Stella Gemmell - Fall of Kings

Not far to the west Helikaon stood on the aft deck of the Xanthos, his arm draped loosely over the steering oar, looking up at the sail stretched taut against the wind. He was at his happiest when the black horse danced over the waves. Although there were sixty or more men lounging about on the decks, gossiping, eating and drinking, laughing and telling tall tales, he felt alone with his ship when she was under sail. He could feel the shift and groan of the timbers beneath his bare feet, hear the finest vibrations of the huge sail, and sense through the oak of the steering oar the valiant heart of the galley. You are the queen of the seas, he told his ship as she cut through the waves, rising and falling with grace and power.

His eyes moved, as they always did when given the chance, to Andromache. She was sitting on the forward deck under the yellow canopy. The boys were curled up beside her. They had been running around the ship all morning, delighted to have the oarsmen at their beck and call to play games with them and tell them tales of the sea. Now, tired out, they were both asleep under the canopy, protected from the noonday sun.

Andromache was gazing back toward Thera, though the island was now out of sight. Helikaon knew her heart now and understood that she did not regret leaving Kassandra, as the girl had asked. Yet it had made Andromache sad to leave her sister to a lonely death, cared for only by the old priestess. Helikaon had spent some time since their departure cursing himself for not climbing the cliffs to fetch the girl, then had put those feelings aside ruthlessly. The decision was made. He always would remember Kassandra with love, but she was now part of the past.

He left the steering oar to Oniacus and walked down the length of the ship, drawn helplessly toward his lover. He made himself pause as if to inspect the racks of weapons—swords, shields, and bows and arrows—stored beneath the rails. As usual, thanks to Oniacus’ watchful eye, they were all immaculate, cleaned and ready for action if needed.

“Where will we beach tonight, Golden One?” asked gray-bearded Naubolos, a veteran who had sailed on the Xanthos since the launch in Kypros and on the Ithaka before that.

“At Pig’s Head Cove or on Kalliste if the east wind is our friend.”

There were shouts and grunts of approval from the men. Even before the war, the whores on Kalliste had been more welcoming than any others on the Great Green. Now there were fewer ships sailing these waters, and a galley the size of the Xanthos would receive an enthusiastic greeting.

Helikaon moved on. He checked the great chests holding the nephthar balls in their protective cocoons of straw. There were only ten left. He frowned, then dismissed the problem. It could not be helped. There was a good chance they would reach their final destination without seeing another ship, let alone a hostile one.

His feet registered a minute shift in the direction of the ship, and he looked back along the deck. Oniacus was steering the galley to catch the wind as it shifted slightly north. Helikaon gazed back the way they had come. There was no longer any sign of the Bloodhawk. The Xanthos’ greater speed had left the smaller ship farther and farther behind.

“How are you, Agrios?” he asked a leathery old sailor sitting on the deck with his back to a rowing bench. The man had suffered a terrible injury to his arm in a battle off Kios in the summer when a Mykene warship had plowed along the side of the Xanthos, ripping into its oars. Agrios had been hit by an oar as it whipped back at him before he could get out of the way. His arm had been broken in so many places that it could not be set, so it was cut off close to the shoulder. The old man had survived the amputation, and when he was recovered, Helikaon allowed him to return to the rowing benches, for Agrios swore he could row as well with one arm as most men could with two.

The man nodded. “All the better for knowing we’ll be on Kalliste tonight.” He grinned, winking.

Helikaon laughed. “Only if the wind stays fair,” he said.

He walked to the forward deck, aware that Andromache was watching his every step. She looked wonderful today, he thought, in a saffron robe cut roughly off at the knees. She was wearing the finely carved amber pendant he had given her, and the sparks of warmth in the stone matched the fire of her hair.

Her face was grave, though. “You are thinking of Kassandra,” he ventured.

“It is true that Kassandra is never far from my thoughts,” she confessed. “But at that moment I was thinking of you.”

“What were you thinking, goddess?” he asked, taking her hand and covering her palm with kisses.

She raised her eyebrows. “I was wondering how long we were to pretend we are not lovers,” she told him, smiling. “It seems I have my answer.”

Facing away from the crew, Helikaon felt a hundred eyes on his back, and he heard the lull as the men stopped talking. Then, almost instantly, the normal chatter resumed as if nothing had happened.

“It seems they are not surprised,” he told her.

She shook her head, her face glowing with happiness.

“Golden One!” Helikaon turned to see Praxos running down the deck toward them. The boy was trying to point backward as he ran. “There is a storm, I think!”

Helikaon looked quickly in the direction in which Praxos was pointing, toward Thera. On the clear line of the horizon there was a small dark smudge. It was like a storm but not a storm. As he watched, it rose into the shape of a dark tower. A feeling of dread formed in the pit of his stomach. There was a distant roll of thunder, and all the crewmen turned to watch the black tower rising ominously into the pale sky.

Heartbeats passed as it climbed and climbed. Then, suddenly, it was consumed by a massive eruption of fire and flame, filling the sky to the east. The sound of the eruption hit them like the noise of thunder increased a hundredfold, like the deep blast of Ares’ war horn or the crack of doom itself.

“It is Thera!” someone cried. “The god has burst his chains!”

Helikaon glanced at Andromache. Her face was as white as clean linen, and there was fear in her eyes. She pointed to the horizon, and he looked again. The cloud of the explosion, spreading swiftly out and upward, darkened the eastern sky. But it was vanishing mysteriously from sea level upward. Baffled, Helikaon gazed at the horizon. It was rising as he watched.

With awful clarity he knew what was happening.

“Take in the sail!” he shouted. “Get to your oars now!”

He ordered Oniacus to turn the ship around, and as his second in command shouted to the rowers, Helikaon grabbed a length of rope from the deck. With his bronze dagger he sliced it in three pieces. He thrust them at Andromache.

“Get the boys onto the lower deck and tie them securely to something solid. Then tie yourself down.”

She stared at him. “Why?” she asked. “What is happening?”

“Just do it, woman!” he bellowed at her.

Pointing toward the high horizon, he addressed the crew. “That is a wall of water coming toward us, as high as a mountain! It will be upon us in moments. We must all tie ourselves down. Anyone who is not securely tied will die! We will row straight into the wave, and the Xanthos will climb it! It is our one chance!”

Now they all could see it for what it was, a dark line of horizon much too high in the sky, coming toward the ship with the speed of a swooping eagle. In front of it was a huge flock of gulls, flying frantically away from the great wave. As they passed over the Xanthos, the sky darkened, their screams beat on the men’s ears, and the thrashing of their wings created a wind that rocked the ship.