TEN

Osyrus the Skythian strode toward a great kargon burial mound built on the top of a treeless hill. The wind howled in his ears and a vast black cloud hung in the sky overhead. He saw flashes of lightning, but strangely heard no thunder. The world was grim and dark.

As he slowly climbed the hill and got closer to the kargon he was struck with awe: the mound was the biggest he’d ever seen—fit for a king of Skythia. It rose like a firm breast from the crown of the hill, and surrounding it was a ring of dead horses. These animals had been gutted and stuffed with chaff, then affixed to poles that were stuck into the ground. An offering to the dead man buried beneath this heap of sod.

Osyrus perceived that on each of the horses was mounted a human corpse that had been prepared in the same way as the steeds. And they were positioned in the customary way so that they appeared to be riding at full gallop, both hands on the reins, heads bent down and leaning over the horses’ manes, racing into the afterlife with their dead eyes wide open.

This was an exceptional offering, considered Osyrus, and he felt a thrill of wonder. What an honor! If only he might be so lucky one day to receive such a kargon. But then the lightning flashed directly overhead, and he clearly saw the nearest faces and he cried out, for he had recognized the corpses of his mother and father mounted on two of the horses.

Osyrus ran from horse to horse, peering at each dead rider, seeing his aunts and uncles and cousins and childhood friends … even a priest of Papaeus. All of his kin had been killed and positioned on the dead steeds. He looked down and saw, with horror, that his own torso had been ripped open and stuffed with chaff.

And then he noticed there was one riderless horse waiting for him.

The dead began to hiss a whispered chorus. The riders were calling to him.

Osyrus forced himself to look away from the kargon. In the distance he saw a red-haired boy riding across the grasslands, chased by a band of enemy Nuri.

“Kolax!” he tried to scream, but his voice made no sound. His lungs had been stolen from his breast. The bloody organs lay at his feet, glistening on the dark grass.

Osyrus awoke in the dark with a gasping breath, clutching his aching stomach. He lay very still for a while, lost in a haze of nightmarish images that were slowly fading back to the world of dreams from which they’d come to torment him, as they did on most nights.

For a while he had absolutely no idea where he was. The hemp did that to him sometimes. He’d been smoking more and more of it to ease the terrible pain that had been growing inside his belly for the last year. It burned in the pit of his stomach like a hot coal.

He stood up, swaying precariously, then reached out probing hands for the shutters that he knew were there, somewhere on the wall. He found the wooden panels and opened them, leaning on the sill and breathing in the cool air. The light from the stars still shined brightly. He could see the constellation of the Archer and the three bright stars in a row that made up the god’s belt; but a dim glow to the east told him the great god Papaeus would soon show his bright face to the world, riding his fiery chariot across the sky and covering the stars with his multicolored cloak.

The nightmare came rushing back into his memory. The same nightmare he had had for months.

A message from the horse goddess!

Last week a grain ship had come to the port of Piraeus from Skythia with a disturbing tale: old King Astyanax had died and his bastard son had usurped the throne, supported by the Nuri, who had taken this opportunity to massacre their enemies, ending the decades-long truce between the tribes.

The Bindis, Osyrus’s tribe, would be the first to suffer at the hands of this new regime.

A cock crowed in one of the courtyards near the jail. The smell of woodsmoke wafted across his face and made him feel queasy. He cursed himself for this weakness. Smells had never made him sick before. Something evil was working on him in this city of the Athenians. Six years he’d lived here, seeking gold to bring back to Skythia. Six long years he’d paced the tops of the citadel’s stone walls—a dull job without a single enemy skull to show for it. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d ridden a horse.

He clutched at his stomach as a stabbing sensation nearly caused him to double over in agony. He knew he was dying. He’d seen this before—the wasting disease that turned a strong man into a living corpse. He didn’t have much time. If the tales of Astyanax’s death and the Skythian massacres were found to be true, there was only one thing he could do. He must take a ship back to Skythia and try to find his son. He would be nine seasons now. The Horse Goddess had let him know that Kolax was still alive by showing him the red-haired boy in his dream—the one chased by the Nuri.

He gathered his long, loose hair and tied it into a knot on the top of his head. Then he reached for his dagger, taking it down from the wall where it hung by a metal hook. He strapped it to his waist, then removed his captain’s whip from its hook and clutched it in his right hand. He’d had to use the scourge to stop three blood duels in the last week between various tribesmen who made up the five-hundred-man Skythian police force.

It was the Nuri who were causing all the problems.

They’d become cocky, emboldened by the rumors of their tribe’s ascendancy back home. The archer called Skandar had been sneering at Osyrus all week—pissing on him with his eyes. Skandar coveted Osyrus’s position as a captain of the police. Skandar most likely knew that Osyrus was ill. He was like a dog waiting to attack the wounded leader of a hunting pack.

Osyrus wondered if he could beat the younger man in a knife duel. No. Not in the weakened state he was in now. The only way he could get the upper hand with Skandar would be by surprise.

Osyrus took a few deep breaths to steady himself—to will away the pain in his gut. He strode to the door and opened it. The guards he’d posted there were alert. They were good men. Bindis like himself. But there were only twenty-five of his tribesmen still in Athens. One hundred and fifty Bindis had been sent up north, to help lay siege to Potidaea, because, of course, Bindis were the very best of all the Skythian archers. Those men had been gone a year and Osyrus had no idea when they would return. Until then, he and his brethren were far outnumbered by the other tribes in Athenian employ. And if the bastard king had taken over the throne and massacred their kinsmen back in Skythia, Osyrus and his tribesmen were now in grave danger, even here in Athens. The Athenians had no notion of Skythian laws, and let them govern themselves.

“Bring the boy to the yard,” commanded Osyrus. “And strap him to the whipping posts.”

Osyrus went down to the courtyard and waited. Torches burned in the sconces on the walls, but the sun rose and the sky glowed red. More cocks crowed in the houses nearby the jail, and the hens chattered excitedly. A billow of woodsmoke from the jail’s kitchen wafted over his face and before Osyrus knew what was happening he was bent over, retching onto the stones.

“What’s this, Osyrus?” asked a voice dripping with mockery. “Can’t hold your drink? I guess it’s true what they say—‘Bindis are all mare-milkers.’”

Osyrus looked up to see Skandar chewing on a piece of bread. Standing next to him was one of his constant companions—another Nuri. Each had the image of a coiled snake tattooed on their left cheeks and they wore their hair in braided topknots festooned with gold loops. They were the only two Nuri assigned to the jail right now. The rest were on duty guarding the long walls.

Osyrus was astonished at Skandar’s insolence. He felt an overpowering urge to stick his dagger into Skandar’s brain, but all his strength had left him. He was relieved when the door leading to the underground cells burst open and his men appeared, dragging the frantically squirming boy. They brought him to the X-shaped post and tied him spread-eagle by his wrists and ankles.

“That’s the one the Athenian general wanted,” said Skandar. “What are you doing with him?”

“Do not question my actions,” said Osyrus.

Skandar shrugged and remained to the side with his companion, chewing on his bread.

Osyrus walked across the courtyard to the whipping blocks. The gagged boy flailed against his straps, screaming deep in his throat. Osyrus peered deep into the child’s blue eyes and said, “Why have you come, little beast? Why did you release the Korinthian? What game do you play?”

The boy’s tear-filled eyes opened wide and he shook his head from side to side. Osyrus pulled his dagger from the sheath and held the point close to the boy’s right eye and the boy became still.

“I think I’ll snatch one of your evil eyes to start,” said Osyrus. “I’ll stuff it in your mouth and you can chew on it while I peel the skin off your back.”

The boy shook his head and made a tortured grunting sound. Osyrus grinned. This child was a coward. He was already willing to talk. Osyrus slipped the dagger under the gag and slit it with a quick flick of his wrist, yanking the cloth from the boy’s mouth.

Osyrus felt several eyes on his back and glanced around him. There were ten or so Skythians in the courtyard now, chewing on their morning bread, watching the show with interest. They loved a good whipping.

“Speak,” Osyrus commanded.

The boy took in a rattling breath and cleared his throat. “Papa,” he said with a voice full of sorrow. “It’s me. Your son. Kolax.”

The Skythians within earshot laughed.

“A fine son too,” said Skandar snidely. “He favors you, Osyrus.”

Osyrus glared at the Skandar. “Did you put this vermin up to this?” he asked.

“Not I,” said Skandar, holding his belly and laughing. “I wish I had, though. It’s the best joke ever.”

“Papa,” said the boy faintly, tears streaming from his eyes. “Believe me—”

Osyrus slashed his cheek below the eye. “Don’t call me Papa!” he snarled.

The blood dripped down the boy’s face and into the corner of his mouth. He licked at the blood and a crazed gleam appeared in his eyes.

And then he spat a huge gob of blood and mucus into Osyrus’s face.

Osyrus staggered backward, swiping at his face with his sleeve. He glowered at the boy, but the wicked little goat actually smiled at him, flicking his eyes to the scourge in Osyrus’s hand as if to goad him into whipping him. Osyrus lashed out, striking the boy across the face with the handle of the whip—a cruel blow that left a red welt across his cheeks and broke his nose. Blood gushed from his nostrils.

“I’ll have every inch of his flesh!” screamed Osyrus. He moved around to the other side and whipped at the boy’s bare legs. Once. Twice. Blows that ripped flesh from skin. The boy gasped in agony and Osyrus relished the sound. He paused and looked at the eager faces of the men in the courtyard. He would show them that Osyrus of the Bindi could still wield a captain’s lash. That he could be merciless and fierce.

Osyrus heard a strange sound that made his blood run cold. The boy had stopped screaming, and now he was laughing. Laughing!

“Strip him!” bellowed Osyrus. He turned and walked away twenty paces, boiling with rage. The boy wouldn’t laugh when he felt the full force of a running whip blow that would strip the skin of his spine and rib cage down to the bone.

One of Osyrus’s men grabbed the boy’s tunic, ripping it from his back with a swift downward movement, and then backed out of the way.

Osyrus focused on the boy’s back in the dim light of dawn. He saw a dark pattern there. A tattoo! So the boy was a Skythian! A spy sent by the enemy. Perhaps the Nuri were now in league with the Korinthians!

Curiously, he realized that the boy had stopped moving. He was now as still as a statue. Excellent. He would cut the boy so deep his kidneys would spill from his wounds. Osyrus started running with the whip held out in front, snapping it back just before he reached the boy’s still torso.

“Ayyeeeee!” screamed Osyrus, flinging the whip from his hand at the last instant and coming to a stop.

Osyrus couldn’t breathe. The world seemed to tilt. He placed his hand on the boy’s tattoo, ran his trembling fingers over the pattern. A memory came rushing back: the ceremonial tent and the smell of burning hemp, the priests chanting while Osyrus had sat next to the opium-drugged body of his only son, pounding the inked needles into his heir’s skin to mark him in this world and the afterlife … so that they would never be separated.

The gryphon of the Bindi!

It was emblazoned on the boy’s back in blue ink, just as it had looked when it had first been imprinted into his flesh. It was unmistakable. Tears burst from Osyrus’s eyes. He raised his hands skyward and called out, “Goddess of Mares! What is happening?”

Shaking violently and ignoring the mutterings of the men watching him, Osyrus staggered around to face the boy, whose head now drooped down like a poppy heavy with rain. Osyrus placed both hands gently on each side of the boy’s head and lifted his face to his own, choking out his name, “Ko—Kolax?”

Kolax smiled wanly and nodded.

“How did you come here?” asked Osyrus.

Kolax’s eyelids fluttered, struggling to keep them open. Osyrus put his mouth to Kolax’s ear and whispered, “Is Astyanax dead?” then looked at Kolax full in the face to see his reply. Kolax nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Did the Nuri massacre our kin?” breathed Osyrus.

Another nod, and then Kolax let forth a great sigh. “The Snow Dog seized the Grass Throne,” he managed to say. “I was captured and sold to a slaver … and sent to the Oxlands.” His eyes turned inward and he stopped speaking. Osyrus couldn’t help himself as sobs ripped from his breast.

“Osyrus has gone mad,” muttered Skandar, stooping to pick up the whip that Osyrus had dropped. He strode forward and prodded the captain in the back with the handle, causing Osyrus’s body to tense up. “Step aside. If you’re not going to kill the boy, I’ll deliver him to General Lukos and—”

There was a blur of movement and then Skandar staggered away from Osyrus, clutching at the side of his neck, scowling in surprise, staring at the bloody dagger now clutched in Osyrus’s hand. He sank to his knees, then toppled over, pouring his lifeblood onto the dirty stones from the gash in his neck. Before the other Nuri tribesman in the courtyard could react, Osyrus leapt on him next, stabbing him through the heart. The man dropped dead at his feet.

The other eight Skythians exchanged surprised looks. They’d seen their own kind die before, but this slaughter had occurred without any seeming cause.

“Captain?” asked one Osyrus’s men in astonishment.

“Why did you kill the Nuri?” asked another.

Osyrus moved swiftly, cutting Kolax free from his bonds. “Find all the Bindis who would still follow my hoofprints,” said Osyrus as he lifted Kolax’s drooping body in his arms. “The rumors are true—Astyanax is dead. Krouspako has taken the throne. This boy here is my son. The goddess has brought him to me. I’m leaving Athens with him now.”

He kissed Kolax on the forehead and his son smiled faintly. Osyrus strode toward the archway that led to the stables. Word would spread quickly about the two Nuri he’d slain, and their brethren would come hunting for his head.