David Gemmell - Shield of Thunder

“I told him to wait back in the trees, watching the valley,” Olganos replied.

“Good. While he’s doing that, I think I’ll take a nap.”

Olganos and Skorpios leaped into the rock pool with a mighty splash, and Banokles walked over to sit beside Ennion. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Better. Head feels like there’s a horse trapped inside, trying to kick its way out. Shame about Kerio. Miserable cowson, but he could fight.”

“The time to think about the dead is when you are safe back home,” Banokles said.

“You think we’ll get safely back home?”

“Why shouldn’t we?”

Ennion smiled. “It doesn’t bother you that we’re outnumbered and trapped in an enemy land?”

“Never saw the point in worrying about tomorrow,” Banokles told him. “At this moment we have water, the horses are resting and eating, and I’m about to have a blissful sleep. If the enemy comes, I’ll kill as many of the cowsons as I can. If they don’t, well, we’ll ride on, find Hektor and the rest of the lads, and then go home. Get some sleep, man.”

“I think I will,” Ennion said. Suddenly he chuckled. “All my life I’ve wanted to do something heroic, something to be remembered for. And now I’ve rescued two sons of a king and fought off twenty enemy soldiers. It feels very fine, Banokles. Very fine. Everything I could have hoped for—except for this bastard headache.”

“It’ll be gone by morning,” Banokles said, stretching himself out on the grass and closing his eyes. Sleep came almost immediately.

It was dark when he woke, bright stars shining in the night sky. Sitting up, he glanced at Ennion. The warrior was lying on his back and staring up at the stars.

“How is the head?” Banokles asked.

Ennion made no reply. Banokles passed his hand over the warrior’s face. There was no response. Leaning over him, Banokles closed the dead man’s eyes, then pushed himself to his feet.

Olganos was swimming, Justinos sitting beside the pool. The old nurse and the boys were asleep. Olganos climbed out of the water. Banokles strolled over to him. “You put Skorpios on watch?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll relieve him in a while.”

“How is Ennion? You think he’ll be able to travel tomorrow?”

“He is already traveling,” Banokles answered. “He’s walking the Dark Road. His horse is in better shape than the others. Let the fat old nurse ride him. You should take his sword. Yours is looking battered and likely to break the next time you use it.”

“By Ares, you are a cold bastard,” Olganos told him.

“He is dead. We are not. We leave at first light.”

The boulder-strewn road leading up and through the high pass of Kilkanos was littered with the debris of a departed army. Broken swords lay among the stones. A shattered helm glinted in the early-morning sunshine. Discarded items that had once been of value now gathered dust. Here and there Kalliades could see splashes of dried blood where the wounded had been tended. The pass itself was narrow and winding, climbing ever higher into the mountains. Kalliades and his three hundred volunteers had taken up a defensive position some eighty paces below the highest point, where the pass narrowed to a mere thirty paces across. Towering rock faces rose on either side. Kalliades placed his hundred archers on the higher ground to the left and right, where they could find shelter behind rocks. The more heavily armored infantry was stationed at the center. The men were all Kikones with nowhere left to run.

Scouts had warned Hektor that an Idonoi army some seven thousand strong was marching toward them. They were close and would be in sight before noon.

Kalliades had volunteered to remain with the rear guard for the two days Hektor had requested the pass be held. Hektor had urged him not to stay. “I will need you in the days to come, Kalliades. I don’t want you dead on some Thrakian rock.”

“If you know of a better man to plan a defense, then let him stay,” Kalliades had said. “The Thrakians are good fighters, but there is not a strategist among them. And you need this pass held. We can’t afford to have armies coming at us from two sides.”

Reluctantly Hektor had agreed, and they had said their farewells that morning.

The Thrakians were grim men who had fought well during the long campaign. It irked them that it had all ended so badly. Hektor had offered them the chance to come with him back to Troy, but they had decided to stay and fight on against the invaders.

Kalliades moved among them, giving orders. They responded with instant obedience but little warmth. Though they trusted his judgment and respected his skills, he was a foreigner and a stranger to them.

A foreigner and a stranger.

It suddenly occurred to Kalliades that he had always been a stranger, even among his own people. Climbing to a high rock, he sat down and gazed back down the pass. When the enemy came, they would be tired from the climb. They would be hit with volley after volley of arrows and then, when closer, bronze-tipped javelins. The sheer walls of rock would compress their formations, making it difficult to dodge the missiles. Then Kalliades would attack them with his heavily armored Thrakian infantry, forcing them back. They would retreat and regroup. He had no doubts the defenders could hold for several charges. But they would take losses, their arrows would soon be exhausted, and concerted attacks by an enemy with the advantage of numbers would wear them down. No matter what strategies he concocted, the result would be the same. If the enemy forces were determined and brave, they would break through before dusk.

Hektor had understood this. The rear guard was doomed. It was unlikely that any of them would leave the pass alive.

The face of Piria appeared in his mind, sunshine glinting from her shorn blond hair. In his memory she was standing on the beach, laughing as the men of the Penelope struggled to catch the errant pigs. It had been a good day, and it had taken on a golden hue these last three years.

Then the image blurred, and he saw again Big Red standing in the doorway of his small house, wearing robes of scarlet and black. It was the day before the army was due to return to Thraki for the spring campaign. Kalliades had invited her in, but she had stood her ground.

“I will not enter your home, Kalliades. I do not like you, and you have no affection for me.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I want Banokles to come home safely. I do not want him drawn into your need for death.”

The words surprised him. “I don’t want to die, Red. Why would you think that?”

She looked at him, her expression softening. “I have changed my mind. I will come in. You have wine?”

He led her through to the small garden at the rear of the house, and they sat together on a curved bench in the shade of a high wall.

The wine was cheap and mildly bitter on the tongue, but Red did not seem to mind. She looked him in the eye, her gaze direct. “Why did you rescue the priestess?” she asked.

He shrugged. “She reminded me of my sister, who was killed by violent men.”

“That may be true, but it is not the whole reason. Banokles talks of you with great respect and affection, so I have heard all the stories of your travels. I am not young anymore, Kalliades, but my wisdom has grown with the years. I know men. By Hera, I know more about men than I would ever have wished to know. So many of you are quick to notice flaws and weaknesses in others while being completely blind to your own faults and fears. Why do you have no friends, Kalliades?”

The question made him uncomfortable, and he began to regret inviting her in. “I have Banokles.”