Chapter 23: The Odyssey (Part 3)
The sun rose. On the raft, Alexios was working frantically, hammering a wooden dowel with a chisel. Beside him, Gorgias's nimble fingers worked, lashing the sailcloth to the mast. Lykurgos, his brother, stood guard with his bow.
As expected, they came. Two separate groups of aspirants, approaching from the left and the right.
Lykurgos drew his bowstring, waiting. His quiver was almost empty. He couldn't afford to use suppression fire; every shot had to count. Alexios saw the attackers and grabbed his shield and spear, standing beside his brother.
When the first group entered his range, Lykurgos loosed an arrow. It flew true, sinking deep into the lead boy's unprotected throat. He collapsed, gurgling.
It was a common flaw among the aspirants. To save weight or carry more supplies, most wore only leather or cloth armor. Some wore none at all. But the two brothers, though they had discarded their greaves and pauldrons, still wore their full bronze cuirasses and Corinthian-style helmets.
Lykurgos fired twice more. The shots were deflected by raised wooden shields. The enemy was learning. He didn't care. He nocked his last arrow, aimed, and fired. It struck one of the attackers in their exposed calf.
The boy screamed, and the group faltered. They hadn't expected a master archer. But it no longer mattered. Lykurgos dropped his bow and drew the Lacedaemonian xiphos he had inherited from his cousin.
The two attacking teams hesitated, clearly wary of each other, neither wanting to be the first to charge. A three-way standoff. Finally, the team that had already lost a man couldn't wait any longer. They howled and charged.
Their close-combat skills were no match for the brothers. They came in with shortswords and javelins, and the two Lacedaemonians slaughtered them.
But the other team was smarter. They charged in immediately, exploiting the opening. A boy wielding two shortswords moved with blinding speed, a flurry of blows raining down on Alexios's shield, forcing him onto the defensive.
This left Lykurgos to face two opponents alone. Thankfully, one was the boy he'd shot in the leg, who was limping badly.
Alexios kept his spear-tip forward, maintaining distance, waiting for a mistake. The dual-wielder suddenly lunged inside the spear's range, trying to press his advantage.
But as he did, his footing vanished. He crashed to the sand. Alexios had swept his leg—a wrestling technique his cousin Aurelian had taught him. Before the boy could recover, Alexios slammed the heavy, weighted butt-spike of his spear into his face.
He finished his opponent and turned. Lykurgos had split the limping boy's skull, but the last attacker, a boy with a sword and shield, was giving him trouble. Lykurgos's arms and legs were bleeding from several cuts, though the deep dents in his bronze cuirass showed where lethal blows had been turned aside.
Alexios didn't hesitate. He put his full weight into a throw, launching his spear across the sand. It punched straight through the boy's leather armor, pinning him to the beach.
Alexios ran to retrieve his spear, shouting over his shoulder. "How much longer?"
Gorgias was tying the last rope, his hands a blur. "Five minutes! Just five more minutes!"
Alexios's heart sank. Four more teams were approaching. His brother was wounded. This was a battle they could not win.
As the new teams closed in, a small mercy: two of the teams saw each other as the greater threat and immediately fell upon one another. But that still left six fresh fighters approaching. The two brothers braced themselves.
Alexios lunged, but his opponent hammered his shield aside with a stone axe, then brought it down on Alexios's helmet. A deafening CLANG rang in his ears, and the world spun. He tried to raise his shield, but the man's face suddenly exploded as a javelin punched through his eye.
It was Gorgias.
The skinny fisherman had abandoned the mast. He had thrown his last two javelins with deadly precision, killing Alexios's attacker and skewering the thigh of one of Lykurgos's. He unslung his trident and charged in, parrying a spear-thrust aimed at Lykurgos. The skinny "heretic" was a surprisingly fierce fighter.
Alexios, his head still ringing, glanced up the beach. The other brawl had ended. One team was in full retreat; the three wounded victors were now charging them.
And behind them... two more teams. Six warriors, all clad in red cloaks, bronze armor, and Corinthian-style helmets. Lacedaemonians.
This is the end, Alexios thought.
But as the three charging victors neared, a volley of spears and javelins flew from the newly-arrived Lacedaemonian squad. All three attackers were skewered, collapsing dead onto the sand.
Alexios, Lykurgos, and Gorgias formed a tight triangle, their backs to the raft. They had to make their stand here.
The six new warriors advanced slowly. The one in the lead removed his helmet. "My Prince," he said.
Alexios recognized him. It was Maximus, the son of one of his uncle's officers. "Maximus? What are you doing here?" Alexios felt dizzy, whether from blood loss or the blow to his head, he couldn't tell.
"We are here to help you, my Prince," Maximus said. "We have not forgotten what your father did for our people."
Alexios and Lykurgos finally, finally let themselves breathe. "But... what about your own trial?" Alexios asked.
Maximus stood tall. "It is better to return home in shame than to stain our hands with the blood of our own."
Alexios nodded, his throat tight.
Maximus then pointed his spear at Gorgias. "My Prince, we can give you one of our own. You do not need... him."
Gorgias flinched.
Alexios shook his head. "No. I gave him my word. He is one of us."
Maximus held his gaze, then bowed his head. He ordered his men to strip the dead of their supplies and give them to their Prince.
High above, in the Storm Eagle gunship, Antonius watched the pict-feed. "Captain," he grumbled. "Is that not cheating?"
Petros kept his eyes on the screen. "Antonius, if we are being strict, none of them are 'pure.' The protein-rations they're eating, the folding cisterns they carry... that's all Dark Mechanicum tech we gave them."
"The rules have a purpose," Petros said. "The march tests their will. The infighting tests their killer instinct. The three-man teams test their leadership and obedience. The sea voyage will test their adaptability. What they just showed... that is loyalty. That is brotherhood. That is not cheating. That is to be encouraged."
He leaned closer to the screen. "What I don't want to see is an aspirant with a auto-crossbow, wearing flak armor, and carrying a promethium-engine for his boat. That is cheating."
He watched as the small group on the beach loaded their raft. "I am beginning to like these Lacedaemonians. They are brave, stubborn, and brutal... but they have a sense of honor."
Petros almost smiled. "They are perfect."