With a roar that sings in my blood, Hippolyta leaps forward to meet the charging army. I run, sword raised. We fly across the sand.
I skid to a halt and throw up my shield against the black arrows raining down around us, their thuds against the leather surface felt in my very core. Tremors wrack my body. I can’t move my legs.
Drums and horns echo around us, mixing with the screams of the dying. The stench of smoke and blood coats my throat. The darkness drowns out the fighting around us, the night swelling to a black so thick it blots out the stars.
I remain hunched beneath the shield. My breath escapes me in wild gasps.
Everywhere around me, Nyx appears. Her feet run past me. Her lavender scent clogs my throat. Her claws peel back my shield.
Hippolyta’s scream, far beyond where I kneel on the ground, jerks me to my senses. My fear will get me nowhere but the Underworld. I bested Nyx once before. I can do so again. I will not let her frighten me.
I roll to my feet, swallow the last of my fear, and settle deep into my greatest strength: my courage.
I am a Daughter of Sparta, the Storm of Olympus, and the Shield of Helen.
And no goddess will frighten me ever again.
I duck beneath the jab of a barbed dory, sliding across the sand. I slice my enemy’s leg and stab him in the back as he collapses. The man chokes on his own scream.
I’m up and running before he’s even hit the dirt. The Amazon banner flaps in the air and I make a beeline for it. As I watch, Hippolyta bends beneath the swing of a spear. I ram my sword into the next man’s gut and shove him aside.
Agamemnon thunders on his carriage, cutting through Trojans with duel swords. His horse froths at the mouth, eyes wild. His own eyes light up when he sees Hippolyta.
He drops one sword and picks up a spear.
“No!” I scream. A rush of panic fuels my pounding footsteps. I’ve never run faster.
Agamemnon throws the spear.
I leap and grab Hippolyta around the middle. We crash to the ground, a rush of air passing above my head as the spear thuds beside me.
There are no Spartans on our side of the battlefield. Under my breath, I throw a prayer up to Olympus in thanks. Though, I can likely only thank Apollo and Artemis.
My next opponent is armed with a sword. Its reach is longer than mine, swinging a hair’s breadth from my face. The Mycenaean hoplite roars, spittle flying between us. I knock his next swing away and throw one of my own. He bats it aside, slamming his shield into me. A yelp escapes me. I’m flung backward across the sand.
With a furious scream, I sprint for the line of Amazons, already forming an arrow formation on the northern front. Opposite a spit of barren sand, Agamemnon and his Mycenaeans charge straight for the gates of Troy. The hoplites form a line with two-handed spears and a battalion of soldiers behind them with short swords.
“Bring me Trojan heads,” Agamemnon roars, raising his own sword high.
They charge and the Amazons drop their spears. Even as I sprint toward the oncoming collision of soldiers, I can see that the Mycenaeans have the women vastly outnumbered. Penthesilea’s rage- and fire-filled scream echoes above all the others on the battlefield.
She leads her women with movements as fluid and assured as a snake, and the Amazons meet the Mycenaeans with as much force as a typhoon. They’re flung backward, the women dodging blows and landing their own. Blood arcs through the sky and sprays the sand at my feet as I storm into the fray.
A spearhead dives straight for my face. I spin, sword flashing. It lodges into the arm of a man, and his scream rattles my eardrums. I wrench my weapon free and silence his cries with a slash across his throat. Better to die quickly than suffer the slow, agonizing death of bleeding out beneath a thousand feet.
Hippolyta collides with me hard, her shoulder thudding into mine. We turn our backs to each other and cut through a crowd of men. They keep coming, a never-ending onslaught. My breathing is ragged but I force myself on.
A horn peals in the distance, then another. Not Trojan, nor even Spartan. Perhaps Ithacan or Myrmidon. I cannot say when so many different kingdoms have rallied to tear down the city in which my queen seeks sanctuary.
Agamemnon’s chariot thunders past, the wheels with spokes of pointed and jagged bronze to slice an enemy’s leg before they can rip him from it.
“Retreat!” His scream rattles my brain. “Back to the camp!”
Lyta and I jerk to a halt. Bewilderment pulls her brows high and pops open her mouth. The shadows peel back, revealing the shimmering gold of the sun.
My surprise lasts only a moment before I’m sprinting after them. My blade slices into the slowest men’s legs. Lyta tears after me and does the same, rounding a high dune of sand.
From the sea, a dozen ships are still out among the waves. The Cretan bull, in blue and red, is painted on their sails. On their backs, catapults hurl balls of flame into the tents. Flame tears across canvas-sided tents. Farther and farther out they drift, and a single woman stands at the bow of one ship shouting commands.
More Achaeans have rallied to the camp. A dozen of them start shoving a ship out to sea to give chase. Another ball of tar and flame blows through the entire hull.
King Minos, damn the man, ruled the Cretan Sea and Aegean with calculated control. No king other than Poseidon had such mastery of the seas. Ariadne inherited her father’s naval mastery.
A salphinx bellows from the west, followed in quick succession by a symphony of more Achaean horns. The Grecians turn on their heels, sprinting with the last of their strength for the salt-crusted beach. They stream past Lyta and me, and we begin to slowly back away. Our swords are still raised, and though their attention may be turned toward the enemy in the water, no use having it returned to us.
More Achaean ships are thrust into the waves as all the kings rally to save face against the Cretan onslaught. Six of Ariadne’s ships turn in a circular wave. Four, then two in each direction, volley the last of the balls of tar into the oncoming ships. A last ship then turns to follow Ariadne’s and they cut through the waves.
A Trojan horn echoes above it all, calling for our return. Every muscle in my body aches. My thighs and arms quiver, barely strong enough to carry me back across the blood-drenched field. Above, the early rays of dawn peek high above our bruised and battered shoulders. I try to think of how long we’d been fighting, but cannot. All I can see in my mind’s eye are the bodies I cut down. Their number is endless.
A great desire to throw my weapons to the ground and curl up in the sand sweeps through me but, gritting my teeth, I drag my feet the last twenty yards to the walls of Troy.
The gate remains obstinately shut. We’re all splattered with blood and sweat runs rivulets through the crimson stains on our faces. I lost my helmet somewhere on the battlefield, but managed to keep ahold of my shield and sword.
A slap on my shoulder makes me jump. Hippolyta digs her fingers into my aching arm. She leans heavily on me, favoring her left leg. I never even noticed her wound while we fought.
“Only the first battle and I’ve already twisted my knee,” she says, pain pitching her words high.
Only the first battle. We will have to do this again tomorrow. I sag.
Hippolyta must see the agony in my eyes. “This was a test. Both sides pulled at our threads, to find where our armies were woven the strongest. Now we know which kings have the weakest men. Which of the Achaeans are the bravest, and yet most foolhardy. And they know the same of us. They will regroup, deliberate, and plan their next attack.” She digs her nails into my shoulder. “And we will do the same. Toss aside your weapons. Let the hoplites collect them while we assist our wounded.”
Indeed, now that the Achaeans have fled the battlefield for their protected beach, the towering gates boom, swinging wide for our people to rush inside. Grimacing, I join Hippolyta as she strides to a pair of wounded Trojans. She limps slightly, but hides it well as she stoops to throw the man’s arm over her shoulder. I do the same for the man’s compatriot, a woman with a narrow gash down her thigh. We bring them to the waiting medics at the city’s gates before striding back out into the bloody fold.
The sun is setting by the time I climb the thousand steps up to Priam’s palace. My sandals catch on the lip of a stair and I fall forward, bruising my hands on the hard stone. The pain is an echo, a mere memory compared to the other aches throughout my body.
A tan hand reaches toward me, and I look up into Lykou’s handsome face. “Thank you, friend.”
“We are much more than friends,” Lykou grunts, hauling me to my feet. “Even if you do not care to admit it.”
I don’t have the strength to argue with him, even though I should.
Penthesilea passes us up the stairs, hardly looking winded despite the killing spree she and her sister unleashed upon the battlefield. “Rest well, Daphne. We will meet with the other commanders at dawn. I expect you to my left.”
She doesn’t look back, continuing up and into the palace. I let Lykou lead me to Helen’s and peel the sticky leather from my body. It falls to the floor just as Helen returns, a gasp leaving her.
“Let me help you,” she says, with the commanding tone of a queen. Despite the impropriety, I let her—and Lykou—lead me to the edge of the pool. I do not step into the water, though, unwilling to taint it with the gore of war. I take the sponge and bowl of water that Helen carries over.
I will wash away this death myself.
They leave me to reflect and clean. I’m passing the sponge over my arms, trying to ignore the streams of blood—someone else’s blood—down my skin, when the water suddenly ripples.
Ariadne, with a dancer’s grace, balances upon the lip of the pool. She wears Cretan armor, a dark blue chiton beneath it edged with a silver meander. I don’t recognize the scent of the god’s power that brought her here. She is weaponless and stands with her arms akimbo.
She raises her chin high, and her black hair, streaked with sweat, clings to her neck. “I believe thanks are in order.”
I arch a brow. “A simple thank-you wouldn’t do justice.”
“True.”
I walk toward her through the water. “Why did you help us?”
“A debt,” she says simply. A diadem dotted with purple gems sits on her brow.
“We should be enemies. I killed your father.”
“My father may have been my blood, but he was cruel and thoughtless.” She gazes out over the city below. “There was no love in him for me or his people. Only the throne.” When she turns back to me, her eyes are dark and hard like stones. “Sometimes the ties of family are nothing more than imaginary threads.”
I ignore the cold chill of foreboding that sweeps down my spine. “The Achaeans will be out for your blood.”
She shrugs. “They can try. They have their own gods and goddesses at their backs, and I have mine.”
An arm appears around Ariadne’s shoulders, followed by a glimmering, silver-clad god. Dionysus, serious for the first time I’ve ever seen, gives me a solemn nod. “I’ve planted my feet firmly on the side of the Trojans, for better or worse.” He turns to the Cretan queen, and his face softens. “We both have.”
“Enemies of both Olympus and Greece,” Ariadne muses. She kisses him firmly. “Sounds like an adventure.”
“Give Apollo my regards,” Dionysus says, grinning. “And tell Hera where to shove it.”
The couple disappear in a blast of silver dust. Shaking my head, I return to my bathing ministrations, too tired to think on the bizarre interaction further and too confused to string another sentence along, even in my head.
Once I have bathed, eaten my fill of cheese, bread, and a meat I do not recognize, and changed into a loose chiton, I collapse on my bed and fall asleep instantly.
A feather-light touch along my arm pulls me from dreams of Eleusis. Theseus and the golden fields disappear, replaced by the soft furs and sheer curtains of my room.
“Did nobody tend to your wounds before you fell asleep?” Moonlight halos Apollo’s head. “Remind me to chew out Lykou the next time I see that dog. You would have woken too stiff to even climb from your furs.”
He brushes a tender thumb down my forearm.
“No.” I catch his hand before it can move to my side, despite a bruised rib there silently yelling at me to let him continue. “Save your strength. Help the others who have worse wounds than I.”
A tender smile pulls at Apollo’s beautiful face. He brushes a curl from my brow. “You are too selfless for these mortals, and I too selfish to be a god.” He presses a finger to my lips before I can protest. “The goddesses Akeso and Panakeia are already tending to the wounded.”
I don’t release his hand. “No.”
“I cannot heal you anyway,” he says gruffly. “Not with my powers bound. Let me take you to Panakeia.”
He pulls his hand away and hooks it under my legs before lifting me. His chest is firm, and I must be utterly exhausted, because no qualms echo through my mind at tucking my chin into his arm.
He’s wearing a red silk cloak, threaded with the silver moon and golden sun. I smile, the movement cracking my dry lips.
“Do you and Artemis pick out your clothes together? I bet she has the same cloak in green.” I shift to stare at the tiled ceiling. “Was it your need to find the perfect outfit that kept you from helping in a timely manner?”
“I assure you this cloak is no more ridiculous than the cap that Hermes used to wear.” Apollo matches my smile. “It had this stupid floppy brim and these fluffy white wings that would drop feathers everywhere. Zeus ordered him to throw it in the ocean after the messenger was caught spying on Hera for him because she found the feathers all over the floor.”
“Quit deflecting,” I say, poking him in the side. The steady rock of his feet makes my eyelids heavy. “Everyone between here and Mount Kazbek knows that you won’t leave your palace unless the color of your cloak flatters your complexion.”
Night, thick and impenetrable, blankets the hallway. Sleep tugs at me, Hypnos somewhere nearby drawing me into the lulling folds of dreams and a world where my bodily pains no longer exist.
“I’m sorry, Daphne,” Apollo whispers. I crack my eyes open. His face is unreadable in the long shadows of the hallway. “I wish I could have been there to fight alongside you.”
“Where were you really? Don’t tell me I’m right and that you skipped the battle to fluff up your wardrobe.”
“Zeus trapped me atop Olympus.” Fury flickers on his face. “He tricked me. I didn’t even know the battle began. Not until it was already over.”
“That bastard.” I sigh into his shoulder. It’s getting harder and harder to stay awake. “Your family’s secrets nearly cost me my life last summer. Did cost me my life, actually.”
“I will never let that happen to you again,” he says, voice rough.
I blink. “Even you cannot keep my mortality at bay.”
“We’ll see about that,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes that does nothing to dampen the fire there, too. A challenge.
I let him hold my gaze until sleep claims me.
When I wake, Apollo is gone and I’m burrowed beneath my furs. The tension in my muscles has waned, but not disappeared entirely. There’s a sharp piercing pain in one of my ankles, and my scalp feels as if it is on fire.
“Damn Zeus and his ego,” I grumble around a yawn.
A curious scent makes my shoulders tense, sweet fruit interlaced with incense.
With a soft, sleepy sigh, I roll onto my side. Reaching for the blade beneath my furs.
My questing fingers come up empty.
A chuckle echoes through the room and my eyes open, finding Hermes sitting on the edge of my bed, one dark leg folded over the other.
“How did you know I was here?” His voice is like liquid mischief.
I stay as still as a deer in the forest. “Your scent. When you use magic, it gives you away.”
“Curious.” He bounces his leg, turning toward the balcony. “You and Apollo are absolutely adorable.” The way he says the word makes it sound anything but. “That game you two play, pretending to not love each other, is just hysterical to watch.”
I resist the urge to kick him. Barely.
“Speaking of snooping.” I place a hand atop the Midas Curse pooled around my navel. “Artemis knows you’re here.”
“No she doesn’t.” He silences me with a bored look before I can argue. “With my Olympian powers back to their full height—thanks to you, I might add—I will remind you that I am the god of thieves, among other things.” His gaze bores into my abdomen, as if he can see right through my dress to the golden skin beneath. “I’m quite capable of eluding Artemis’s prying ears.”
Slowly, I climb from the bed and turn to face him, backing toward my pile of weapons.
“You needn’t bother, Daphne darling. I’ve hidden those away, too.”
I grumble and he falls backward onto my furs, hooking an arm behind his head to prop it up. “I’m here for an apology, actually.”
“An apology?” A startled laugh bursts from me, and I throw a quick look over my shoulder toward Helen’s bed. Her soft snores still echo around the suite, and Lykou’s bed is empty.
“For doubting me,” he says, standing suddenly. In the blink of an eye, he’s crossed the space between us. He raises a hand, grazing my jawline with the back of a finger. “Had you listened to me, the Trojans could have suitably prepared for the Achaean arrival.”
“We managed.” I jerk my chin from his touch. “How did you know that they would arrive so quickly? Are you still under Nyx’s thumb?”
“My loyalties”—Hermes fiddles with my chiton’s ties on my shoulder, thumb brushing the scarred skin there—“are bound to no one but myself.”
“Then I apologize for nothing,” I say, stepping again from his reach.
Hermes sighs, dropping his hand and turning to a plate of food either Helen or Lykou left out for me. He plucks up the feta, but I slap it from his hand.
“Not my cheese,” I snap. “Eat the olives, if you’re going to steal my food. I can’t stand them.”
“How do you not starve?” Hermes smiles around a mouthful of them. “Greeks cook them in everything.”
I huff, crossing my arms. “There’s no point waiting around for an apology, Hermes. You’re not stupid enough to still expect one. What is it you truly want?”
He looks me square in the eye, dark skin reflecting the light of the oil lamps. “For you to survive this war.”
That hard iron that I’ve built around myself cracks. “What?”
“Don’t be too flattered.” Hermes picks another olive and pops it into his mouth. “I have my own reasons for wanting you to live.”
I glare. “Why does Nyx want me alive?”
He sighs, rolling his eyes. “I already told you. My loyalties aren’t to her.”
“Damn gods and their half-truths,” I mutter, searching the room for a weapon, anything to bash this bastard upside the head.
I spy an oil lamp, but he catches my wrist before I can grab it. His fingers dig in hard enough to make me gasp. I tug, but his grip is inexorable.
“You’d be dead already if I wanted to hurt you, Daphne,” Hermes says, his gaze tracking over me. “Let me help you survive this war.”
My heart hammers at the base of my throat, breath held. “I survived my first battle just fine.”
“Your fear nearly got you and your allies killed.”
“Hippolyta fought just fine without me.”
“That spear would have gone right through her throat if you had knocked her to the ground even a moment later.” Hermes shakes his head. “And you wouldn’t even be able to hold a sword right now if it wasn’t for the goddess Panakeia.”
I bite back my retort.
“I can train you,” he continues, letting go of my wrist. “In all the arts of the world. The Amazon training is doing wonders for your abilities against multiple assailants, but that army out there”—he points to the dark beyond the palace, where pyres from the Achaeans glow in the distance—“they are being aided by forces even Zeus doesn’t know of yet. They will bring down this city, wall be damned, and I cannot have that.”
“How long have you been watching me, Hermes?”
He pretends to ponder this. “Since you stabbed me in the back.”
“You were in Sparta all that time?”
His face is the image of innocence. “I meant nothing untoward.”
“I bet you were even in my rooms,” I mutter.
“Of course I was.” His smile is smug. “Where do you think that blue incense came from?”
I want to slap that grin from his face.
“Relax,” he says around another olive. “It was for your protection. The smoke kept Nyx from entering your house.”
“I don’t need your help.” I bite out the words around bared teeth. “Leave, before I find another dagger to ram into your back.”
Hermes shakes his head, dark braids swaying. “Your stubbornness has grown even less endearing, and I didn’t think that possible. We’ll see if you remain so stubborn after your next battle.” He turns toward the balcony and, without another word, flings himself into the night. A fluttering of wings drifts on the warm air for a moment before the sounds of the city below resume.