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The dead tree stood against the darkening sky like an antler stuck into the ground. No wonder it had died; it had no business in this place. The howling wind blasted incessantly over grass withered to a parched and dusty brown. On the uppermost branch of the tree, a crow spread its wings but did not take flight.
We camped a mile upriver from the settlement. Our ranks had swelled with karik and novices until our number was over three hundred. We swarmed around the fire as a small red-glazed jug was unsealed, its contents poured into a golden bowl upon an altar. Each of the warriors unclasped his warbelt and held its bronze or gold clasp before the bowl in turn. Into the face of each clasp, in what had seemed an ordinary circular design, the vazarka Peraka—haomapaithi of the kara, maker and dispenser of the sacred drink—poured out a measure of liquid, which the warriors caught in the hollow depression of their broad buckles. I, too, raised the bronze plate of my warbelt to be filled. It looked like ordinary milk, but I knew it was not. Tentatively, I lifted the haoma to my lips as they all watched, then guzzled the bitter potion in one gulp. Then I waited in horrible expectation. What would it do to me? Would it bring on the warrior fury the men all spoke of? My palms began to itch, and I breathed deeply to calm myself, uninterested in losing my senses to neither the haoma nor the gods. But now, my head swam, my heart raced, and I felt strangely detached from myself as if my mind floated high above my body.
I glanced toward Aric, searching for an anchor to pull me back to earth. He seemed to be peering over the edge of a vast, black chasm—his eye fixed yet fixed on nothing. His jaw rigid, his breath hard through flared nostrils. But his hands trembled, even as he clenched his fists to steady them, and a rage swelled in him.
The other men looked much the same. They began to knock the shafts of their spears against their shields in a steady rhythm. In time to this, they stamped their feet in a circular march, like a dance, around the fire. Step, step, step, leap. They’d brandish their spears high in the air each time they landed. Step, step, step, leap.
A chant rose up into the dark night, their voices rising and falling in a jubilant song, chanted in time with their feet. Though I didn’t understand their garbled words, I mumbled along as best I could. Bornon’s bulky form swept past me, his long brown hair shaken loose, and he pulled me into the line. I followed along, thumping my shield, stomping my feet, and shaking my spear at the sky. One by one, the men began to howl as their chanting morphed into a chorus of hungry wolves. Thumping and clashing their spear-shafts, stamping their feet, they circled the fire in a heaving mob of harsh cries and eerie wails.
Then suddenly, the dance broke up, the men howled in unison, and when I looked about me, their glistening faces beamed in ecstasy. They embraced one another as though drunk, exuberantly and with great affection. I watched as they gave their rough embraces, sinewy and strong, and wondered what it felt like to receive men’s brutal, brotherly affections. How they differed from the tepid, birdlike embraces shared between ladies, stingy and unsatisfying. But men, it seemed, plied the full force of their bodies in almost painful locking of grips and slapping of hides, their boisterous play and affections more like wrestling than comfort. I envied it. I despised my gentle life and the delicate care those around me showed.
We scattered to mount our horses.
The horses seemed to dance in anticipation of the battle as the riders took their places according to rank with spears held high. More chanting followed as the warriors raised their voices in cheerful calls that soon gave way to wilder baying. Spirits flew high, thanks in no small part to the haoma, the cloak of darkness, and the crisp nip in the night air. But most of all, we were giddy with the unknown.
The night was brighter than I imagined it would be. I thought we’d have more cover. The sky was dark without the moon, but the Shining Road gave enough light to guide our way and show the riders near us. Being tall from a distance, none would assume I was a woman, for which I was grateful. I wore a pointed cap with long flaps like the men, and, again, I pulled a scarf up over my nose and mouth to hide my lack of beard. My loose tunic mostly concealed my form. We wore no armor, though my light wicker and leather shield was strapped to my back. I wore a thick vest of quilted hemp cloth under my caftan, which could turn indirect arrows and sword cuts. But death would not be the worst fate here. I couldn’t imagine capture in a Hellenic colony. Or rather, I didn’t want to try.
A modest ditch surrounded the village, and from its fill was mounded an even more modest bank. Atop the bank stood the beginnings of a rough wall of dry stone, only about knee-high, the steppe being bare of timber for palisades except what the Skythai consented to supply. The plan was to disperse the villagers, burn the settlement, pull down the structures, and destroy the crops. Ensure there was nothing left for them to return to. Aric gave orders to leave the horses, oxen, and wagons intact and fight only those who attacked. Those who wished to retreat could do so unharmed. Our purpose was only to drive them out. But if they resisted—well, hopefully, they wouldn’t be that foolish.
A horn sounded in the distance. The settlers had scouted our arrival and were mustering a response. Hopefully they were just covering their retreat, and it wouldn’t be a long and bloody battle.
In a dizzying frenzy, we rode hard toward the river amid howls and shouts. On the horizon, a cloud of dust rose into the night air and billowed ominously toward us. They were coming.
Once within range of the dust cloud, we would fire our bows, raining a hail of arrows down on them before we ever saw the enemy. I braced my spear under my thigh, took a fistful of arrows in my bow hand, an arrow in my rein hand, and kicked Aruna forward into the pack of riders around me.
Aric reached into his own goryt and withdrew a handful of arrows. Then he gave the command to loose our missiles. In what seemed a single, fluent motion, he set the first of his arrows upon his bowstring and, with an ease that seemed supernatural, stretched back and released the graceful limbs of his mighty bow, all in the blink of an eye. Then another arrow. And another, until they were spent, and he delved into his quiver for another handful. Each with an effortless strength and grace of movement as he braced briefly in the saddle, nocked his arrow, drew back his arm, and let each fly, the next ready on the string with a swiftness I could scarcely comprehend.
Entranced, I realized I was not firing my own arrows. Fitting the nock to the string, I angled my bow above the horizon and began to shoot, letting loose bolt after bolt with the others as we galloped toward the sound of the approaching thunder.
Soon, arrows began to rain upon us, their tips flashing silver in the faint starlight. Aruna had thick pads of quilted hemp draped over his back and shoulders, much like the vest I wore. The karik wore wolfskin capes like my own, and the vazarka wore their own distinctive caps with pointed crowns also lined in wolfskin. More potent than armor of iron or bronze, these would turn any weapon if the gods so chose. Nevertheless, some of the points got through. A handful of horses and riders dropped back as we rode on.
At the far edges of the field, the dark shapes of horses appeared from the dust—shadows of hooves and legs. Muzzles and ears dipping in and out of the silver cloud, advancing and retreating from view.
And then they emerged—a wall of men, old and young, twenty across and three deep, shoulder to shoulder. The front row bore spears and roughly-made round shields, while those behind them carried scythes, pitchforks, and sharpened stakes. They marched slowly, steadily, into the charge of our horses. A little over a furlong away, they were within sight range of our bows. Fitting the nock to the string, I chose a target, a man at the edge of the pack. Aiming for his thigh, exposed beneath his shield, I drew back and let my arrow fly.
At the moment it struck, my breath caught in my throat, and all the men upon the field seemed to hesitate and stay their fighting, their moving, their very breathing. I looked in wonder as the clash froze before my eyes. Though I had never been in battle, a charged, uncanny simultaneity overcame me. The coincidence of this field, on this day, at this moment, this fight. The face of every warrior. Somehow it was all familiar. Could I have lived this moment twice? Could I have seen all this before in an unconscious vision? How could I have forgotten? There must be something momentous I should remember! I scrambled to collect my thoughts and recall the outcome, so I might warn the others…
But no. No. Of course. There was the smell. The fetid odor of foreboding. Of panic. Of fear. I knew what it meant and what was coming. Inside my mind, I begged, Not now; not here. I could feel the rhythmic jarring of my horse’s hooves beneath me, but they no longer made any sound. And as the world around me flashed into black oblivion, the belly of my bow, braced in my left hand, became more solid and real than anything in the universe. I tried to hold it—to anchor myself to the world with it. To feel the earth beneath me through Aruna’s hooves. But that fist, clinging to my drawn bow, was the last sensation I remember before I disappeared from the battlefield.
When I returned to myself, I stood shrouded in darkness, my feet resting on the dewy ground. Aruna was gone. Constraining arms wrapped around me—strong arms, crushing me. My arms lay pinned at my sides, and I thrashed against my captor with all my strength, but he gripped me harder and held me fast. Quitting my futile struggle—for now—I could feel the dagger hidden in my vest, squeezed against my ribcage in the vise made by our bodies. The hunter learns to wait. Sooner or later, he had to let go.
I could not see him, but a thick, soft pelt around his shoulders pressed softly against my cheek. It rose and fell with his breathing, which grew harsh and labored. He was somehow familiar, the way bed is at the end of an arduous day, and I suddenly longed to close my eyes and sleep.
“You are returned?” he asked with a ragged voice, abruptly releasing his grip and stepping back, his face mostly in darkness. But I knew it just as intimately as I knew the moon, even when shadows obscured its face.
“I’m here,” I answered uncertainly.
“Only just,” he said. It was then I saw the dark stain spreading across the side of his thick leather caftan. On his left hand. And I felt its clamminess on my own hand when I looked to see how a matching stain blotted the front of my caftan. Had I been shot? Though I searched, I felt no wound. I looked to Aric in confusion. Blood dripped to the ground from beneath his leather caftan. An arrow shaft stuck out from his flank.
A gush of panic surged through my body. “Is it bad?”
“I’ve had worse,” he said through his teeth. “Help me with it, will you?”
I gulped. “That was for me?”
He said nothing but placed a horse’s reins in my hand—my horse—looking unhurt, if a little spooked.
All around us in the dark, sounds of the battle still stirred. The whirr of arrows. Grunts of men grappling. Shrieks of downed horses in pain. The chink of iron on iron. Here and there, silver and gold flashed in the pale light of the Shining Road.
Aric. His name was Aric. Slowly, the disparate elements of my mind chose to make their way home again. But, the remembrance was like the sun dawning, burning away a dense fog of doubt.
“Of course,” I said, “but not here.”
“There is nowhere else. I will not retreat from the field.”
“All right. But lay down low in the grass. We’re targets just standing here.” Even in the dark, I felt exposed.
Most Skythai warriors wore iron scale armor and bronze or iron helmets, making them nearly invulnerable in battle. However, like all the karik of the sacred Warband, Aric wore no armor, trusting only in his courage, prowess, and patron Goetosura to face what threats lay before him. His only defense was his shield, which remained slung over his back as he rode should he need it for a close fight. After all, friend and foe alike agreed it was craven and shameful to shoot a man in the back—though someone had done just that.
I looped my reins over my elbow and crouched low over him, cutting through his caftan, padded vest, and tunic, which had helped curb the shot. I examined the wound. The arrowhead was small, not deep, and was well clear of the kidneys and any vital veins. But the muscles had wrapped firmly around it. And it was probably barbed. It would tear a lot of flesh if I just yanked it out.
“I can’t see.”
“Just do it,” he hissed.
“All right. Try to relax.” I placed my knees on either side of the arrow, drew and held a deep breath, gripped the shaft near the wound with both hands, and with all the force I could muster, gave the arrow a slow, forceful yank. He growled briefly and then looked at me and frowned. I looked at the arrow and frowned, too. The arrowhead was not on the shaft.
“Oh, shit. I don’t know what—”
“We’ll get it later.” He grunted as he heaved himself back on his feet with a painful grimace. He snatched the arrow shaft from my hands and snapped it in two. “Mount up.”
The rest of the battle I swam through in a haze. As Aric promised, the actual fighting was over in minutes. But in moments, it was a lifetime. The Dawn seemed an empty promise. With bleary eyes on the horizon, I watched the east, expectant, apprehensive. And I listened with my whole body for the sound of that terrible thunder to return. A hammering of marching feet as upon a drum, resounding through the earth beneath me, echoing through my whole form.
How many hours could be in a night? I had lost all sense of time; it seemed neither to pass nor even to exist. Momentarily, I’d been freed of its bond in my frenzy, my exultation, my exhaustion. From above, I watched my own form as one looks down into the reflective water of a river flowing by, helpless to retrieve it.
In the last desperate hours of night—in the muck, listening to the moans of the dying, the wretched screams of wounded horses, the inescapable stench of spoiled blood, fermenting sweat, wet animals, and dung—the world crept back in. All the horrors, the physical pains—and worst, all the body’s demands—were returning. My flesh was torn and needed tending to; it was cold and needed shelter; it was hungry and thirsty. And what of Aric and his arrow? What of fallen companions and horses?
In the murky darkness, it was hard to see. Was that a hound carrying a severed hand in its jaws? Had the hand held the sword of an enemy or an ally? The ravens and crows had already arrived, their harsh caws biting into the pre-dawn, to finish what we’d begun.
Besides brief flashes, I remembered almost nothing of the battle itself after the spell came over me. But now it was over, an inexplicable terror began to crawl in. The inescapable thread of fear began to needle itself into the fabric of my mind. I cast my eyes anxiously east and waited.
Finally, a faint glimmer over the crest of the hill as the stars slowly disintegrated into the light. The entire world seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. In the still, cold rays of the sun’s first light, I blinked and blinked and closed my heavy lids for just a moment, heedless of the destruction around me. Not caring what came next.
Chapter Twenty-Four: Scalp
I may have mentioned this before but I really think you would enjoy Gore Vidal’s novel “Creation”. It takes place at around the time your novel does. It’s about a Persian prince who’s a descendant of Zoroaster and he’s fluent in Greek and has spent years working as an ambassador in Lydia. Because he’s a member of the hereditary priesthood, there is a really vivid scene discussing using saoma/haoma in one of the rites he’s presiding over and things go haywire. While in Halicarnasus or Athens, he meets Herodotus who he calls a fraud because of his depictions of the Persians. His mother is a Bactrian witch (I think). The character is given a commission to travel on behalf of the Persian King to China, and he passes through India, the steppes of Central Asia and makes it all the way to China at the time of the Five Kingdoms. It’s called “Creation” because the main character is also a mystic who seeks enlightenment and wants to know what other cultures believe is the origin of all things on earth, so he discusses the ideas of the pre-Socratics, the Persians, the Magi, and then meets the founders of Jainism, Buddhism, and in China he meets Lao Tzu and Confucius. It’s literally mind-blowing. I read it 2020 and finished in two sittings because I couldn’t stop reading it.