The Belial Warrior (The Belial Series Book 9)

by R. D. Brady

  When she released Helen and stepped back, King Priam stepped forward. Helen gave another curtsy. “King Priam.”

  “Queen Helen.” He inclined his head with a small smile on his face.

  “Paris!”

  Helen turned to see a taller, more masculine version of Paris striding across the courtyard. He was well-built and battle-scarred, and wore a serious expression. He bowed to his father and kissed his mother on the cheek before turning to Helen. “Queen Helen,” he said.

  She curtsied again, though inside she cussed the stupid requirement. She felt like a bird bobbing its head. “Prince Hector.”

  Hector acknowledged her with a nod before turning to Paris. “You were supposed to be at the training field an hour ago.”

  Paris took Helen’s hand, and she struggled not to yank it away. “I have been so caught up with Helen that I lost all sense of time.”

  Hecuba sighed happily, and Helen tried not to gag. Who said such things?

  Hector gave Helen a small smile. “Yes, Queen Helen’s legend only underplayed her beauty. But we need to prepare.”

  “How are the preparations going?” Priam asked.

  Hector’s gaze flicked to Helen before returning to his father. “We’ll be ready, Father.”

  Helen knew he meant they were preparing for war. Her stomach clutched at the thought of all the men who would die. Zeus had put this all into play. But why? It obviously wasn’t to make a match between her and Paris. What was Zeus’s plan? What did he hope to gain?

  “Have we heard,” Priam glanced at Helen, “anything from across the Aegean?”

  “They have mobilized. They are on their way here.”

  Helen felt a chill run through her. It had already begun. Gods help us all.

  Paris sighed dramatically, kissing Helen’s hand. “I’m afraid that duty calls, my dear. I will see you later?”

  Helen bowed her head. “I look forward to it,” she said breathlessly, while forcing herself to not wipe his kiss off her hand.

  Both sons kissed their mother, bowed to their father, and headed out of the courtyard, leaving Helen with the king and queen. Hecuba linked arms with Helen. “My dear, you must tell me all about how you and Paris met.”

  “Yes of course,” Helen said, watching Hector and Paris disappear from the courtyard. All she could think about was the war that was coming. The war she was in the middle of for some reason. She wanted to scream in frustration.

  “It will be all right, my dear,” King Priam said. Helen realized that he, too, was worried about what was coming to Troy’s shores. That he understood what Paris’s actions meant for all of Troy. He understood that death was coming. “We will be ready. And the gods’ will shall be done.” With a small bow, Priam turned and strode off.

  But Helen knew he was wrong. Whoever had set all of this into motion was no god. It was someone else’s will that drove them all toward a battlefield filled with senseless death.

  Chapter 52

  What a strange day, Helen thought as she returned to her room that evening. She had spent almost all of it with the king and queen. She had met Hector’s wife and children. And all the members of Paris’s family had extended her a warm welcome, as if she were indeed his beloved and not a woman who had been stolen from her home—or a woman already married.

  Helen was having a tough time understanding it. Maybe it was because she was Spartan, but in her world, any child who brought the wrath of another family down upon their own family—never mind kingdom upon kingdom—would not be so lightly indulged.

  She realized, though, that they were trying to make up for Paris’s lost childhood. For abandoning him out of fear of the prediction made at his birth. None of them realized that that prediction was about to come true: Paris would be the destruction of them all.

  And since he had returned to them, Paris had been happy to take advantage of their guilt—ensuring his every whim was indulged. It was why he thought nothing was amiss when the gods promised him wealth beyond his imagining. Because in Paris’s own mind, that was his due.

  But who were these “gods”? Helen held no illusions—she knew the gods were not real, at least not the ones that spoke to Paris. Whoever was behind her abduction was no god—but he was powerful. He had money and connections. And the ability to hide his tracks.

  But she could not for the life of her figure out why. Who stood to benefit when the world went to war? Death benefited no one. And Troy was not even one of the wealthier kingdoms; why focus on Troy?

  Helen stripped off the ridiculous gown and pulled on her tunic. She flopped down on the bed and let out a breath. It had been difficult seeing Hector’s children today. He had a daughter almost the same age as Hermione, and seeing her caused Helen both comfort and pain.

  And then there was this stupid ruse. It could not go on forever. Whatever Paris wanted, he would one day get it if all Helen did was play along. And then what would happen to her children?

  No. She needed to figure out what Paris was up to, and she needed to get her children away from his forces. She stared at the unfamiliar ceiling. But how will I do that from here?

  She had overheard Priam speaking with Hector just after dinner. The Greek ships had been spotted; they would land in a few days. A chill ran over her.

  And then the dying will begin.

  Chapter 53

  Pelion, Greece

  The wind had returned the next morning—just as Agamemnon had promised it would—and the fleet had finally been able to depart for Troy. Agamemnon made a public show of telling Clytemnestra that she should stay behind to mourn for their beloved girl. Clytemnestra barely heard him. She was too busy trying to breathe through her grief.

  Now, two days later, all she wanted to do was sleep—which was all she had been doing since Iphigenia’s murder. She had awoken briefly this morning, only long enough to eat something, and then had turned back over and drifted off to sleep. In sleep, there was nothing. There was a blankness there, a blankness that Clytemnestra craved. No, needed.

  So she closed her eyes and prayed to the gods to continue keeping her dreams empty.

  But this time they didn’t listen.

  Clytemnestra watched Iphigenia gather flowers in the garden. The girl was only six years old. “Mother, come see the butterfly.”

  Clytemnestra smiled and walked over to her daughter.

  “It’s there.” Iphigenia pointed to a blue and green butterfly. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Clytemnestra ran a hand over Iphigenia’s hair. “It is. Just like you, my beautiful daughter.”

  Iphigenia wrapped her arms around Clytemnestra’s waist. “I love you, Mommy.”

  Tears sprang to Clytemnestra’s eyes. She had been loved by her mother, by her brothers and sister, and she had loved them in return. But her love for her children—it eclipsed everything she had ever known. Even her sons, whom Agamemnon had turned against her, she loved. But Iphigenia—there was a special place in Clytemnestra’s heart reserved just for her. “I love you too, my dear.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s his.”

  Clytemnestra stilled as the sun disappeared behind the clouds and the wind picked up. She looked down at her daughter. “What did you say?”

  Iphigenia stepped away, aging before Clytemnestra’s eyes. Now she stood at almost eye level with her. “It was not your fault. Father is to blame.”

  The vision of Iphigenia’s death played in Clytemnestra’s mind. “I should have stood up to him sooner. Or never married him at all.”

  “But then we never would have been. And we needed to be with you.”

  Clytemnestra’s chest heaved. “But I failed you.”

  “You never failed us. He did. But now you must fight. You must help Helen.”

  “How? I am not as strong as she is. I am not as brave.”

  “You are. You are the same. You always have been.”

  “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help Helen. I have no army. I am not the
fighter she is.”

  “You are a daughter of Sparta. You have just forgotten.” Iphigenia glanced over her shoulder, and Clytemnestra saw shadowy figures behind her, although she sensed no menace from them. “I need to go.”

  Clytemnestra reached out her hand. “I cannot bear to let you go.”

  Iphigenia kissed her cheek. “I am never gone from you, Mother. I am always by your side.” She began to walk backward toward the shadows, her smile never wavering. “Remember that. I will always be with you.”

  Clytemnestra’s eyes snapped open. “Iphigenia!” She sat upright, her hands reaching for her daughter. And the loss hit her all over again.

  Morcant was at her side in a flash. “Shh, child. It’s all right. Morcant is here.”

  Tears rolled down Clytemnestra’s cheeks. She ached for her daughter. A wind blew through the window, making the curtains billow, and for just a moment Clytemnestra thought she caught a glimpse of a girl in their shape.

  I am never gone from you, Mother. I am always by your side.

  The weight on Clytemnestra’s chest lifted enough for her to wipe away the tears.

  “Clytemnestra?” Morcant asked, her voice anxious.

  Clytemnestra gripped her hand. “Fetch me a bath, Morcant. There are things we must do.”

  “What things, my lady?”

  Clytemnestra shook her head. “I’m not sure, to be honest. Find Aegisthus. Tell him I need to speak with him.” Aegisthus was one of her most trusted servants and an accomplished sailor. Clytemnestra’s father had given him leave from his Spartan duty to be available for Clytemnestra.

  “Aegisthus? Why do you need him?”

  “Because we need to sail to Sparta to bury my daughter—and to help Helen.”

  Chapter 54

  Troy, Turkey

  The ships had begun arriving at Troy a week ago. Pollux surveyed the tents that had popped up around his own. There had been a hundred when he first arrived with Castor and Barnabus, and now there were easily five times that number—with more men still arriving.

  He looked toward Troy. The city was well fortified; its thick, tall stone walls were said to have been built by the gods Apollo and Poseidon themselves. No one had ever been able to get through them. But we’ll get to her.

  He was tempted to ignore everything else and just run past Troy’s defenses himself. But he knew there were Fallen roaming the perimeter. He’d be detected immediately, and that would not help Helen. No, first he needed to find out exactly where she was being held. He had spies in the encampment already—a few Trojans looking to make some extra money. Now he just needed to wait.

  A tingle ran over his skin, and he spotted Barnabus walking through the crowd toward him. He did not look happy.

  Pollux met him halfway down the line of tents. “What is it?”

  “Agamemnon has arrived.”

  “Good. His men can set up—”

  Barnabus placed his hand on Pollux's arm. “I have news.”

  A feeling of dread crawled over Pollux. “What is it?”

  Barnabus met Pollux's gaze. “Agamemnon could not set sail for days. There was no wind. So a sacrifice was made.”

  Pollux nodded. It was not an unusual occurrence to sacrifice an animal prior to a launch. “So?”

  “It was… Iphigenia.”

  “What was Iphigenia?”

  “The sacrifice.”

  Pollux went still. Iphigenia?

  He had known her well—she had spent half her young life in Sparta. She had always been a shy, quiet girl, but along the way, something had happened to make her even more shy. When she had last come to see them, she had hidden behind Clytemnestra’s skirts for the whole first day. Pollux had known Agamemnon was somehow responsible for her behavior, but Clytemnestra had begged him to leave it alone. So Pollux had shown Iphigenia the pups that had been born down in the stable just before they arrived. The girl’s face had lit up. She had spent the whole next week with him down in the stables, taking care of them. He had seen a softness to her then—a softness he loved and wanted to protect. This world could be cruel to those with a kind heart.

  Her smile and laugh played through his mind. “Who?” Pollux asked quietly. “Who killed her?”

  “Agamemnon.”

  Cold fury stole over Pollux. Without a word he turned on his heel and headed for the beach.

  Barnabus hurried to keep up with him. “Pollux, be careful what you do next. He is a king and—”

  Pollux cut him off, furious. “And she was my sister’s daughter—and she was good.”

  Castor appeared between the tents and fell in step with Pollux. With one look at Castor's face, Pollux knew he had heard the news as well. “I get to kill him,” Pollux said.

  Castor nodded. “Fine. But don’t kill him too quickly.”

  “Fine.”

  “Gentlemen,” Barnabus tried again, “perhaps we should take some time to think through the ramifications of this action.”

  “Agamemnon!” Pollux yelled, catching sight of his brother-in-law up ahead.

  “Or we can just skip that and get right to the fighting,” Barnabus muttered.

  Agamemnon turned to face the approaching brothers with a smile. “Castor, Pollux, good to see—”

  Pollux slammed his fist into Agamemnon’s face. Agamemnon flew backward. A dozen of his men rushed to his defense, taking positions between Agamemnon and Pollux.

  Pollux ducked a spear aimed at his head, shoved the weapon aside, and kicked the man in the ribs. From the corner of his eye, he saw Barnabus give a weary sigh before clotheslining a man attempting to attack Pollux from the side. After that, Pollux had no time to think—only to react.

  He, Castor, and Barnabus stood back to back as Agamemnon’s men rushed them. Fists, swords, spears came in a flurry of attacks. But Pollux's fury was so great that he did not care. All he could see was Iphigenia. And his need to punish Agamemnon overrode everything else.

  As he kicked a man in the ribs, sending him into three others, he saw a disturbance at the back of the group of men, as if someone was fighting toward him. Hoping it was Agamemnon, he fought harder to reach him.

  But it was not Agamemnon. It was a large man who almost effortlessly flung Agamemnon’s soldier aside. He let out a yell that rang through the camp and into the mountains themselves. “Enough!”

  Everyone went still

  The large man extended his arm to Pollux. “I see you and Pollux are still as charming as ever.”

  Pollux clasped the offered arm. “Achilles.”

  Achilles gestured to the men littering the beach around them. “Care to tell me why I just beat up a good dozen men?”

  Pollux looked around for Agamemnon, but the coward was gone. “My niece was sacrificed by Agamemnon.”

  Achilles winced. “I am sorry, my friend.”

  Pollux grabbed a sword from the ground. “Thank you for the help. But I’m not quite done.”

  Achilles threw an arm around Pollux and steered him back toward the tents, leaning down so he could not be overheard. “It is not the time for this.”

  “He killed—”

  “I know. But Helen is still at risk. And human waste though he is, we need Agamemnon. And more importantly, his men.”

  Pollux shook his head. “No—he dies.”

  “Fine. But how about we do it after we get Helen back? I’ll even hold him down if you wish.”

  “I don’t need—”

  Achilles pulled Pollux to a stop. “Let us drink to your niece. Let us remember her and honor her.”

  Grief washed over Pollux. “She was just a child, Achilles.”

  “This world can be cruel to the innocent. Let us drink to her and immortalize her in stories.”

  Pollux caught Castor's eyes and the world of grief in them. He knew his own eyes had the same pained look. He was not thinking clearly. “All right.”

  Achilles clapped him on the shoulder and nodded to Barnabus with a grin. “It looks like the old gang is gettin
g back together. Let us take a moment to enjoy it before we begin this bloody business.”

  Pollux could not believe it was Achilles who was talking him down. Achilles, who as a teenager would start a fight if someone merely looked at him wrong. And from reports, Achilles had not mellowed in the time since he had left Sparta; he had grown even more reckless, more angry. But this man walking next to Pollux was an older, wiser Achilles.

  Still, Pollux remembered the power of Achilles’s rage on that last night before he was banished. He was glad to have his powerful friend at his side. Because even with the gods themselves helping Paris, he did not think the boy prince would fare well against a wrathful Achilles.

  Chapter 55

  Within two days of Agamemnon’s arrival, the remainder of their force had arrived. Now all that remained was for the order to be given by Agamemnon.

  Agamemnon’s men created a path through the throngs of waiting men. He could feel their energy, their rage, their eagerness to fight, and he reveled in all that power being at his fingertips. Ahead, the wooden platform he’d had his men erect stood waiting for him. It was positioned to allow him to see almost all of the battlefield without getting too close. Anticipation and excitement rolled through him. This was the moment when all his carefully laid plans would begin to bear fruit. He climbed the steps to the platform, careful to keep his expression serious.

  A somber Menelaus walked behind him. His brother had thrown all his focus into war preparations, poring over every map and plan, inspecting the troops, and gathering information on their strengths and weaknesses. All that information he then conveyed to Agamemnon.

  Castor and Pollux flanked Menelaus. Agamemnon ignored them, although his eye still bore the signs of Pollux's greeting. Helen’s brothers were known for their incredible loyalty to Helen, and they apparently extended that loyalty to Iphigenia as well. He had not considered that. But it was no matter. Castor and Pollux were incredible fighters, and they would help the Greeks succeed. And once he succeeded, Agamemnon would make sure he repaid both Castor and Pollux for their insult.