Gears of Troy 2

by Daniel Pierce

  The man looked up at me and held his hands high, issuing utterances that I could not hear over the sounds of war, but ones which I understood all too well. If he wanted mercy, he should have turned away before getting caught up in this mess. If the situation were different, I might have been inclined to spare him, but as it were, he might have ended up killing Caria or another one of my men, and I could not risk that. I thrust through his heart, and he was gone from the world of the living several moments later.

  A blunt force slammed into the side of my head, knocking me prone right next to the man I had just watched die. The blood pouring from his gaping mouth, the pain in his eyes, his entire countenance seemed to me then as a shadow of the destiny I was about to meet. For half a second, I resigned myself to my fate, ready to be trampled under the weight of hooves or be ran through with something sharp, but nothing of the sort happened in the short time it took me to gather my senses and get back on my feet. There was no sign of who struck me, so I found someone else to take it out on.

  Several men were crawling from where their horses had fallen at the trip line. Just as two of them were getting their bearings, just getting back to their feet, I ran each of them through. Another met me from the side on foot, stabbing straight for my ribs. I dropped my blade down to meet his, mine running parallel to my side. I turned inward as our edges met, making myself as small of a target to him as possible and then sliding my blade down the length of his to where his hand was gripping the handle. His weapon had a guard that was supposed to minimize damage to the user’s hand, but his was angled in such a way against mine that it was not a difficult task to surf right in and sever a couple of important fingers. He howled, and I allowed my sword to continue its journey until it cut through his throat. I kicked him back into the pile where he belonged, jabbing through the scapula of another man nearby who was squirming under the weight of his own horse which had already met its end.

  I ducked as another horse cleared the pile, leaping above me. I likely would have been crushed had I noticed a moment later. My weapon found its way into the horse from where I crouched, leaving a wound that was likely not fatal in itself but was jarring enough to cause the steed to buck its rider and flee. The man landed on his head, and I was surprised at how quickly he was getting back to his feet, but I was unwilling to allow him to finish the act. My blade entered him from behind, piercing up above his waist toward his heart. He went rigid, likely as unaware of what happened as I was when I had been knocked prone a minute before. His arms spread out, his knees bent, and his head looked to the sky through the leaves overhead as if he were asking the gods why such a terrible fate had befallen him out of nowhere like this. It was moments like that where I felt the worst about war. At the nightmarish sight of each fallen man desperately clinging to life, I felt another sliver of my soul being shaved away. I ripped my blade from him and hoped, as I did with most of my foes, that his transition to whatever awaited beyond was as smooth as possible.

  The sounds of death were deafening. My own life’s end seemed to be teasing me from behind every tree and on the backs of horses as they galloped by. The urge to flee was almost overwhelming. Every man around me—Trojan and Hittite—wore masks of brutality, the only acceptable emotion to reveal on the field. If I were to see myself then, I was sure I would recognize the same tones etched into the lines of my own face.

  “Caria!” I shouted on impulse, suddenly remembering my new bride. How foolish of me to allow her to come, I thought. A beautiful woman like her would be a highly sought-after target for this horde of foaming-at-the-mouth dogs.

  I fought against myself, trying not to lose my mind to the crimson rage of battle. It was too easy to forget oneself in the midst of conflict. I decided then that I had had enough aimless fighting for the day and that it was time to search for my queen.

  I made my way toward the last direction I had seen her go, leaping over corpses of both allies and enemies as I went. There was far less movement in the forest now than there had been a mere ten minutes earlier. She was either already dead, or there was a good chance of getting her out alive as the enemy’s numbers had dwindled a great deal.

  A scream announced a foe at my side. There was a blood-drenched Hittite charging me with his sword gripped between both hands, ready to impale me like a stinger. I held my blade horizontally across his path and directed him downward. His needle buried itself a few inches into the underbrush, and he peered up at me in sudden surprise. I could see that his head had already suffered a severe cut, and the wound was still trickling down to his chin and dripping to the ground. He must have felt great relief in surviving such a close call; I was almost ashamed to take that victory away from him, but he had charged me after all. My foot was on the flat of his blade, anchoring it to its new home. He did not bother to release the handle and pull himself away as I slung my instrument of war across his neck. His death cry—not a choked scream from his mouth, but a drowning gurgle from the fresh hole in his throat—seeped out into the forest air and joined its brothers in the surreal mists of battle that hung over our heads like some ever-present soul-devouring demon. I tore myself away, just as red began invading my periphery. I needed to focus on finding Caria.

  There was some kind of skirmish not far ahead of me, but I could not see who was involved as my vision was obscured by trees and turned backs. I quickened my pace to investigate but was once again cut off by another challenger.

  A spear soared past my chest, so close that its tip almost cut my shirt. I turned to see a soldier coming at me brandishing a dagger in his right hand, glinting in the rays of sunlight scattered by the clusters of leaves overhead. He lunged in and upward toward my stomach and I, falling back on my introductory self-defense training of years ago, dropped my sword and simultaneously grasped his wrist with my hands, coming in from the sides and hopping away so that my back was arched like a cat’s. His knife was held in place by my grip, meeting nothing but empty air where my torso had been a second ago. I yanked him down by the arm, and his head jerked back in reaction to the force as he plummeted to the dirt with me hulking over him like an enraged bear. Still holding onto his wrist, I spun around him so that my legs were on either side of his shoulders. Nothing more than my puppet at that point, he had no option but to turn with me from his compromised position and look up in horror as I brought his own weapon down and into his chest. Like his brothers before him, blood pooled in his mouth and trickled down his cheek to nourish the plant life of the forest floor. The light of life left his eyes moments later, and I, after digging my discarded sword from beneath him, continued my advance toward to skirmish, leaving his weapon buried deep in its new home.

  It was a line of enemies whose backs were turned to me, so I had little qualms with slicing three of them across their spines before the rest even knew what had happened. There were five more at a glance and, of course, my sweet Caria was the center of their attention. It appeared that this group had broken away from the main fight and surrounded my bride. Her horse was nowhere in sight, and she herself was backed against the hollowed trunk of an old tree, flailing a sword madly at any of the men who inched nearer. Her screams only worked to entice them further. At some point, her tunic had been torn and now her exposed breasts were jiggling around with every attempt she made to keep the hungry dogs at bay.

  I told her to wear armor before we left, but she refused, claiming that it would have been more of a burden to try and adjust to it after a lifetime without such heavy protection. I myself wore no armor for the same reasons, which set a poor example for her. Now we were facing the scenario that I had dreaded most, one which I am certain she feared with even greater intensity.

  The remaining men had no more warning than the sounds of their three brothers dying. I jumped to the fourth, forcing him to the ground before impaling his solar plexus with my blade. One of his allies’ swords missed me by a hair and cleaved into his shoulder as I ducked and rolled to the side. In a seamless transition, I brought
my blade up and made a long cut across the attacker’s torso, drawing a line from his hip almost all the way up to meet his opposite collarbone.

  The others charged me at once, one advancing no more than three steps before Caria’s blade was in his back, sending him to his knees as he dropped his weapon. I jabbed up into the one at my left, trusting that the blow I dealt was fatal, and left my sword behind as I gripped the blade of the one at my right and wrapped my fingers around his neck with the intention of popping his head like a pimple.

  I would not have dared to attempt something so stupid as grabbing the blade of the enemy’s sword, but, as it were, my hands were mere robotic tools constructed to complete whatever task I set them to. I had never tested them to the point of failure, but I knew they were made of tougher stuff than my flimsy skin. They did not disappoint as they met the iron edge of my opponent’s implement, taking no more damage than one might by running their palm across a butter knife. I doubted he noticed any of this while looking his death in the face as the appendages of my other prosthetic constricted his airway like tiny metal anacondas. He choked, unable to even muster a scream, and I pressed him to his knees, not letting go until his face was blue and his eyes turned to the back of his head.

  Caria approached me with cautious steps, panting heavily. Her cheeks and chest were flushed under all the strain.

  “Troy . . .” she whispered. “I . . .”

  “Cover up,” I said. “Stay close to me now. We’ll talk when this is over.”

  I retrieved my sword and took her by the hand. She did her best to wrap her tattered tunic around her cleavage but had to hold it up with her free hand. We walked at a fast pace toward the edge of the woods. The two of us had gone deeper in than I realized. I kept my eyes peeled and my mind on full alert, scanning for any signs of danger in the unnatural fog and shade of the trees. Inviting sunlight was winking through the leafy metropolis above us; the pleasant weather would have been more welcome had our situation been different.

  Caria scanned behind me as I led her through the tangles of human limbs at our feet; two times she almost tripped over an outstretched leg or a discarded sword, but I held her firm, my arm a rock for her to brace against any sudden fall.

  “Almost there,” I said. It would have been a horrific end to the day for one of them to jump out and stab one of us now.

  I wiped away from my brow what I mistook for a bead of sweat. When my forearm was in view again, red streaks were smeared across it. Something had cut my head, but it did not appear too detrimental. Perhaps I had only marched through a thorny vine or something of the like in my rush to free Caria. Images of the blood-red face I had watched die flashed through my mind.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked, embarrassed that I had not thought to check earlier.

  “No—just a few minor scratches,” Caria said. “Thank you for coming to my rescue back there . . . for the second time.”

  “Of course.”

  I pulled her arm closer and we were walking side by side.

  “Your head is bleeding,” she gasped.

  “It’s fine. I think it was just some thorns or something, actually.”

  No one challenged us as we made our way to the edge of the wood. The scene in the plains ahead was much the same as the one we had just left behind: scores of bodies piled on top of one another, and ponds of blood soaking into the ground. Here, carrion eaters were circling overhead, waiting for those of us that remained standing to either drop dead or clear out. On both sides of me, I saw several more men appear from the trees, and we all made our way to the men gathering into a huddled mass in the field. Miraculously, we had won, but there were not many of us left to return home and brag about it.

  Among the men who followed us from the forest were Scander and Linos. Their other man was nowhere to be seen, and I would later learn what had become of him as the other two Thirians returned to search for his body to prepare it for consumption.

  I recognized none of the others who watched as we approached. None of my guides were left to show us the way to Hattusa, but it was unlikely we would get very far with less than three dozen men, half of which were suffering serious wounds.

  As Caria and I came close, some of the men raised their arms in a half-hearted gesture of victory. One of these men fell where he stood in the next moment and, as was discovered upon a quick investigation, he bled out from a cut deep into his side. There was a long silence as we reflected on the events that had just unfolded.

  I was the first to speak, saying, “Did anyone see anything significant to our mission during this brutal fight?”

  “Sir.” One of the men stepped forward. He was holding a scroll out to me.

  “Can you read it?” I said, no emotion in my voice. This was one of the mysteries I had encountered during my time in this land. Though they spoke a language familiar to me, their written word was like nothing I had ever seen before. It seemed, at least, that many of the surrounding nations used the same script, so if one of my men could read the language of the Trojans, they could read the written word of many other civilizations as well.

  The soldier nodded, taking the scroll back, and said, “This was found on a Hittite messenger. It seemed that he was traveling to the army here to deliver them this message. It says, ‘The King plans to lay siege in four days’ time. Weapon is almost ready at Cannakale. Send word if there are any impediments on your way to Cannakale that will prevent you from arriving within two days.’” His gaze returned to me expectantly.

  I had no doubt that the target of the siege was Ilium, and of course the king mentioned was Matanaza’s father, Mursili. It was clear that the battalion was heading toward Cannakale. That was definitely news to me. By the way the letter read, it seemed as if Mursili was going to have them carry some kind of weapon from Cannakale to Ilium. That was an unexpected bit of information. I needed some time to reflect on that, now knowing that Cannakale might actually play a role in these events. From what I had gathered so far, it seemed reasonable that we could travel to the secretive city in two days’ time, but it would still be taking a risk as the cure might still not be there, even if the city was occupied by the Hittites. The message was unclear on whether the King himself was in the city or not. I needed a second opinion.

  “One of you, deliver this news to Helen and Her Highness. See what they think of the matter. It seems that it might be more beneficial to make for Cannakale if that is their base of operations. Send for a man who knows the way there if none of you do. We’ll set up camp here for the night and wait for the Queen and Helen’s response. I want the watchmen to keep a close eye on the horizons, and I want patrols sent out every couple of hours. There are likely to be deserters of the enemy army camping out among the hills and woods with nowhere to go. They of course would not be welcome back home.”

  “Sir!” saluted my men in unison.

  “I’ll keep first watch with my Thirian brothers. Who else volunteers?”

  We quickly planned the logics for the evening and set up our tents, having to rely on some of the enemy’s as most of ours had sustained severe damage. We were able to round up enough horses over the next three hours, and four of our men set out in search of deserter camps. Any news the fleeing soldiers might tell us could prove invaluable.

  As I knew they would, Scander and Linos immediately began preparing the body of their fallen comrade for consumption, knowing they likely would not have time to take him home in one piece and share with the rest of their tribe. They consumed some of him on the spot, much to the disgust of the Trojan warriors who had reluctantly tolerated the “barbaric” custom over the course of the last year, and, as with their previous deceased companion, they burned the rest of his corpse to ash to carry home.

  Our camp was strategically placed atop the hill that had helped us achieve our modest victory. When all the tents had been pitched and everyone was settling into the flow of things, Caria and I sat in the grass and looked out of the fields strewn with the bodies
of both friends and enemies. Neither of us said a word. I only sat and waited for something to happen—the return of our messengers from Troy, news of deserter camps—anything to give me a better idea on what the next course of action should be. I had a feeling we were all in for a long night.

  13

  I did not get much rest, but I had not planned to. After the sun was low, I insisted that Caria get some sleep to be better prepared for the next day, again not setting a good example with my own actions. I sat with my arms hugging my knees, surveying the scene for any movement—allied riders, the lights of foreign campfires, stuff like that.

  Several hours after the sun was down, a scout returned to camp with news of a handful of Hittites hiding in one of the patches of trees nearby, just out of sight from our encampment. I ordered a dozen men to hurry over and surround them, and to bring as many back alive as possible.

  The deed was carried out in a little over an hour, and I was soon looking at four enemy soldiers on their knees with their arms bound behind them. Interrogation was never something I enjoyed. During wartime, it was necessary to kill to protect the ones you cared about, but interrogation often led to drawn-out torture sessions, and that was a hard thing for anyone with an ounce of conscience to do. That being said, it was sometimes a necessary evil to extract crucial information from the enemy. This was one of those times. These men might have known what I needed to know to save an entire kingdom, not least of all Helen and the King and Queen. I was not going to put all of that on the line because I was unable to pump some guys for information—some guys who would have surely done the same to me had the situation been different.