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Archery contests were already underway in the northern pasture when we’d arrived, and the members of the Warband rushed to take their turns, even before unpacking and setting up our tents for the evening. Riding back from the tent of the anarei, I joined them to cheer on my fellows. I had no intention to compete, but as I sat on the sidelines watching, the men badgered me about riding the course as well. Whether it was genuine encouragement or morbid curiosity, I couldn’t say. The feast was not for several hours, and I enjoyed archery. Amid the cheers and jeers, I finally agreed.
The course consisted of crude targets staggered across the field like a karevan of scarecrows. Already mounted upon Vatra, I set out at a brisk canter for the first target. His training had progressed nicely, and he was becoming an excellent hunter. I barely needed to touch the reins. He always knew where I wanted to go just by where I looked, and I could guide him entirely with my seat and legs if I wished. I dropped the reins to his neck and fitted an arrow to my bowstring.
The Skythai were masters of shooting from horseback and rightly feared for it. The trick lay in releasing the arrow when the horse had all its hooves off the ground. Timing was everything. That sweet moment of suspension only happened at a canter or gallop, so speed was of the essence. But there was only a breath in which to aim and release. Accomplishing all of that while managing the half-wild animal thundering beneath you, over uneven terrain, with the wind rushing by, was a minor miracle.
I released my arrow and buried it deep in the heart of the first target. We cantered past and handily struck the next five before turning back. The most distant target was covered in armor, a helmet on top. Dozens of broken arrows were strewn at the foot of the dummy. In a heartbeat’s choice, I took a risk and aimed for the eye slits. The shot hit home, piercing the target cleanly through the narrow gap in the dented old bronze helmet. We rolled back and, in full gallop, struck five more in the heart.
I rode by the last untouched target in a blur, grinning to myself. Laughter roared from the sidelines. “You forgot one, dear,” someone shouted to me just as I fitted the last arrow to my string, swiveling around in my saddle and stretching my bow. I shot the final target over Vatra’s tail, turned, and galloped past them.
The sidelines erupted in a chorus of howls. I’d hit every mark. As I rode in from the course, I stupidly thought I might receive an honor. But I received neither prize nor praise. They awarded the win to another man, claiming I crossed the course’s finish line before completing my final shot.
“Bullshit!” bellowed Olgas, thrashing his gangly arms in displeasure. “I’ll show you the fucking finish line!” he shouted, dropping his trousers and bending his ass toward the judges. I wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but I appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.
Laughing, I begged them to let the matter go so we could return to our camp and attend to more pressing concerns, like the unopened amphora of wine we’d brought for ourselves. It was only a worthless contest, after all. And finally, after some convincing and the lure of drink, the karik threw up their hands in disgust and walked away, mumbling to themselves. I returned to the wagons to help unpack and set up camp, waiting until sunset when we’d all gather for the feast.
“You don’t eat,” the king barked from the soft cushion where he sat before his guests. “The food not good?”
I had spent the evening avoiding his gaze and trying my best to escape his notice, but it seemed even my avoidance was noteworthy. Strained as the effort felt, I knew I had to be gracious.
“Oh, no, the food is excellent, Sura. I am afraid I am just not hungry.” I wasn’t, though I had my eye on some sweet, ripe cheese to grab and spirit back to camp for later. “The wine is appreciated, though. We don’t get much of it in the Fields these days.”
“From now on, we’ll see you do!” He raised his cup and smiled kindly. “You like music?”
“Very much.” What kind of unimaginative person disliked music?
He held up his hand and closed his eyes. The whole table fell silent as the musicians struck a tune on crane flute, goatskin drum, and Skythian fiddle—which looked like a tiny ship with strings in place of sails, strummed with a bow. They played a haunting, plaintive warble that became a crescendo, then a single high note trembled above the rest. As soon as it rose, it fell again, and the music resumed its pattern as before. The king’s face lit up as he opened his watery grey eyes and beamed with joy. In that moment, much as I hated our arrangement, I could not hate him.
Across from me, a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in a Hellenic gown of bright imported cloth and gold reclined languidly on a pile of cushions. She appeared young, barely more than a child, but she looked over the hall with the sneering manner of an old gorgon. Her face was composed entirely of sharp edges, jagged points, harsh lines. She must have torn her way out from her mother’s womb the way a lizard does from its egg. Sitting atop her upswept hair was a headdress that looked like a gilded bucket overturned and draped in a tablecloth. With her gaunt features, she squinted sidelong at me, lips pursed like she’d been waiting all her life for a kiss that never came. She’d liberated an entire tray of fresh, golden honeycakes from the center of the low table and was already working on her third.
“What manner of divinity compels a woman to desecrate her flesh?” she turned to say to her handmaiden. “Worse, what manner of man would have her?” With an exaggerated delicacy of her skeletal fingers, she extracted a crumb of her honey cake and set it between her lips. Then loudly sucked each of her fingers in turn, each sharp, moist chirp raking up my spine. I cringed with each repugnant bite she took.
Wherever I traveled, it was usually not men but women who denounced my appearance, and it seemed Skythia would be no different. Women were ever the harshest critics and enforcers of conformity upon other women. Good sense told me to ignore her. But I felt my neck stiffen as I stretched taller where I sat.
“I don’t think we’ve been introduced….” I began.
“Who are you to speak to me?” she snapped.
Bitch. “I believe I was in the middle of clarifying that very thing. Should I speak more slowly—use smaller words?” I enjoyed watching the color rise in her face before adding: “And, just who are you?” And why do you have a chamber pot on your head?
“You’ve come here with a lot of demands, androktones. You should remember: the Bastarnai serve us; we do not serve them,” she squinched her hard eyes and moistened her withered lips, puckering her mouth like a horse’s anus.
Taken aback, I caught myself about to defend my tribe, but the arrogance in her impudent face and the venom in her tone made me catch myself. I’d done nothing to offend her, and my people had nothing to apologize for. “You’re mistaken,” I said flatly. "The Bastarnai serve no one. And I am not here for you—whoever you are. I am a guest of King Ariapaithi.”
Delicate ladies were worthless. Mouths without hands, taking without making. What of value did they contribute? Studying the bucket, I figured I could shove her entire head inside with enough force. How easily I could smash her dainty little nose. Break the teeth behind her venomous smile. I wanted to so badly; I could feel my heart pound faster with the mere thought. And why shouldn’t I? Any man would defend himself against such slanders. Why shouldn’t we? Why must women’s weapons be only words of spite and malice, seduction and manipulation? I had two hands and the will to use them.
How I despised the court’s dance, the performance that required a subtle balance of learned disdain, affected fragility, feminine manipulation, and false modesty. I had never mastered the art. Or rather, I never cared to try. The entire gathering had been a blur of faces and names I would never remember. They came in and out of focus as I moved through the crowd, and I struggled to find care for any of it, though I knew some part of me should. Men and women who mattered to the king would one day have to matter to me—but not yet.
She glared down her narrow nose at me and leaned across the table to whisper. “I hope the Skythai rape you bloody.”
“Is Ligeia sharing her depraved fancies again?” Aric boomed as he pushed in beside me. Her face soured, and I nearly snorted my wine. “She’s got quite the imagination.”
“That’s Skyles’ wife?” I asked in horror but not disbelief. Ligeia was the perfect match for the vain Hellenic prince.
“Mmm,” he leaned in to whisper, “In Olbia, she partakes in all manner of wild orgies in the name of her god. Thankfully, I’ve not seen it with my own eyes, but word is she shares herself around like a wharf whore and runs intoxicated through the fields beyond the city walls, naked and raving, dismembering living creatures with her bare hands. None are safe from harm, and she offers herself to any man who’ll have her, slave and noble alike. She claims her god demands it.” He rolled his eye sarcastically.
“I can’t believe even she does such things,” I whispered. “Does Skyles know?”
“He joins her.”
Chapter Twenty: Eye
Excellent chapter! The old bitch with the upturned bucket headdress was a nice touch! I also like the way you describe the sweet spot for shooting an arrow being the point when all the horse’s feet would be in the air. That makes so much sense!
When you described her firing the arrow over her mount’s tail, it reminded me of a passage I once read in a book that I’ve long forgotten the title of. It was an explanation of the term “parting shot,” which everyone thinks derives from a final salvo someone makes before storming out of a room. Now the author of this forgotten book claimed that the term actually derives from the “Parthians” and it was originally a “Parthian shot” which was explained the exact same way you explained it here, when the rider turned around on his mount and fired over the mount’s tail. It’s depicted in a lot of ancient Parthian and Sassanian art. The writer went on to explain that the Persian calvary was lethal with this technique. They would surround the enemy on their horses and just keep circling as they fired their arrows.