David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

Through a break in the trees Banokles saw the first ranks of the enemy move into sight. There were some heavily armored warriors carrying long shields, but the mass of men around them were rebels in breastplates of leather or padded linen. Their clothes were brightly colored, from their cloaks of garish yellow and green to their leggings of plaid and stripes. Many of them had painted their faces in streaks of crimson or blue. Their weapons were spears and axes, though some carried longswords with blades the length of a man’s leg.

A ululating battle cry began from the enemy ranks, and they broke into a charge toward the Trojan lines. Hektor had dismounted and now stood, shield ready, at the center of the front line.

The rebel horde was in full sight now, and Banokles scanned them. They outnumbered the force on the plain by at least ten to one. Twenty thousand men racing across the open ground, screaming their battle cries.

A volley of arrows ripped into the charging men, but it did not slow their advance.

The men on the Trojan front line braced themselves, leaning in to their shields, spears drawn back. Just as the enemy was upon them, the Trojan veterans surged forward to meet them. The sounds of battle were strangely muted within the forest. Banokles gathered up the reins of his mount in his left hand, the heavy lance sitting comfortably in his right.

“At a walk!” Kalliades shouted.

A thousand riders nudged their horses forward. Banokles ducked beneath an overhanging branch, guiding the black gelding out through the trees. Bright sunshine shone down on the armored riders as they moved out onto the hillside.

The rebels had not seen them yet, but they would hear them soon enough.

“Close formation!”

Banokles kicked the gelding into a run, and the thunder of hooves sounded on the hillside.

Hefting his spear, Banokles nestled the haft alongside his elbow, the point aiming forward and slightly down. The gelding was at full gallop now. Banokles saw the rebels on the flank turning to meet the charge. He was close enough to see the panic in their painted faces.

Then the Trojan Horse slammed into the horde. Banokles rammed his spear through the chest of a powerful warrior. As the man was thrown back, the spear was wrenched from Banokles’ hand. Drawing his saber, he slashed the blade down, cracking the skull of a rebel. All was chaos now, the air filled with the screams of the wounded and dying. Banokles drove the gelding on, deeper into the ranks of the enemy. An ax blade cut through the gelding’s neck, and it fell. Banokles jumped clear, launching himself at the axman. There was no time to bring up his saber, and he head butted the warrior, sending him staggering back. Another warrior thrust his sword at Banokles, who parried it, then sent a reverse cut slashing through the man’s throat. Justinos charged in, scattering the enemy around Banokles. Then other riders closed around him. Banokles saw a riderless horse and ran across to it. Just as he reached it, the beast reared, then galloped away. Two rebels rushed at Banokles. The first swung an ax, which he tried to block with his saber. The blade shattered. Banokles hurled the hilt at the second man, who ducked. The axman raised his weapon again. Banokles charged him, grabbing the haft and ramming his head into the warrior’s face. The warrior fell back, losing his grip on the ax. Banokles swept it up and with a bellowing war cry leaped toward the second warrior. The man’s nerve broke, and he tried to run. Skorpios came alongside him, his lance plunging through the warrior’s back.

Banokles ran to a fallen rider. Dropping the ax, he took up the man’s saber and hurled himself back into the fray, hacking, slashing, and stabbing. The enemy forces were hardy and tough, but they had no training. They fought as individuals, seeking space to swing their longswords or use their spears and axes. But they were being crushed together in a mass by a highly organized army of veterans. Desperate to find room to fight, the warriors began to peel away, running for open ground. The Trojan Horse cut them down as soon as they moved clear. Banokles knew what had to happen next. He had seen it a score of times. The horde began to scatter, the army sundering like a smashed plate. With no organized defensive lines to oppose them, the heavily armored riders surged in among the enemy and the slaughter began.

Panic swept through the Thrakians, and all across the battlefield the rebels began to flee. Horsemen rode after them, cutting and killing.

Horseless, Banokles remained where he was. Hektor came striding toward him. His helm and breastplate were smeared with blood, and his sword arm was crimson from the wrist to the elbow.

“Are you hurt?” he asked Banokles.

“No.”

“Then help with the wounded,” the big man said, moving past him.

“Any sign of the supply wagons?” Banokles called after him. Hektor ignored the question.

Banokles cleaned the sword and slid it back into his scabbard. Then he gazed around the battlefield.

The victory had been complete, but the losses had been high. He worked alongside soldiers and stretcher bearers until almost dusk, by which time he had helped to carry at least a hundred corpses. In all, more than four hundred Trojans had died that day. It mattered little that the enemy dead were in the thousands. There were thousands more waiting to take their place. Armor and weapons were stripped from the Trojan dead, and soldiers gathered around to replace broken swords, smashed helms, and ruined breastplates. Banokles himself acquired a short sword and an ornate scabbard. The saber was a fine weapon when hacking down from horseback, but once one was afoot, it was not as deadly as a good stabbing sword.

Off to the right he could see a group of Thrakian prisoners being questioned by Trojan officers, Kalliades among them. Banokles watched, and though he could not hear what was said, he could tell by the surly faces of the captured men that they were giving little away. Hektor did not allow torture of prisoners, which seemed to Banokles to be foolish in the extreme. Most men would tell you anything you desired to hear if their hands were being held in a fire. And how could a warrior like Hektor be so squeamish? Banokles had seen him ripping into the enemy like an angry lion. The minds of generals and princes were a mystery to Banokles.

The supply wagons arrived just after dark, and Banokles joined a group of warriors around a cookfire. Bald Justinos was there, and Skorpios, his long blond hair tied in a ponytail that hung between his narrow shoulders. Three of the men were unknown to Banokles, but the last was a slim, round-shouldered rider named Ursos. He and Banokles had trained together back in Troy.

“Another victory,” Ursos said, as Banokles sat beside him. “Beginning to lose count now.”

“Lost my horse,” Banokles grumbled. “Old Arse Face was a good mount.”

“Could be him cooking there,” Ursos muttered. “No meat on the wagons. Just more damn oats.”

As they were talking, a rider came thundering into the camp. Men scattered before him. The man dragged his horse to a halt close to where Hektor was sitting with his officers and leaped down.

“This looks important,” Ursos said, rising and walking across to listen to the message.

Banokles remained where he was. The night was cool, the fire warm, and the smell of roasting meat intoxicating.

Ursos returned a little while later and slumped down. “Well,” he said, “that robs today’s victory of any value.”

“Why?” Banokles asked.

“Achilles has invaded with the entire Thessalian army and has taken Xantheia. Rhesos has been driven back to Kalliros in the mountains. Perhaps worse, Odysseus has taken Ismaros, and enemy galleys now block the sea.”