The Belial Warrior (The Belial Series Book 9)

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The Belial Warrior (The Belial Series Book 9) Page 25

by R. D. Brady


  Agamemnon felt satisfaction roll through him. He had known it would only be a matter of time before Achilles rejoined the fight. He had never met a man more crafted for battle than Achilles. “Well, let’s go see how he’s doing, shall we?”

  He strode forward, and Cergen bowed as he held open the tent flap.

  Agamemnon blinked at the bright sunlight but did not pause as he headed for his platform overlooking the battlefield. Now he could make out the chants of his men. “Achilles! Achilles! Achilles!”

  Agamemnon disliked the raw energy Achilles’s appearance had elicited, but he shrugged it off. It was he, Agamemnon, who held the real power, who held armies under his sway. Achilles was merely a weapon, a dog trained to fight. Of course the men cheered for him. Everyone loved a good dog fight.

  Agamemnon climbed the wooden platform and looked toward the gates of Troy. Achilles’s Myrmidon were easy to spot in their black armor and red leather skirts, and Achilles’s armor was even more conspicuous. The gold eagle displayed on Achilles’s chest sparkled in the sunlight as he flipped a man over his shoulder and stabbed another that had tried to sneak up on him from the side.

  Agamemnon smiled. The man was ruthless in battle.

  Not far from where Achilles stood, Hector fought just as ruthlessly. He slammed the hilt of his sword into one man’s face, kicked the chest of another, and then ran his sword through both.

  Soon, nothing separated Achilles and Hector. Warrior stood facing warrior. Agamemnon smiled, smelling the blood in the air. This will be good.

  Hector and Achilles circled each other. As if by some unspoken agreement, all the men near them stopped their own battles to watch.

  Hector struck first. Achilles easily sidestepped the move and brought his own sword up to retaliate. But Hector had only been bluffing. He kicked Achilles in the ribs, sending him sprawling.

  The Trojans began to chant the name of their king to be. “Hector! Hector! Hector!” Agamemnon frowned. He’d never seen Achilles stumble in a battle.

  The two men circled each other once again. This time Achilles moved first. He lunged at Hector again and again, forcing the man to retreat under a merciless onslaught. But then Hector parried and held, stopping Achilles’s forward momentum. Hector grabbed Achilles’ sword hand and slammed the hilt of his sword into Achilles’s face. Achilles’s head snapped back.

  Hector wasted no time bringing his sword around and catching Achilles just under his armor.

  The field went silent as blood poured from the wound in Achilles’s side. He lunged at Hector, but Hector neatly sidestepped the attack and swung again, catching Achilles at the base of his neck. Achilles fell to his knees and toppled forward.

  For a moment, not a sound could be heard. The Greeks stood silent as if in shock. Even the Trojans could not believe what they had witnessed. Then Hector raised his sword in the air, and the Trojans let out a scream of victory.

  “Enough blood has been spilled this day,” Hector yelled. “We leave you to collect your dead.” Then he turned, and with his men chanting his name and following behind him, he jogged for the gates of Troy.

  The Greek army didn’t even move. They could only stare at the fallen Achilles. Even Agamemnon was in shock. He had never thought the mighty Achilles would be bested in battle. Certainly not by a mortal.

  Agamemnon turned his gaze to the walls of Troy. We are well and truly lost now.

  Chapter 87

  His head fuzzy and his mouth dry, Achilles raised his head from his cot. “Patroclus?” he called. He swallowed, trying to get more moisture into his mouth. “Patroclus?”

  He reached below his cot for his wine bottle. He pulled it up to his lips and frowned. He turned it upside down, and a single drop hit the ground. Sighing, he dropped it back to the floor. He stared at the tent ceiling, reliving the argument with Patroclus. It wasn’t right. He needed to tell him why he would not fight. Patroclus would understand.

  He sat up, and soon the effects of the wine disappeared. He’d never been very good at getting drunk. He felt the effects all right, but they never lasted as they did with other men. It was a blessing at times, but there had been many a time when he had wished for the oblivion that other men seemed to find at the bottom of a bottle.

  He walked over to the basin and threw some water over his face. He wiped his face with a rough cloth and dropped it next to the basin. His stomach growled. A little food and all will be well.

  He stepped out of the tent and blinked at the bright sun, shading his eyes with his hand. A fire with a kettle of soup over it sat not far away. He walked toward it, the smell making his stomach growl even more.

  It took him a minute to notice the silence and shocked stares of the men he passed. He stopped short of the fire and looked around. A man near him backed away, almost tripping over his own feet.

  Dugal approached from the opposite side of the fire. “Achilles?”

  Achilles smiled. “I realize I’ve been in my tent for a while, but I don’t think seeing me walk around should result in this response.”

  Dugal’s mouth hung open.

  “Dugal?”

  Dugal shook himself. “You’re dead.”

  Achilles laughed. “Dead? Dead drunk, perhaps, earlier, but I assure you I now—”

  Dugal hurried toward him. “You don’t understand. You were felled in battle. I watched you die.”

  Achilles went still. “What are you talking about? I have not set foot on the field in weeks.”

  Dugal stared at him before yet again getting ahold of himself. “Something is gravely wrong here. Come with me.”

  Achilles wanted to demand the man explain himself, but he was not sure he wanted the answers.

  Dugal led him through the camp. Every man they passed did a double take. Mouths dropped open. Murmurs reached his ears.

  “Achilles is alive.”

  “The gods have brought him back.”

  Dugal stopped at a tent on the outskirts of the camp. Achilles’s Myrmidon stood guarding it, and they looked just as stunned as everyone else at Achilles’s approach.

  One of the Myrmidon opened his mouth to speak, but Dugal shook his head. He turned to Achilles. “Inside, Achilles, we will find our answers.”

  Trepidation running through him, Achilles stepped into the tent.

  Torches blazed, casting shadows across the body of a man lying on a table. The man was almost the same height and width as Achilles, and he wore Achilles’s armor. Achilles could see how, from a distance, the mistake could be made.

  His knees began to tremble and his stomach rolled. He stared at the face that he knew as well as his own. “Patroclus,” he whispered, and Dugal startled next to him.

  Patroclus stared straight ahead, seeing nothing. Blood had splashed across his face, helping disguise his identity from those too shocked to look closely. More blood soaked the bottom of his chest, staining the armor.

  Shock rooted Achilles in place. “Who?” he whispered.

  “It was Hector.”

  Hector. Achilles wanted to feel anger, but right now all he felt was loss—as if a hole had been carved out of his chest. Patroclus was the only family he had in this world—the one person who tied him to this planet in blood. “Tonight,” he said, “we honor Patroclus.”

  “Yes, Achilles.”

  Achilles forced his mind to thoughts of Hector. The Trojan prince was a worthy fighter and from all reports an honorable man.

  Achilles did not care. “And tomorrow, I will kill Hector.”

  Chapter 88

  Achilles had never felt grief like this. Raw and unending, it flourished inside him. He wanted to rip his own heart from his chest to make it stop. His skin felt like it was holding him in, when all he wanted was to be free.

  He had spent the night honoring Patroclus. When the time came, he had been the one to light his cousin’s pyre. And as Patroclus’s body turned to ash, Achilles’s last shred of restraint snapped. Anger boiled inside him, blinding him to everything
but his need to exact revenge. He would kill Hector—and he would drag his body through the land.

  He stormed into his tent, Dugal at his heels. “Bring me my armor.”

  “Yes, sir. I will clean it of—”

  “No.” Achilles bit out the word, picturing his armor smeared with his cousin’s blood. He would wear it as it was—to keep his cousin with him as he destroyed Hector. “Bring it as it is.”

  Dugal nodded, his eyes wide. “Yes, Achilles.” He ducked out of the tent.

  Achilles knew his men were worried about him. He could tell they were even scared of him. And they had every reason to be. Because if anyone, anyone at all, tried to get in his way, he would destroy them—like he was going to destroy Hector.

  Dugal returned with Achilles’s armor and silently helped him into it. Then Achilles grabbed his sword and stormed out. Dugal ran to catch up with him. The rest of his Myrmidon fell in line behind him.

  Achilles did not say a word as he made the long march to the gates of Troy. He did not slow, either, and some of his men had to jog to match his pace. All remained silent.

  Finally, the gates of Troy stood in front of him. Tall, massive gates that had never been breached. It took all of Achilles’s restraint not to simply bash them open. Instead, he looked up at them and yelled.

  “Hector!”

  Chapter 89

  The news of Achilles’s death had invigorated everyone in Troy—everyone except Clytemnestra. She had liked Achilles. He had never paid her much attention, not when Helen was near, but he’d always at least had a smile for her. For a few months, he had even met her early in the morning to help her with her fighting. Boudica had been amazed at her progress, and Clytemnestra had said nothing of her secret lessons. She did not think Achilles had told anyone of them either.

  But Clytemnestra was more upset for her sister’s sake than for her own. She knew Achilles’s death would bring pain to Helen. She prayed her sister did not hear of it any time soon.

  The family was in the morning room, finishing up breakfast, when they heard shouts from the hall. “Hector! Hector!”

  A soldier sprinted into the room, his face ashen. Clytemnestra recognized him as Hector’s right-hand man. Before now, she had never seen the man look anything but confident.

  Hector frowned, handing his son to his wife, Andromache. “What is it?”

  The man’s breaths came out in pants. “It is Achilles. He makes his way to the gates.”

  Priam moved to stand beside Hector. “Achilles is dead.”

  The man shook his head. “No. It was not Achilles that fell yesterday. It was his cousin, Patroclus.”

  Hector paled, as did almost everyone else at the table. Clytemnestra forced herself to look down at her plate in case anyone saw the relief in her eyes.

  Paris scoffed. “So? Achilles, Patroclus, it makes no difference. You killed one. You will kill the other.”

  Clytemnestra had no doubt they all knew how foolish Paris’s words were, but Hector ignored his brother. “Prepare my armor and tell the men to be ready,” he told his soldier. To his father he added, “I must prepare.”

  “Yes, my son. Make us proud.”

  Paris shook his head, looking around the table. “Achilles—he is just a man. Hector will beat him. I don’t see why—”

  “Be quiet, Paris,” Priam snapped before softening his voice. “Achilles is no mere man. You should go help your brother.”

  Paris gave his father a stiff bow. “Very well, Father.”

  Hector walked around the table to his mother. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “All will be well, Mother.”

  Hecuba touched his cheek. “Be brave, son.”

  With a smile for his mother and a nod for Clytemnestra, Hector left, Priam and Paris following.

  Clytemnestra watched them go, knowing she would not see Hector again and feeling the loss. Hector was a good man—and there were so few of them in this world. Clytemnestra was glad Achilles was alive, but the idea of Hector facing him… no that did not bring her any joy.

  “My dear,” Hecuba said to Clytemnestra, her voice shaky, “I am going to the parapet. Would you mind accompanying me?”

  Clytemnestra did not want to go—she had no interest in seeing Hector killed. But she knew how Hecuba felt. She had felt the same way as she had run through the crowd to be with Iphigenia. When you bring a child into this world, there is a cord that ties you to them, that makes you want to be with them at every moment, even the most painful. Especially the most painful. To make sure they know that they are loved.

  Clytemnestra stood. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Hecuba took Clytemnestra’s arm, and together they made their way up the long staircase to the battlement. As they stepped out, the guards looked over at them. More than one had regret in their eyes. They cared for their queen; they did not want her to see this. But none tried to stop her.

  Hecuba leaned heavily on Clytemnestra as they made their way across the parapet. The whole of the Achaean army stood arrayed before them—but one man stood out. It wasn’t his size or his armor, which was already covered in blood, that distinguished him from every other man on the battlefield.

  No—it was his rage.

  Hecuba let out a gasp. Her knees buckled and she began to tremble. Clytemnestra placed an arm around her waist; she did not know how the woman was still standing. If her own child were to face someone like Achilles, she could not bear it.

  No, that wasn’t true. She would bear it. She would have no choice. As a mother, she would never turn her back on her child. A child comes into this world through a mother’s pain. That pain changes form as a child grows, with a mother feeling every hurt of her child. But no matter the hurt, she will stand by him to let him know he is not alone. And so it was that Hecuba stood by her son, tears already pooling in her eyes, her body trembling.

  And then the gates of Troy opened, and Hector stepped out.

  Hecuba clutched Clytemnestra. “He will survive, won’t he?” she asked.

  Clytemnestra knew Achilles. She had seen him fight on many occasions. But the passion he held now—the same passion he had loved Helen with—was overwhelming.

  So she just held Hecuba closer. Because she could not bring herself to say out loud the answer that echoed through her mind.

  No. Hector will die.

  Chapter 90

  His legs braced, Achilles waited for Hector to appear. Death was a part of war—he knew that better than most. But Patroclus was Achilles’s home. And for someone to have taken his home from him—that was not just war. That was personal. And as such, Achilles would settle this debt himself.

  The great doors of Troy opened, and Hector stepped out. His armor had been cleaned, and Achilles seethed at the sight of it. As if Patroclus’s death was something the prince could wash his hands of so easily.

  Hector walked forward to face Achilles. “It was a good death, Achilles. Patroclus fought bravely.”

  The sound of Patroclus’s name on Hector’s lips broke what little semblance of control Achilles had. He leaped forward, not even drawing his sword, and slammed his fist into Hector’s shield.

  With a yell, Hector fell back, but he managed to stay on his feet. His shield now bore a giant indentation where his fist had hit.

  Hector drew his sword. “So be it. Patroclus’s death brought me no pleasure. Yours will bring me none as well.”

  “But yours will pleasure me greatly.” Achilles stepped forward, and Hector swung. But Achilles was already on the other side of Hector and shoving him with two hands. Hector stumbled, but again he did not fall.

  He whirled toward Achilles. “Will you not draw your sword? Will you not fight me with honor?”

  Achilles recalled a conversation he had once had with Patroclus about honor and duty. It had been a turning point in his life. He growled. “There was no honor in his death. There will be no honor in yours.”

  Hector swiped at Achilles’s legs. Achilles brought one foot down on Hect
or’s sword, pinning it to the ground, and kicked Hector in the chest with his other foot. This time Hector fell back, grunting. He got to his knees slowly, cradling his wrist to his chest. “I yield, Achilles. I yield.”

  In a blur, Achilles slammed his fist into Hector’s nose. Blood sprayed. Achilles grabbed Hector by the collar and dragged him to a chariot waiting on the side of the field. “Out!” he growled to the men in the chariot. They stumbled over one another in their haste to follow Achilles’s order.

  Achilles grabbed a rope and tied it around Hector’s neck. He tied the other end around the back of the chariot.

  Dugal grabbed Achilles’s arm. “Do not do this. Hector does not deserve this insult.”

  Achilles shoved him away. Hector struggled to his feet.

  Achilles leapt into the chariot. Taking the reins, he set the horses to a run.

  Hector was yanked off his feet. But the sight of Hector’s body being dragged did nothing to dampen the fire burning inside Achilles. He urged the horses to go faster.

  Chapter 91

  Achilles wound around the walls of Troy yet again. He had not stopped for food or water. All that accompanied him were the memories of his time with Patroclus and the deep hole in his chest reminding him that he was now alone.

  For a time, his men had implored him to stop and let Hector be buried. But Achilles drove faster, and soon they gave up. Now they stood silently, some watching, some turning their heads away in shame. Part of Achilles’s mind acknowledged he was committing an atrocity but the larger part of him could not work past his grief to care.

  Achilles wound around the side of the wall heading back to the front gate. His men still stood watch, but now a man stood at the gates, in the path Achilles had worn around the walls. His posture was stooped and his frame gaunt. As Achilles approached, the man put up a hand.

  Curiosity had him slowing the horses before he could think better of it. Priam, the king of Troy, nodded. “Thank you for stopping to speak with me,” he said. His voice shook, and his eyes shifted to where his son lay.

 

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