The Belial Warrior (The Belial Series Book 9)

by R. D. Brady

  A small twinge of jealousy reared up inside him when he saw Castor pat Menelaus on the shoulder, but Agamemnon shoved it away. Menelaus was loyal to Agamemnon above all others; Agamemnon had spent his life cultivating that loyalty. There was nothing that would change it.

  Dismissing the three men from his thoughts, he turned to the sea of soldiers staring at him. All the houses of Greece stood before him—a sea of battle-hardened men ready to fight to the death at Agamemnon’s command.

  Even among this majestic fighting force, one group stood out: Achilles and his Myrmidon. In size they eclipsed every other group. There were rumors that no man was considered for their ranks until he could wrestle a bear and fill a citadel doorway. Most discounted the tales, but seeing them standing together, legs braced, arms crossed over their powerful chests, even Agamemnon wondered if there might be a hint of truth in the tales.

  Achilles stood at their front, stone-faced. He looked like he could take on the gods himself. Some said he was a god. However, Agamemnon knew that Achilles had a fatal flaw: his love for Helen. Fool. Achilles could end this all in a moment with his abilities, but fear of what Helen would say or do stayed his hand. One woman had enraptured an entire world of men. All who gazed upon her seemed to fall under her sway.

  But that ability of hers was what had allowed all of this to happen. It was going to allow Agamemnon to go down in history as one of the world's greatest military commanders. So thank you, Helen.

  Agamemnon raised his arms. “Brothers, we have been brought together to right a grave injustice. Many of us were there when Menelaus was chosen as Helen’s rightful husband. All of us pledged to honor that choice.”

  He curled his lip. “But the prince of Troy has no such honor. He has stolen Helen from her rightful place. And his act is not against Sparta or Menelaus alone. He insults us all with his actions. Does he think so little of the power of the Greeks that he throws our pledge in our faces? Does he think so little of our ability that he thinks walls of stone can keep him safe?”

  “No!” the men roared back at him.

  “How dare he take a woman of Greece. And not just any woman—the queen of Sparta! She is beloved by the entirety of our people. She is the glory of Greece. And he dares to remove her from our land?”

  More yells answered him.

  “This injustice will not go unpunished. This insult will not go unanswered. Paris, and all of Troy, will pay for this violation. Helen will be returned to her rightful place. And Paris will be sent to his—under the heel of our sandals!”

  The men banged their spears and swords against their shields and yelled, “Helen! Helen!”

  Agamemnon smiled at their enthusiasm, feeling the bloodlust in the air. “Now go and retrieve our queen!” he yelled.

  The men turned and marched toward the walls of Troy. Agamemnon watched with satisfaction—a human wave of violence. Yes, go get the whore.

  Chapter 56

  The dream of Iphigenia had stayed with Clytemnestra throughout the long journey to Sparta. But as the shoreline came into view, she had begun to doubt. If Agamemnon had taught her anything these long years, it was how truly powerless she was. How could she possibly do anything to help Helen?

  So she had gently pushed the dream aside and focused on the business at hand: saying goodbye to her beloved daughter. Morcant had suggested interring Iphigenia in Mycenae, but Clytemnestra would not hear of it. The only place her daughter would rest easy was in Sparta.

  Now Clytemnestra climbed the same hill where she had said goodbye to both her father and mother. The entire household was present to pay their respects.

  Darius gently laid Iphigenia’s body on the pyre. Hermione clasped Clytemnestra’s hand, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her grief was raw and palpable. Iphigenia had been her older sister, her best friend, her confidante. In a strange way, the depth of Hermione’s grief was a comfort to Clytemnestra—it helped to know that someone loved her daughter as much as she did.

  Clytemnestra gently detached her hand from Hermione’s and, with a trembling breath, lit the pyre on fire. Then she stepped back and watched the flames consume her daughter. One by one the other mourners left, until only Hermione and Clytemnestra remained. The two of them stood together, holding on to one another, as Iphigenia’s body slowly turned to ash. They stayed until the last flicker had died away. Goodbye, my love.

  Early the next morning, Hermione and her brothers left for training with the guards. Without their company and distraction Clytemnestra felt lost. She spent the days wandering aimlessly around the citadel, looking for some sign of what Iphigenia had wanted her to do. But there was nothing. Just reminders of Helen and Iphigenia's absence.

  Clytemnestra had finally decided she would leave for Troy. Perhaps there she would find a way to help Helen. But fate had other plans as her door was flung open before dawn the next morning. She wandered aimlessly around the citadel, looking for some sign of what Iphigenia had wanted her to do. But there was nothing. Just reminders of Iphigenia’s absence. She planned to set sail for Troy, hoping something might speak to her. But fate had other plans.

  Her door was flung open before dawn the next morning. Boudica, trainer of the guards, pulled back the drapes. “Still in bed, I see.”

  Clytemnestra blinked against the light. “Boudica? What are you doing?”

  Boudica marched to the bed. Her tall, muscular frame towered over Clytemnestra. As a child, she had terrified Clytemnestra, and the years had only given the formidable woman an even harder edge. “What am I doing? What are you doing, daughter of Sparta? You walk around here like a ghost, or a mewling cow from Athens.”

  “How dare you! I mourn for the—”

  “You should be seeking revenge on those who took her. You can mourn when you, too, are dead. Or do you think this is how you honor Iphigenia?”

  Clytemnestra flung herself from the bed. “Do not ever speak of my daughter.”

  A smile slowly spread across Boudica’s face. “Ah, there is the Clytemnestra I trained. I thought Mycenae had gotten rid of her for good.”

  “Almost,” she muttered.

  For just a moment, compassion flashed across Boudica’s face. But then her scowl returned. “Well then, let’s see what else you remember. Training starts at first light, which means you’re almost late.” She started toward the door. “Don’t eat much, because you’ll probably be seeing it again before lunch.”

  Clytemnestra gaped as Boudica disappeared out the door. How dare she! And train? She hadn’t picked up a weapon since she had married Agamemnon. She couldn’t possibly train with the warriors again.

  But the idea of training, of losing herself in something physical, lit a spark inside her. She grabbed her tunic and quickly dressed. She’d need to get to the yard fast, because Boudica’s punishments for being late were legendary.

  Chapter 57

  Two months passed quickly. The news from Troy was not good. The Greek army was winning the skirmishes, but still had been unable to pass the walls of Troy. Clytemnestra knew she should grieve for the men who were losing their lives, but she could not work up the compassion. To be honest, she was enjoying the peace of having no one to answer to—save for Boudica during training hours. Her muscles had protested at first, but soon she longed for the aches and exhaustion. They always led to a dreamless sleep. And always, she kept watch for some sign to show her how she could help Helen.

  Then one day Hermione came into the training yard. She had been away the entire time Clytemnestra had been in training. She had just returned before noon but Clytemnestra had yet to see her. When she caught sight of Clytemnestra, she let out a cry. “Mother!”

  She sprinted across the yard, nearly getting killed more than once as she dodged between sparring matches. Soldiers yanked their weapons back to keep from striking the young girl. Oblivious, Hermione sprinted forward and flung herself at Clytemnestra’s legs.

  Clytemnestra went still. Hermione’s arms around her felt so much like Iphigenia�
�s that for a moment her heart stopped and her breath caught. But then she got hold of herself and laid a gentle hand on Hermione’s hair. “Hermione, it’s me. It’s Clytemnestra.”

  Hermione looked up, tears in her hazel eyes, confusion on her face. “Clytemnestra?”

  Clytemnestra nodded.

  “But—but, you look like Mother. You move just like her.”

  “We are twins. We look alike.”

  Hermione shook her head. “I’ve never confused you before.”

  “I know. You miss her. You are seeing her everywhere.”

  Hermione nodded, wiping the tears on her cheek, her shoulders slumping.

  “Why don’t you go to the kitchens? Cook made a cake this morning. She could be talked into an early taste for you, I’m sure.”

  “Okay.” She started to leave, then turned around quickly, her eyes still wet with tears. “Will you come?”

  “Yes. I will be along shortly.”

  “Okay.” Hermione walked back across the training field, much more slowly this time. Clytemnestra’s heart broke, as did the hearts of everyone else who watched her leave.

  Boudica stepped up behind her. “She’s right, you know.”

  Clytemnestra turned. “What do you mean?”

  “You are the picture of Helen. It is like having her here. The only difference is your hair. I bet you could even fool the brothers.”

  Clytemnestra laughed. “That’s—” Then she went still, her eyes snapping to Boudica’s face and a smile spreading across her own. “That’s perfect.”

  Chapter 58

  Clytemnestra had wanted to leave for Troy right away, to put her plan into action, but it took three days for Aegisthus to prepare her ship—and besides, she was worried about Hermione. Boudica promised she would do her best to keep the girl distracted in Clytemnestra’s absence; Clytemnestra felt a twinge of doubt as to what Boudica might think was a suitable distraction, but she also knew that Boudica, for all her gruffness, had a soft spot for children.

  The voyage to Troy took five days. The winds were in their favor. They arrived south of Troy in a cove, and Clytemnestra and Aegisthus made their way across the land, careful to stay out of sight.

  But when they reached the Greek camp, Clytemnestra grew uneasy. Back in Sparta, she had begun to feel at peace—but here, the reminders of Iphigenia’s violent death were all around her, in every face she saw. And the confidence she had regained began to slip as well. In her mind, she could hear Agamemnon taunting her weaknesses. No, she thought, forcefully. I am not that woman any longer.

  Despite her attempt to keep her doubts and insecurities at bay, though she felt raw and unbalanced. But she couldn’t let her brothers see any of that. If they did, they would never help her.

  Aegisthus went ahead and found the brothers’ tent, then returned to Clytemnestra to lead her to them. Aegisthus stood guard outside the tent as Clytemnestra took a deep breath and ducked inside.

  Castor turned to her with a frown. “Who—” And then he went still.

  Clytemnestra saw the look of shock splashed across her brothers’ faces.

  “Helen?” Pollux asked.

  Clytemnestra shook her head and lowered her hood. “Close.”

  “Clytemnestra? But your hair…” Pollux touched her golden locks.

  “Easily changed. Did you really think I was Helen?”

  Castor nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. “It’s uncanny.”

  “Well, if I can fool you two, I can fool anyone.”

  Pollux frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I have a plan to get Helen out.”

  She explained what she had in mind. But before she was even finished, both brothers were shaking their heads.

  “No,” Pollux said. “It’s too dangerous,”

  “It’s not,” she insisted. “It’s the only way. We need to know what’s going on. And we all know Helen hasn’t taken up with that idiot.”

  Pollux grinned. “You actually sounded like Helen just now.”

  Pollux slapped Castor on the arm. “Don’t encourage her.”

  “Ouch.” Castor rubbed his arm before he turned to Clytemnestra. “I agree with Pollux. It’s too dangerous.”

  “As dangerous as it was for Iphigenia when I stayed out of it?” Clytemnestra took Castor’s hand. “I have to do this. For Iphigenia.”

  Castor’s face fell. “Oh, sister, I am so sorry. We never told you—”

  She waved his words away, not wanting to give her grief an inch. “I know you loved her.”

  Castor nodded at Pollux. “He nearly killed your husband. Achilles stopped him before he could.”

  “A shame he held you back,” she murmured.

  “My thoughts too,” Pollux said darkly.

  Clytemnestra suffered a sudden image of Iphigenia staring at her, blood pooling along her neck. She gripped Castor’s arm. “You must let me do this. I cannot sit back any longer and watch my family be destroyed. Helen needs us. Helen needs me. And I will find a way to help her, with or without you.”

  “No,” Castor said. Next to him, Pollux nodded his agreement.

  Clytemnestra looked between her brothers. She pictured the strong women in her life—her mother, Helen, Boudica, even Adorna. They had a way of making others do as they wished. And damn it, she wanted to be one of them.

  Summoning her courage, she crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Yes.”

  Chapter 59

  Troy, Turkey

  Helen sat on the balcony, her back resting against the palace wall, her knees pulled into her chest. The war had been going on for two months now. She had listened to the cries of men losing their lives. Did she have the right to doom them to this war? All these men were someone’s son, someone’s father, someone’s brother. Did she have the right to put her children before the lives of potentially thousands? But how could she sacrifice her children?

  When the fighting had begun, Paris had gleefully told her that all the people she cared about would be destroyed. Helen knew his promise of death to all she loved was a young man’s boast. But men would die. Men she cared for. And all because a stupid little boy was reaching for a treasure he did not deserve. He was a pawn.

  And what are you, if not the same? If she was honest, the voice at the back of her mind was right. Paris had pulled the one string guaranteed to make her jump.

  Helen rested her head on her knees and stared at the night sky. Did Paris not realize how many would die? How many already had? And for what? Her alleged honor? An honor, according to the rest of the world, that she had already abandoned as soon as she had run off with Paris.

  She had racked her brain trying to understand the motivation behind the events that had been set in motion. And she had done what research she could. King Prima had been kind enough to let her use his extensive library, and Helen had found a little-used section that addressed the Fallen. After re-reading the tale of their fall, she could come to only one answer: Samyaza and Zeus were gathering their forces.

  But what was “Zeus” up to? She knew Zeus had been taking out Fallen who weren’t interested in working with him, and she knew Zeus was behind Paris’s move. But were those two actions connected? And why focus on Troy? Was Zeus on Troy’s side? But even that made no sense. The battle was happening on Troy’s doorstep. Even if Troy was victorious, they would gain nothing after having lost much.

  Did that mean Zeus was on the side of the Greeks? But then why sacrifice so many of Greece’s sons? And for what purpose? And if they won, Troy would be destroyed. There would be little treasure for the victor when split amongst all the houses who had waged the war.

  Helen wanted to pull her hair out and scream in frustration. This makes no sense.

  She was going around and around and getting nowhere. She needed to focus. And she was certain that the key to all of this was finding out who Zeus was. He had to be someone with power. Or at least someone connected to power. Samyaza was a master at working behind the sce
nes. Could he be the real mastermind?

  The door to her room opened behind her. Adorna had gone to the kitchens to retrieve some dinner for Helen to eat in her room. After hearing the latest death toll, Helen couldn’t bear to eat with Paris or his family. She didn’t trust herself to not rip out Paris’s throat—and she pitied his family, who had all been put in jeopardy because of their ridiculous son.

  “I’m not hungry, Adorna. You go ahead,” Helen called, not taking her gaze from the night sky.

  Adorna stepped onto the balcony. “I’ve brought a guest for dinner.”

  Helen sighed. “Adorna, you know I’m in no—”

  “I think this guest will be to your liking.”

  Shaking her head, Helen uncurled herself from the ledge and stepped into the room.

  A woman stood by the door, her face covered in a veil. Helen had seen a few women around Troy dressed as such. Sometimes it was due to mourning, other times due to a strict husband or father who did not want their daughter’s virtues seen by any men.

  “Can I help you?” Helen asked.

  The woman pulled back her veil. “Actually, I think it is I who can help you.”

  Helen stared at the woman in disbelief. “Clytemnestra?”

  Her sister smiled.

  Helen could not believe that her sister was here in Troy, in her room. She also marveled at her sister’s appearance. For once, they looked like the twins they were. Clytemnestra had turned her hair as blond as Helen’s, and there was a color to her cheeks, as if she had spent time outdoors. Gods’ truth, they’d be impossible to tell apart now, except among those who truly knew them.

  “How did you get in?”

  “Pollux brought me over the wall and quickly returned to the other side.”