The theft of gold and a bride... So that was the tale Agamemnon wove to safeguard his precious reputation. Paris would be hunted to the ends of the earth for such a crime. As he looked up at his one-time friend, he knew it was too late. The truth did not matter. If Agamemnon declared him a thief, there was nothing he could say or do that would change his captors' minds.
Knowing there was no way out liberated him to tell the truth. When he spoke it was with cold resignation. "Lies." He shook his head, the word pulled from his chest with a growl. "The insult was all Agamemnon's. I stole nothing."
There was a shift in Scylax' stance, as though some part of the man believed him. It encouraged Paris to continue. "Ask her." He nodded to Helen, his love pressed to the floor under the heel of her guard. "You'll discover the truth about your king."
"ENOUGH!" Twosret shouted at them. "The only lies here are yours, Trojan. Claim your innocence all you want, it does not matter. It is too late for you." She signaled her other guards, and they lifted Helen to her feet.
"Let go of me!" she screamed at the men, kicking any piece of flesh where she could make contact. Two burly guards were more than a match for one princess. They hoisted her into the air and started off towards the bedchamber.
"What are they doing?" Scylax gripped his spear, the deadly note in his voice making the guards pause. "You promised me she would not be harmed."
Twosret batted her dark lashes at the man with false distress. "Of course, but you aren't the only one who I made promises to." She waved the chancellor forward. "She's all yours, Bay. See that you don't 'harm' her too much."
The oily man stepped toward Helen, a sick hunger in his black eyes. She screamed, fighting the guards for every inch they dragged her forward.
"I have to thank you, Trojan." Twosret turned to go. "I had thought an alliance with the North an impossibility, but when I send Agamemnon your head, Mycenae will forever be in Egypt's debt."
A madness took hold of him, and Paris lunged at her, desperation lending him strength. He broke Scylax' hold, and buried his shoulder into Twosret's gut. They tumbled to the ground, Paris atop her. "Let her go!" he snarled at the vicious woman.
Four pairs of hands hauled him off the princess, forcing him to his knees. Twosret scrambled back to her feet, careful to keep a safe distance between them. When he was reliably restrained, her fear turned to gloat, and she laughed at him. "Pathetic. If she chose you for a protector, then she's getting what she deserves."
He envisioned her cold dead body, an ugly corpse that her own people would revile. "I'm going to kill you," he promised. "I'm going to kill you and everything you hold dear."
Her green eyes flashed with anger. "No you won't," she hissed at him, a coiled asp ready to strike. "You'll be dead, and I will be queen of all of Egypt." She signaled Scylax, and the mercenary tossed his spear aside and unsheathed his sword. "A clean death is too good an end for his treachery. He should suffer first." Her lips twisted into a grin. "Make him watch. Then kill him."
Without further word, the princess spun on her heel and exited the chamber.
"I don't take orders from you." Scylax muttered under his breath, watching the Egyptian wench disappear down the hall. He brandished his sword, taking a few practice swipes in the air.
How had it come to this? Aligning himself with the Egyptian royalty? Bit by bit he was compromising everything he thought defined him as a man.
Make him watch, he sneered at the thought. That was punishment dealt out for one who wronged you, not for some perverted sort of enjoyment. How many of his Brethren had she treated in that fashion?
He pressed those thoughts aside. They did not help. His mission was before him. He had only to suffer through this unpleasantness and be on his way back to Greece, back to Dora. He place the tip of his sword above Paris' neck, the man struggling beneath the hold of the other two guards.
He lifted his sword...
And a searing pain arched across his back. He spun to meet his assailant, surprised to face one of the Trojan guards. He was an older gent with silver-kissed black hair. His bounds had been cut, possibly on the discarded spear Scylax had so carelessly tossed aside. In his hand was a short knife with an ivory handle he'd gotten from the gods-knew-where. It was stained with Scylax' blood.
"Stay away from him," the Trojan warned, his gravelly voice dripping with quiet threat.
"Or you'll do what? Join him in the grave?" Scylax saluted the guard with his sword, whipping it around to test the soldier's agility. The Trojan jumped out of its path, the man surprisingly spry for his age.
And so began the dance, the two men circling one another. For Scylax, it was a welcome reprieve from acting the executioner. It was better to face an armed man, to test his skill against your own. The way of the Egyptians was that of the butcher.
He lunged forward, slicing the Trojan's shoulder, and forcing him back. He stumbled over the prince but regained his balance in a few short steps, his knife brandished before him.
"Why do you bother? You can't win." The Trojan had to know that, and Scylax was curious what drove him to fight regardless. No man was that loyal when the odds were stacked against him.
"I don't care," the guard hissed back. "Better to die in his service than watch a scumbag like you destroy something beautiful."
It happened quickly. Their circling had finally placed the Trojan within reach of the other guards. One of Bay's lapdogs, a thick Egyptian with tattoos circling his arms, stood up and planted a spear through the Trojan's back. The five-pointed tip exploded out the man's ribcage, splattering Scylax with blood.
"IAMUS!" Paris screamed, renewing his efforts to get to his guard, fighting like a possessed animal. The Egyptian guard had to quickly toss the skewered Trojan aside to help his partner subdue the prince.
The craven fool, Scylax cursed at his Egyptian 'helper'. He didn't need the man's aid, least of all in the form of a spear to the back of a nearly defenseless man. "Hold him still!" he shouted to the guards, wiping the blood from his face.
"Iamus," Paris cried out again, anguish on his face as he watched his guard bleed out before him.
"I'm sorry," the Trojan gasped, a bloody froth spilling over his lips. "I'm sorry, My Prince." He took his last breath and said no more.
In the commotion, the two guards stationed by the bedchamber had come forward, a Nubian and a mixed breed Egyptian with asiatic features that surely hailed from the Delta—the exact sort of soldiers that made up the core of Pharaoh's army. The exact sort of soldiers Scylax had once declared his eternal enemies. They cast him a disapproving glare, scowling at the bloody mess, as uncomfortable as he in their impromptu alliance.
"Get on with it." The Nubian spat, the drivel leaking down his chin. "If we hurry, Bay might let us have a go." He nodded back to the bedchamber where the princess was screaming as though in the grip of night terrors.
Some part of Scylax heard her cries. A distant part, one he couldn't let take control. He turned back to the prince, placing his sword above his neck again.
"Have you no soul?" Paris shook as he cried out. "Can you not hear her? Do you not care?"
"Shut up!" Scylax clenched his sword, raising it high.
The prince turned his head, his dark accusatory eyes staring straight into him. "You're not a man. You are a dead thing. A dead, soulless beast. All of you are." The Trojan spat at the other guards. "The Gods will curse you for this."
The princess continued to scream, a pitiful, heartbreaking sound. In his mind, her cries blended with those of Heliodora's, and Scylax was forcibly reminded of the night she saved him from this god-accursed land. He was reminded of the price she had paid so he would never again stand where he stood now.
She will forgive me for this... for the girls, she will look past this final act of barbary.
He knew that was a lie. Dora could never forgive this, and he would never forgive himself. His blade came crashing down—
And severed the Trojan's bonds.
&n
bsp; Paris looked up at him as one struck, confused by his sudden freedom.
Scylax, however, knew exactly how to act. He reversed his stroke, taking an Egyptian guard across the chest, flaying him open. His blood sang as his metal met flesh, its sweet chorus more heavenly to his ears than all the hymns of Zeus and Amun-Re combined. He wanted more. He'd sacrifice every Egyptian who crossed his path on that altar. Sword raised high, he spun to meet his next offering: the Nubian guard, the first of his brothers to regain his senses.
The sound of metal on metal rang out as he parried the Nubian's thrust. He shoved the man back, daring the few precious seconds to shout over his shoulder to the prince.
"Go! Save her."
Paris needed no further instruction. He leapt to his feet, snatching the discarded blade of his Trojan guardsman. The last Scylax saw of him was the flash of his blood-soaked robes as the prince sprinted to the back chamber.
From the moment the guards had lifted her into the air, an all-consuming fear had come over Helen. She was a child again, dragged off by monsters in the dark. She had thought she faced these demons in the temple, but they hovered ever near.
"No!" she cried out as loud as her lungs would allow. Over and over again she screamed, kicking and fighting with every ounce of strength she possessed. Her elbow dug into one captor's jaw; her foot into the other's breastbone. She would not be a victim again. She'd make them kill her first.
Her efforts were not enough. Though they were bruised and bleeding, the guards still dragged her into the bedchamber and tossed her down roughly on the bed. One held her arms above her head, the other pinned down her legs. She bucked wildly, trying to throw them off, but they were too strong.
"No!" she moaned, the slow realization of her helplessness draining her of strength. "No..." The single word became a mantra that she poured all of her resistance in to, as though the word could deny this event from existence. "No!"
Bay entered, a vulture waiting to scavenge his meal. She ceased her struggles and watched the man approach her with hate-filled eyes. No other man had filled her with more revulsion. Not even Agamemnon, at his most depraved, had looked at her so.
"Don't look so reticent, Princess," he cooed, removing ropes of gold from his neck and jeweled cuffs from his arms. "You will enjoy this more than you realize."
Enjoy? Was he mad? But Bay seemed to believe it, and he caressed her legs like a lover fulfilling some sick fantasy.
Something inside of Helen snapped. The absurdity of her situation overwhelmed her, and she laughed. His hand froze on her thigh, the mocking tone of her laughter cutting right through his slick confidence.
"You brazen whore." His grip tightened, bruising her flesh.
"You pathetic, puny, little man," Helen spat at him, channeling all her Spartan courage. She was not afraid of him. There was nothing he could do to her that she had not already suffered ten-fold. "You think to claim me? If not for your men, you wouldn't be able to lay a finger on me. You are a dog, Bay. A dirty mongrel given treats by his betters."
It was foolish to bait the man, but she could not help herself. She would not whimper before him. She wouldn't give him that power. She couldn't allow it. A lioness raged inside her.
His eyes hardened into lumps of coal, and he ripped at her robes until they fell away in rags. "I was wrong, Princess. You won't enjoy this," he hissed. "Let go of her." His guards did as he commanded, and he crawled on top of her.
She was ready for him. Bay pinned her arms down, foolish to believe they were her only weapon. Her knee came up and slammed into his gut, missing his groin by mere inches. He groaned and fell into her chest, just close enough for her other weapon. She bit into his ear. Hard. She tasted blood as the flesh tore away, but before she could complete the deed, a fist slammed into her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs.
A string of curses flooded from Bay as he put pressure on his wound. "Hold her down!" She was immobilized again as his guards quickly complied.
Helen wanted to fight back, to scream fury at the puerile man, but everything hurt. She could scarcely force air into her lungs. When he came at her again, she knew she couldn't stop him.
Do your worst. Take this body. You will never claim me.
He hovered above her, the foul stench of his breath making her gag. "I will make you scream for this."
"Like hell you will."
Paris stood in the doorway, dagger in hand, his chest heaving. Helen turned to him, and tears came to her eyes. He had come. She didn't have to face this alone. The strength that abandoned her returned with force.
"Get him, you fools!" Bay screeched.
Paris moved lightning quick. He flung his blade, the weapon spinning hilt over tip until it sank into the skull of the man behind her. Without a moment's hesitation he leapt over the bed, spinning in the air like his knife, and landing gracefully beside the guard, retrieving his weapon before the man hit the ground.
The other guard lunged at him with his sword, but he easily shifted out of the blade's path. He slammed his elbow on the guard's exposed sword arm, knocking the man off-balance. While he stumbled, Paris ran his dagger across the man's throat. He fell to the ground, drenching Paris with his crimson tide.
Helen could scarcely move. She watched as her prince, her dark avenger covered in blood, turned to Bay. The chancellor backed away from him, terrified, until he cowered in the corner of the room, unable to retreat any more.
"No, please..."
Paris ignored his pleas, and hauled the man up by his tunic. He placed the edge of his dagger at the man's throat.
"I can't die. Not like this," Bay groveled.
Paris was beyond mercy. He wanted this man to suffer. "You're right." He lowered his weapon, dragging the tip down the man's chest. "Death is too good for you." He mimicked Twosret's words, savoring the fear they evoked in Bay. "I want you to watch as I destroy what you hold most dear." He grabbed the man's scrotum and castrated him like the pig that he was.
Bay screamed and fell to the floor, slipping over the blood drenched tiles. As he fell, the roaring in Paris' ears died down to a dull strum. His vision, once clouded with the haze of violence, cleared, and his stomach twisted as it always did when he was forced to kill. He tossed Bay's mangled organ down on the man and turned away.
"Helen?"
She knelt on the bed, her eyes wide, staring at him as though seeing him for the first time. Her lips parted and a soft moan escaped her lips.
"Helen?" He rushed to her side. "Are you hurt?" As he reached for her, he saw his blood-stained hands and pulled back. What sort of terror had he just forced her to witness?
But she was not afraid. Her arms circled around him, and she pulled him to her with a fierce strength. "Thank you," she sobbed into his ear, her hands clinging to his hair. "Oh, thank the Gods for you."
Chapter 38
Brothers of the Sword
PARIS CLEANED UP from the bloodbath as best he could, the red stain of his skin making him feel like a tribute to Ares. He and Helen changed out from their ruined clothes into two of his spare tunics. Once Helen was decently clad, they emerged from the bedchamber, Paris first.
The antechamber was in shambles, the aftermath of a massacre. Jason... Scylax, he scolded himself, was with Brygos, the two men helping Ariston sit up.
Paris scouted the room. The Greek had dispatched four fully armed Egyptian guards with clinical efficiency. There was not a scratch on the man, save the blow from Iamus' blade.
"Need I be worried?" Scylax raised a brow. Whether he meant that of Bay's ongoing cries from the back or from Paris himself was left unsaid.
Paris kept a safe distance between them, placing himself between the cutthroat and Helen. "That depends." He held his dagger in a tight grip, ready for use. "Who are you? Why are you here?"
Before he could answer, Helen caught sight of Iamus, and she dropped his hand with a cry. She collapsed beside the fallen soldier, cradling his head onto her lap. "Iamus, no..."
&nbs
p; Scylax took a step to follow, but Paris barred his path. "Answer me."
The Greek eyed his small blade with a touch of amusement. He was in for a surprise if he judged the threat Paris posed by the size of his weapon. There were more ways to kill a man that just metal.
"I am not your enemy anymore, Trojan." Scylax put his hands in the air. "I don't want to be your enemy."
Were it so simple. Paris had faced his share of assassins in his life, and none had come as close to ending his life as this man here. The second he lowered his guard, Scylax was apt to put a blade in his heart. "And why should I trust that?"
A dark shadow crossed over the man's eyes. "'Have you ever loved someone more than life itself?'"
Paris froze. Those were his words.
"I have," Scylax continued, a bitter pain twisting out of his words. "And she was taken from me. By a queen hellbent on retrieving her lost sister."
"Clytemnestra sent you?" Paris blurted out, shaking his head in disbelief.
"In another life, I had a certain set of skills." Scylax' eyes took on a faraway look, as though remembering things he'd rather forget. "I was a mercenary, one of the best of my trade. I tried to leave that life behind, start anew in Mycenae... But some things you can't outrun. Too many other people remembered what I was, and some of them held the queen's ear."
Paris shook his head, puzzling out the pieces. Clytemnestra sent a single man after them? It made sense in an odd way. Why send an army to track down two fugitives? It was a delicate, conniving move. Agamemnon would not show such cunning.
"She took your family?"
Scylax nodded.
"Then why didn't you kill me?" Had their roles been reversed he would have let no man bar him from Helen's safety.
"I know what you nobles think about sell-swords like me. You say we have no honor." Scylax spat on the floor. "You're a fool if you believe that. I know the difference between good and evil. I do not blind myself to the atrocities committed by a king simply because I was born on his land."
The Princess of Prophecy Page 40
