Banokles thought about the question. Kerio was a troublemaker, a sly man who constantly sought to irritate him. But he was a good fighter and a fine archer. “No problem, Ursos,” he said.
“You might want to swap Ennion’s mount,” Olganos put in. “He’s older and slower than the others, and we might need speed tomorrow.”
“Good thought,” Banokles said. “I always like to have someone around to do the thinking.”
The moon was high above the forest, but Skorpios could not sleep. He’d had enough of battles and war and wished with all his heart he had not run away from his father’s farm to join the army. He still recalled the bright morning two years earlier when the recruiting captain had arrived in the settlement, his armor gleaming, sunlight glinting from his helm. He was, Skorpios had decided on that day, the most handsome man he had ever seen. The officer had dismounted in the market square and called out to the men gathered there. “Your nation is at war, Trojans. Are there heroes among you?”
Skorpios, though only fourteen then, had moved forward with the other men and listened as the officer spoke of the evil of the Mykene and how they had sent assassins to murder the wife of Hektor. Skorpios had never been to Troy, but he had heard of the mighty lord of battle and his lady, Andromache, who had shot an assassin with an arrow just as he was about to slay the king. To Skorpios then the names of the great were synonymous with the names of the gods, and he was lost in wonder as the soldier spoke of the golden city and the need for brave men to take up their swords to defend it.
In that glorious moment such action had seemed to the youngster to be infinitely more exciting than tending cattle, or shearing sheep, or cutting the heads from chickens. The officer had said that only men over the age of fifteen summers could enlist, but Skorpios was tall for his age and had walked forward with some twenty other young men. The officer had told them what stalwart warriors they would be and how proud he was of them. Father had never mentioned pride once in Skorpios’ hearing. Mostly the words he heard were “lazy”, “shiftless”, “careless”, and “good-for-nothing”.
Two years later the officer’s words seemed less golden. Skorpios had seen four of his friends maimed and five others killed. The rest were scattered through Trojan regiments still based in Troy. At sixteen Skorpios was a veteran, skilled with bow and sword, who had been wounded twice and now prayed every day that the Great Goddess would see him safely back to his father’s farm, where he would happily gather cattle turds for the rest of his life.
The sound of gentle snoring came to him, and he sat up and stared across to where Banokles was sleeping beneath the branches of a tree. The man was utterly fearless. Skorpios felt that the warrior’s bravery should inspire his own, but the reverse was true. The calmer Banokles appeared in battle, the more Skorpios would tremble and picture himself lying on a battlefield, his guts in his hands.
He saw Justinos sitting in the moonlight, idly scraping the stubble from his head with a small bronze knife. Skorpios glanced around the campsite. Ennion and Olganos were missing, but the slender redheaded Kerio was close by. Skorpios did not like Kerio, who was always complaining, but his dislike was offset by the fact that he was a doughty fighter and a good man to have alongside you in a skirmish.
Kerio moved smoothly to his feet and walked across to squat down close to Justinos and Skorpios. “Listen to him snoring,” he whispered, his voice rich with contempt. “How could Ursos have left him in charge? I have two hounds back home with more brains than him.”
Justinos shrugged and carried on shaving his head. Skorpios looked at Kerio, and his dislike got the better of his intellect. “I notice you are whispering and only saying this while he’s asleep.”
“Are you saying I’m a coward, you little catamite?”
“He’s just making an observation,” Justinos said calmly.
“Oh, now he needs you to speak up for him, does he?”
Skorpios wanted to defend himself, but the truth was, he was frightened of Kerio. There was something about the man, a weirdness in his eyes. He remained silent. Justinos finished his shaving and then replaced his knife in a small sheath in his belt. “You know, Kerio,” he said, his voice flat, the tone bored, “I have never liked you. Given a choice between following Banokles or you, it would be Banokles every time. Actually, given a choice between following you or one of those hounds you spoke of, I’d take the hound.”
Now it was Kerio’s turn to fall silent. Casting a murderous glance at Skorpios, he walked back across the campsite and sat down with his back to a tree.
“Not a good enemy to have,” Skorpios said.
“No enemies are good to have, boy.” Justinos observed him gravely. “I’ve seen you fight. You have no reason to be frightened of him.”
Skorpios tried to mask his embarrasment. “I am not frightened of him.”
Justinos shrugged and stretched. Skorpios sighed. “Actually, I am. Somehow it is different in a battle, charging in with your comrades. But with Kerio… I would be fearful of falling asleep and having my throat cut.”
Justinos nodded. “I know what you mean, but I do not believe Kerio is evil. He is just a hothead. Truth is, he is as frightened as everyone else. This whole country is a death trap for us.”
“You are frightened?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What about Banokles? You think he is?”
Justinos grinned. “You know the stories as well as I. Rescued a princess from pirates, saved the lady Andromache from assassins. Now, that makes him special. But what really takes the breath away is that he married Big Red, the most terrifying whore in Troy. Any man who could do that is frightened of nothing.”
The warrior Ennion came walking back through the trees, dropped his bow and quiver to the earth, and slumped down beside the two men. Dragging off his helm, he gave a great yawn. “I could sleep for a season,” he said. “There is so much grit in my eyes, I feel that if I blink too hard, I’ll bleed to death.” Scratching at his black chin beard, he stretched out on the ground.
“See anything?” Skorpios asked him.
“A lot of people fleeing toward the east, and the city is still burning. I’ll be glad to be heading east myself come morning. Now that Kalliros has fallen, we’ll be going home. Man, that’s good enough for me.”
“You don’t think Hektor will try to retake the city?” Skorpios persisted.
Ennion sat up and swore. “Why did you put that thought into my head? I’ll never sleep now.”
“We don’t have the men to take a city,” Justinos said. “So rest easy. Tomorrow we’ll see which way the enemy marches and ride back to the army. Then it’s Carpea and home.”
“May Zeus hear those words and make them true,” Ennion said. “Now, which of you is going to relieve Olganos?”
“I’ll go,” Skorpios said. “I can’t sleep, anyway.”
Just then they heard a child’s cry echo through the woods. Banokles came awake instantly and rose, drawing his sword. Justinos grabbed his helm and donned it. Skorpios scrambled to his feet, along with Ennion and Kerio.
Young Olganos came running back through the trees. Banokles moved to meet him, and the others gathered around.
“A war party of Idonoi,” Olganos whispered. “Ten, maybe a few more.”
“Gather your bows,” Banokles ordered.
“Ursos said to avoid fighting,” Kerio pointed out.
“So he did,” Banokles said. “I’m glad you pointed that out. Now, gather your bastard bows and let’s see what we’re facing.”
With that he moved through the trees. Skorpios ran back and took up his bow and quiver of arrows. Then he set off after Banokles.
The stars were bright above the forest clearing as the elderly nurse Myrine moved away from the sleeping children. There was a stream close to the abandoned logger’s shack in which they were hiding, and she hitched up her old gray gown and made her way to the bank. Stiffness in her swollen knees made it difficult to kneel and drink, but she
had found an old cup in the shack and dipped it below the surface. The water was cool and refreshing, and she drank deeply. A small crack in the cup allowed some of the liquid to seep out over her hand. Pushing her fingers through her gray hair, she rubbed away some of the soot that clung there.
In the bright moonlight she saw that her gown was singed at the hip and that there were cinder burns on the sleeves.
Myrine knew nothing of sieges and battles, but she had heard the soldiers of the palace bragging of how they could hold out for months. She had believed them. Why would she not? They were fighting men and understood the ways of warfare.
Then the fires had swept through the wooden buildings, and enemy warriors had poured through the city of Kalliros, shrieking their awful battle cries. Myrine shivered at the recent memory. In the palace there had been panic. The young king—her own sweet Rhesos—had led his royal guards toward the action. His steward, the ancient Polochos, had ordered Myrine to take the two royal children to the west of the city and the barracks there.
But a fierce blaze was already raging through the lower town, and Myrine had been forced to take the northern streets. She had been carrying the three-year-old Prince Obas and clinging to the hand of his older brother, twelve-year-old Periklos. There was panic everywhere, with soldiers running through the flame-lit streets and panicked townsfolk streaming toward the eastern gates and the open land beyond. Myrine had steadily worked her way around to the north. Then she had seen the fighting and had realized there was no way to reach the barracks.
Uncertain of what action to take, she had decided to leave the city by the northern postern gate and make her way into the woods until the battle was over. It had seemed sensible at the time, for surely King Rhesos would destroy the foul invaders, and tomorrow she could return with his children. But from their vantage point in the high forest they had watched the fires spread. Worse, they had seen enemy cavalry galloping past the postern gate and attacking the fleeing townspeople. The slaughter had been great, and Myrine had taken the children deeper into the forest so that they would not see the murders.
Little golden-haired Obas had wept. The fires and the battle cries had frightened him, but Periklos had comforted him. He was a strong boy, like his father, dark-haired and dark-eyed, his expression always serious. Obas was more like his mother, the gentle Asiria, who had died in childbirth the previous summer.
“I want to go home,” Obas had wailed. “I want Papa!”
“Papa is fighting the bad men,” Periklos said. “We will go home when he has defeated them.”
Even there, high in the forest, Myrine could see the distant flames over the city. She knew in her heart that Rhesos had not defeated the enemy. She also knew that he would not have run while his people were in peril. He was too brave for that. Which meant that her sweet boy was dead. Tears began to fall, but she brushed them away and tried to think of what to do. Where could they go?
Her stomach tightened with the first flutterings of panic. They had no food and no wealth, and her swollen knees would not carry her far. Even now the enemy would be scouring the city for the princes, determined to wipe out the royal line.
To wipe out the royal line.
The thought of Rhesos once more filled her with heartache. The wind whispered through the trees, and she glanced up at the bright moon, remembering the day she first had been taken to the royal apartments. So long ago now. Little Rhesos, she had been told, was a disobedient child and needed firm discipline. King Eioneus had told her to beat him with a stick if he disobeyed her. Myrine had never done so. From the first moment she saw him, she loved him. An ugly, stocky woman, Myrine had never been courted and had resigned herself to a life of lonely service. With little Rhesos she had discovered all the joys and heartaches of motherhood. She had watched him grow from a skinny boy into a fine youth and a strong young man. Even as king, with all the duties of war bearing down upon him, he would smile when he saw her and hug her to him. When his first son, Periklos, had been born, he had brought Myrine to his palace to nurse him. And that had been the second great joy of her life, for Periklos was just like his father, and save for her growing infirmity, it was as if the years had melted away and she was young and a mother again.
Even the war and the fighting had not intruded on her happiness. Inside the palace all was peaceful and safe, as it always had been.
Until today.
Hearing movement behind her, she swung around, fear lancing through her. But it was not an enemy soldier. It was young Periklos. The prince squatted down alongside her. Immediately she filled the cracked cup with water and passed it to him.
“What are we to do, sir?” she asked him. Even as the words slipped out, she felt ashamed. Yes, he was bright, his mind swift as a striking hawk, but he was still a boy. She saw his face tighten, his dark eyes widening with fear. “Oh, I am sorry, dear one,” she said. “I was just thinking aloud. Everything will be well. I know it!”
“My father is dead,” Periklos said. “Nothing will be well, Myrine. They will come for us now, for Obas and me.”
Myrine did not know what to say to him, and his words filled her with dread. The darkness around them now seemed menacing, the whisper of wind in the branches eerie and threatening. “We will hide in the forest,” she said. “It is a big forest. We… we will not be found.”
Periklos considered her words. “They will offer gold to any who catch us. Hunters will come. We cannot stay here. We have no food.”
A child’s voice ripped through the silence of the night. “Periklos! Periklos!” little Obas shrieked, running from the ruined shack. The older boy ran to him, kneeling down beside him.
“You must not make so much noise,” he said sternly. “Bad men will find us if you do.”
“I want Papa! I want to go home!”
“Bad men are in our house, Obas. We cannot go home.”
“Where is Papa?”
“I don’t know.”
Myrine pushed herself painfully to her feet and walked across to the two boys. As she did so, she heard movement in the trees behind them. Periklos rose swiftly and looked around.
“It’s Papa! It’s Papa!” Obas shouted.
Three men stepped from the undergrowth. They were tall, their long blond hair braided, their faces streaked with paint. Myrine moved to the children, picking up Obas and hugging him to her. Periklos stood his ground, staring at the Idonoi tribesmen and the longswords in their hands. There was blood on their clothes.
“Now, you leave us alone,” Myrine shouted. “You just go away.”
Another seven warriors emerged from the shadows of the trees, their expressions hard, their eyes cruel.
Myrine backed away toward the shack. The leader of the Idonoi stared hard at Periklos. “You look like your father,” he said. “I’ll put your head on a spear next to his.”
Obas started to cry, and Myrine patted his back. “There, there, little one,” she said. “There, there.”
The warrior stepped toward Periklos and raised his sword. The boy stood still, staring defiantly up at him. “Do your worst, you coward!” he said.
Then another voice sounded in the clearing.
“It’s no wonder you sheep shaggers paint your faces. Ugliest bastards I’ve ever seen.”
Myrine turned to see a powerful man in shining armor move from the trees behind the shack. He was carrying two swords, one a saber and the other a short stabbing blade.
The Idonoi warrior swung toward him, the other men grouping together, weapons poised.
The newcomer halted some fifteen paces from the Idonoi leader. “Well?” he demanded. “Why are you just standing there? Balls of Ares, are you gutless as well as ugly?”
With a roar of fury the Idonoi rushed at the warrior, his men surging after him.
To Myrine’s surprise the newcomer suddenly dropped to one knee. A volley of arrows hissed through the air, slamming into the charging group. Four men fell, and two others staggered back, black shafts jutti
ng from their upper bodies. The warrior in the shining armor came to his feet and launched himself at the remaining Idonoi. The battle was short and bloody. The newcomer tore into the warriors, swords hacking and slashing. The leader went down, blood gouting from his throat. Two others fell to arrows. The last man spun on his heel and ran.
Moments later two horsemen galloped from the trees, bows in their hands, and set off after the fleeing warrior.
Myrine felt weak and giddy. She tried to put Obas down, but he clung to her. Still holding the boy, she lowered herself to the ground, grunting as pain seared through her left knee.
The warrior in the shining armor walked past her to where one of the wounded Idonoi was trying to crawl back into the trees and plunged his short sword between the man’s shoulder blades.
Three other men, similarly armored, came into view. Myrine watched as a warrior strode across to the man who had saved them.
“The orders were to avoid battle,” the newcomer said, dragging off his helm. He was young, his hair dark and curly.
“Gods, Olganos, that wasn’t a battle! That was a… a skirmish!”
“Skirmish or not, it has increased our danger.”
“You regret saving the children?”
“No, of course not. I am glad they are alive. But I am more glad that we are. You know very well that we should have stayed hidden. If any one of them had gotten away, we’d have been forced to run, and then we wouldn’t have been able to complete our mission. And that mission is more important than the lives of two children.”
Banokles saw the old woman staring at him, her eyes fearful. Leaving Olganos, he strolled over and squatted down beside her. As he did so, the chubby blond-haired child in her arms began to wail.
“By Ares, boy, you make more noise than a gelded donkey,” Banokles said.
“My brother is very young and very frightened,” said the dark-haired youngster.
Banokles rose and turned toward the lad. “And you are not frightened?”
Shield of Thunder t-2 Page 39
