Lion." Dimurthes laughed out loud again. "Do not look for him, woman. Your brother Areipithes is now king of the Massegetae and he will have killed your Greek by now."

  Tomyra shook her head. "He lives and he will find me."

  "And will he want you when he finds you?" Dimurthes grinned. "Even if he were to follow..." He broke off, his smile fading. Dimurthes nodded slowly. "So he is the one who follows..." He turned and strode to the tent flap, calling to the guard. He stepped outside and spoke urgently. A few minutes later two horsemen galloped off in pursuit of Taraxes.

  Dimurthes reentered the tent and moved across to where a small iron pot sat cooling beside the sputtering brazier. He lifted the lid and sniffed then ladled out a thin mutton stew onto two wooden platters. He held one out to Tomyra, who sat huddled in her cloak. She ignored it and Dimurthes shrugged, setting it down on the bare ground within reach.

  He sat on the pile of cushions and picked at his food with his fingers, chewing on the gristly meat. "You should eat something," he observed. "You are already too thin." He leered at the young woman. "I prefer my women with a bit of meat on their bones." Dimurthes turned back to his meal and swiftly finished off the meat, licking the juices from the platter before tossing it casually into a corner. He wiped his hands on a cushion then pulled out his dagger and a piece of carved bone. He turned it over, examining the design carefully before picking at it with the point of his dagger, scraping away thin slivers, molding the form of the running deer already outlined on it.

  Time passed, the man slowly expressing himself artistically, the woman huddling into the furs, fighting her fear and despair. She kept her eyes fixed on the man, glaring her hatred and praying softly to the Goddess. From time to time, Dimurthes glanced up at Tomyra. If the looks of hatred disturbed him, he gave no sign.

  The guard outside coughed softly and called out, "My Lord?"

  Dimurthes stretched and tucked the carving back into his tunic. He sheathed his dagger and brushed the thin shavings of bone from his lap before rising fluidly to his feet. "Yes!" he barked.

  The guard pushed through the tent flap, his eyes flicking from the figure of his chief to that of the woman with great interest. "Taraxes returns, my Lord. Shall I admit him?"

  Dimurthes nodded and dismissed the guard with a gesture. Taraxes entered a few moments later, his hair disheveled and cloak wrapped tightly about him. A gust of cold wind swirled in with him, carrying dead leaves into the far corners of the tent. He ran a hand over his moustache and beard, tugging at it gently as he faced his chief.

  "We found Nerraces, my Lord. Just this side of the ford. No trace of Rhitores or his brother Parmes though. We searched the trail back as far as..." he fell silent as Dimurthes scowled and gestured.

  "And what does Nerraces have to say for himself?"

  Taraxes blanched and stammered. "N...nothing, my Lord. He was dead. His throat was cut and he had an arrow in his back. A Massegetae arrow."

  Dimurthes turned away, his teeth clenching in rage. "What else did you find?" he ground out.

  "Horse tracks, my Lord, but we could not follow them in the dark."

  "How many?"

  Taraxes shrugged. "A few. Perhaps five or six."

  Dimurthes looked thoughtful then waved Taraxes away. "Double the guards tonight. I must think on this." He started pacing then stopped and stared at Tomyra.

  "So, your Lion comes for you after all. He is braver...or more foolhardy than I thought. I must arrange a proper welcome for him." Dimurthes smiled savagely then spun on his heel and strode from the tent.

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  Chapter Three

  Five horses stamped and blew impatiently in the chill wind that gusted from the low mountain peaks to the north. Three men sat astride their mounts, wrapped in woollen cloaks as they watched a tall golden-haired man and a shorter, stockier, dark-haired man bending over the trail. The dark man squatted and pointed to faint hoof marks in the packed earth.

  "See, there...and there. Her horse leaves quite distinct tracks."

  "How far behind are we?" queried the fair man.

  "A day, perhaps two." The dark man stood up and scanned the trail ahead of them, noting the direction it took across the hillside. "They are heading for Zarmet, the winter quarters of the Serratae."

  "How far away is that?"

  The dark man shrugged. "If they travel no faster than they do now, perhaps five days." He turned to face the fair-haired man. "Nikomayros, if they reach Zarmet she is lost to you." His voice, like that of most Scythians, slurred and slipped around the fair man's name. Nikomayros was the best pronunciation he could manage for Nikometros, son of Leonnatos of Macedon.

  "Then we must hurry, Parasades." Nikometros turned to his horse and grasping its mane, vaulted onto its back.

  Parasades stared at the tall man astride his great golden stallion. "It is nearly nightfall, Nikomayros. We must wait until tomorrow to follow the trail."

  Nikometros scowled and jerked the reins of his horse, making it rear. "They follow this trail and have done for two days now. We can follow the path in the dark. We must close the gap."

  "And if they leave the trail we could lose them completely."

  One of the other riders edged his horse alongside the stallion. He was a stocky man, bearded and garbed like the Scythians, though his skin was lighter. When he spoke he used the rough patois of the Macedonian army.

  "It makes sense, Niko. If they leave the trail in the night we could lose them."

  Nikometros scowled at the man alongside him. "We must take the chance, Timon. I fear for her in the hands of these bandits."
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  Parasades swung himself onto his small, wiry steed and pulled it alongside Nikometros on his other side. "I understand your concern, Nikomayros," he said softly. "But they have kept her alive so far. I believe they will take her to Zarmet."

  "Then they will keep to the trail and we can follow through the night," responded Nikometros.

  The other two horsemen approached. One, a slight young man with a broken nose set askew drawled his opinion. "Unless they tire of her first, of course. No doubt they will have used her..."

  A look of fury swept across Nikometros' face. He rounded on the young man with a deadly look. "Mind your tongue or I will cut it from you. She is your priestess."

  The man paled and pulled his horse back. "I...I am sorry, my lord. I did not mean to give..."

  The older rider with him reached over and cuffed the young man sharply across the head. "A plague on you, Certes. When will you learn to think before you speak?"

  Certes drew back to avoid another blow, his hand dropping to the short sword in his belt. "You have no right to lay a hand on me, Agarus. You are not a warrior; you are but a servant."

  "Enough!" snapped Parasades. "Already I regret bringing either of you. Agarus, apologise for hitting Certes. He is a warrior and you had no right to lay a hand on him. Certes, beg forgiveness of the lord Nikomayros for your unruly tongue. Do it!" he hissed as the two men hesitated.

  Surly expressions on their faces, both men apologised. They drew apart and ignored one another, making a show of examining their equipment or looking out over the darkening hillside.

  Parasades sighed and turned back to Nikometros. "Very well. We shall follow the trail tonight. If it forks we camp until first light. We must not risk taking the wrong path. Agreed?"

  Nikometros nodded impatiently and kicked his stallion forward. Timon fell into place behind him, followed by Parasades and Certes. Agarus brought up the rear, grumbling quietly to himself.

  The path wound slowly downhill into sparse woodland. The light diminished as the sun disappeared, the pace of the horses slowing accordingly. The five horses settled into a slow plodding walk, picking their way carefully over rough ground. Nikometros found his thoughts wandering, despite his fears, lulled by the monotony. He glanced back over his shoulder at Timon.