Chapter 50 A Fallen Star #2
Again, many arrows found their marks, but the Greek army surged on, their number so great the Trojan’s defences barely slowed them.
Long ladders, each carried by upwards of fifty men, sprung from their ranks, soldiers scurrying like bronze beetles up their lengths.
Several fell as swiftly as they rose, but not all.
Danae gaped as some men leapt from the wood to clamber up the ropes dangling from the tops of the walls, still tied around the mouldering necks of Diomedes’ scouting party.
The Trojans hurried to cut the ropes free, but incredibly some Greeks made it to the battlements, tossing enemy soldiers from the tops of the walls until they were cut down.
‘Shit,’ Hylas breathed as a small group of Trojan soldiers suddenly appeared from a flanking position behind a crop of rocky hills to the south, smashing into the Greek force. They were a fraction of the Greek’s size, yet they cut through their enemy’s ranks like a blade through cheese.
‘They must have been waiting,’ said Danae, taking in the clash of bronze and bone while scouring the landscape. ‘What if there are others?’
Far above, the bruised clouds finally opened, and rain pummelled the blood-churned earth.
Danae shielded her eyes, searching the sky. ‘Where in Tartarus are they?’
‘They’ll come. Odysseus said they would.’ Hylas’ expression betrayed the conviction of his words.
From the harbour, another gust of smoke billowed across the plain, the blackened carcasses of the Trojan ships still smouldering in the rain.
Despite the walls now being scaled by Greek soldiers, the triremes in the bay released another volley of fire, metal and stone, crashing into walls, destroying enemy and ally alike.
Agamemnon stood above the figurehead of Zeus, wildly signalling the ships to launch their catapults again and again.
Hylas’ eyes widened, the colour draining from his cheeks.
‘Fuck this,’ hissed Danae. ‘I will not stand by while my men are needlessly slain. Atalanta and Telamon are out there, they need me.’ She drove her horse towards the nearest bridge.
‘Danae!’ Hylas urged his steed after her. ‘As one Argonaut to another, I beg you to listen to Odysseus!’
She paused on the cusp of the riverbank and looked back at him.
Something deep and raw flickered through his eyes. ‘You made the right choice not coming back for me on the Doliones’ shore. Don’t let your guilt force you to make the wrong one now.’
A rumble of thunder ripped the air.
Danae looked up, and moments later, lightning cracked the sky. She blinked frantically, trying to banish the light dancing across her vision.
Something gleamed against the dark clouds, flying directly over the battlefield.
Her heart suddenly felt too large for her chest.
Thunder … lightning … surely the King of the Gods himself had not come?
The trident’s warmth burned her palm as it responded to the blood pounding through her veins.
Not now … please not now. She couldn’t face him yet. She was not ready.
She could see no chariot, nor any winged horses, just a solitary figure clad in gold, soaring like a bird through the storm-marred sky.
Arrows and spears hurtled towards them, shot from the Children of Prometheus soldiers, but the god continued to circle above, avoiding their blows.
She had never laid eyes on the King of the Gods, but something about the Olympian flying above her seemed wrong.
They were too small and slight to be Zeus.
Suddenly another horn sounded, and from the east a second group of Trojan soldiers smashed into the Greek force.
The god too seemed to be distracted by this new addition to the fray, and finally one of the arrows found its mark. The Olympian dipped mid-air then hurtled down towards their attacker.
Danae’s pulse slowed, then rapidly sped up.
Before Hylas could stop her, she kicked her horse’s sides and cantered across the bridge.
She had seen battle before, fought bloodthirsty hunters on Lemnos and towering six-armed Earthborn on the Doliones’ shore. But there was nothing that could have prepared her for this.
The crash of weapons, braying horses and guttural screams battered her ears.
All around her, the men caught by arrows lay twitching in the dirt, armour smeared with earth and blood.
Some still crawled towards Troy, reaching out as they groaned with the last of their strength.
It became harder to find a path through them, the air thick with smoke and rain, and the metallic stench of open wounds and voided bowels.
She pressed on, towards the tangle of Greeks and Trojans battling before the Scaean Gates.
Then her horse reared as a spear shot past her, burrowing into a Greek soldier’s chest, blood spurting from the man’s mouth as he fell.
Danae gripped the saddle with her thighs, but with only one hand on the reins she couldn’t hold her grip and slid back, thudding into the mud.
As she pushed herself up with the help of the trident, the mare galloped back towards the Greek camp.
She was barely on her feet before a Trojan soldier came roaring towards her, sword raised above his head.
Without pausing for breath, she swung the trident, its golden prongs connecting with the man’s breastplate.
As though it was an extension of her arm, the trident released a burst of life-threads, amplified by the gold, which sent the soldier flying in a violent spin, twenty feet into the air.
Danae stared at the weapon and grinned.
No wonder the Olympians’ powers had always seemed vastly stronger than her own with their weapons and armour. Then she thought of Metis, and of the raw power of Gaiasight. Danae had both.
Her hands tightened around the trident’s shaft as she stared about the battlefield, then dived into the throng. Her eyes blurred with tears from the still-smoking ships as she scoured the mass of fighters for golden armour amongst a storm of bronze.
To her left a soldier’s head was cleaved clean from his shoulders, another’s chest ripped open by the spiked wheel of a chariot. Soon, she could no longer tell enemy from ally, the men’s sweaty, ash-smeared faces all snarling like beasts in a lion pit.
So much power, said the voice. All yours for the taking.
She clenched her jaw as the trident seemed to sing in response beneath her hands.
A man fell in front of her, his throat slit, his life force seeping away into the dirt.
She paused, staring at the blood pooling beneath his head, her whole being aching with longing.
Then, through the din, she heard an unmistakable cry. Ignoring the voice, she leapt over the dying man and charged in the direction of the sea, weaving through the chaos.
The thunder rumbled, and another vein of lightning cracked the sky. With the lashing rain and dense black smoke, it was near impossible to see.
Channelling her will into the trident, she swung the weapon through the air, glowing threads streaming from the triple prongs to whip a clear path of air ahead of her.
The golden-armoured Olympian stood amongst the battling soldiers, an arrow protruding from between the join of the metal across their thigh.
Children of Prometheus soldiers lay broken around them, bodies piled on one another like sacks of grain.
A few remained standing, ready to sacrifice everything, while other Greek and Trojan soldiers fled in fear.
With a jolt, Danae caught a flash of silver nearby and spotted Atalanta fighting sword to sword with a Trojan soldier with hair the same coppery hue as his battered armour.
For a heartbeat she was torn, but before she could make a move the god lunged towards Atalanta and the Trojan. They grabbed her by the neck, lifting her off the ground, then turned to the man she’d been fighting.
‘Run, Aeneas! For the love of your mother, run!’
There was no time for fear or self-doubt. While the Olympian was distracted, Danae threw herself forward, swinging the trident like a club. The god was knocked off their feet, crashing into a mass of soldiers.
Atalanta gasped, falling to her knees, hands around her bruised throat.
Their eyes met, and Danae’s heart swelled for a beat, before she turned and ran after the god.
She squinted against the rain, focusing on the Olympian through the torrent of droplets. They were already on their feet, a twitching soldier clutched in their fists as they sucked the man’s life-threads into their body, healing their wounds.
She had moments.
Lungs screaming with the smoke, she sprinted, the trident gripped in one hand, her other reaching beneath her cloak.
The god turned as she approached, eyes widening beneath a helm wound with a filigree of golden ivy.
They were smaller than Danae had expected, shorter and with a much slimmer build than Poseidon.
A dark smudge of blood trailed down their leg from where the arrow had been buried.
The drained soldier slid from the Olympian’s grip as Danae drove the trident into the earth between them, with a shockwave that sent the god tumbling to the ground.
As the Olympian hurried to their feet, she reached inside the pack fastened to her belt.
The god lunged, clutching at the trident. Just as Danae hoped they would.
As their fingers closed around the shaft, she drew out the collar and snapped it around their neck. The god stumbled back, clawing at the iron ring with their gauntleted fingers. As they flailed, Danae ripped the golden helm from their head.
The face beneath was that of a pale youth, barely older than fourteen. He strongly reminded her of a young Philemon.
Lip quivering, Hermes, Messenger of the Gods and the Lord of Tricksters, sank to his knees in the bloody dirt.
‘Please, don’t kill me.’