Helikaon glanced over at Kolanos. The man was terrified.
“It is satisfied. That was an act of greatness. Argurios would have been proud of it.”
Surrounded by Trojan soldiers, the Mykene began to shuffle from the megaron. Helikaon walked to where Hektor stood. The golden-haired warrior gave a broad smile, opened his arms, and drew Helikaon into a crushing embrace.
“This time I really thought they’d killed you,” said Helikaon.
“Have you no faith, boy? You think a few Gypptos could finish me off? And how could I not come back when Father has taken such pains to find me a bride?” Hektor glanced up at the gallery. “Is that her? By the gods, I hope it is.”
Helikaon gazed up at Andromache. She was standing there in her torn white chiton, her bow in her hand, her flame-colored hair hanging free.
“Yes,” he said, his heart breaking, “that is Andromache.”
Then he turned away and walked from the palace.
He followed the Trojan soldiers as they led the fifty Mykene to the beach and the waiting ships. Weary now in both body and soul, he sat down on an upturned rowing boat and watched as surgeons and healers moved among the wounded. Kolanos, his arms bound, was sitting alone on the beach, staring out to sea.
The light of predawn began to glow in the east.
Several carts trundled down to the beach, bearing the armor and weapons of the Mykene.
It all seemed a dream now to Helikaon: the bloodshed and the horror, the battle in the megaron. It was hard to believe in this quiet dawn that men had died and that the fate of a kingdom had hung in the balance. And yet, despite all the drama and violence, it was not thoughts of battle that hung on his soul. All he could see was Andromache and Hektor. He was more than happy that his friend was alive. At any other time, though, he would have been exultant. Emotions warred within him. The return of Hektor had robbed him of the one joy he had fought for.
Anger touched him then. “I will not let this happen,” he said aloud, and pictured himself returning to the palace for Andromache. He could see Priam and offer him anything to release Andromache to him. Reality blew across his thoughts like a chill wind. Priam would not release her. He had announced her to the Trojan multitudes. She was the price of a treaty with the king of Thebe Under Plakos.
Then I will steal her, he decided. We will sail across the Great Green and make a life far from Troy.
And in doing so you will shame Hektor, cause strife and possible ruin in Dardania, and live your life in constant fear of reprisal and death.
Is this love? he asked himself. Is this the kind of life you would visit upon Andromache? To become a runaway, exiled from her family, an oath breaker, loathed and reviled? Helikaon felt as if all his strength had been leached from him.
As the sky brightened, the air filled with the sounds of seabirds, swooping and diving over the bay, their calls sharp and hungry and full of life.
On the beach behind him the Mykene began to climb aboard their galleys. Injured men were lifted to the decks, and then the weapons were hauled up in fishing nets. Helikaon saw the bound Kolanos propelled roughly toward a vessel. He fell to his knees. A Mykene warrior kicked him, then dragged him to his feet.
With the dawn breaking, the galleys were hauled out into the water, the last of the crew scrambling aboard. Helikaon watched as the masts were hoisted and the oars run out. The Trojan soldiers marched back along the beach and then up the long hill to the city gates.
As the galleys sailed off into the west, a piercing shriek came echoing across the water. Then a scream of agony. And another. The awful sounds continued, growing more faint as the galleys rowed toward the headland.
Helikaon heard soft footfalls and swung to see Andromache walking toward him, a long green cloak around her shoulders. Rising from the upturned boat, he opened his arms and she stepped into his embrace. He kissed her brow.
“I love you, Andromache. Nothing will ever change that.”
“I know. Our lives were never our own.”
He lifted her hand and kissed the palm. “I am glad you came. I did not have the strength to seek you out in the palace. I would have committed some madness and damned us all.”
“I don’t think you would have,” she said softly. “Laodike told me you love Hektor like a brother. You could do nothing to bring him shame. I know you, Helikaon, and you should know me. I would never bring disgrace upon my family. We were both raised to duty above all else.”
“Such duty is a curse!” he said, anger flaring once more. “There is nothing on earth I want more than to sail away with you, to live together, to be together.”
He looked up at the sky. The rising sun had streaked the clouds above with crimson and gold, but over the sea to the west the sky was brilliantly blue and clear.
“I must go,” said Andromache.
“A little while longer,” he urged her, taking her hand.
“No,” she said sadly. “With every moment my resolve is weakening.” Drawing back her hand, she said, “May the gods grant you great happiness, my love.”
“In letting me know you they already have. More than I have deserved.”
“Will you come back for my wedding in the spring?”
“Would you want me there?”
Tears fell then, and he saw her struggle to retain her composure. “I will always want you close to me, Helikaon.”
“Then I will be there.”
Andromache turned away and stared out to sea. “Laodike and Argurios died hand in hand. You think they are together now? Forever?”
“I hope so with all my heart.”
Gathering her cloak around her, she looked into his eyes. “Farewell, then, King Aeneas,” she said, and walked away.
“Goodbye, goddess,” he whispered. She heard him, and he saw her pause. Then she continued on without turning. He stood watching her until she reached the high gate.
She did not look back.
EPILOGUE
THE GOLDEN TORQUE
By the arrival of spring the land of Dardania was at peace. Helikaon’s soldiers had eradicated the more persistent of the outlaw bands, and with better communication between towns and settlements, grievances were dealt with swiftly, before they had a chance to fester. Community leaders, with access to officials at Dardanos, no longer felt isolated, and the feast of Persephone, welcoming the new season, was a happy one.
Queen Halysia had led the sacrifice procession to the cliff-top shrine, wearing the golden laurel crown and carrying the staff of Demeter. King Helikaon had walked beside her. The queen’s pregnancy was pronounced now, but no one commented on it. The silence was hard to bear, for Halysia believed she knew what lay behind it. Either they pitied her or they were hiding their revulsion.
Once the dancing and the singing began, she slipped away and walked back up to the fortress and the cliff-top gardens. They were unkempt and overgrown, and she decided she would spend more time there from now on, in quiet solitude, reshaping the flower beds and cutting back the shrubs. However, today she merely sat, looking out over the shimmering sea.
A servant brought her a cool drink. She thanked the girl and sent her away. Down in the bay she saw the Xanthos had been refloated and men were working on her decks, ready for the voyage to the west. The first ship of the new season had docked there only yesterday, carrying copper and tin. It also had brought a gift for Helikaon that had caused him to laugh aloud. A friend on Kypros had sent him an ornate bow decorated with silver thread. There was a short message: “Now you can truly be the Lord of the Silver Bow,” it read.
Halysia asked him about it. He told her about a half-starved child who had mistaken him for the god Apollo. “It seems a long time ago now,” he said.
“And you helped her?” She laughed then. “A foolish question. Of course you helped her. It is your nature.” There had been other messages from Troy, which he had shared with her. The rebel prince Agathon had been seen in Miletos, taking ship for Mykene. Prince Antiphones had
been promoted to the king’s inner circle and given a new palace for his part in foiling the plot on Priam’s life.
This pleased Helikaon. “He is a good man,” he said. “I like him greatly.”
A light breeze blew across the cliff top. Halysia strolled out from the garden and along the cliff path. She could still hear the music of the pipes in the distance and the laughter of the guests. Such a good sound. There is too little laughter in the world, she thought.
She sat in the shade of an overhanging rock and watched the seabirds flocking over the Xanthos. Then she dozed for a while in the heat. When she awoke, the afternoon was waning toward dusk. Glancing back along the cliff path, she saw Helikaon emerge from the gardens some way in the distance. Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart began to beat faster. He had changed from the royal robes he had worn for the sacrifice to Persephone. Now he wore a simple white knee-length tunic edged with gold.
And she remembered the visions of that dreadful night, when the Mykene had raped her and murdered her son. She had almost come to believe they were inventions born of her terror. But there had been a vision of Helikaon, dressed in this tunic, seeking her on a cliff top.
Her mouth was dry, and she felt like hiding from him. He had seen her, though, and waved.
Easing herself to her feet, she waited for him. He was carrying a small package wrapped in muslin.
“I thought I would find you here, lady,” he said. “There is something we must speak of.”
“No!” she said sharply. “You must not! I know what you have there. You must not give it to me.”
He looked puzzled. “How can you know?”
“My dreams, Helikaon. You remember? The sea full of ships carrying blood-hungry men, a great city burning. Terror and despair! I saw the sky aflame and the sea rise up. I also saw you, coming to me here, and in your hands a golden necklace decorated with lapis lazuli. You understand? If you give me this, then the other visions must be true also.”
He stood quietly for a moment. “I do understand,” he said. “But listen to me, Halysia. If the visions were true, then they will come to pass whether you accept the gift or not. For I am here, and the gift is in my hand, just as your vision showed you. And, yes, one day the enemy will cross the Great Green. They will bring war and tragedy to these eastern lands. Such is the nature of vile men. Yet we cannot live in dread of them. We cannot hide behind high walls, our hearts trembling, for that is not life. We must accept the needs and the duties of each day and face them one at a time. You are the queen of Dardania, and the people love you. I am the king, and they fear me. Soon you will give birth to a child—a son, if your dreams are true. It would be better for him, for you, and for the realm if we were to be a true family. We should be wed, Halysia.”
She turned away. “You do not love me, Helikaon. And you promised yourself to wed only for love.”
He took her hand and smiled. “You are wrong. I do have love for you. Yes, and respect and admiration. If the gods will it, we will find happiness together. Or at least contentment.”
A cool breeze rustled against her gown, and she shivered. “When would we do this?” she asked.
“Tomorrow, while everyone is still gathered for the feast days.”
“I am so frightened, Helikaon.”
He drew her to him, his arms around her. “Be my wife, and I will be a shield against all your fears.”
She felt the strength of his arms and the warmth of his body, and she snuggled in even closer, feeling safer than she had in months. She sighed and closed her eyes, wanting the moment to last and last.
He stroked her golden hair, then eased her away from him, offering her the wedding gift. Halysia took it with trembling hands and opened the cloth wrapping. The necklace was exquisite, made of scores of tiny golden squares, many of them embellished with brilliantly blue lapis lazuli. Lifting it from the cloth, Helikaon draped it around her slender neck. The metal felt warm against her skin.
“It looks beautiful,” he said with a wide smile. “Now let us go inside and announce the news.” Taking her hand, he led her back along the cliff top.
As they reached the garden, she glanced back once more at the sea. Yet again, in her mind’s eye, she saw the massive fleet of enemy ships bearing down upon the eastern lands.
But for this one glorious moment she no longer cared.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DAVID GEMMELL was born in London, England, in the summer of 1948. Expelled from school at sixteen, he became a bouncer, working nightclubs in Soho. Born with a silver tongue, Gemmell rarely needed to bounce customers, relying instead on his gift of gab to talk his way out of trouble. This talent eventually led him to jobs as a freelancer for the London Daily Mail, the Daily Mirror, and the Daily Express. His first novel, Legend, was published in 1984 and has remained in print ever since. He became a full-time writer in 1986. His books consistently top the London Times bestseller list.
BY DAVID GEMMELL
(published by Ballantine Books)
Lion of Macedon
Dark Prince
Echoes of the Great Song
Knights of Dark Renown
Morningstar
Dark Moon
Ironhand’s Daughter
The Hawk Eternal
THE DRENAI SAGA
Legend
The King Beyond the Gate
Quest for Lost Heroes
Waylander
In the Realm of the Wolf
The First Chronicles of Druss the Legend
The Legend of Deathwalker
Hero in the Shadows
Winter Warriors
White Wolf
The Swords of Night and Day
THE STONES OF POWER CYCLE
Ghost King
Last Sword of Power
Wolf in Shadow
The Last Guardian
Bloodstone
THE RIGANTE
Sword in the Storm
Midnight Falcon
Ravenheart
Stormrider
TROY
Lord of the Silver Bow
Lord of the Silver Bow is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2005 by David Gemmell
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Published in Great Britain by Bantam Press, London.
DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gemmell, David.
Lord of the silver bow / David Gemmell.
p. cm. — (Troy)
1. Troy (Extinct city)—Fiction. 2. Greeks—Turkey—Fiction. 3. Trojan War—Fiction. 4. Turkey—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6057.E454L67 2005
823′.914—dc22 2005040514
www.delreybooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-345-48608-0
v3.0
David Gemmell, Lord of the Silver Bow
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