David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

They stopped at the brow of the hill and looked down into the valley beyond. They could see a fierce red glow, and the acrid smell of smoke assailed their nostrils. As their eyes adjusted, they could see flames leaping from a group of buildings. The sounds of animals in distress reached their ears.

“Fire!” Kalliades shouted. “The farm is on fire!” Dark figures moved across the flames, and they could hear the clash of swords and the cries of wounded men.

Piria started to run down the hill. “Andromache!” she cried.

Unsheathing their swords, her two friends followed.

For a moment only Andromache froze. Then she heard a voice call out: “There she is! Kill her!” She saw a bearded swordsman pointing at her. Cheon, sword in hand, ran at the first of the killers, swaying aside from a sword thrust and plunging his blade into the attacker’s face. The man fell back. Cheon followed in, but an arrow ripped into his side. Other dark-garbed men rushed in, hacking and slashing at the dying Trojan.

Another arrow flashed past Andromache’s face. Leaving Cheon’s body, five men ran at her. Spinning around, she raced across the open ground toward the hillside. Then she heard a woman’s voice cry out.

“Andromache! Come to me!” Even through her fear she recognized the voice and glanced up.

There was Kalliope on the steep hillside above her, a bow in her hand. There were two warriors with her, one tall and dark, the other powerful and blond, wearing a leather cuirass covered with gleaming bronze disks. “Look out!” the tall man shouted. Andromache spun away once more. A bearded assassin was closing in on her, a dagger in his hand. “Got you now, bitch!” he snarled.

Andromache leaped at him, her foot cracking against his chest, knocking him from his feet. More attackers were close behind. An arrow from Kalliope’s bow lanced into the throat of the nearest, then the blond-bearded warrior ran past Andromache, blocking a sword thrust before sending a backhand cut into the face of an assassin. Blood sprayed from the wound. He shoulder charged another man, then rushed in to the following group, his sword hacking and cutting. The tall warrior raced in to fight alongside his comrade. Andromache saw more assassins, some nine in all, converge on the two men, and it seemed they must be overrun. Beyond them one of the youths who earlier had been trying to tame the stallion staggered to the doors of the blazing barn and managed to raise the locking bar. Terrified horses came thundering out, racing in panic away from the flames.

“Come to me, my love!” Kalliope shouted.

Andromache ran up the hillside toward her. Kalliope was still shooting arrows at the attacking men. As she scrambled up toward her lover, Andromache caught sight of a bowman some fifty paces distant. He loosed an arrow. Andromache hurled herself to the ground.

But the shaft had not been aimed at her.

She saw Kalliope stagger back, her bow falling to the grass, a black-feathered arrow jutting from her chest.

Anger, fierce and cold, swept through Andromache. Surging up, she ran to Kalliope’s side, sweeping up the bow and notching an arrow to the string. The bowman loosed another shaft, which slashed through her white robe, scoring the skin of her hip. Ignoring the pain, she took aim. The man, suddenly fearful, dashed toward the protection of the trees. Andromache gauged his speed, altered her aim, and let fly. For a heartbeat she thought she had missed, but the arrow drove into the side of his neck. His legs gave way, and he fell.

Taking another arrow, she swung to see the two warriors standing back-to-back and fighting furiously. The bodies of four assassins lay close by. Another killer cried out as the sword of the tall man lanced into his chest. Then one of the assassins at the rear darted around the fighting men and sprinted toward Andromache.

She let him come, then sent a shaft ripping through his lungs. He staggered on for several steps, then, in a last desperate attempt to complete his mission, hurled his sword at her. It did not come close, and he pitched forward onto his face.

Below her she saw the blond warrior stumble, but his comrade stepped in to block a sword thrust and hauled him to his feet. Six bodies now lay around the pair, and the two surviving attackers suddenly turned and fled, heading out past the blazing barn. Andromache shot at one of them but missed. Then they were gone.

Hurling aside the bow, Andromache dropped to her knees alongside Kalliope, who struggled to rise but fell back with a cry. The two warriors came then, the tall man casting his sword aside and also dropping to his knees. Andromache saw his anguish.

A sense of unreality flowed through Andromache. This is a dream, she told herself. Kalliope cannot be here, and if she was, it would not be in the company of men. Assassins could not have attacked Hektor’s farm, so close to the city. I will wake, she thought, still on the couch. Just a dream!

Then, as she moved, pain lanced through her hip. She glanced down at the blood on the slashed white gown.

Kalliope’s hand touched her arm. “I came for you,” she said. “Don’t send me away! Please don’t send me away!”

“I never will!” Andromache cried. “Never!”

Once again Kalliope tried to rise. The tall warrior gently lifted her into a sitting position. “Rest your head on my shoulder, Piria,” he said, his voice breaking.

“Am I hurt?” she asked him.

“Yes, you are hurt, sweet girl.”

Kalliope’s left hand reached up, her fingers finding the arrow shaft. Her eyes flared wide with fear, then she smiled and sighed. “He killed me, didn’t he? Tell me the truth, Kalliades.”

Andromache saw the man’s head bow down. “I promised to see you safe,” he said. “And I failed you.”

“Don’t say that! You did not fail me, Kalliades. Not once. You gave me my life back. You and Banokles. Your friendship restored me.” Her gaze shifted to Andromache, who leaned in close and kissed her. “It was Melite,” Kalliope said, her voice fading. “She told me wicked men would come for you. I… I had to… be there.”

“And you were,” Andromache whispered.

Kalliope fell silent. The huge blond warrior leaned in close, and Andromache saw there were tears in his eyes.

“You are all so sad,” Kalliope said. “I am not sad. All the people… I love… are with me.” Her eyes fastened on the bright moon above. “And there… is… Artemis…”

Then she was silent.

Andromache stared down at the pale, still face of her lover and heard again the words of Aklides. His vision had been true but misinterpreted. He had seen Helikaon with one sandal and Hektor rising from the ground covered in the filth of pigs.

But he had also seen a figure coming to her in the moonlight with blood and pain. And, seeing the short hair, he had mistaken that vision for a young man. Reaching out, Andromache lifted Kalliope’s hand, kissing the fingers. “You are my moon,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. “Stay with me, Kalliope. Please!”

Banokles laid his hand on her arm. “She has gone, lady. The brave girl has gone.”

The sandy shoreline beneath the high gray cliffs of Ithaka lay silent save for the cry of gulls. The group of wooden huts that housed fishermen and their families seemed deserted under the hazy afternoon sun.

The old galley Penelope, her exposed hull heavily barnacled, was pulled up high on the sand. Forgotten and neglected, her once-gleaming timbers were bleached now by the blistering sun, her planks warped and twisted.

From the shaded portico of her palace the queen of Ithaka gazed at her namesake with sadness. For three long years the ship had been abandoned there, forsaken by Odysseus in favor of the war galley Bloodhawk. Though ideal for a cargo vessel, the Penelope was no fighting ship. For one season only she had continued plying her trade for an Ithakan merchant, but the bloody war on the Great Green had made trading by sea increasingly dangerous, and the galley had been discarded in favor of smaller, faster ships that risked the triangular run between Ithaka, Kephallenia, and the mainland or northwest toward the distant settlement of Seven Hills.