Troy 01 - Lord of the Silver Bow by David Gemmell Page A

brought for him. The story he told was stark and simple.
    The mighty Alektruon was dead, his crew massacred, the legendary
Hydra
set adrift, its sail and decks ablaze.
    “How did he die?” asked Agamemnon, his cold, hard eyes staring at the dying sailor.
    Argurios remembered that the man had shivered suddenly as the harsh memories returned.
    “We had boarded their vessel, and victory was ours. Then the Golden One attacked. He was like a demon. It was terrible. Terrible. He cut three men down, then tore at Alektruon. It was a short fight. He plunged his blade into Alektruon’s neck, then hacked his head from his body. We fought on for a while, but when it was hopeless, we threw down our weapons. Then the Golden One, his armor covered in blood, shouted, ‘Kill all but one!’ I saw his eyes then. He was insane. Possessed. Someone grabbed me and pinned my arms. Then all my comrades were hacked to death.”
    The man fell silent.
    “And then?” asked Agamemnon.
    “Then I was dragged before Helikaon. He had removed his helmet and was standing there with Alektruon’s head in his hands. He was staring into the dead eyes. ‘You do not deserve to see the Fields of Elysia,’ he said. Then he stabbed the blade through Alektruon’s eyes.”
    The warriors gathered in the Lion’s Hall had cried out in rage and despair as they heard this. Even the grim and normally expressionless Agamemnon gasped.
    “He sent him blind into the Underworld?”
    “Yes, my king. When the deed was done, he hurled the head over the side. Then he turned to me.” The man squeezed shut his eyes, as if trying to block the remembered scene.
    “What did he say?”
    “He said: ‘You will live to report what you have seen here, but you will be a raider no longer.’ Then, at his command, two men stretched my arm over the deck rail, and the Golden One hacked my hand away.”
    The man had died two days after telling his story.
    The defeat of Alektruon had tarnished the Mykene reputation for invincibility. His death had been a sore blow to the pride of all warriors. His funeral games had been muted and depressing. Argurios had gained no satisfaction there despite winning a gem-encrusted goblet in the javelin contest. There was an air of disbelief among the grieving fighting men. Alektruon’s exploits had been legendary. He had led raids from Samothraki in the north all the way down the eastern coast as far as Palestine. He had even sacked a village less than a day’s ride from Troy.
    News of his defeat and death had been met with disbelief. Word had spread through the villages and towns, and people had gathered in meeting places and squares to discuss it. Argurios had the feeling that in the years to come all the Mykene would remember exactly what they were doing the moment they heard of Alektruon’s passing.
    Argurios gazed with quiet hatred at the Golden One. Then he sent a silent prayer to Ares, the god of war: “May it fall to me to avenge Alektruon! May it be my sword that cuts the heart from this cursed Trojan!”
    III
    The wind stayed favorable, and the
Xanthos
sped across the waves. Slowly the green island of Kypros faded from sight. On the rear deck, alongside Helikaon, stood the powerful figure of Zidantas. At fifty he was the oldest man in the crew and had sailed those waters for close to thirty-five years. In all that time, through storms and gales, he had never been wrecked. Almost all his childhood friends had died. Some had drowned when their vessels foundered. Others had been murdered by pirates. Two had succumbed to the coughing sickness, and one had been killed over a lost goat. Zidantas knew he had been lucky.
    Today he was wondering whether his luck was running out. The
Xanthos
had set sail just before midday, and though the friendly southerly wind was in their favor now, Zidantas was worried.
    Usually a vessel from Kypros, traveling north, would leave no later than dawn, cross the narrowest section of open sea to the rocky coastline