"We are being watched, my lord."

"Where?"

"In the trees upslope. Something moves, man-sized and purposeful."

"Very well. Return to your place and watch for my signal."

The rider slowed his horse, waiting as the column passed him. Dimurthes forced himself to casually scan the slopes around him, his eyes passing over the tree line on the slope above him, hesitating a moment before moving on. He saw nothing but he trusted in his man's abilities. If he saw something, something was there. Now they only had to catch it.

The path dipped into a shallow valley, crossing a tiny rivulet of icy water tumbling over small boulders. A short expanse of frost-browned turf led up from the stream to the next low hill, the path passing into a line of heavier pine forest some fifty horse lengths above. Dimurthes smiled and nodded to himself. He rode to one side as the column crossed the stream then followed his men up the slope and into the trees.

Within the shelter of the pine forest he halted and called softly to his men. At once, they turned their horses and gathered around their leader. The guard around Tomyra ushered her to one side and drew their daggers in readiness, one pressing the point of his blade to her throat.

Dimurthes sat silently and watched the trees on the other side of the valley. For a long while, nothing happened. The wind soughed softly in the pine leaves and the distant burble of the stream came intermittently to their ears. Behind them, in the depths of the forest, came the staccato drum of a woodpecker searching out a meal. The horses blew impatiently and stamped their feet, their riders fidgeting as they waited.

A figure appeared in the tree line on the far hillside. It emerged, holding the reins of a horse and stood looking out across the valley. Soon, it turned and waved, whereupon four other figures pushed out from the cover of the trees, leading their horses. One of them pointed back at the trees, gesticulating violently. The first figure stood firm, pointing down the hillside. For a few moments it appeared as if the confrontation might erupt into violence then the figure in front scrambled onto its mount, urging it down the slope. The others wavered then scrambled onto their mounts and rode swiftly down the slope to the stream.

The waiting Serratae warriors fitted arrows to their bows, drawing back the strings. Each face was taut with tension.

"Wait," hissed Dimurthes. "On my signal." He leaned forward, scanning the riders as they rode their horses carefully across the slippery boulders. They started up the slope, their horses' hooves silent on the turf. Dimurthes chopped his hand down and with a whisper; a flight of arrows flew from the forest. A second followed before the first arrows fell among the riders and horses, and, as the third volley rose, Dimurthes, sword in hand, plunged from cover, his men screaming behind him.

The riders milled in confusion near the stream, one already fallen, transfixed by three arrows, another screaming in agony from a wound in the stomach. Dimurthes burst into the group, a slash from his sword silencing the cries of the wounded rider. A blade flashed toward him. He contemptuously knocked it aside, his eyes darting over his adversaries, seeking the face of the Greek.

These are all boys, Dimurthes thought. Not a bearded warrior among them.

A javelin whiffled past him then the riders fled, pursued over the stream by his warriors. The Serratae surrounded another rider on the far side of the stream and cut him down quickly. Another fell as they fled for the cover of the trees on the far side of the valley. Only a single rider made it back to the dubious safety of the woodlands. Dimurthes gave a shout, recalling his men. They rode back, dragging the corpses of the fallen riders behind them.

Dimurthes leapt off his horse and stretched, wiping his sword on the turf and sheathing it. He walked over to the body of the rider he had killed and kicked the arm away from where it covered the face. He stared down at the smooth and hairless face in its mask of bright blood for a moment then bent and ran his hand quickly over the body.

"A woman?" he muttered softly. Straightening, he crossed to the other three corpses then ripped their tunics open. Dimurthes shook his head in wonder; his men gathering round with grins and ribald comments. One man bent and pulled the leggings of one of the corpses down amid laughter. Dimurthes stood and watched as his men took their pleasures then called Taraxes to him.

"Remove their heads, leave their bodies for the carrion-eaters." He vaulted back onto his horse and waited as Taraxes and two other men completed their grisly work. Taraxes soon approached, bearing their grisly trophies. Leaning down, Dimurthes grasped the matted locks of the bloody heads. He turned his horse and rode back up to the pine forest, keeping his hand with its dreadful contents behind him. His horse shied as the heads bumped its flanks and he jerked its head savagely, kicking his heels into its sides.

Tomyra had heard the distant shouts and screams, knowing she was helpless to aid her Niko. She strained against the noose, feeling blood trickling from the sharp pain in her throat as the dagger dug deeper. Her eyes moved restlessly and she moaned softly, numb to the pain in her throat as she strained toward the sounds of battle. A wash of despair came over her as the sounds died away. Soon, the sound of a single horse, its hooves muffled by the thick carpet of pine needles, roused her. She looked up, hope disintegrating as she recognized her tormentor.

Dimurthes rode up close to her shying horse and stared dispassionately at the woman. He jerked his head and his men backed off, though keeping their weapons in a state of readiness. He tossed the heads at the foot of Tomyra's horse, which shied and reared, forcing her to cling to its neck. The heads rolled to a stop, presenting blood-spattered faces smeared and covered with dirt and pine needles.

Tomyra gasped and went white. She reeled and almost fell then with an obvious effort, steadied herself, breathing hard. With anguish in her eyes she stared down at the head closest to her. "Domra ... ," she whispered. She tore her eyes away to look at the other heads but long matted hair obscured their features. Tomyra looked back to Domra's head resting against a tree root, its features distorted by death agony. "Oh, Domra," she breathed. "What made you come? You were always so gentle."

"I am amazed women should be following us," sneered Dimurthes. "Is your Greek so cowardly that he sends women to do his work? Or is it that the only real men among the Massegetae have nothing between their legs?"

Dimurthes' question drew appreciative chuckles from the guards. Tomyra glared at the Serratae chief. "Do not think to judge others by your own shortcomings," she hissed. "You will know the difference when my Nikomayros finds me. You will pray to the Mother Goddess for an easy death but She will not hear you."

The smiles disappeared from the faces of her guards as she spoke, and some made warding signs, holding their hands low by their sides. Dimurthes' grin also slipped, his hand twitching in an automatic response before he caught himself.

"Perhaps I should leave your lovely head here on a spike to greet him then," he grated. He edged his horse alongside Tomyra's and drew his sword. Raising it slowly, he laid it alongside the girl's neck. Tomyra flinched momentarily as the steel touched her then her eyes flashed defiance and she straightened her back, glaring at Dimurthes.

For a long moment they sat and stared, the woman rigid and unsmiling, the man fighting to control his urge to kill her. His arm muscles trembled then he blinked and turned away, sheathing his sword. He moved his horse a few paces then looked back. "I really would like to see your face when I bring you his head, though."

Dimurthes touched his heels to his horse, guiding it back onto the path. "Come," he said. "We shall ride for the village of Turkul." His men reformed around Tomyra and, rejoining the other warriors, turned westward once more.

Silence descended on the pine forest, broken only by the wind in the trees and the distant tapping of the woodpecker. Long afterward, as the sun slipped toward the western horizon, a pine marten, foraging for mice and insects, happened upon the remains of the maidens. It sniffed, its bright eyes suspicious of the smells and unfamiliar shapes. It edged forward, whiskers twitching, circling the head that was Domra's before ambling off into the depths of the forest.


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