Warrior Rising (Goddess Summoning #6)(87)

“Count on it,” Kat muttered, and ducked out of the tent, feeling a weird slam and lock as the flap closed behind her.

She blinked, adjusting her eyes to the bright, midmorning sunlight. She couldn’t believe it was barely noon. It seemed like years had past. Where the hell was everybody? Not one warrior was in sight. “Achilles?” Kat called, walking around the side of the tent. “Odysseus?”

No one. Not a warrior or a war-prize bride stirred. “This is giving me a bad feeling,” she said to herself, as she hurried to Achilles’ tent.

The first thing she noticed was Aetnia, sitting slumped over on the bench by the campfire. She looked up at Kat, cheeks washed with tears.

“Aetnia? Are you okay?”

“Oh, my lady! It is so terrible! He’s going to kill Prince Hector—I know he will!”

“What, slow down. Who is going to kill Hector?”

“Achilles, of course! That terrible brute! Agamemnon is bringing him the news of Patroklos. The berserker will take over then, and our poor prince will be doomed.” The maidservant clasped Kat’s hands suddenly. “Perhaps you can warn him, my lady! We’ll go now. Agamemnon might not have reached Achilles yet. The day is young. Hector is probably still on the battlefield. You could be within the walls of Troy in no time.” She pulled at Kat’s hands as if she would drag her into Troy.

“Stop it, Aetnia. I don’t have time for this.” The girl let go of her hands, face filled with shock and confusion. “Tell me where I can find Achilles.”

Aetnia’s head began to shake back and forth slowly. “What has happened to you, Princess? Has Melia truly bespelled you?”

“Aetnia, that spell stuff is utter bullshit. Why in the hell are you, and all the other women here, so willing to believe that when a woman acts against the norm she has to be under a spell, or wrong in the head, or something else bizarre? How about this—how about considering that maybe I’ve made my own mind up about Achilles and about this stupid war, and it might not be what the…” She paused, almost saying government, and then amended it with what would make more sense to Aetnia. “It might not be what the rulers of this place want us to think.”

Aetnia’s mouth opened and closed, reminding Kat of a carp.

“I’ve gotten to know Achilles and some of these other men. You’ve been with Diomedes for how long now? Two years? Maybe this war is wrong on both sides, and maybe it just needs to be over. Oh, and by the by, Achilles is not a monster,” she added for good measure. “Now, where is he?”

Aetnia pointed to the sea behind Kat. “He and Odysseus went to the shore. Agamemnon followed them there not long ago.”

“Thanks,” she said quickly and started off. Then called back over her shoulder, “And you might want to consider thinking for yourself.”

Agamemnon had seen the berserker before, many times actually. Although it was usually from a distance as Achilles defeated the champion of this or that tribe and saved the Greek army a nasty battle. All of those times the king had never been frightened of the creature that possessed the warrior. Not so this time. What Agamemnon witnessed this time petrified him.

He’d caught up to Achilles and Odysseus at the seashore, where the scarred warrior paced back and forth at the edge of the waves, obviously attempting to control his roiling emotions. Odysseus had been speaking to his friend in a low, calming voice when he noticed Agamemnon approaching, and both men went silent and still as the Greek king joined them.

“Tell me,” Achilles said.

“He is gone. Patroklos is no longer of this world,” Agamemnon said with perfect honesty. “I honor his memory by telling you myself.”

“Honor?” Achilles snarled. “There is no honor is this world or justice or hope. My cousin died pretending to be me, that isn’t honorable.”

“I disagree, Achilles,” Agamemnon said, carefully controlling his sense of glee as he watched the rigid control with which Achilles usually held himself crumble like the support column of an acropolis. “His sense of Greek honor is what made him create the pretense. It was Fate who put Hector in his path.”

“Fate! I curse Fate and all of her minions in Olympus! This world has no honor or justice or hope, but it does have vengeance.” The word came out as a growl.

“Achilles, my friend. Let us go back to camp and plan your cousin’s funeral games,” Odysseus said, stepping between the king and the warrior.

“Listen to Odysseus, Achilles. I will even agree that no Greek will go to battle for a full ten days of gaming to honor him,” Agamemnon said with exaggerated concern. “Though we will have to wait until the fighting is over for the day. Many of the Myrmidons are still battling Hector. He has been fighting like a man possessed since he cut down Patroklos,” Agamemnon finished, loving the irony he evoked by using the word possessed.

Odysseus grabbed the king’s arm. “Enough, Agamemnon. You know the Myrmidons followed—”

Agamemnon wrenched his arm from Odysseus’s grasp. “You dare too much, Ithaca!” Then the king’s eyes widened and he stumbled back several paces.

Odysseus whirled around, shouting, “Achilles, no!”

It was too late. Achilles’ eyes were already beginning to glow a rusty, bloody scarlet. “Tell her the dream has ended. She should return to her home. Ask her to forgive me.” His voice was already beginning to deepen into the guttural snarl of something decidedly not human. Then he lifted his arms to the heavens and let loose a deafening roar as, with a rush, rage cascaded into his body.