David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“It’s Papa! It’s Papa!” Obas shouted.

Three men stepped from the undergrowth. They were tall, their long blond hair braided, their faces streaked with paint. Myrine moved to the children, picking up Obas and hugging him to her. Periklos stood his ground, staring at the Idonoi tribesmen and the longswords in their hands. There was blood on their clothes.

“Now, you leave us alone,” Myrine shouted. “You just go away.”

Another seven warriors emerged from the shadows of the trees, their expressions hard, their eyes cruel.

Myrine backed away toward the shack. The leader of the Idonoi stared hard at Periklos. “You look like your father,” he said. “I’ll put your head on a spear next to his.”

Obas started to cry, and Myrine patted his back. “There, there, little one,” she said. “There, there.”

The warrior stepped toward Periklos and raised his sword. The boy stood still, staring defiantly up at him. “Do your worst, you coward!” he said.

Then another voice sounded in the clearing.

“It’s no wonder you sheep shaggers paint your faces. Ugliest bastards I’ve ever seen.”

Myrine turned to see a powerful man in shining armor move from the trees behind the shack. He was carrying two swords, one a saber and the other a short stabbing blade.

The Idonoi warrior swung toward him, the other men grouping together, weapons poised.

The newcomer halted some fifteen paces from the Idonoi leader. “Well?” he demanded. “Why are you just standing there? Balls of Ares, are you gutless as well as ugly?”

With a roar of fury the Idonoi rushed at the warrior, his men surging after him.

To Myrine’s surprise the newcomer suddenly dropped to one knee. A volley of arrows hissed through the air, slamming into the charging group. Four men fell, and two others staggered back, black shafts jutting from their upper bodies. The warrior in the shining armor came to his feet and launched himself at the remaining Idonoi. The battle was short and bloody. The newcomer tore into the warriors, swords hacking and slashing. The leader went down, blood gouting from his throat. Two others fell to arrows. The last man spun on his heel and ran.

Moments later two horsemen galloped from the trees, bows in their hands, and set off after the fleeing warrior.

Myrine felt weak and giddy. She tried to put Obas down, but he clung to her. Still holding the boy, she lowered herself to the ground, grunting as pain seared through her left knee.

The warrior in the shining armor walked past her to where one of the wounded Idonoi was trying to crawl back into the trees and plunged his short sword between the man’s shoulder blades.

Three other men, similarly armored, came into view. Myrine watched as a warrior strode across to the man who had saved them.

“The orders were to avoid battle,” the newcomer said, dragging off his helm. He was young, his hair dark and curly.

“Gods, Olganos, that wasn’t a battle! That was a… a skirmish!”

“Skirmish or not, it has increased our danger.”

“You regret saving the children?”

“No, of course not. I am glad they are alive. But I am more glad that we are. You know very well that we should have stayed hidden. If any one of them had gotten away, we’d have been forced to run, and then we wouldn’t have been able to complete our mission. And that mission is more important than the lives of two children.”

Banokles saw the old woman staring at him, her eyes fearful. Leaving Olganos, he strolled over and squatted down beside her. As he did so, the chubby blond-haired child in her arms began to wail.

“By Ares, boy, you make more noise than a gelded donkey,” Banokles said.

“My brother is very young and very frightened,” said the dark-haired youngster.

Banokles rose and turned toward the lad. “And you are not frightened?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Very wise. These are frightening times. I like the way you stood up to those ruffians. You’ve got nerve, boy. Now, comfort your brother and make him stop that damned squealing. It is making my ears ache.”

At that moment there came the sound of a running horse. Banokles rose to his feet as Kerio rode into the clearing and walked over to him. “I take it you caught and killed him?”

“Of course we killed him!” the wiry rider answered. “And I left Justinos at the tree line to keep watch for more of them.” The contempt in his tone rankled with Banokles, but he struggled to hold his temper.

“Did you drag the body back into the forest?” he asked.

“No, you oaf. I nailed it to a tree with a sign pointing this way,” Kerio answered, lifting his leg and jumping to the ground.

“You should do something about that nosebleed,” Banokles said.

“What nose—”

Banokles’ fist slammed into the man’s face, hurling him from his feet. His helm was knocked clear and clattered against a tree trunk. Kerio hit the ground hard and struggled to rise, but Banokles reached him first, grabbing him by the hair and hauling him upright.

“I’m going to ask you again,” he said. “Did you drag the sheep-shagging bastard back into the forest?”

“I did,” the redhead answered, blood dribbling from his broken nose.

Banokles released his grip on Kerio, who slumped down to the ground. Then he walked over to face the remaining three men. “Any one of you drooping cow turds want to call me an oaf? Come on! Speak your minds!”

Ennion stepped forward and stood quietly, tugging at his chin beard as if in deep thought. Finally he spoke. “In truth, Banokles, I do not need to be included in this debate, since I have already called you an oaf on many occasions. The last time, I recall, was at your wedding, when you decided to dance on the table, fell off, and got your foot stuck in a piss pot.” The men all laughed.

Banokles’ anger ebbed away, and he grinned. “That was a good day,” he said. “Or so I’m told. Don’t remember much.”

Justinos rode into the camp. “More men on the road, Banokles,” he said. “Looks like they are searching for something or someone. We need to move.”

“Who in Hades are they searching for in the middle of the night?” Banokles muttered. “They ought to be celebrating their victory.” Olganos tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the old woman and the two boys. Banokles walked over to where Myrine was sitting. “They are looking for you?”

“Yes, sir, I fear they are.”

“Why?”

“These boys are the sons of King Rhesos. The Idonoi will want them dead.”

Banokles helped the old woman to her feet. The chubby boy started to cry again. Olganos approached the nurse. “Let me have him,” he said softly, lifting the boy into his arms. “We are going for a ride on a magic horse,” he told him. “Have you ever seen a magic horse?”

“Where’s the magic horse?” the child asked, instantly distracted.

“Back in the trees. We’ll ride him, and if any bad men come, he will sprout wings and we’ll fly away from them. What is your name?”

“Obas.”

“A fine name,” Olganos said.

The group moved back beyond the abandoned shack to where the horses were tethered. Banokles lifted the old nurse to the back of his dappled gray, then swung up behind her. Glancing around, he saw Kerio staggering toward his horse. “Hey, Broken Nose, take the other boy with you.”

Kerio hauled himself to his horse, then reached down and swung the dark-haired prince up behind him. In the distance Banokles heard men shouting and guessed they had found the body of the Idonoi killed by Kerio and Justinos. Touching heels to his mount, he led the group deeper into the forest.

“Will we be safe, sir?” the old woman whispered.