It mattered not. The battle was almost over.
Then he saw the men of his bodyguard swinging around to stare back toward the west. Peleus turned.
A line of horsemen had appeared, lance points glinting in the sunlight.
Peleus called out to Kovos. “Send a messenger to them. Tell them to attack on the flank.”
“They are not our men,” Kovos said grimly.
“Of course they are our men. There are no enemy forces behind us.”
“Look at the man at the center,” Kovos said, “on the gray horse. He is wearing Trojan armor.”
“Plundered from the dead,” Peleus said, but a small worm of doubt gnawed at him.
The man on the gray horse drew two swords and held them high.
Then the horsemen began to move, slowly at first. The thunder of hooves sounded, and they swept toward the Thessalian rear.
“Form up!” Kovos bellowed. “Turn, you dogs! Death is upon you!”
The three hundred men of the king’s bodyguard carried no spears, only short swords and long shields. Hastily they tried to re-form, facing west. Peleus backed his horse through them, terrified.
He could see the man on the gray horse clearly now. He was broad-shouldered and blond-bearded. He carried no shield. In his right hand was a cavalry saber, in his left a stabbing sword.
He must turn, Peleus thought. No horse will charge into a wall of shields.
But the shield wall had not formed completely. The rider found a gap and powered into it, his saber slashing down and opening the throat of a guardsman.
All was suddenly chaos. Peleus did not even draw his sword. Panic swept through him as he watched his battle line being sundered. All he could think of was flight. Heeling his horse, he forced his way through his men, scattering them and further widening the gaps in their ranks. Then, on open ground, he kicked the stallion into a gallop. The guardsmen close by, seeing the king in flight, followed him. Within moments the battle became a rout.
Peleus did not care. His mind was no longer functioning save for the need to run and run and never stop. To find some hiding place. Anywhere! Behind him he heard the screams of dying men.
The stallion was at full gallop now, heading west, along the line of the sea.
A spear hurtled past Peleus, then another. Glancing back, he saw that four of the enemy riders were closing on him. Then a spear went between the legs of his mount. The white stallion stumbled, pitching Peleus over its head. He landed hard, rolled, and came to his knees, the breath all but knocked out of him. The horsemen rode up, surrounding him.
He struggled to his feet. “I am Peleus the king,” he managed to say. “There will be a mighty ransom paid for me.”
One of the riders touched heels to his mount and rode forward, his lance extended. He was fair-haired and lean, and there were blue streaks on his face. “I am Hillas, Lord of the Western Mountain,” he said. “How big a ransom?”
Relief swept through Peleus. He would be taken to Hektor, who was a man of honor and understanding. Achilles could pay the ransom from the plunder of Xantheia and Kalliros.
Then the rider on the gray horse appeared. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“The king here is talking of a golden ransom,” Hillas said.
“Just kill the cowson. The battle’s not over yet.”
Hillas grinned. “As you say, General, so let it be.”
Peleus heard the words but could not believe them. “I am Peleus!” he shouted. “Father to Achilles!” The blue-streaked rider heeled his horse forward, his lance leveled. Peleus threw up his arms, but the lance plunged between them, ripping into his throat.
Choking on his own blood, the king fell to his knees. Then his face struck the ground, and he could smell the scent of summer grass.
“Come on, you sheep shaggers!” he heard someone cry. “Kill them all!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DEATH UPON THE WATER
Overcome by a blissful weariness, Kalliades sat down in the shade of a rock wall close to the beach. The wound was still troublesome, though it was healing well. The real damage seemed to have been the tear in the chest muscle, which restricted the movement of his left arm. The blow to the head still caused him occasional dizziness, but the injuries he had suffered could not dampen the euphoria he had experienced since surviving the attack on the pass.
It seemed to Kalliades that a new world awaited him, one filled with light and color and scent that had somehow been lost to him. It was not that he had never appreciated the brilliance of a summer sky or the magnificence of a crimson sunset. That appreciation, however, had been cool and rational. The glory of the world had not touched his emotions as deeply as it did now.
Even the barges on the beach, flat-bottomed and ungainly, had a sturdy beauty, the sunlight causing their oiled timbers to gleam like pale gold. Everywhere there was noise and confusion, but this spoke of life and movement, bringing with it a sense of joy.
Banokles came to him there and slumped down. “Apparently I shouldn’t have killed the king yesterday,” he grumbled, pulling off his helm and laying it on the sand.
“I did not know it was you who killed him.”
“Well, it wasn’t me, but I ordered it. Hektor’s generals said we could have used him to force the Thessalians from Thraki.”
Kalliades shook his head. “Achilles would not have agreed.”
“That’s what Hektor said. His generals don’t like me. Cowsons!”
Kalliades smiled. “You won the battle, Banokles. One crazy charge.”
“What was crazy about it?”
“It should not have succeeded. You attacked the strongest force—the Thessalian royal guard. If they’d had a braver king, they would have withstood the onslaught and then cut your riders to pieces.”
“Didn’t, though, did they?” Banokles observed.
“No, my friend, they didn’t. You were the hero of the day. Banokles and his Thrakians. What a story that will make.”
Banokles chuckled. “Yes, it will. In some ways I am going to miss them.”
“Miss them?”
“They are being left behind.”
“Why?”
“Only around forty barges. Not enough to take everyone in a single crossing. Hektor is taking the Trojan Horse across and leaving the wounded and the Thrakians. Says he’ll send the barges back tomorrow. By then it’s likely there’ll be an enemy fleet in the straits or another cowson army on the horizon.”
“Where does that leave you?” Kalliades asked.
“Me? What do you mean? I go with the Horse.”
“You and I have fought in many battles. How would you have felt if one of our generals had decided to cut and run and leave us behind on some enemy shore?”
“Oh, don’t you start on me. I knew I shouldn’t have come to see you. Cut and run? I’m not running. I am a soldier of the Horse, not a cowson general.”
“You are a general to them, Banokles. They trusted you enough to follow you into battle.”
Banokles stared angrily at Kalliades. “You always take the simple and make it complicated.”
“That’s because nothing is ever as simple as you would like it to be. Anyway, I’ll be staying with the wounded. And as you pointed out, we are sword brothers. We should stick together.”
“Pah! Sword brothers when it suits you. Didn’t suit you back at the pass, did it?”
“I didn’t want you dead, my friend. This is different. Those Thrakians revere you. They are pure warriors, Banokles. They’ve suffered defeats and seen their pride ground into the dust. You’ve given it back to them. At the pass, when they routed their enemies, and yesterday, when they killed one of the kings who brought ruin to their land. You are like a talisman for them. You’ve rescued the sons of their king and made them feel like men again. Don’t you see? You can’t leave them now.”