I find Damastor – not Bria – waiting by the cave mouth, ashen faced, crouched just out of the rain, which is heavier than ever. When I appear through the clouds of smoke, he gives a soft squeal of alarm and then relief.
‘You… you made it,’ he pants, rising.
‘I did indeed.’ I give him a weak smile. ‘Do you know who I am?’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t… I can’t…’
‘Call me… Xenos,’ I tell him – ‘Stranger’. It’s safer, if we’re captured, that he knows as little as possible. It occurs to me that he may not even know about his host. ‘What do you know of Bria?’
His eyes light up. ‘Yes, yes, Bria. She… I…,’ he stammers, struggling to convey who and what Bria is to him. He probably thinks I’ll either condemn him as a madman, or as some kind of lover of evil spirits.
I take pity. ‘I understand Bria,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t condemn what she does.’ Not as much as I should. ‘I’ll get you out of this, I promise.’ And then, I add silently, you might want to re-evaluate your choices. Most people who let Bria into their lives end up dead, in my experience. Or pregnant, though he doesn’t face that issue, at least.
Damastor seems to take heart from this. He stands, trembling both from the cold and his recent ordeal, but he sets his jaw. ‘What happened in there?’ he asks. ‘Why am I here? Where’s… where is Bria?’ His lower lip begins to tremble again.
I grip his arm, make him look at me. ‘She had to go.’ For whatever reason – I’ll get that from her when I see her next. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll look after you, but we must leave. People will be realising that something’s wrong, and they’re going to be really, violently angry.’
To put it mildly.
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t worry, I piss people off every day.’ I clap his shoulder. ‘Follow me.’
We heft our packs, abandoning whatever we don’t absolutely need to save weight, and don our cloaks over the top. The wool is cold and clammy to the touch, but the cloth is rubbed full of lanolin, which will help shed the worst of the rain. And once we get moving, we’ll soon warm up. I lead Damastor up out of the hollow, alarmed at how weak my legs feel. Sorcery always takes its toll, but I’ve slowly adapted to it, so that my recovery is faster than it used to be. Even so, what I’ve just done is far greater than anything I’ve attempted before, and at the very least it will be a while before I can use my magical powers again.
It’s pitch black under the trees and I have no idea how long we’ve been underground – the powers that rule the liminal space on the fringes of the other world and beyond pay scant attention to time. But out here in the real world it’s clearly still night.
Behind us, where the shrine must lie, I can hear raised voices, an incantation cut off by a curse, followed by angry shouts. The horn sounds again, more urgent than before. We have no time to lose.
Despite the hazards of the flooded ravine, it offers the only chance of escape. The Trojans have horses and they would soon ride us down if we took the main road. We can’t risk being seen so, with regret, I extinguish the torch, praying that dawn won’t be far off. I lead the way, using my enhanced theios ability to see in the dark, with Damastor clinging to a fold in my cloak as he blunders after me.
All goes well while we’re in the forest, bar the odd stumble, but as we start to climb up out of the valley, I hear dogs barking behind us, and as we labour up the slope, we see torches winking in the forest below. I silently curse my stupidity – the rope and the sopping clothes we left on the cave floor will have given those hunting us our scent.
The flooded ravine is now doubly our best chance. It will throw the hounds off our trail, provided the water level hasn’t swamped the ledge, so we press on. Dawn comes in a flurry of sleety rain as we reach a low gap in the ridge between squalls and spy a line of men straggling up the mountain below us. They’re closer than I’d expected and they see us too, judging from their cries.
Down we plough, towards the forest above the ravine, in a flurry of wet snow. I’m praying that our enemies are as tired as we are, that the tangled undergrowth under the pines will mask where we chose to climb down the cliffs, and that the engorged river below us might have receded a little.
At last we’re standing at the top of the cliff, the thunder of rushing water now the only sound we can hear, louder even than I remember when we left it. The reason becomes evident once we’ve clambered over the spur at the bottom of the climb and reached the water’s edge. The river is now lapping at the ledge Bria and I traversed when we came up the gorge, and the torrent is raging, with fallen trees and debris swirling by. All it needs is one surge of water and we will be swept away.
‘It’s impossible!’ Damastor cries, his voice thick with dismay. I’m inclined to agree.
If it’s this bad up here, what’s it like further downstream?
I glance back, assessing our options. ‘We’ll try and find another way,’ I tell him, bellowing in his ear to be heard. He bites his lip, panic in his eyes. But there’s no point hiding my concern. I don’t know these lands – Bria’s the expert. We go back over the spur and I plant my feet on the first footholds when movement catches my eye and I look up…
There’s an armed man just ten yards above us, harnessed in leather and bronze, his head clad in the conical helm of the east. His features are swarthy, and the sword in his hand is curved. There’s half a dozen more behind him, rain-drenched and surly.
Trojans!
The lead man does what any brave soldier would do, when confronted by an enemy weighed down by a pack and with his sword sheathed. He roars a battle-cry and hurls himself down the rock face, extending his sword as he leaps.
I back up, go for my xiphos but realise he’s too damned close. As he lands in front of me, I abandon the draw and duck under his full-blooded lunge. As the bronze blade flashes by I seize his arm, wrestler style and pivot, using his momentum.
My boots slip on the stone, and I crash to the ground as the Trojan hurtles past. Damastor throws himself out of the way – and the easterner vanishes into the torrent, his frantic cry cut off by a splash.
I lurch to my feet, the pack unbalancing me awkwardly, as the next man approaches, but this one’s more wary, pausing before he leaps and I manage to whip out my blade, yelling over my shoulder, ‘Damastor, head downstream. Over the spur and along the ledge! Go!’
I can only trust that he hearkens, for all my attention is focused on my attacker’s blade as he jumps down, the way his feet flash into position as he lands for an overhand slash. I deflect, two-handed, then drive my blade into his belly and hurl him into the floodwaters. As I do, I see more men appearing above me, two of them with spears at the ready. This wasn’t a good place to be to start with, and it’s suddenly a whole lot worse. I retreat over the spur but by the time I’ve scrambled down to river-level, there’s a man at the crest of the spur, with a narrow coronet round his plumed helm. The rain-drenched feathers are limp as a dead chicken, but I know his face: Skaya-Mandu, prince of Troy.
And he knows mine. ‘You!’ he snarls, in his own tongue, one I know well. ‘Take him! Take him alive!’ he yells over his shoulder.
If there’s one man I daren’t be captured by, it’s Skaya-Mandu. As his soldiers charge over the spur I retreat backwards, down towards the ledge. I need to get rid of the pack, which is hampering me badly, but it’s under my cloak. I pull my dagger out of my belt with my left hand, cut a shoulder strap, manage a tricky duck, turn and spin as the first Trojan slashes wildly at me, plunge my xiphos into his guts as his guard opens up and cut the remaining shoulder strap. It could have gone badly, but I nail it, impaling the next Trojan’s groin, back up in a whirl of blades, kick the pack into the river then dash for the ledge, darting a glance behind me. That’s how I see the spear that should have taken me full in the back, and swerve aside.
No sign of Damastor. Hopefully he’s well down the river by now. Or washed away, but I’ve no time to worry about that no
w. Once I’m on the ledge I run, water spraying from my feet as the Trojans close in behind me. Skaya-Mandu’s roaring my name, the frontmost pursuer is lining up a thrust between my shoulder-blades, and the path is narrowing by the second…
I drop and rake my legs into the front runner, taking him out at the knee and sending him shrieking into the torrent. I’m back on my feet in time to block an overhand cut from the next man, stab him through the base of the throat then kick the third Trojan in the balls as he heaves his comrade aside. He yells in pain, fumbles his sword stroke and takes my xiphos in the shoulder. I wrench it out as he folds in a gush of blood, alive but out of the fight, and extend the xiphos toward his fellows, who’re properly afraid of me now. I edge my way backwards along the ledge, which is well under water now, feeling my way with my feet. The crumbling bank is only a few fingers’ span to my right – any misstep and I’ll be swimming.
There are two men between me and Skaya-Mandu and neither of them wants to come near me, but he’s got more soldiers behind him. He snarls at me from his position of safety, and urges his men forward. Like me, he’s a theios, but despite the fact that this gives him an edge over ordinary men, he has a habit of getting others to do his dirty work. Like, now.
The surly arrogance that permeates his otherwise handsome, almost pretty face, contorts into hatred as he stares at me – hate that I must say I’ve richly earned: during the last two years I’ve beaten him to his knees, thwarted his people’s schemes twice and seduced his twin sister. Or did she seduce me?
So he absolutely longs to gut me. Last time we met, he almost succeeded.
‘Don’t you know it’s rude to attack a man unprovoked?’ I call, as I try to work out how I can escape without drowning myself.
‘Unprovoked?’ he sneers. ‘You’re an affront to the gods, Ithacan. The oracle has gone silent. I listened with the priests when that evil smoke appeared, and we heard your voice – I recognised your foul mouth instantly.’
‘Is your sister with you?’ I ask – to rile him, but also because I really, really want to know.
His eyes flare. ‘Kyshanda spits at the mention of your name,’ he shouts, which doesn’t answer the question.
‘I’m sure she’s better mannered than that,’ I respond, feigning a casual air which I certainly don’t feel. The two men in front of me seem to be gathering their courage – they’ll attack at any moment, and the space behind Skaya-Mandu, at the base of the spur, is filling up with more Trojans, a dozen at least. Some have bows.
The Trojan prince glances over his shoulder. ‘Archers, prepare,’ he orders.
The new arrivals give him doubtful looks – it’s pouring with rain again and their precious bowstrings are going to be ruined – but they obey: you don’t question an eastern potentate.
‘Send Kyshanda my warmest regards,’ I call. ‘Tell her that my heart still beats for her.’
This is true, unfortunately, though another part of me still believes she might be planning my betrayal.
The Trojan archers are almost ready, stringing bows and uncovering their arrow quivers, while their two comrades duck down out of the way. At this range, even with sodden strings and fletching, they can’t miss.
‘Aim for his legs,’ Skaya-Mandu orders them, in his own tongue. ‘I want him alive… for a while.’
I don’t wait – as the archers raise their bows, I sheath my xiphos, spin on my heels, and propel myself off the narrow ledge into the raging flood.
* * *
The first few seconds are the worst – the icy plunge into the torrent, battering against rocks beneath the surface, clawing at the cauldron of racing water while branches rake my torso and limbs, gashing my shoulder as I try to reach the surface before the air in my lungs is gone, my cloak weighing down my every movement. I’m spun head over heels through the tumbling blur of white, blue-green and darkness, all but helpless.
But I’ve not just thrown myself into the river blindly. I have a plan. There was a large tree coming downstream as I conversed with Skaya-Mandu, and the purpose of our wee chat was mostly so I could wait for it to reach us. I see it close by as I break the surface again, kick towards it and grasp a branch as it surges through the gorge, then duck and come up on the far side of the trunk, gasping for air. I grab onto it and look back.
An arrow flashes past my face, ragged cries echo down the gorge, and I see Trojan archers running along the ledge. But with each second the gap widens: in their heavy armour they can’t run easily, and the rock is awash and murderously slippery. Even as I watch, one loses his footing, goes in and doesn’t come up. More arrows rip by, and two bury themselves in the trunk of my tree, but in moments my pursuers are a bend or two behind me.
So far, so good, but this water’s freezing, cold enough to kill me, and the tree could flip on top of me at any moment.
I overtake Damastor a few bends later, roaring his name until he works out who’s shouting – the idiot clinging to a tree in a torrential flood, that’s who. He waves then runs alongside, unencumbered by armour, loping gracefully along and shouting something encouraging. By now I’m thinking that we’ve got away with this.
At least until Skaya-Mandu manages to get his men downstream, and we float into their midst…
‘Next bend,’ I shout, as the terrain becomes familiar. I’m pretty sure there are some shallows coming up, where this tree will hopefully catch on the riverbed and I can wade ashore. ‘Next bend!’
Damastor’s face breaks into a grin, he waves an arm… and then the bloody fool trips, cracks his head on a jutting rock and plummets into the river.
Cursing in disbelief, I clamber over the tree trunk, which immediately begins to roll, and leap feet first into the torrent where I think he might be. He’s not there, so I come up again, swallow a lungful of air, and plunge under the surface once more, almost braining myself on a submerged boulder. I kick myself out of danger just as I glimpse a dark shape being swept downstream under the lee of the ledge. While I’m not tall, I’m powerfully built and a strong swimmer; even so, the torrent is such that each yard sideways towards the bank is a monumental effort.
I grasp his arm just as we’re propelled over a waterfall into a deep pool. Somehow I cling onto him, wrenching his pack off, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him to my chest. I gulp another mouthful of air as soon as we break the surface, but go under again immediately. Just when I think we’re done for, my feet touch bottom. I wade to shore, my legs numb with cold, drag him out onto the gravel and collapse beside him like a beached whale as the rain turns once more to sleet.
It’s bitterly cold. Other men might have died of that alone. But Prometheus is all about fire – heat and energy. I conjure a little warmth into my bones, and come to my knees, slide my arms under the unconscious Damastor and with an almighty effort, lift him with me as I rise to my feet.
We’ve washed up on the far bank from the ledge, and that suits me very well. I glance back up the gorge and find it empty – though as I watch, one of the Trojans comes over the falls, and floats unmoving, face down, as the current pushes him through the pool. A moment later, another arrives, as dead as the first.
Any tracker with a brain will figure out that if our own bodies are not found here, the chances are high that we’ve escaped. Knowing Skaya-Mandu, he’ll not take my death on trust. We have to get away from here and fast, before the remaining Trojans catch up with us.
For once though, luck might be with me. My scabbard is still slung over my shoulder and – even more miraculously – my xiphos is inside the sheath. I bind Damastor’s head wound as best I can, stemming the blood with a strip cut from the hem of my cloak, heft him over my shoulder and stumble up the bank. Almost immediately, I find a series of goat-trails, rising up into low hills. All the while the rain’s pouring down like the Flood of Deucalion, washing away my tracks, a small blessing. Despite the wet and cold, I’m beginning to feel genuine relief, though I’m very worried about Damastor’s head – the young lad stil
l hasn’t regained consciousness.
I take the track that looks the least travelled and stagger along it, managing Damastor’s dead weight as best I can on the slippery ground. After a while, I find another path, marked by a shred of cloth, deliberately tied on a small twig. I rip it off, drag a broken branch into the mouth of the path to hide it, and set off, the track winding up through dense forest. Eventually I find a crofter’s hut in a small clearing, broken-doored and empty.
Perfect. My energy is still depleted after the sorcery and our gruelling journey since, and I feel a wave of gratitude – to the gods or plain luck, it doesn’t much matter which.
I get Damastor inside, scaring off a pair of nesting crows. The thatched roof is in bad shape and the hut’s been ransacked, but the hearth is sheltered from the rain and there’s an old byre in the corner, half full of dry straw. I break up the wooden frame of the byre and kindle a small fire, for light as much as for warmth, then I examine Damastor’s head wound. It’s a nasty gash and he’s bled a lot, despite my bandage: his pulse is thin, his breathing shallow and his skin deathly cold.
One thing I haven’t learnt yet is the magical art of healing. His life hangs by a thread and one mistake could easily kill him. But at least I can stop the bleeding. I cut another bandage from my cloak and bind the wound more tightly. That done, my first instinct is to put him as close to the fire as I can, to warm him up. But then I remember some old soldiers talking as we sat round the campfires outside Thebes: ice is the way you treat a head wound, they’d claimed. We younger ones had argued, but the veterans said they’d seen men die from being kept too warm. One had a story about having to abandon his badly injured mate in the snow, only to have the man walk into camp the next morning, bloody head and all.
So I undress Damastor, lay him on the straw in the corner, and wring as much water as I can out of his clothes. Then I ease his heavy woollen tunic back on him and cover him with his cloak, leaving his head exposed. Once that’s done, I wring out my own clothes, wrapping myself in my cloak after draping my tunic over the rocks surrounding the hearth, where it lies steaming.
Sacred Bride Page 3
