Authors: David Gemmell
“We don’t have the men to take a city,” Justinos said. “So rest easy. Tomorrow we’ll see which way the enemy marches and ride back to the army. Then it’s Carpea and home.”
“May Zeus hear those words and make them true,” Ennion said. “Now, which of you is going to relieve Olganos?”
“I’ll go,” Skorpios said. “I can’t sleep, anyway.”
Just then they heard a child’s cry echo through the woods. Banokles came awake instantly and rose, drawing his sword. Justinos grabbed his helm and donned it. Skorpios scrambled to his feet, along with Ennion and Kerio.
Young Olganos came running back through the trees. Banokles moved to meet him, and the others gathered around.
“A war party of Idonoi,” Olganos whispered. “Ten, maybe a few more.”
“Gather your bows,” Banokles ordered.
“Ursos said to avoid fighting,” Kerio pointed out.
“So he did,” Banokles said. “I’m glad you pointed that out. Now, gather your bastard bows and let’s see what we’re facing.”
With that he moved through the trees. Skorpios ran back and took up his bow and quiver of arrows. Then he set off after Banokles.
∗ ∗ ∗
The stars were bright above the forest clearing as the elderly nurse Myrine moved away from the sleeping children. There was a stream close to the abandoned logger’s shack in which they were hiding, and she hitched up her old gray gown and made her way to the bank. Stiffness in her swollen knees made it difficult to kneel and drink, but she had found an old cup in the shack and dipped it below the surface. The water was cool and refreshing, and she drank deeply. A small crack in the cup allowed some of the liquid to seep out over her hand. Pushing her fingers through her gray hair, she rubbed away some of the soot that clung there.
In the bright moonlight she saw that her gown was singed at the hip and that there were cinder burns on the sleeves.
Myrine knew nothing of sieges and battles, but she had heard the soldiers of the palace bragging of how they could hold out for months. She had believed them. Why would she not? They were fighting men and understood the ways of warfare.
Then the fires had swept through the wooden buildings, and enemy warriors had poured through the city of Kalliros, shrieking their awful battle cries. Myrine shivered at the recent memory. In the palace there had been panic. The young king—her own sweet Rhesos—had led his royal guards toward the action. His steward, the ancient Polochos, had ordered Myrine to take the two royal children to the west of the city and the barracks there.
But a fierce blaze was already raging through the lower town, and Myrine had been forced to take the northern streets. She had been carrying the three-year-old Prince Obas and clinging to the hand of his older brother, twelve-year-old Periklos. There was panic everywhere, with soldiers running through the flame-lit streets and panicked townsfolk streaming toward the eastern gates and the open land beyond. Myrine had steadily worked her way around to the north. Then she had seen the fighting and had realized there was no way to reach the barracks.
Uncertain of what action to take, she had decided to leave the city by the northern postern gate and make her way into the woods until the battle was over. It had seemed sensible at the time, for surely King Rhesos would destroy the foul invaders, and tomorrow she could return with his children. But from their vantage point in the high forest they had watched the fires spread. Worse, they had seen enemy cavalry galloping past the postern gate and attacking the fleeing townspeople. The slaughter had been great, and Myrine had taken the children deeper into the forest so that they would not see the murders.
Little golden-haired Obas had wept. The fires and the battle cries had frightened him, but Periklos had comforted him. He was a strong boy, like his father, dark-haired and dark-eyed, his expression always serious. Obas was more like his mother, the gentle Asiria, who had died in childbirth the previous summer.
“I want to go home,” Obas had wailed. “I want Papa!”
“Papa is fighting the bad men,” Periklos said. “We will go home when he has defeated them.”
Even there, high in the forest, Myrine could see the distant flames over the city. She knew in her heart that Rhesos had not defeated the enemy. She also knew that he would not have run while his people were in peril. He was too brave for that. Which meant that her sweet boy was dead. Tears began to fall, but she brushed them away and tried to think of what to do. Where could they go?
Her stomach tightened with the first flutterings of panic. They had no food and no wealth, and her swollen knees would not carry her far. Even now the enemy would be scouring the city for the princes, determined to wipe out the royal line.
To wipe out the royal line.
The thought of Rhesos once more filled her with heartache. The wind whispered through the trees, and she glanced up at the bright moon, remembering the day she first had been taken to the royal apartments. So long ago now. Little Rhesos, she had been told, was a disobedient child and needed firm discipline. King Eioneus had told her to beat him with a stick if he disobeyed her. Myrine had never done so. From the first moment she saw him, she loved him. An ugly, stocky woman, Myrine had never been courted and had resigned herself to a life of lonely service. With little Rhesos she had discovered all the joys and heartaches of motherhood. She had watched him grow from a skinny boy into a fine youth and a strong young man. Even as king, with all the duties of war bearing down upon him, he would smile when he saw her and hug her to him. When his first son, Periklos, had been born, he had brought Myrine to his palace to nurse him. And that had been the second great joy of her life, for Periklos was just like his father, and save for her growing infirmity, it was as if the years had melted away and she was young and a mother again.
Even the war and the fighting had not intruded on her happiness. Inside the palace all was peaceful and safe, as it always had been.
Until today.
Hearing movement behind her, she swung around, fear lancing through her. But it was not an enemy soldier. It was young Periklos. The prince squatted down alongside her. Immediately she filled the cracked cup with water and passed it to him.
“What are we to do, sir?” she asked him. Even as the words slipped out, she felt ashamed. Yes, he was bright, his mind swift as a striking hawk, but he was still a boy. She saw his face tighten, his dark eyes widening with fear. “Oh, I am sorry, dear one,” she said. “I was just thinking aloud. Everything will be well. I know it!”
“My father is dead,” Periklos said. “Nothing will be well, Myrine. They will come for us now, for Obas and me.”
Myrine did not know what to say to him, and his words filled her with dread. The darkness around them now seemed menacing, the whisper of wind in the branches eerie and threatening. “We will hide in the forest,” she said. “It is a big forest. We…we will not be found.”
Periklos considered her words. “They will offer gold to any who catch us. Hunters will come. We cannot stay here. We have no food.”
A child’s voice ripped through the silence of the night. “Periklos! Periklos!” little Obas shrieked, running from the ruined shack. The older boy ran to him, kneeling down beside him.
“You must not make so much noise,” he said sternly. “Bad men will find us if you do.”
“I want Papa! I want to go home!”
“Bad men are in our house, Obas. We cannot go home.”
“Where is Papa?”
“I don’t know.”
Myrine pushed herself painfully to her feet and walked across to the two boys. As she did so, she heard movement in the trees behind them. Periklos rose swiftly and looked around.
“It’s Papa! It’s Papa!” Obas shouted.
Three men stepped from the undergrowth. They were tall, their long blond hair braided, their faces streaked with paint. Myrine moved to the children, picking up Obas and hugging him to her. Periklos stood his ground, staring at the Idonoi tribesmen and the longswords in their hands. There was blood on their clothes.
“Now, you leave us alone,” Myrine shouted. “You just go away.”
Another seven warriors emerged from the shadows of the trees, their expressions hard, their eyes cruel.
Myrine backed away toward the shack. The leader of the Idonoi stared hard at Periklos. “You look like your father,” he said. “I’ll put your head on a spear next to his.”
Obas started to cry, and Myrine patted his back. “There, there, little one,” she said. “There, there.”
The warrior stepped toward Periklos and raised his sword. The boy stood still, staring defiantly up at him. “Do your worst, you coward!” he said.
Then another voice sounded in the clearing.
“It’s no wonder you sheep shaggers paint your faces. Ugliest bastards I’ve ever seen.”
Myrine turned to see a powerful man in shining armor move from the trees behind the shack. He was carrying two swords, one a saber and the other a short stabbing blade.
The Idonoi warrior swung toward him, the other men grouping together, weapons poised.
The newcomer halted some fifteen paces from the Idonoi leader. “Well?” he demanded. “Why are you just standing there? Balls of Ares, are you gutless as well as ugly?”
With a roar of fury the Idonoi rushed at the warrior, his men surging after him.
To Myrine’s surprise the newcomer suddenly dropped to one knee. A volley of arrows hissed through the air, slamming into the charging group. Four men fell, and two others staggered back, black shafts jutting from their upper bodies. The warrior in the shining armor came to his feet and launched himself at the remaining Idonoi. The battle was short and bloody. The newcomer tore into the warriors, swords hacking and slashing. The leader went down, blood gouting from his throat. Two others fell to arrows. The last man spun on his heel and ran.
Moments later two horsemen galloped from the trees, bows in their hands, and set off after the fleeing warrior.
Myrine felt weak and giddy. She tried to put Obas down, but he clung to her. Still holding the boy, she lowered herself to the ground, grunting as pain seared through her left knee.
The warrior in the shining armor walked past her to where one of the wounded Idonoi was trying to crawl back into the trees and plunged his short sword between the man’s shoulder blades.
Three other men, similarly armored, came into view. Myrine watched as a warrior strode across to the man who had saved them.
“The orders were to avoid battle,” the newcomer said, dragging off his helm. He was young, his hair dark and curly.
“Gods, Olganos, that wasn’t a battle! That was a…a skirmish!”
“Skirmish or not, it has increased our danger.”
“You regret saving the children?”
“No, of course not. I am glad they are alive. But I am more glad that we are. You know very well that we should have stayed hidden. If any one of them had gotten away, we’d have been forced to run, and then we wouldn’t have been able to complete our mission. And that mission is more important than the lives of two children.”
Banokles saw the old woman staring at him, her eyes fearful. Leaving Olganos, he strolled over and squatted down beside her. As he did so, the chubby blond-haired child in her arms began to wail.
“By Ares, boy, you make more noise than a gelded donkey,” Banokles said.
“My brother is very young and very frightened,” said the dark-haired youngster.
Banokles rose and turned toward the lad. “And you are not frightened?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Very wise. These are frightening times. I like the way you stood up to those ruffians. You’ve got nerve, boy. Now, comfort your brother and make him stop that damned squealing. It is making my ears ache.”
At that moment there came the sound of a running horse. Banokles rose to his feet as Kerio rode into the clearing and walked over to him. “I take it you caught and killed him?”
“Of course we killed him!” the wiry rider answered. “And I left Justinos at the tree line to keep watch for more of them.” The contempt in his tone rankled with Banokles, but he struggled to hold his temper.
“Did you drag the body back into the forest?” he asked.
“No, you oaf. I nailed it to a tree with a sign pointing this way,” Kerio answered, lifting his leg and jumping to the ground.
“You should do something about that nosebleed,” Banokles said.
“What nose—”
Banokles’ fist slammed into the man’s face, hurling him from his feet. His helm was knocked clear and clattered against a tree trunk. Kerio hit the ground hard and struggled to rise, but Banokles reached him first, grabbing him by the hair and hauling him upright.
“I’m going to ask you again,” he said. “Did you drag the sheep-shagging bastard back into the forest?”
“I did,” the redhead answered, blood dribbling from his broken nose.
Banokles released his grip on Kerio, who slumped down to the ground. Then he walked over to face the remaining three men. “Any one of you drooping cow turds want to call me an oaf? Come on! Speak your minds!”
Ennion stepped forward and stood quietly, tugging at his chin beard as if in deep thought. Finally he spoke. “In truth, Banokles, I do not need to be included in this debate, since I have already called you an oaf on many occasions. The last time, I recall, was at your wedding, when you decided to dance on the table, fell off, and got your foot stuck in a piss pot.” The men all laughed.
Banokles’ anger ebbed away, and he grinned. “That was a good day,” he said. “Or so I’m told. Don’t remember much.”
Justinos rode into the camp. “More men on the road, Banokles,” he said. “Looks like they are searching for something or someone. We need to move.”
“Who in Hades are they searching for in the middle of the night?” Banokles muttered. “They ought to be celebrating their victory.” Olganos tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the old woman and the two boys. Banokles walked over to where Myrine was sitting. “They are looking for you?”
“Yes, sir, I fear they are.”
“Why?”
“These boys are the sons of King Rhesos. The Idonoi will want them dead.”
Banokles helped the old woman to her feet. The chubby boy started to cry again. Olganos approached the nurse. “Let me have him,” he said softly, lifting the boy into his arms. “We are going for a ride on a magic horse,” he told him. “Have you ever seen a magic horse?”