Rise of Princes (Homeric Chronicles Book 2)

by Janell Rhiannon

  The distant roar grew louder, the invaders making no secret of their approach. That was more frightening than anything she’d ever heard before. Briseis wrapped her shawl tightly across her shoulders as fear trembled through her. She imagined Ares striding in a cloud of darkness and chill descending on the army below and devouring the city. To her horror, the horizon shifted and through the out-lying shrubs and grasses across the flat lands emerged the Black Shields of the dreaded Myrmidons. She searched for the one among them who was called Achilles, the warrior who had become legend in his own lifetime.

  A man, with golden hair like a lion’s mane beneath his brilliant helm, stepped to the front of the men hefting their rounded black shields in perfect formation. Achilles. A god walking among us. Briseis trembled again, steadying herself against the rampart’s low edge. He will kill them all. “Mother,” she whispered to the queen.

  “I see him,” the queen replied, her voice brittle with fear. “I cannot watch.”

  “Where will you go? We cannot escape what will come.”

  “If I am to meet death, I will do it at my own hand. I will have no foreign swine lay hands on me, violating my sacred vows.” The queen turned abruptly, leaving Briseis alone to watch in horrified awe as the battle broke shield on shield.

  The wave of clashing shields thundered to the heavens. Dust and screams filled the air. Warriors smashed in a melee of blood and bone. She searched the violent sea for her husband, Mynes, and finding him she swore not to look away. If this proved to be his final battle on earth, she would watch him until his spirit winged its way to the Underworld. She swore, as she stood there with tears streaming down her cheeks, that she would sing his song for the remainder of her days.

  The golden giant, his mighty blade gleaming in Apollo’s light, slashed his way through the army of Lyrnessus as a lion might crush flowers in a field. As his blade found flesh and bone, he threw his head back and roared. Achilles stormed through the battle with joyous rage.

  Dark smoke caught Briseis’ attention at the edge of the fighting field. She watched as the shadowy form swirled into a murder of ravens, manifesting as a tall, masculine form. She glanced around her at other royal onlookers positioned along the wall to see if they too saw what she did. She pointed a trembling hand at the apparition, but no one gave her even a fleeting look in response. The form was now clearly a man, taller even than Achilles, armored completely in black with a mane of wild black and … silver braids?

  How is this … a man? This uncommon warrior broke men across his knee, ripped arms from sockets, and laughed as blood showered the air and dust. Blood and gore covered him and he reveled in it. Briseis trembled.

  Remembering her promise to herself, she found Mynes by his tall, black-plumed helm. And she realized with a sickening knot in her gut that her husband was in the direct path of the mysterious dark warrior. A hand pressed her shoulder with a weight she could not fight, and she tried to turn her head but could not. She felt the strong grip of a cold hand beneath her chin forcing her to look on the battle. A voice of silver and gold whispered passed her ear, ‘Ares … Ares … Ares storms.

  Briseis looked again at the dark warrior dancing in the carnage of men. Ares fights alongside the golden Achilles. With the God of War on their side, Lyrnessus truly stood no chance. Death had in fact come for them. Ares strode through the mortals alongside Achilles, companions in their destructive passion, raging in their love of war and glory. She held her breath and wept aloud as Ares’ blade of shining silver glass cut through Mynes, severing his body cleanly in two, the bloody gore of his innards spilling onto the dirt to be trampled by the melee around him.

  Briseis could watch no more. She sank to her knees atop the rampart and wept. Her world floated away from her in that moment. What would become of her, she had no idea. She considered throwing herself from the wall, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She must be strong enough to hold the memory of her husband, to sing his song in her heart until she joined him in the Underworld.

  Patrokles was caked in the blood and dirt of war, his smile gleaming like fresh pearls against the filth of his skin and armor. His hand was wrapped tightly in the matted hair of a misfortunate foe.

  “I beg you! I am son of Priam, born of Laothoë.”

  “What do I care of your mother? You are far from the protection of Troy.”

  Lykaon grasped Patrokles’ hand, squeezing it in supplication. “My grandfather is Aletes, a king as well. North of the Simoeis. I was fetching fig branches―”

  Patrokles shook Lykaon roughly by the hair. “For war chariots no doubt! To aid the army pitted against us. You are a poor warrior, then. If all you are good for is hacking at trees. Royal blood imbued you with little courage.”

  Lykaon struggled to free himself, but could not.

  “Achilles!” Patrokles hollered to his commander across the carnage littering the ground with fresh blood and broken bodies.

  The Golden Warrior, hearing the call, turned and nodded. “Who have you bound there?”

  “He says he is Lykaon, half-brother to Hektor!”

  Achilles sneered and shouted, “Sell him at Lemnos. A slave of royal blood will fetch a handsome prize!”

  “As you say, cousin!” Patrokles yanked Lykaon by the hair, dragging him off to the growing ring of captives. “You are a fortunate cunt, brother of Hektor. I was in a murderous mood.”

  When Patrokles handed over his prisoner, he looked for Achilles. He saw his commander-cousin passing through the gates into the city followed by a contingent of Myrmidons with blood and lust in their eyes, voices ringing in raucous song.

  Achilles strode through the gates into an unnatural quiet. The inhabitants of Lyrnessus had gone into hiding, hoping to escape their fates. The triumphant commander bellowed into the quiet, “Call down your gods to save you! See if they will hear your pitiful cries. Tell them Achilles comes for you.” He turned to his men, saying, “Take what treasure you can find, and take for slaves those who will fetch a good price, then kill the rest.”

  The Golden Warrior veered away from his men and someone shouted at him, “Where do you go, my lord?”

  He flashed his brilliant smile and laughed. “In search of the woman on the wall!”

  His men cheered, lifting their shields and swords at his response. Achilles’ ability to slice through his enemy and still observe beauty endeared their commander to them. Only he could cleave a man’s head off and assess a pair of tits at the same time.

  Achilles approached the main hall of King Evenus’ palace, while slaves scurried into dark corners, rightfully fearing for their lives. He grabbed one unlucky maid servant, wrenching her arm roughly behind her, and demanded, “Where is the woman who stood watching from the rampart?”

  The terrified servant shrank from the question, expecting to be hit. “Dead. She is dead. Our queen is dead.”

  Achilles eased his grip. “The woman with the long, dark hair was queen of Lyrnessus?”

  Immediately the slave realized her mistake. “No. The queen is dead, but the princess lives.”

  His lion’s paw squeezed and Achilles narrowed his eyes. “Where. Is. She?”

  The woman tried sinking to her knees, but hung suspended by the grip on her arm. “Please, do not hurt her!”

  Achilles released her arm and she crashed to the floor. Lowering his voice to a growl, he asked softer, “Where?”

  “She is in the temple of Apollo under the god’s sanctuary.”

  “We will see if that is what she deserves,” he said, annoyed that he would have to pay some tribute to the gods before taking what he’d earned by right of blood and bone.

  Entering through the bright red and blue columns trimmed in gold, Achilles looked up, expecting Apollo to greet him from above, perhaps stepping between him and what he desired as his war prize. The roar of war yet rang in his ears. The temple was unusually quiet, as the palace had been; not even a priest or priestess to try and stop him. He shouted, “You are cowards
all!” His heavy footsteps echoed in the emptiness of the magnificent temple. As he walked, his black cape fluttered behind him, his shield bounced happily against his broad back, and his sword swung securely against his hip.

  At last he came to the sacred heart of Apollo’s holy place. His immense frame filled the doorway leading into the inner chamber. He ripped the heavy curtain dividing the sanctuary and outer room with a swift swipe of his hand. A woman sat with her back to him, facing the sacred statue of Apollo, the god most revered by the Trojans. She neither flinched at the sound of his approach, nor turned to face him. Achilles thought her deaf or sitting in death. Her dark brown hair fell in wild waves down her back, spilling around her shoulders like a shroud. He could see from the narrowness of her shoulders and the curve of her waist as it rounded to her hips that she was the woman on the wall.

  Achilles approached her. His voice, deep and commanding, rang against the cold stone walls. “Do you not hear me, woman?”

  “Remove your sandals. You stand on blessed ground,” the woman spoke at last.

  Achilles stopped one foot hovering above the marble floor, before setting it down. “I do not give one shit for your beloved Apollo. He protects all I wish to plunder.”

  “You should mind your tongue. Your words invite your own destruction. You dare imagine that the god is impotent because you are victorious?”

  “He has not protected your city or his temple from my Myrmidons,” the Golden Warrior scoffed.

  The woman stood and Achilles thought her gracefulness must have been divinely given. His eyes devoured the full measure of her back and hips.

  “What is your intention with the Princess of Lyrnessus, Achilles?” she asked, still facing away from him.

  “I come to take what is mine,” Achilles said. “Apollo cannot save you from your fate. It is the law of war that victors take their prize.”

  The woman turned, facing the dreaded conqueror. She blushed beneath Achilles’ eyes greedily scanning the rise of her breasts before traveling to her face. The silver-blue of her eyes pleased him. He discerned no trace of fear, no desire; in fact, he detected nothing from her at all.

  “You will not be much longer at war,” she said, simply.

  Achilles thought a brief hint of empathy crossed her face, but the emotion flashed so quickly he wasn’t certain. Perhaps it was a simple trick of the flickering torch lights. “Ominous words. But this truth is known to me, woman. Your warning cannot frighten me.”

  “I have offered no warning, Achilles. Only what the god has whispered to me as I waited for you to find me.”

  “Why would the gods grant you vision?”

  Briseis shook her head. “My father’s brother is a priest of Apollo in Chryse. Perhaps the god takes pity on Lyrnessus.”

  “What else has the god told you on my account?”

  “That you will not see the end of Troy, but it will see the end of you.”

  Achilles’ lip curled in annoyance with that foretelling. “How can you be certain of my fate? How do you know the god speaks truthfully?” That he should not see the end of Troy troubled him deeply. I chose war and glory. How will I have glory if not by Troy in ashes at my feet? What tricks do the gods play?

  “Apollo communes with all the gods whether you honor him or not. Surely, you know the gods have knowledge of all the roads we will travel before we do.”

  “And the treacheries of their whims,” Achilles sighed. Suddenly, the exhaustion of battle settled and he relaxed his shoulders, swinging his heavy black and bronze gilded shield from his shoulders. “What do they call you?”

  “Briseis.”

  Achilles shrugged. “What was your purpose on the wall?”

  “What do all women do when watching war below?”

  He was certain now that her eyes hid a newly wrought sadness. “I suppose your husband was among the men who fell this day.”

  “He was. He did not lose his life at your hand.”

  Surprised, the Golden Warrior raised a single brow. “You would know better than I the names of the dead now littering the dirt.”

  “You have no compassion, do you, Achilles? Neither did the dark god beside you.”

  “Dark god?” he asked, confused.

  “Ares. I saw him manifest from a cloud of ravens and take up his stride beside you, breaking men in half … laughing …” Her voice trailed to a whisper as the horrors of the afternoon flooded back to memory.

  “I thought I felt the cold gust of wind beside me. But I saw no god. I suppose it is good I was not the one who harmed your husband.”

  “Killed him you mean. I saw you cut down my brothers,” she replied, the mask of impassive restraint returned.

  “I would offer apology―”

  “I would prefer you did not. I know what you plan to do with me.”

  “You intrigue me, Briseis. It is presumptuous to assume what I intend.” The Myrmidon commander closed the gap between them, grabbing Briseis roughly by the chin. “I plan on taking whatever I wish.” He tilted his head close to hers, his mouth hovering above the sweet warmth of hers. “I claim you for my own.”

  Briseis’ could stifle her anger and raw anguish no longer. Her jaw ached in his grip. With hot tears, she whispered, “You. Will. Never. Claim. Me.”

  Achilles tilted his head back and laughed, his amusement ringing loudly against the marble walls and floor. His golden braids shook with his laughter, as they spilled around his shoulders. He pulled his sword from his belt. “I could fell you with one swing of this.”

  “I wish you would,” she said.

  “You seek to trick me of my prize. Clever. But I will not be denied my pleasure.”

  “Your divine blood gives you bravery and passion, but not wisdom.”

  “You are a confusing woman, Princess.”

  “I am a princess of Lyrnessus no longer. You have seen to that.”

  Achilles took her by the arm. “You will submit before long.” It burned him that desire flamed within him for this woman, desire that disturbed the peacefulness that war provided.

  Messengers from Lyrnessus rode through the night, even as danger lurked in every shadow, to reach Pedasus by dawn. They did not stop, riding their horses to exhaustion, themselves weary without sleep. When Apollo finally pulled the light into the sky, crimson fingers stretching across the heavens, the messengers finally reached the outer wall of the city of Pedasus. A high timbered gate, flanked by two stone towers manned by archers and spearmen, stopped them.

  “Halt!” a guard of Pedasus’ citadel, fully armed in leather and bronze, hollered down at the approaching riders. Every city in the Troad lands feared the western invaders, whose scouts were known to spy on cities before demolishing them. For this reason, every guest seeking entry into Pedasus was routed and interrogated at the southern gate. “Where are you from? What is your business here?”

  “We carry word of the Princess Briseis and Lyrnessus,” the dark-haired messenger shouted up at the guards.

  “Is it true then? About Lyrnessus?” the watchman asked.

  “Aye! It is no more. Razed to the ground by the fucking Greeks,” he spat in the dirt.

  “Open the gate!” the watchman shouted down behind him. “Open the gate!”

  One side of the giant wooden doors opened, admitting the weary messengers before it was quickly shut again.

  “Take them to the palace. The king will want to hear what tidings they bring.”

  PEDASUS

  King Briseus paced the hall, as Queen Shavash wept quietly into her hands. “The city has been completely overrun, you say? The people killed or enslaved?”

  “Aye. The Myrmidons under Achilles’ command swept through the city like a deathly plague. Nothing could stop them. There were rumors, my lord …”

  The king turned abruptly, his robes swirling about his feet. “Rumors of what?” he asked, impatient for the whole truth.

  “That Ares himself fought alongside Achilles. They are calling him the Sacke
r of Cities. He is unstoppable.”

  The king’s shoulders slumped with the unwelcomed news. “How are we to fight an enemy flanked by the gods themselves in battle?”

  “There is more, my lord.”

  King Briseus sank into his chair beside his queen. He reached a comforting hand to her. “Tell me.”

  The messenger cleared his throat nervously. “Achilles has taken the Princess Briseis.”

  Queen Shavash cried out, “No! Not my sweet daughter!” She faced her husband, horror clearly sitting in her eyes. “You must do something.”

  “I will send a ransom for her and request aid from Troy.”

  The queen scoffed at his suggestion. “You believe Priam will help us save our daughter? Save our city? Look around us. Who has Priam saved from the advance of the western menace? We are the shield that protects him.”

  “What would Achilles value most as my offering?”

  “My lord, Achilles asks no ransom for her. He has taken her as his … concubine.” The herald cast his eyes to the marble floor, praying his head remained on his shoulders.

  “He is blood thirsty and cruel. He will whore out my daughter to his men. Apollo has abandoned us.” King Briseus slumped farther in his chair.

  Queen Shavash raked her pale cheeks until thin lines of blood stained her face. “How can this be? Chryses prophesied years ago her marriage would be to the greatest of warriors. I had believed it was Hektor, I was wrong. When she wed Mynes, I accepted it. Only now do I understand Hecuba’s hesitation regarding Apollo. See how he has tricked us, Briseus? He always intended the man who would steal our daughter from us would be Achilles.”

  The king realized the truth of her words. “Perhaps she is spared the humiliation of being whored among the foreigners, but he will take her back across the Aegean. She will be lost to us forever.” Tears slide down his cheek, catching in his black and silver beard. “How will we bear this, my queen?”

  Queen Shavash fell into her husband’s arms as he dismissed the messenger. “Is there nothing we can do to save her?”