Troy: A Brand of Fire
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TROY: A Brand of Fire
Copyright © Ben Blake
The author has asserted their moral rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Cover art by Mark Watts
Also available in print at online retailers..
Also by Ben Blake
The Risen King
Blood and Gold (Songs of Sorrow volume 1)
The Gate of Angels (songs of Sorrow volume 2)
Praise for Ben Blake
For Blood and Gold
A compelling read… I thoroughly recommend you to read this book. (SGT)
For The Risen King
A wonderfully engaging story. (Johnny B)
Mr Blake has a great understanding of culture; how to weave it into a story… I really would like to see a sequel. (C Sheehan)
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Author
Troy
Volume One
A Brand of Fire
O’er our victim come begin!
Come, the incantation sing,
Frantic all and maddening,
To the heart a brand of fire,
The Furies’ hymn,
That which claims the senses dim,
Tuneless to the gentle lyre,
Withering the soul within.
Aeschylus
Book OneBlood Red Roses
Chapter One
A Thessalian Field
The great boar turned at last just beyond the woods, in a wide vale sprinkled with the crimson droplets of anemones.
The chase had lasted half a day by then, and the heroes and princes of Greece were strung out across the hills like ants in the sun. Fewer than half of those who had roused the beast from its peace in the wood remained to fight it when it turned, and those were all tired beyond reason. Many of them didn’t get their spears down in time.
Castor, the heir to Sparta, was picked up on a tusk and tossed thirty feet through the air, a broken leg flapping like a torn sail.
Chaos reigned after that, as men struggled to bring the points of their spears to bear on the rampaging animal. Atalanta shot the creature but missed its eye, and her arrow did nothing to slow it. A bronze knife, thrown by no less than Theseus of Athens, whipped over the boar’s shoulder and buried itself in the thigh of Telamon, who gave a fearful bellow as though he was a beast himself. He took a step forward and fell over.
The boar was upon him in an instant, mouth gaping to reveal rows of curved yellow teeth.
It ran straight onto another man’s spear, driving the bronze point deep with its own rage and momentum. Even then it didn’t stop attacking. It began to chew along the ash length of the spear, impaling itself more with every convulsion but also coming closer to the man at the other end. The air was filled with grunts and drops of porcine sweat. The animal reached the middle of the spear and was stopped, foiled by a crosspiece of wood put there for just that purpose. It roared and thrashed even harder.
Then ageing Theseus was there, driving with his legs to thrust his own spear deep into the boar’s flank. A moment later the young prince of Mycenae, Agamemnon, did the same from the other side. And then everyone joined in, ramming spears from all angles while the pig screamed and flailed in utter fury, until finally it made a strange coughing sound and died.
The men let go of their spears cautiously. Behind them Atalanta came up, an arrow still half-drawn and her eyes sharp. But the boar didn’t move. Arms wiped sweat from faces, and a few men found the energy to smile.
“Well,” Theseus said finally. He turned to the man who had first impaled the creature. “That was good work, Peleus. Artemis herself couldn’t have done it better.”
“Is it possible,” Telamon demanded, sprawled in the grass a short distance away, “that one of you kopros eaters might actually help me up?”