David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“Where is Arelos?” Kalliades asked. One of the men, round-shouldered and thin, shrugged but did not reply. His hand was on his sword hilt. Piria saw that the others were watching him, waiting for an order to attack. Then Kalliades spoke to him again, his voice harsh and challenging. “Then go and find him, goat face. Tell him Kalliades has issued the challenge and will await him here.” The power and the contempt in his tone stunned them.

“He’ll slice you into pieces,” said the thin man, more wary now.

Kalliades ignored him. “I thought you were going to find bread,” he said to Banokles.

“Bread? What about these sheep shaggers?” Banokles gestured toward the waiting pirates.

“Let them find their own bread. Oh, and on your way, kill that goat-faced whoreson I told to fetch Arelos.”

Banokles grinned and drew his sword.

“Wait! Wait!” the pirate cried, stepping back several paces. “I am on my way.”

“Be quick,” Kalliades ordered. “I am tired, I’m hungry, and I’m irritable.”

The man sped away, heading back down toward the beach. Banokles pushed his way through the other pirates and walked off in search of the bakery.

Piria stood very quietly, trying not to look at the remaining five men. But she could not avoid it and saw they were staring at her.

“You cut her hair off?” one of the men asked Kalliades. He was short, with a round face and a flattened nose. “By the gods, she was plain as a rock before. Now she’s just plain ugly.”

“I think she has great beauty,” Kalliades responded. “And a man with a face like a pig’s arse should think twice before talking of ugliness.” Several of the pirates chuckled. Even the insulted man grinned.

“Well, ugly or not, I missed out on her yesterday,” he said. “You won’t object if we have a little fun before Arelos gets here?”

“Oh, I object,” Kalliades said.

“Why? She’s not yours.”

Kalliades smiled. “We are walking the same road, she and I. You understand the Law of the Road?” The man shook his head. “It is a Mykene custom. Travelers in a hostile land agree to become brothers in arms for the duration of the journey. So an attack on her becomes an attack on me. Are you as skillful as Baros?”

“No.”

“Are any of you?”

“Baros was a great fighter.”

Kalliades shook his head. “No, he wasn’t. Not even average.”

“Well, Arelos is a great swordsman,” the man said. “You’ll find that out soon enough.”

“You think you can beat him?” another man asked. He was older than the others, and his thick arms showed the scars of many fights.

“When I do, I might make you captain, Horakos,” Kalliades told him.

Horakos laughed. “Not me. I don’t like giving orders. You might ask Sekundos. He’s a good man, knows the sea. You realize Arelos might not accept the challenge? He might just tell us to cut you down.”

Kalliades said nothing. Banokles appeared, his arms laden with loaves. “Brought some extras, lads,” he said, passing out the food. The pirates sat down on the ground, Banokles among them. “Will you want my cuirass, Kalliades?”

“No.”

“Arelos will probably wear armor.”

“No, he won’t,” Kalliades said, pointing back down toward the beach. Some thirty men were marching up the dusty road. At the center strode the powerful figure of Arelos.

Piria watched them come and lifted her dagger. Arelos was almost as large as Banokles, his arms heavily muscled. He had a broad, flat face, flame-red hair, and deep-set green eyes that just now were blazing with anger. He wore no armor, but a sword belt was strapped to his waist.

He halted a little way from Kalliades, who stood and spoke. “I challenge you, Arelos, for the right to lead the crew. As custom dictates, you may fight or you may accept my leadership.”

“Kill him!” Arelos said, drawing his sword.

Kalliades’ laughter rang out, the sound rich and merry and so inappropriate to the moment that it stopped them in their tracks. Then he spoke. “Your men predicted you’d be too gutless to fight me. They obviously know you better than I. Of course, now that we stand here facing one another, I can feel your fear. Tell me, how did a sheep-shagging coward become a captain of pirates?” As he spoke, Kalliades took a swift step toward Arelos. The pirate leader backed away.

“I said kill him!” he screamed.

“Wait! No one move!” Horakos shouted. Rising to his feet, he stared at Arelos. “You know the Law of the Sea. You cannot refuse a challenge from a crewman. If you do, you are leader no longer and we vote for a new captain.”

“So,” Arelos said, staring hard at the man, “you have chosen to go against me, Horakos. When I have cut the heart from this Mykene, I will strangle you with your own entrails.” Swinging back toward Kalliades, he forced a laugh. “I hope the shag the whore gave you was worth it. Because now there is only pain. And when I’ve finished with you, I’ll cut her apart a joint at a time.”

“No, you will not,” Kalliades said, his voice soft. “You know it in your heart, Arelos. You are about to walk the Dark Road, and your guts are turning to water.”

With a roar of rage Arelos leaped to the attack.

And Kalliades stepped in to meet him.

A short while earlier Sekundos the Kretan had watched Arelos stalk from the beach, almost half the men following him. He had not even been tempted to join them. Obviously they had located the runaways and were out for blood.

Sekundos sat by the ashes of the previous night’s fire, his thoughts somber. He had been a pirate for more than a lifetime. He had outlived all five of his sons and one of his grandsons. Yet still, though his hair was now iron-gray and his limbs ached in the wet winter months, he had lost none of his love for the Great Green, the feel of the trade winds on his leathered features, the salt spray on his skin.

He no longer fooled himself, as some of the younger men did, that piracy was a noble venture conducted by heroes. It was merely a way of ensuring food and clothing for his family and a little wealth to pass on to his heirs.

Sekundos once had commanded three ships of his own, but ill weather had seen him lose two, and the third had been sunk the previous summer by the madman Helikaon—may the gods curse him! Sekundos’ last surviving son had been commanding the vessel at the time, and now his bones lay moldering below the Great Green. No man should outlive his children, Sekundos thought.

Now, far in excess of sixty years of age, Sekundos had joined the crews of the loathsome Arelos. The man was lucky, which was why he had risen to command two ships, but as far as Sekundos was concerned, he was an idiot. True, he was a good swordsman, but he also reveled in murder and slaughter, which was not profitable. Captured men or women could be sold in the slave markets of Kretos or the cities of the eastern coast. Dead men were worth nothing.

And Arelos had gathered around him too many like-minded men, which led inevitably to scenes like the one the previous day, when they had captured a young woman who would have fetched as much as sixty silver rings in Kretos. First they had swarmed over her like wild animals, and now she was marked for death.

Sekundos hated such stupidity.

He had been cheered when the Mykene pair had joined the crew. Kalliades was a quiet man, but he had a brain, and the lout with him was strong and, Sekundos guessed, loyal. They were like the men he used to sail with, stalwart and steady. Now they, too, were to be killed.

Thirty years earlier Sekundos would have waited for his moment and challenged Arelos to a duel for the right to captain the ships. Now he merely accepted his orders, hoping their luck would hold and he would return home for the winter laden with booty. Somehow he doubted it. Slave raids were always profitable, even though they did not yield the treasure gained by plundering ships carrying gold ingots or silver bars. Still, how many of those could Arelos guarantee in any season? Most of them sailed from the high eastern coasts, usually accompanied by a war galley for protection. And then there was Helikaon the Burner. Sekundos shivered at the thought of him.