An Amazon Tale
Prologue
Gobi Desert about 2200 years before Common Era
There were two of them, both stumbling across the wind riven waste toward my lair. Ahh, one, with a noticeable drag of the foot, was injured. The heavy footfalls indicated men. Women would have tread lightly when approaching a darkened ruin such as mine. Just as well. I felt less… distress… about men since they were much more likely to try to threaten me.
It had rained last night, the first time this year. The energy was intoxicating and I drank my fill. It has taken me years, but I know that I am more than a match for anyone who darkens my doorstep now. I dip my fingers in the shallow grooves of standing water that I painstakingly collect, relishing the tactile sense of coolness. Of course, the stagnant water holds no energy for me now. It is only in the furious rushing of the living water that my life force resides. I make the most of what little energy is available to me here by carving runnels into my floor bit by bit, in winding circles, allowing the water to flow past me and back out and around my ruin. They look like shallow wear patterns to the untrained eye. Indeed, it has taken me nearly as long to create them as a dozen people scuffing about would. But, there haven’t been any people residing here for hundreds of years. Just the occasional hapless traveler, lost or driven here by weather or bandits.
I glance over my shoulder at the desiccated remains of my last visitor. Also a man. He still clutches the axe with which he threatened to split my skull. I don’t know why that is always the first resort, threats and violence. It makes me less inclined to spare them, enemy at my back and all. Besides, if I am ever to fully restore myself I need someone’s energy. Better mouth breathers like these animals than a child I suppose. This time I will be more careful about my prey. I will try to live amongst them instead of lording my superiority over them. Some lessons are brutally learned.
As the men cover the last few feet to my door I dim my luminescence and assume my most beguiling appearance. Youthful, lithe and easily dominated. I give them less than an hour before they overcome any personal codes against attacking unarmed women. Maybe less. Maybe they’ll surprise me and I can let them live. But I doubt it.
They are loud and brash as they cross my threshold. Not at all concerned about their safety. Not like women would be.
Finally one deigns to look around the corner and sees me crouched on the floor, near a cracked altar to a forgotten God. I know that gleam in his eye as he leans back past the corner and speaks low to his partner. He steps more fully into the room, reaches out towards me, palm up in a non-threatening gesture. But his eyes tell a different story. I give him that peculiarly irresistible combination of fear, innocence and vulnerability in a half smile. He lunges for me and I let him make contact. It’s easier that way. His friend won’t run far on his injured leg. I have all the time in the world.
Chapter 1
Scythia around 500 BCE
I shake my head in a mixture of foreboding and resignation. Of course, the girl doesn’t see it. All she knows is that she is going to get her chance to join us. I catch Laodoke’s eye and she acknowledges my judgment with a slight nod and shrug of her shoulders.
I could put my foot down and refuse to take the girl. The Mirga’s are long time traveling companions and I know they will be horrified to learn their baby daughter is leaving the caravan to join us Amazons. But, tradition is tradition. If she thinks she can do it we owe it to her to give her the chance. Besides, our horde is rapidly becoming a bunch of splintered clans. We need to bolster our ranks. At least she is Wayfarer. If she survives she’ll integrate rapidly.
I leave it to the girl, Sanchari, Sanchi as we have always called her, to tell her parents. But, I will make myself available to them tonight. It’s a small kindness.
In the meantime, I let Laodoke know that I want everything pre staged for breaking camp in the morning. We have tarried here too long and my bones are telling me to get to the ceremonial site. The Baatari clan rarely needs my input. We have survived because we all know our jobs and nothing gets left to chance. I observe that Bremusa and Melousa are the visible watch tonight, meaning Okyale is posted up somewhere in the darkness, ready to take out any bandits, thieves or scavengers that slink near our camp.
Laodoke brings me a bowl of the nights rabbit stew. Her hair is beginning to grey like mine and her movements are more labored than even just a few months ago. She is still beautiful in my eyes, tall and burnished in the firelight. We sit companionably and eat together as we have for over 30 years now. I find myself missing Lalu, as I do every night since she passed. I think I catch a similar sentiment on Laodoke’s face, quickly dismissed. Our third has left a profound hole in our lives even if we would never show it.
As the fires are banked and the food is cleared we Amazons lay down wrapped in our purple cloaks to sleep. Some of us will take a turn on the watch tonight, another Troika forming. It is becoming more and more common for our smaller clans to only have one functioning Troika. I suppose it would be right for me to find another Third, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I think Laodoke agrees. No, better to leave that to the younger members of our clan. I sleep to the thoughts of the future of my horde while the Wayfarers in the camp near us have a farewell celebration for Sanchi.
As the sun rises and the camp begins to stir one of the women on watch last night comes rushing over to Laodoke and I. Breathlessly she relays that scouts came through the area last night, avoiding our camp. I ask what direction they came from and where they went. They came from the south and seemed to head east. I nod at her in dismissal and tell her to get herself ready to move on. The scouts are most likely circling back to a main group to the south. It would be best to put distance between us and avoid a confrontation. I look to Laodoke and see that she has already signaled for a couple of our outriders. We inform them of the situation and have them pull a few of our stealthier riders to guard our flanks. We’ll have plenty of warning if anyone gets ideas about sneaking up on us. The best solution is simply to travel fast. If that doesn’t work we know what to do.
I catch Laodoke’s eye again and she follows my gaze to the Wayfarer camp. She nods a question at me and I answer her “be discreet, but be blunt”. She heads over to the Wayfarers.
Sanchi should know what she is facing if she still wants to do the initiation. Part of me hopes she goes ahead with it. If she has to contend with whoever is following us we’ll get a good picture of her mettle. If she survives. I’m not convinced she’s going to be successful. I wish I had an opportunity to see her under pressure before her life hangs in the balance.
Finally, we are ready to depart and I take my place at the rear of my clan. We have more who are not clan, but traveling companions. These faces often change but are usually made up of merchants, runaway slaves or daughters or wives, consorts. They will bring up the rear of our traveling formation. All my outriders are deployed, only the Point of the Spear is before me. Muscular Bremusa casts a quick glance over her shoulder for approval and I give her the nod. Together Laodoke, Bremusa and Melousa, my spear point, move forward at a good clip. The rest of us follow, fanning out as the road allows behind them.
I am momentarily gripped with curiosity about Sanchi. I restrain myself from looking behind or asking anyone else what she decided. It would be unseemly to express too great an interest in an untested girl. But I know when I hear a muffled wailing that she did join us and is with the group behind me, much to her mother’s anguish. I can see the sense of discomfiture in the set of my Spear Point’s shoulder’s at this public outcry. We keep our eyes forward, trying to preserve some dignity for the girl and her family who should be encouraging her to be strong and brave. This mewling overprotectiveness has always been lost on me. Ah well, someday they’ll be proud. I catch a glimpse of Sanchi waving a final farewell to her clan as the Mirga’s split from us and head for Gelonus. Sanchi will remain riding behind me with the non-clan until she proves herself through initiation.
Thoughts of Sanchi quickly fade as we ride on. I keep an eye and an ear cocked for signals from my outriders. We maintain a relatively quick pace for us, meaning the non-clan has to work pretty hard to keep up. As the midday sun is above us, beating down mercilessly, I get word from Okyale that we are being paced by the scouts from last night. I call a quick rest break as I consult with my Spear Point. It is decided that two of our outriders must double back and determine where the people who sent the scouts are. We have a strong suspicion that they went after the Wayfarer caravan as they turned towards Gelonus. The scouts are just keeping an eye on us to make sure we don’t turn around and come to the Wayfarer’s aid. If our scouts can help the Mirga’s they will. But bringing us information is their first priority. Besides, the Mirga’s are an old caravan. It would take a small army to bring them down and there is no indication that we are dealing with anything but above average bandits. Just as soon as we have put our plan in motion we press on.
Blasted Greeks
As the sun sets on our dusty band of travelers my scouts return. The report is grim. Our shadows are a fairly sizeable group of mixed Greeks; youthful, hard men. And, from their behavior, fairly cunning. They did not follow the Wayfarers as expected, but are truly stalking us. This generally means only one thing- adventurers out to make a name for themselves at our expense. Damn Herakles and all his progeny!
We estimate the main body to be about a dozen, with at least 3 scouts. We are fairly certain they don’t know we have spotted them. Tonight we will snare the scouts and they will tell us what we want to know. If necessary, we’ll fall upon the rest before dawn and have an end to it. Sadly, I know it will be necessary. Such a waste of youth. My hope is that I will lose no one from my caravan in the inevitable violence.
I turn to Laodoke, who I see has already pulled Sanchi from the rear. Sanchi must make camp here with us tonight, and then stay another night without us. She will wake faced with the choice to go home if she can or track us and rejoin us if she can. The third choice is always to strike out on her own, but few of our prospects have ever chosen that one. She has a particularly dangerous initiation ahead of her. I hope she surprises us all. I see her eyes go wide as Laodoke presses her reality home. I avert my eyes so she cannot appeal to me for aid. I don’t know what she has decided, but I do see one of the consorts surreptitiously pass her one of Laodoke’s little clay pots of colored grease and a rough piece of dark cloth. Someone has taken an interest in her welfare and provided her with the best tools to evade detection by the scouts. While not strictly allowed, I am choosing to overlook this small transgression. Sanchi can’t be expected to fight off a dozen trained men. However, hiding, surviving and gathering information will prove her usefulness to the clan. I have no doubt that the Baatari clan can handle this troop of Greeks- but sometimes wisdom dictates an approach from the side instead of the front. Best she learns that now.
We set a perimeter and sentries. Instead of a full stop camp, we only have bedrolls and no fires. We stay within sight of each other, but are more spread out and even hidden where we can as we sleep. There are only about 20 of us here, with 6 scouts scouring the countryside. 3 Scouts are circling the camp stealthily, while 3 are out keeping tabs on our shadows. We will rotate them out periodically tonight, but no one is going to sleep deeply until this threat is dealt with.
My job as the elder leader is to be visible. Let invaders come to me as my clan encircles them. I note Laodoke has lain down along a fallen log and covered herself convincingly with leaf litter. She will be directly behind anyone who approaches me from her direction. If Lalu were here, she would be on the opposite side, in a tree or other such concealment.
My only Troika is doing double duty as sentry and camp scout. They will be exhausted come morning. Hopefully we will have the situation handled by then.
Owl’s Hunting
It is said that the only indication a rodent has that it is being hunted by an Owl is the puff of air from an Owl’s wings as it swoops down upon them. My Scouts have a similar effect with their prey. One of the Greeks dies immediately from an unfortunate duck in the wrong direction, but the other two Greek scouts are quietly incapacitated and snuck into the camp. They are tightly bound and muffled and look like nothing more than sloppy bedrolls holding too much stuff. They will be easily concealed if necessary. There will be no successful rescue raid. One of our traveling companions has the sole job of executing our prisoners should a rescue attempt appear to be going well.
I can see that the consort I have tasked with prisoner watch is somewhat hopeful that an opportunity will present itself. He has wanted to officially join the Baatari clan for several weeks now. I would be hard pressed to put him off if he performs this task satisfactorily. He has sired several children for us, raised two of them and they have joined other clans. On the surface he seems a good candidate. But I find myself dithering and looking for excuses to exclude him. A problem for another day.
When Okyale returns, her replacement already in place, she informs us that the Scouts have been missed and that we can expect a raid at any time. I tell her to try to get some rest with Bremusa and Melousa. We will need them soon. I wake Laodoke and we set about interrogating our captives.
She douses them with cold water to get them awake and admonishes them to be quiet. One of them immediately begins trying to yell for attention through his gag. He gets his attention in the form of a missing digit and after a muffled yelp he goes quiet. Now that we have an understanding, we begin to remove the rags we have strapped over their mouths. And then we let them stew, thinking they are alone for the moment. About 10 minutes later, after conferring with the hidden consort who has charge of them, we go to work confirming our suspicions about the purpose of the Greeks.
As it turns out, we the Baatari are not the end goal for these Greeks. They are to follow us to the sacred meeting site. This group’s only purpose is to survive long enough to report back to an even larger and better equipped small army. This army will attempt to raid the Amazon clans at their meeting site, hoping to cover themselves in the imagined glory of their ancestors like Theseus and Herakles. Men… I shake my head to myself. The small army is under the impression that there are only about 500 Amazons left in the world. They need to add another zero to that number. There are only about 500 visible Amazons in the world. The rest of the clans rarely leave the Sarmation steppes in order to hide our true numbers. We have had several hundred years to learn to defend ourselves passively. The first step is to simply vanish from sight and mind. There are whole cities who firmly believe we are only a myth, some right on our borders.
We have also learned from the Greeks. Probably not the sort of things they would have hoped for- but we are nothing if not adaptive. Once we have extracted the information that is pertinent, we give our captives a good scare and knife to the base of the skull. We have found that a terrified expression at the moment of death has the most impact when we put them up for display. Of course, we do all the other ugly things Greeks like to do when they are making a display with bodies. The difference is that we tend to cut off genitalia etc., after death. But, they won’t know that. In fact, if our consort has done his job properly, the Greeks won’t know exactly what they are looking at until they recognize the faces of their scouts.
By the ashen cast to the consort’s face, I have a feeling he was successful. It certainly smells that way.
Obviously, my camp has made ready to move on during all this. No reason to be a sitting target anymore. I wait until my clan has trickled off into the darkness moving to the next agreed upon campsite. I tell the consort to set the traps on the bodies. If we trap one of the Greeks investigating the remains of the scouts our consort can drink from our cup once we can convene a council. In that ritual he can become clan. This means he will have to stay behind to collect the trophy as proof, but I am okay with that. It is sink or swim time for this consort who has not earned my trust.
I melt into the dark wilderness, trailing a branch behind me to obscure footprints. I can see where Laodoke went and I parallel her fading track. The branch sweepings can be readily seen, but they tend to fade as breezes and small night animals cross them. Besides, there are so many it becomes difficult to distinguish actual tracks from decoys for pursuers. We have gotten very good at this sort of thing.
I can hear the rear of my caravan beginning to follow into the darkness. Our traveling companions don’t have the years of practice at this sort of evasion. Unfortunately, that places them squarely in the category of fodder if they don’t learn fast. I know my remaining scouts in the field can follow, and I also know that they will do their best to protect any of our traveling companions if they can. That is the best our companions can hope for.
A Thousand Year Storm
About 1800 BCE, edge of the Gobi desert
Electricity fairly crackles up from the hot dusty ground into my bare feet. More than one storm is heading my way. The clouds in the distance are lowering, the static electricity of the parched sand is snapping and the wind is lifting a wall of grit. I spin in place with the joy and anticipation, arms outstretched.
This is my last night in my ruin. The constant blowing dust has been building up a layer of encroaching sand and debris that is becoming cumbersome to keep removed. I get a short burst of torrential rain about twice a year now, which is always glorious. But the rest of the time I must sustain myself on the weak energy produced by small animals, scouring winds and the occasional dust storm. About 200 years ago I stopped even getting the occasional traveling straggler. On my short forays out of my ruin I discovered that the burgeoning trade cities had almost overnight ceased to be populated. Some had clearly been under siege; some seemed simply abandoned with piles of bodies left unburnt. The little village I come from, Enkinod, has nothing but half a stone wall standing to mark it out, not even a trade track running near it.
I am as strong as I will ever be if I stay here. Anyone who knew me in life is long dead. Any tales they may have passed down to scare their children are forgotten. It is time for me to rejoin the world and see what it has become.
Long ago, after my 2nd death, before I had coalesced into what I am now, a group of travelers came to my ruin. At that time my ruin was far less decrepit. It still had a bit of a roof over one corner and a stout door on its hinges. A trade track came near it, wound past my old village and on to bigger villages that I had only ever heard about. Many people traveled near, on their way to other places. Few stopped, and when they did they told tales of how this place was haunted and moved on as quickly as they could.
Of course, it was true. I was most definitely haunting my ruin. And I did take a few of them as they slept. I tried to control myself in those early years, but the rush of their vitality overcame me. And every time I fed I grew stronger, more substantial, more real. Sadly, that meant that I was practically in a drought for a few generations because people stopped coming anywhere near my ruin again. I had only the weather and small creatures to sustain me.
But, I persisted. And I remembered that band of travelers from the south. They wore colorful clothes, a bit too flimsy for the climate they were in. They had a hunted look about them, as if they were fleeing their homes. And they had a peculiar feel to their energy. I understood very little of what was said, but a few phrases indicated that more of them were fleeing to other areas. They would be meeting up again somewhere else in the world. Then my travelers did a remarkable thing: They pulled a small sturdy bag with a handle from a pack and a large gilded pine cone from another. Reverently, they split those items up and sent them off with riders in different directions. I was sure it was an attempt to keep those items safe from someone.
Let me tell you- those items were powerful. They were exquisite energy traps. I felt like I could have siphoned from them, but it would have taken much more time to get into them than I had. They had a beautiful, ancient quality to them that made me reluctant to damage them in any way. Those items are on my list of things to investigate once I leave my ruin.
But, back to my unusual travelers, these glorious wayfarers. As I said, their energy was ever so slightly different from anyone else’s I had come across. I determined not to destroy any of them because I wanted to see what they would do. I tried many times to make my presence known, and I think at least one of them perceived me. They sang, danced and ate that night. I was enthralled. In the morning they left an offering on the cracked altar. The altar was for a harvest Goddess, long gone. But, I think they left the offering for me.
I got one last gift from them. Amongst their group was an older woman. She was treated reverently and was clearly treasured. However, this traveling was going to kill her. I decided that I would try to feed, just a little, from her. I wanted to taste the energy of these people. I wanted to see if I could do it slowly, without killing the old woman.
I could feel the trickle of vitality flowing through her. It was rich with a life well lived. Like the honey I remember from my childhood. I found it surprisingly easy to stop at just a taste. I watched the woman as she slept and could see that just that tiny loss had diminished her. I extended my incorporeal hand to rest upon her forehead and felt our energies reaching towards one another. I allowed it to happen and determined to put back more than I had taken. This was the first time I had ever attempted such a thing. I floated away as she slept on.
The next morning, she awoke feeling restored and energetic. My own careful hoarding of energy was set back by years. I was even less corporeal, in fact I had a difficult time coalescing enough to observe properly. But it was worth it. I had a bond with these people and I had just sealed it. I was no longer just a mindless predator lying in wait. I could be benevolent. I could do good.
The old woman came back twice in five years. I could tell she wanted to communicate with me but I was so weakened from our last encounter that I was unable to make my presence felt. I can only assume that she passed away eventually. I went out to Enkinod once to see if her people had perhaps settled in my old village, but it was desolate as always. I only had a handful of visits from her kind after that. They were always short stays in the limited shelter of my ruin. An offering of some sort was always left on the altar and I grew to love those people. I never siphoned from them again. They are on my list of things to investigate when I go out into the world. I want to find their descendants, see what became of them.
I pass below what is left of the carved lintel of my ruin, solid footsteps leaving prints in the dust. What a marvel this world must be. It is dark outside and the stars are dancing motes in the windblown grit. My last view of my ruin is what is left of the name of my home village carved into the stone- “nod”.
Fight or Flight
We have regrouped twice now. Those of us who had the fortune to leave early and arrive first at both stops had an opportunity for rest and refreshment. For the rest of us, it has been a very long two days. We must rest this time or risk mistakes and the losses that come from pushing too hard. As it stands we lost one merchant cart and his horses to the Greeks who happily kept the useful items. I suspect we have lost a few of the runaways as well, but we won’t know for sure until later. Our traveling companions may have been wise to break off and go their own way for a while, but they almost never do that. I have some conflicting thoughts about that. On the one hand we make it clear that they are not clan and therefore not entitled to the same considerations we would give to our own. They have a degree of safety with us simply by proximity and that is enough for them to hear them tell it. But it never fails that they develop unrealistic expectations about our responsibility for their wellbeing.
Truth be told, we do develop some affection for our traveling companions. But in an evasive flight like our current situation they must not only keep up with us but also not endanger us. If we feel that one of our companions is likely to lead our pursuers to us we will have to try to turn that to our advantage. That can mean using them as a decoy, which could end badly for them. Or simply cut them loose, which is just as likely to end badly for them. It is an unfortunate truth that more than one clan has been lost trying to save their traveling companions.
My dilemma on this day is to determine how long of a rest I can allow and whether I should make a stand and try to destroy our pursuers. I know if I turn and fight at least some of them will break off to make their report. If I don’t get a quick and decisive victory I am likely to be dogged by their survivors until I either reach the ceremonial site or manage to pick them off.
Which brings me to my next dilemma-do I even go to the ceremonial site? I am afraid that this is not the only group trying to find it. I could be leading them to the site where they could join forces with other pursuing groups.
I summon my Spear and my Troika.
1556 BCE
Nod, edge of the Gobi desert
Kumar shifted the longpole resting uncomfortably on the padding on his shoulder. Not for the first time he wondered at the absurdity of the customs of his masters. Startling and then quickly going still at the touch of his steward’s lash he groaned silently under the immense creaking weight of the litter he and 5 others were carrying. On the one hand, he prayed to start moving again so that the weight could be shifted using different muscles. On the other, he hoped the occupant of this gilded contraption might decide to disembark- causing him and the other bearers to smoothly, slowly, achingly lower it to the ground.
Alas, today he would be continuing on this journey to a tea house. Using the energy draining, gliding steps he had been drilled on for weeks, he and his fellow bearers started off with an ever so slight sway to the litter. His knees were already burning in their perpetually flexed state. But that was better than the flesh being ripped from his back later if the ride became too jerky. Or the beating from his litter mates in the future if he caused them to receive a whipping.
An excruciating mile later he began the slow joint popping descent to the ground with the poles. With sweat running into his eyes he looked anxiously at the other litter bearers, making sure no one was about to falter and drop their pole. The weeks of training had paid off and the sagging center of the litter reached the ground before the poles could be laid flat, making the whole process smoother. Bowing low and backing out of the way Kumar caught a glimpse of a bejeweled sandal on plump red painted feet. Daintily the Headman’s wife stepped from the litter. Her sandals creaked with her weight, threatening to pop the lacings loose with each step. The fabric of her wrap rustled softly as she moved and she wheezed lightly. Her eyes were lined with kohl, and her fingers were festooned with many rings making her hands look like an array of sparkly sausages.
Servants came out of the tea house with wide flat feather fans to shade the Headman’s wife from the sun. They would lead her inside as an honored guest and fill her full of tea with milk, and fruity rice treats. As a patron she would bestow a sense of decadent legitimacy to this establishment. It required a great deal of rich quality food to maintain the rotund physique of the Headman’s wife. Furthermore, she was still able to perambulate on her own, so she had some catching up to do to her predecessor who died in her own bed, unable to relieve herself unassisted.
The Headsman’s wife was so precious that she was expected to bear two children early on in the marriage and then spend the rest of her days growing fat and pampered. The Headman’s first wife had already provided children, so there was no delay in transforming his 2nd wife. Special devices were built to move her once she was too large to move herself. Special, muscular, slaves were purchased to attend to any of her personal needs so that she need not ever even lift a cup to her lips. Although the Headman had already proven his wealth and status with the death of his first wife, he was of the opinion that he should have another one ready to prove his effectiveness as a leader in the future. He won’t have to force feed this one, most likely. He’ll have the luxury of fattening her up at his leisure.
Kumar thought he caught a look of dread flitting across the Headman’s wife’s face before her customary cheery mask was secured. He was too concerned over where his next meal was coming from to worry about this woman’s trepidation over her constant state of indulgence.
He hoped he wouldn’t have to scavenge his way home tonight upon returning to the Nod stronghold. Scuttlebutt said an evil spirit had invaded the village at the last market gathering and killed a few livestock along with one of the traveling merchants. The merchant hadn’t even been robbed- at least not until the other merchants had found him. The litter bearer had been one of the many stronghold servants warned against speaking of the killings. It would be bad for the burgeoning trade city if word got out about the malicious spirit.
Of course no one ever asks servants their opinion. Had they, the stronghold leadership would know that they brought this spirit with them when they first settled the ruins in the area. Kumar spits to the side in disgust. Not sure how these newcomers managed to find themselves in a position of power, Kumar chafed at the idea of serving them. His own people came from the south during the diaspora. But rather than keep going his nomadic ancestors decided to stay and set up a trade stop. Their relative success attracted warlords like vultures, who promptly began to bully their way into the markets and set up a hierarchy of leadership favorable to themselves. Within a few generations the Headman’s family was almost entirely made up of outsiders, while the indentured servants were gathered from the original settlers of Nod.
Kumar and his family kept to the old ways and he decided a visit to the old Wayfarer Temple at the edge of town was in order. He would go and leave a small drop of his own blood on that cracked altar and ask for intercession. These outsiders must be purged and his people need to go back out into the world, wandering again. This place is not their home. This world is not their home. The only way home is to continue to look for the lost vessels and the purses and pine cones. Staying in one place has made them soft and forgetful of their true purpose.
Eastern Edge of Sarmatia
Arsinoe looks at the remnants of her proud clan, the Baatari. Even with the help of the Aristomache, the losses were too dear. At least the traitor was dispatched, by Sanchari no less, and a fine example will be made of his remains.
Okyale had returned to the caravan late on the second day of flight with news of the arrival of survivors of the Aristomache clan. Confirming Arsinoe’s fears, the Aristomache had been followed by a different set of scouts on their way to the sacred meeting site. Unlike the Baatari, the Aristomache had decided to turn and fight. They lost almost everything. The only remaining survivors were the outriders who had been dispatched to pick off scouts. Five. Five survivors out of 50.
After a rapid debriefing, Arsinoe made the decision to split her forces. She sent the non-clan overland to the south, hopefully to eventually cross a parallel track and turn back towards Gelonus. She didn’t tell them that they were bait. If the pursuers broke off for the slower merchants and runaways, then the pursuing forces would be split. If they didn’t, then the non-clan might stand a chance of getting away. It was their best option under the circumstances, but Arsinoe knew they wouldn’t see it that way.
The reports from the Aristomache were unnerving. Apparently the Greeks were employing a new tactic. They had a small contingent of “Logicians”. This contingent used a strange buzzing chant to protect themselves and others from Amazon arrows. It also had a debilitating effect on the Amazons at times, causing them to loose wild and miss. In fact several had fallen from their horses, and the horses had run off.
Adding these Logicians to a talented Tactician and two Magi was simply overwhelming to the Aristomache. The Baatari would have to devise new methods to combat this group of Greeks. But not today. Today the Baatari is scattering. The remaining forces broke into informal Troika’s or groups of three. Bremusa, Melousa and Okyale stayed in their Troika and the Aristomache had one Troika left. The object is to pull the Greek followers out of formation if they want to follow or engage the Amazons. In smaller groups, a Troika is very difficult to withstand. The Greeks won’t know which group is an actual Troika and which is simply a formation of three. It will be a bloody running battle, but this is where the Amazons live. The Greeks tend to fall apart once out of their heavily drilled formations. And these Logicians seem to be easier to pick off, like the Magi, without a larger body of soldiers to buffer for them.
Arsinoe pulls Lalu’s old bow from the pack. Weapons and basic survival gear are the only thing the Amazons are going to carry with them. Laodoke offers to carry it with her gear, but Arsinoe shakes her head and throws a look at Sanchari. Laodoke nods in agreement and walks over to whisper to her.
Sanchari had proven herself to the clan. During her trek back to the Baatari, evading scouts and collecting information, she had hidden herself under her dusty dark cloth looking like a small boulder kicked up from old fallen tree roots. She had purposely shoved thorn bushes into the hole that had been torn into the fabric. The stems were uncomfortable, but it looked convincingly like a shrub that had forced its way into a rock and then died. Most people would register the thorns and then immediately give a wider berth and even deliberately shift their gaze from it. It wouldn’t last long, but she only had to catch up with the Amazons.
While perched near the base of a fallen tree she realized she had come upon the site of a dead Greek scout display. She recognized the consort but he was acting peculiarly. He didn’t seem at all concerned about the Greeks discovering him; he even had a small fire going. She chose to watch him for a moment before approaching. She thought he must have deserted the Amazons and was probably going over to the Greeks. The Greeks wouldn’t like that display though. They were likely to kill him outright.
As she pondered the consort she heard approaching footsteps behind her. She froze, willing herself to be a rock.
Two Greek scouts had come to investigate the smoke from the campfire. They were spaced apart and approached from 2 angles, one using her fallen tree roots for cover. He was so close and fixated on the consort she could’ve stabbed him in the neck. Instead, she let him pass.
Once they could see the display, their anger got the better of them and they stormed noisily into the camp. The consort dropped to his knees and raised his open hands up to show he was unarmed. One of the scouts backhanded him and knocked him over.
She could hear the pleas from the consort. “the Amazons kicked me out when I tried to free the dead scouts” he has “information about the ceremonial grounds” he “wants to be Greek again”. It was nauseating. She thought it was a good performance and waited to see how he would kill these Greek scouts.
But, instead, he warned them about the traps laid near the display and even told them how to disarm them. And she heard him offering to trade his knowledge for safe passage back to their army. He is done with the Amazons, they are a dying breed. There is no future for him with the Amazons. He wants to be where being a man counts for something and he is treated as a man should be.
After some bawdy conversation about the consort’s time with the Amazons, a deal is struck. The consort is smart enough not to tell his new friends (captors) any further information. Which makes Sanchi’s job that much easier. The sun sets as the scout’s burn the remains of their fallen comrades. In their night and firelight blindness they never notice the little boulder creeping closer and closer.
Homecoming, again
Nod 1552 BCE
Kumar dropped the cloth table covering in place just as his front door was forced open. Two of the Headman’s goons step inside, one coming directly for Kumar. Kumar begins a curse that was older than this often resurrected village, but is cut off by a blow to his abdomen. As he doubles over, hair hanging over his face, he sneaks a peak at his young daughter hiding silently under the table against the wall. Her eyes are wide with fright, but she nods bravely at her father. He knows she will remain hidden. She’s a strong girl in more ways than one.
The second goon sweeps the little hovel quickly, searching for any of the missing girls and women. He doesn’t see them, or any evidence of other occupants. Just as the 1st goon goes to work on Kumar, questioning him about his wife and daughter a shriek rings out in the lane outside. Kumar recognizes one of his neighbor wives and he slumps a little in defeat. He has a hard knot of dread in his stomach as he is yanked outside. At least it is one of the women and not one of the girls. They had all decided that the women would sacrifice themselves if necessary to prevent the goons from carrying off the girl children.
Unfortunately, the Headman’s people were not interested in the adult women anymore. They were too hard to control and many would die rather than submit to their new fatted lifestyle. No, the Headman’s staff and soldiers needed young girls. It had become fashionable to emulate the Headman and his wealth signaling wives. Anyone who was anyone had a plump wife now, kept safe from exposure to menial tasks or darkening sunlight. Little teahouses had sprung up on every lane, catering to this pampered lifestyle. The Headman needed the obedience of his staff and soldiery. This idea of an entire society built on his model lifestyle appealed to him and gave his men a sense of pride to strive for. At the same time, it weakened those dissenters within his population. Wealthy women of status were, of course, treated much the same as the rest of the wives. As long as they were producing the right kind of male heirs, they were allowed much more autonomy. These other cows were merely decoration until they died magnificently in ever more gaudy displays of excess and indulgence. An entire social apparatus had developed to create these huge bloated creatures and parade them about so that everyone could see the extant of wealth a husband could squander on her. Most of the girls who came from the servant class had a lifespan of about 3 years once they were wedded to their new husbands. Shorter if they didn’t become pregnant.
This lifestyle had created a severe shortage of young girls. Any time you get such an uneven gender spread trouble follows. Slave markets had sprung up, a thing the native inhabitants of Nod could not abide. A plan was made to bring the Headman down. But first, the remaining girls needed to be kept safe and hidden. Anyone left after this most recent raid by the Headman’s goons were to meet up at the old temple just outside of town.
As Kumar watched his neighbor scream for mercy while the flesh and clothing were torn from her skin by a barbed whip, a wagon came to a halt at the end of the lane with one occupant at the reins. Kumar didn’t recognize the wagon or the driver. But as the driver leapt from the seat and appeared to glide to the ground, faster than seemed possible, he realized it was a woman. She skidded to a stop behind the bald man with the whip, a puff of dust rising around her feet as they bit into the dry bed of the lane.
Faster than Kumar could see the whip was wrapped around the bald goon’s neck and he was yanked backward off his feet. He landed forcefully behind the strange woman in a bone crunching heap, never uttering a sound.
As the woman whirled around her skin took on a hazy glow, like mist rising from a retention pool on cold mornings. Her fingers appeared to extend into long claws and she snarled a sharp toothy glower at the other 3 goons in the lane. One of the goons began to claw at his throat and dropped to his knees; another shrieked out “Demon” and fled. As the Demon approached the choking man we could see an evil smirk flit across her twisted features. As one, everyone remaining on the street with the exception of the choking man and the passed out neighbor wife, turned and ran away. Kumar didn’t even go back to his house for his daughter.
As it turns out, leaving the neighbor wife and the handful of hidden girl children was one of those twists of fate with far reaching repercussions. Not much survived the ensuing conflagration of this incarnation of Nod. Within a year it reverted back to a trade caravan pit stop, generally best avoided. Some old, lame hag and the girls she stole were rumored to be living at the old ruined temple. But of course, those are just rumors right? Still, nobody stays long. Occasionally wagons and horses and bodies go missing. But that isn’t unusual at this time in this part of the world. Once or twice a year though a brightly colored caravan and a small but growing herd of riders meets up at that temple for a few days. The riders are all women.
Western Edge of Sarmatia, Heading Towards the Gobi Desert
The hook has been set and the Greeks swallowed it whole. One by one the remaining Amazons have peeled off, wending their way back to other clans on the hoof. Hopefully they will arrive in time to warn the others and prevent them from being followed to the ceremonial site. Failing that, at least a trap may be laid for these Greeks.
Arsinoe, still riding behind her Spear, grimaces uncomfortably. Everyone is injured. These horses are nearly blown. The Greeks are likely to run them down at any moment. It was time to call for a rest and form a plan with this small handful of survivors, the bait.
Masterfully, the Amazons have let it be known to the Greeks that Arsinoe is in this small knot of survivors. It is assumed that Arsinoe is still trying to get to the ceremonial site, for reinforcements. So they are followed and harried.
Arsinoe has other plans, however. She calls a halt, and the horses are watered.
“As you know, we will not be going to the ceremonial site.” She begins in her throaty voice, “Instead I propose that we drag these Greeks as far as they will follow us. We know this area better than they do. We may lose many of them simply due to carelessness out here. The more we can pull away, the fewer left to find their way to the ceremonial site.”
“Many years ago, when I was on one of my first trading missions, the clan I traveled with told a story of the first Amazons. We are the result of a great diaspora far to the east of us. Many generations ago our ancestors made an attempt at living in a city. It failed miserably. We lost all of our men to that experiment which is how we began to live as a female centric society. There is, of course, more to the story. But for expediency, let me just say that we discovered a force. A young Goddess if you will. She never required our supplication or worship, but in that hour of need she appeared and saved us. I don’t know if the place still exists and I don’t know if we can look forward to an alliance with a Goddess. But I know that it was in the place of the old Ordosians, along the southern edge of the Gobi desert. It will be a long trip, well out of our way. But I think it is as good a destination as any.” Arsinoe informs the Baatari.
“What was it called?” Sanchi asks.
“Nod”