Tyrant: Storm of Arrows Read Free Page B

them, Satrax the king was the one whose death affected every man in the army. Satrax was the man who bound the army together, and his death signalled an end.
    The torches flared and spat in the last of the rain. To the west, stars were appearing in the sky. The ground stank of horse blood, and the light of the torches glared fitfully on gold and iron and wool.
    Marthax wore red, as was his right as the commander of the dead king’s bodyguard. He had the king’s sword across his arms, and with it he climbed the pyramid of earth and grass until he stood on the top.
    Srayanka, dressed from head to foot in white skins decorated in blue hair and gold cones, climbed behind him, carrying the king’s helm. This she placed with reverence at the very apex of the pyramid. Then she took the sword from Marthax. She raised it into the darkness.
    Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the crowd of warriors made a noise like the sigh of the wind over the plain of grass.
    ‘Victor in two great battles, hammer of the Getae, lord of ten thousand horses,’ she called. Kineas understood her slow Sakje well enough. He had heard her practise this chant for ten nights.
    Again, the warriors seemed to sigh.
    ‘Young like a god, swift in battle, terrible to his foes, life-taker, lord of ten thousand horses,’ she called, and again they sighed.
    Marthax stood behind her, his arms crossed.
    ‘Wise like a god, gold-giver, great in peace and council, lord of ten thousand horses,’ she said, the sword in her hand unmoving. She had arms like bundles of iron rods, as Kineas now had reason to know.
    Satrax had helped to unite them, but he had also been a reckless adolescent intent on taking Srayanka for himself. Kineas was not altogether sorry he was gone.
    ‘He was the king of the Sakje!’ she shouted, her voice suddenly deep and wild. And at the last word, she reversed the blade and plunged it into the grass.
    The warriors gave a great shout, a bellow of sorrow and anger and victory and loss, and then they turned away to the banquet that awaited them, a feast on the new mound, a last feast with the old king. They ate and drank and wept, and bards sang songs of the battles. And they were like brothers and sisters, all the Greeks and the Sakje and the Sauromatae.
    One last time.
    Ataelus, the Massagetae warrior who led Kineas’s scouts, introduced the messenger from the east with a sweep of his arm.
    ‘Fifty days’ ride to the east on a good horse, with five more horses for changing - beyond the Kaspian, farther than the Lake of the Sea of Grass, farther than Sauromatae - for riding fifty days, and not for resting - there is the queen of the Massagetae.’ Ataelus’s eyes roved around. The open tent was packed, and there were more Sakje all around. He stood straight, fully conscious of the importance of the occasion. ‘This man for being my cousin. Qares speaks for the queen.’ Ataelus stepped back.
    The messenger of the Massagetae was shorter than Ataelus and had something of his look - black ringlets like a Spartan, a wind-burned face and a round nose like a satyr. He wore a red silk robe over silvered-bronze scale armour that winked like a hot fire in sunlight. In his hand he held a short Sakje sword with a hilt of green stone. He brandished it at the council of chiefs and Greek officers who sat in the fire circle in front of Satrax’s empty wagon.
    Sakje rules of council allowed any interested person to attend, so hundreds of men and women, many armed, and dozens of children gathered on the council hill. They were never fully quiet, and the murmur of their comments and the sigh of the wind forced the speakers to shout to make themselves heard. The messenger of the Massagetae had a deep voice and it carried well.
    ‘Keepers of the western gate!’ he shouted, and Eumenes, still stiff from wounds, interpreted in a tired voice. ‘Queen Zarina, lady of all of the riders of the east, calls upon you to come to the muster of all the Sakje!