David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“You killed my father!”

“Yes.”

“Who hired you for that?”

As the killer whispered the name, Helikaon cried out, and the scene darkened. A hand was stroking his face, and his eyes opened once more. Moonlight was shining against the dark frame of the window, and he could see patches of clouds in the night sky. “You must live, Helikaon,” said a vision that looked like Andromache.

“Why?” he answered wearily.

And now he was fighting on the stairs once more, Argurios beside him. He was so tired, and the Mykene kept coming, surging up at them. A hand touched his arm, and a voice said: “Walk with me, Golden One.”

“I have to fight,” he shouted, plunging his blade into the neck of an advancing soldier.

“The fight is already won,” said the voice of Argurios. “Come with me.” The world spun, and Helikaon was standing alongside the great warrior, looking down at the fighting, seeing himself, blood-spattered, struggling on. Then he saw the vile Kolanos draw back on his bow. And he knew the arrow was aimed at Argurios, knew that it would punch through his broken cuirass.

“No!” he shouted. “Argurios, beware!”

“I am here,” said the Argurios who was standing beside him. “The arrow has already flown. You see?” Helikaon looked at him and saw the shaft buried deep in his side. “You cannot stop what is to be, Helikaon. This was my time. Walk with me.”

And then there was sunshine, the glory of an autumn sunset. They were in a garden, watching the last light of the dying sun fade in the west. Argurios was dressed now in a simple tunic of white, his face bronzed by the sun. Gone were the signs of struggle, the deeply etched lines, the dark circles beneath his eyes. “Go back to the world, Helikaon. Live,” he said.

“I don’t know how,” Helikaon replied.

“Neither did I—for all but the last few days of my life. We are tiny flames, Helikaon, and we flicker alone in the great dark for no more than a heartbeat. When we strive for wealth, glory, and fame, it is meaningless. The nations we fight for will one day cease to be. Even the mountains we gaze upon will crumble to dust. To truly live we must yearn for that which does not die.”

“Everything dies,” Helikaon said sadly.

“Not everything,” Argurios said. A shaft of sunlight illuminated a white stone bench at the end of the garden. Helikaon saw a woman sitting upon it, watching the sunset. She turned to him and smiled. It was Laodike. Argurios walked away from him to where Laodike sat and kissed her. Then the two of them sat together on the bench arm in arm as the light faded. Helikaon felt lost and alone. Argurios turned toward him. “Go back,” he said. “She is waiting!”

His mind flickered, and his eyes opened. He was lying down now and could see the enchanted window to his right, bright stars shining in the sky.

“Come back to us, my love,” whispered a vision of Andromache.

Helikaon felt the warmth of a naked body slide alongside his, her arm over his chest, her leg touching his thigh.

“Andromache?” he whispered. It did not matter that she was a phantom. The moon shone brightly, and he saw her face, her beautiful green eyes looking down into his.

“Yes, it is Andromache,” she said. Her lips touched his, and he felt his heart quicken. Her hand moved down over his belly, and he groaned as arousal stiffened his loins. Her lips parted, and the kiss became more passionate. The pain from his wound faded. This was a new dream! A part of his mind expected her to burst into flame or the scene to shift to one of horror. But it did not. The warmth in him grew, his heart pounding. His good arm circled her back, drawing her down and across him. Her thigh slid over his hip, and now she was above him, straddling him.

The nightmare visions had no claim on him now. He felt the soft, wet warmth of her and surged up to meet it. She cried out as he entered her, then pressed down upon him, her hands cradling his face, her lips pressed to his.

Deep within him something awoke, and he felt it grow. It was a yearning for life, for joy. The phantom above him began to shudder and moan and cry out. The sound filled him. Then white light exploded behind his eyes, and he passed out.

He awoke to birdsong and the bright light of day.

Helikaon took a deep breath and could taste the salt upon the air. A plain-faced woman was leaning over him. He struggled to remember her name. Then it came to him. She was the Spartan princess, Helen, and he had seen her with Paris at the palace of Hekabe.

“How are you feeling?” she asked him.

“Hungry,” he told her. He struggled to sit, and she helped him, lifting the pillows behind him.

“I have some honey water,” she said, “but I will fetch you some food.”

“Thank you, Helen.”

She smiled shyly. “It is good to see you recovered. We were all very worried.”

He drank some honeyed water, and Helen left the room to fetch him breakfast. Leaning to place the empty cup on the table beside the bed, he winced. The wound under his armpit was still painful. He glanced down at his chest and arms. So thin, he thought, touching the jutting collarbones and tracing the lines of his ribs.

The door opened, and Andromache came in, carrying a bowl of fruit. She was wearing a long dress of shimmering scarlet, her red hair held back from her face by a headband of ornate silver set with emeralds. She looked thoughtful and concerned as she laid the fruit bowl beside the bed. She did not sit beside him but stood watching him.

“It is good to see you,” he said. “By the gods, I feel I have been torn back from the grave.”

“You were very sick,” she said softly, her eyes on his.

“You need have no more fear for me,” he told her. “My strength is returning. I slept last night with no dreams. Well, save one of you.”

“You dreamed of me?”

“I did, and it was a fine dream—a dream of life. I think it was that dream that cured me.”

She seemed to relax then and sat down by the bedside. When she spoke, her voice was cool, her tone distant. “Everyone thought you were dying, but Gershom found a healer. He cleansed your wound. Once it is fully sealed, you will need to swim and to take walks to build your strength.”

“What is wrong, Andromache?” he asked.

“Nothing is wrong,” she replied. “I am… pleased you are recovered.”

“You talk like a stranger. We are friends, you and I.”

“We are not friends,” she snapped. “We… I… I am to be wed to Hektor, and you to Halysia.”

“And that means we cannot be friends?”

“I do not see you as a friend, Helikaon. I cannot.” She looked away, staring out of the window.

“You know that I love you,” he said softly. “As I have never loved another woman. That will always be true.”

“I know,” she said, her voice bitter. She swung back toward him. “I feel the same. And that is why we cannot be friends. I cannot sit with you and make idle chatter and laugh at silly jests. You fill my mind, Helikaon. All the time. Even in my dreams.”

“I told you I dreamed of you last night,” he said.

“I do not want to hear it,” she told him, rising. “Gershom is waiting to see you. And Antiphones. Xander came yesterday, too. He said he would return.”

“Where is Hektor?”

“He sailed with the Xanthos in search of pirates. He is expected soon.”

Helikaon looked into her face. “I thank you for saving me, Andromache,” he told her.

“It was not me. I told you. Gershom found a healer.”

“No,” he said sadly. “It was you.”

Andromache strode out into the long garden behind the palace, her bow in her hand, a quiver of arrows slung across her shoulder. Targets of bound straw had been set by the far wall, cunningly crafted in the shapes of deer, boars, and men. Andromache notched a black-feathered shaft to the string, drew back, and loosed it.