David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“No, we won’t. But the Kikones will, and the Idonoi, and the Mykene, and hopefully the Trojans. What we do here now will have meaning then . Will we all still hate one another and yearn for vengeance for past atrocities? Or will we be at peace as neighbors and friends?”

“I don’t care about what might happen in a hundred years,” Kalliades stormed. “We are here now. We are fighting now. And we are losing, Hektor.”

Hektor finished his wine and sighed. “Yes, we are. You think torturing a few prisoners will change that? With Ismaros fallen, the enemy will swarm along the coast, cutting us off. With no reinforcements, no food supplies, and no fresh weapons, we risk being cut to pieces. As a general I know we should pull back to the coast now, get to Carpea and the barges, and cross to Dardania. Thraki is lost, and we should save the army. But as Hektor, son of Priam, I cannot follow my own advice. My father has ordered me to defeat all our enemies and reestablish Rhesos as king of a united Thraki.”

“That is impossible now,” Kalliades said.

“Yes, it probably is. But until defeat becomes inevitable, Kalliades, I must remain. I will ride to Kalliros and support the young king. With luck we will crush Achilles and his Thessalians and gather a new force to retake Xantheia.”

“You know we will not,” Kalliades said. “At best we will hold them back for a few months.”

“Anything can happen in those few months. The heavy rains of autumn will slow their supplies and open up the sea to us. A fierce winter will sap the morale of the besiegers. Priam could make peace with Agamemnon.”

Kalliades shook his head. “That last will not happen. You are right, Hektor: We are soldiers, and we have a duty to obey. The orders, though, are senseless now. They were given when there was some hope of success. Now, if we follow them blindly, we face our doom.”

“Yes, we do,” Hektor admitted. “So will you still ride with me, Kalliades?”

“We’ll all ride with you, Hektor. Whether it be to victory or to ruin.”

For six days the army of Hektor moved south through the Rhodope Mountains. The journey was slow and fraught with danger. Somewhere behind them an Idonoi army was marching hard, seeking them out. Ahead was the broad river Nestos, where Thessalian troops and a second Idonoi army were facing King Rhesos at Kalliros. All the men knew there was likely to be a major battle as soon as they sighted the city.

There were no supplies reaching the Trojan army now. Rations were short, and teams of hunters rode out daily seeking deer and game. Even when they were successful, the result was pitifully inadequate to feed three thousand men.

Banokles, on a new mount, a dappled gray with a mean eye, was riding with Ursos and twenty other men ahead of the main force, scouting for enemy troops. The long lances had been left behind, and the riders now carried Phrygian bows as well as their sabers. Their orders were specific: Avoid direct conflict and upon sight of the enemy send a rider back to report.

Ursos had been placed in charge of the troop, and the responsibility had made him surly. His mood was not improved by Banokles’ constantly calling him “General,” a title swiftly taken up by the other riders.

In the course of the afternoon a young horseman named Olganos spotted a wild pig in a thicket. He and Justinos and Skorpios set off in pursuit of it. Ursos ordered a halt while the hunt continued, and the rest of the troop rode into a stand of trees and dismounted. They had seen no sign of enemy forces, though earlier that day they had spotted some woodsmen felling logs above a river. The men had been Kikones tribesmen, and they had told Ursos they had hidden from an Idonoi raiding party two days before.

Olganos and the hunters returned triumphant, carrying the dead pig. It was a scrawny, thin beast, but they gutted and quartered it, built a fire and carved a spit, and settled down to wait while the meat cooked.

Banokles walked to the tree line and sat down, scanning the land to the south. It was green and verdant, with rolling hills and wooded valleys. Good farming land, he thought. Not like the parched farm on which he had been born, his family scratching a living, always hungry. He pictured a house on the hillside below. There was a stream close by. Cool water in the summer, a gentle breeze blowing through the trees. A man could raise horses or pigs or sheep. All three, perhaps. He wondered if Red would like to live in the mountains, far from any cities.

Then he saw the smoke on the horizon, huge plumes rising from beyond the distant hills.

Banokles pushed himself to his feet and called out to Ursos. The troop leader walked over and stood next to him, staring silently at the smoke. “Forest fire, you think?” he asked at last.

Banokles shrugged. “Could be. I don’t know what’s beyond those hills.”

The other men gathered around. Olganos, a hawk-nosed young man with black curly hair, voiced the concern they all felt. “According to the Thrakian scouts, we should be reaching Kalliros by tomorrow. What if that smoke is the city burning?”

“Don’t say that!” Ursos hissed. “If Kalliros has fallen, we are all dead men.”

“Speak for yourself, General,” Banokles snapped. “I promised Red I’d be back, and no sheep-shagging Idonoi is going to stop me. Nor any other sheep-shagging bastards from any other sheep-shagging country.”

“The mind of a philosopher, the language of a poet,” said young Olganos with a smile. “Is there no end to your talents?”

Banokles did not answer him. The distant smoke had darkened his spirits.

Moving back into the trees, the men ate their fill of roast pork, then mounted their horses and continued south.

They rode warily in a staggered skirmish line, for the land was broken by sudden dips and gullies and stands of trees that could hide enemy warriors. Several of the riders had bows in their hands, arrows notched to the strings. Banokles, who was far from a skilled archer, remained alert, ready to charge his horse either at or away from any enemy who came into sight.

It was close to dusk as they rode up the last hill. Ursos called a halt below the crest, and they dismounted, moving cautiously up to the rim. Their worst fears were realized. Below them the fortress city of Kalliros was aflame, and they could see enemy warriors outside the walls, carrying plunder. By a huge campfire Banokles saw a group of warriors holding long spears with heads impaled on them. Around that grisly scene were cheering crowds waving their swords in the air. Banokles scanned the open area around the eastern wall. Several thousand fighting men were in sight. Many more would be inside the city and encamped by the western wall, beyond his line of sight. Out on the river beyond there were scores of ships.

Ursos moved alongside Banokles. “How many soldiers, do you think?” he asked.

Banokles shrugged. “Anywhere from ten to fifteen thousand. Many of them are not Idonoi. No paint. No leggings. I’d say they were Thessalian or Macedonian.”

Ursos swore softly. “Look at the river. More galleys coming in. If they move on to blockade the Hellespont, we won’t get home even if we reach the barges at Carpea.”

“Well, it’s no use sitting here,” Banokles said. “We should get back.”

Ursos pulled off his helm and ran his fingers through his long black hair. “Hektor will need to know how swiftly they get on the march again and in what direction they head. They could move east to block us or north to meet us in the mountains.”

“Or both,” said Olganos, who had been listening.

“Yes. Or both.”