David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“How are we going to find him?” the man answered. “The stable was empty. He could be anywhere.”

“He’s three years old and alone. He’ll be huddled somewhere weeping and shitting himself. Now go!”

The soldier lingered for a moment, looking around the bedchamber at the soft gleam of gold and jewels all around. Then he ran from the room.

Pelopidas sat down on the soft bed and rubbed at his left knee. There was swelling there, and the joint was stiff. Stretching out on the bed, he caught the scent of perfume from the pillow. Arousal swept through him. It was said the queen was slim and beautiful, though past thirty now, golden-haired and sweet of face. He chuckled. It wasn’t her face that interested him.

The bitch had to die and die slowly so that the Burner would hear of it and know it was vengeance for his raids on the mainland. Pelopidas felt his anger rising at the thought of the villages burned and sailors drowned by the vile Helikaon and his crew. Those crewmen would lose many of their loved ones before this night was over.

The Spartan took off his helm and dropped it to the floor. Rising from the bed, he stepped over to a flagon of water on a small table and took a great swig. Then he poured some over his head, shaking his braids.

He looked around assessingly at the bedchamber, its soft draperies and the gleam of bronze, copper, and gold in every corner. He breathed in the scent of flowers. Lifting the carved ivory box that the soldier had been searching, he saw the dark sparkle of jewelry. Reaching in, he pulled out a handful of gold and gems, scarcely glancing at them before thrusting them into the leather pouch at his side. There was a heavy gold bracelet worth a year’s pay, and he slid that into the pouch, too.

His eyes alighted on the huge wooden chest, its lid flung open as if left in haste. Inside, among folds of embroidered cloth, he could see the gleam of gems. Dragging out the top garment, he found it was decorated with gold wire, amber, and carnelian. He hesitated, wondering what to do with it, then snorted with laughter at himself. He could hardly carry a woman’s dress on campaign.

Filled with good humor, he bent down to delve deeper into the chest, searching for hidden jewelry. Suddenly he detected a movement deep in its depths, and in the heartbeat it took him to react, a face, white and ghostlike, surged up toward him. He felt an agonizing pain in his throat and fell back, blood gouting out in front of him. Panic-stricken, he clutched at his throat, trying to stop the fountain of blood. A small golden-haired woman climbed from the chest, a gory dagger in her hand.

Pelopidas struggled to his knees and tried to call out for help, but pain seared through his severed vocal cords and blood gouted between his fingers. The woman was staring at him with wide eyes. He felt his limbs weakening, his life draining away.

His head struck the floor, and he found himself staring at the pattern of deep red swirls on the rug. It seemed then that the rug was melting, crimson fluid spreading across it. A great calm settled on him. Something warm flowed across his leg, and he realized his bladder was emptying.

Have to get up, he thought. Have to find…

Halysia stood very still, watching the dying man thrash on the floor, his blood pumping over the ornate rug. Her thoughts fluttered like moths around the flame of reality. His throat was severed. She had killed him. But all she could think of was that the rug had been a gift from her father on her wedding to Anchises, embroidered with eastern silk. The blood will not come out, she thought.

Forget the blood, came the harsh voice of reason. Halysia blinked and took a deep breath. The warrior’s leg twitched. Then he was still. Stepping back from the body, she sheathed the dagger.

You must get out! They will return!

Donning the brown hooded cloak, she ran down the steps and through the shattered remains of the anteroom door. Pausing at the entrance to the megaron, she peered inside. All was silent. Her bodyguards lay slain, more than thirty enemy dead around them. The stone floor was awash with blood, the room thick with the smell of death.

Fear struck her anew, knotting her stomach. She wanted to run as fast as she could and put this scene of nightmare behind her. Failing that, she needed a place to hide, some dark and gloomy hole the enemy would not find.

Then the face of her son appeared in her mind. She was shaken by the image. Instead of seeing, as she usually did, the living proof of her rape and the constant reminder of the murder of her beloved Diomedes, she saw now his large imploring eyes and the sweetness of his mouth, so much like hers. Halysia gave a soft groan. At least Dio had known the love of a mother. He had been held and nurtured, caressed, and told many times how much she loved him. Little Dex, as Pausanius had so accurately pointed out, had been starved of her affection.

And now cruel men were seeking to kill him.

Instinct urged her to run out of the megaron to the stables in the hope that Dex was still there. Reason told her she would never make it. A running figure would be spotted. Halysia decided to make her way through the side entrance of the megaron, pass by the kitchens, and reach the stables from the back.

Determination fueling her courage, she made her way to the side door. She could hear shouting from beyond it and saw movement as a shadow crossed the doorway. Crouching down behind a column, she waited, not daring to breathe. Then there was silence. Carefully she rose and peered around the column. Whoever had paused in the doorway had moved on.

The kitchens beyond had been destroyed by fire. The wooden buildings must have gone up like tinder, she thought, but now the fire was largely over. A pall of thick choking smoke lay over the vegetable gardens in front of the building. Halysia slipped into the smoke, disappearing like a wraith in sunlight.

She could hardly breathe and dropped down to her hands and knees, hugging the stones, where a carpet of fresh air flowed gently beneath the smoke. Carefully she crawled along the path to the stables, her knees snagging in the drapes of her tunic and cloak. Along the way she passed many bodies, some dead, some mortally wounded.

Ahead she glimpsed movement and lay still. Mykene soldiers, some coughing and sputtering, came striding toward her. Pressing her face to the earth, she lay as one dead, eyes closed. Feet pounded close by, and then came a sharp command to halt.

A foot slammed into the back of her thigh. The soldier stumbled and swore. The pain made her bite her lip, but she made no sound.

“Damned smoke all over the place,” came a voice. “Can’t see a thing.”

“It’s no use running around in this,” said another. “Let’s get to the Landgate, kill the bastard defenders, and let the Atreans in. Then we can loot the place and get out.”

“Shut your mouth,” a third voice said irritably. “That boy’s head is worth twenty gold rings. Now, keep looking.”

The men hurried off. Halysia remained where she was until the creak of leather and their grunting breaths passed from earshot. Then she got to her feet and ran for the stables.

It was pitch-dark inside, and she could hear the horses moving anxiously, smelling the fires. She walked among them confidently, speaking quietly to them, patting the solid warm horseflesh that bumped gently against her as she felt her way through the stable.

“Dex,” she whispered into the gloom. “Are you here? Dex.”

She could hear nothing but the sounds of horses and the far shouts of men. Then she heard a command that caused her heart to beat wildly. “Fetch fire. If he’s hiding in the stables, we’ll smoke him out.”

The horses shifted and whinnied around her but soon calmed as she walked among them. Only the great black horse carried on clattering in his box, banging his flanks against the wooden sides and kicking out against the barred stall door.