Mountain of Black Glass (101 page)

“Take off that damned armor!” Renie snarled at T4b.

“You crash?” he screamed back at her. “Take it off . . . ?”

“We're not going to have a chance if everyone keeps recognizing you.” They were all backing toward the slight shelter of Agamemnon's striped cabin, but she had no illusions it would help for more than a few moments. “Take it off!”

“If you're lucky, they'll think you're a slave,” Jonas said. “I'm serious—these maniacs are too busy killing each other to attack slaves—it's not approved behavior.”

So furiously unhappy that it seemed he might burst into tears, T4b shucked his golden armor until he stood in only a simple, wrinkled chiton. Renie heaved the pieces of armor past the wall of Agamemnon's hut, hoping no one would notice them until she and the others were long gone.

“We have to get to Orlando and Fredericks,” she said. “If he's still sick, they're helpless.” She looked up to see Hector and some of the other leading Trojans surging toward the nearest of the Greek ships, torches blazing in their hands. Even now, the sun had barely topped the distant hills.

“We'll never make our way through that,” Jonas said miserably. The Trojans were consolidating their position in the middle of the open area behind the gate, but the Greeks were flinging themselves at the invaders from all angles, throwing lives away in an effort to keep them from advancing farther, like antibodies trying to destroy a cluster of germs. “We have to go down to the ocean, see if we can make our way up the beach. Damn!” He pointed. “Orlando and Fredericks are all the way over there, at the opposite end of the camp.”

“Follow me,” said !Xabbu, then turned and trotted away between the tents.

The others scrambled after him. Although several Greeks rushing toward the battle at the gate shouted in anger at Odysseus, and an occasional arrow dropped out of the sky without warning, they managed to avoid serious harm all the way down to the beach, where they discovered that groups of Trojans had already reached the water's edge while their comrades kept the Greek defenders occupied in the center of camp. A dozen or so exultant attackers had already clambered into the rigging of one of the long black ships and were busily setting it on fire. Flames ran up the mast, lifting tendrils of tar-black smoke into the morning sky.

A contingent of Greeks had seen them and were climbing onto the ship's deck to stop the assault even as Renie and the others reached the spot. Individual battles broke out among the fires. Renie saw one Trojan's head almost hewn from his neck by the blow of a sword, but the victor staggered away a moment later with a spear in his chest and fell shrieking into the flames.

Hell,
she thought.
War really is hell.
The ancient cliche would not leave her brain; it repeated itself over and over as she sprinted along the beach, like some idiot nursery rhyme.

Ahead of them, several more of the Greek ships were already running with flames, little waves of fire that swept through rigging and up pitch-smeared masts to explode in the bundled sails. A hundred meters away Hector had burst through the defenders, armor gleaming in the slanted morning light as he led a group of shouting men down on one of the other ships. The Greeks at the back of the larger melee were peeling away in a frantic attempt to get between their chief enemy and the precious vessels, but Priam's son seemed an unstoppable force. In the few short moments Renie was watching, Hector smashed his flaming brand into one man's face and gutted another with his spear, then kicked both bodies aside as though they were no heavier than footstools. His line of assault moved unstoppably forward toward the ocean, a wall of screaming, battle-maddened Trojans that now separated Renie's company from their goal.

!Xabbu stopped a few paces ahead of the others, hesitating.

“We're never going to make it,” Renie gasped.

Jonas was pale. “A trick, maybe? Something? We can't just let them . . .”

“They think T4b's a Trojan—except for you, they think we're all Trojans. Maybe that will help.” She couldn't believe they were going to have to stand and watch as Orlando was captured or slaughtered.

“Like that's going to make em say, ‘Go ahead, problem not!' or something?” T4b said, stopping to suck in air. “This a lockin' gang war! You don't run into the middle, saying ‘Scuse me! ' ”

He was right, of course. Full of helpless dread, Renie sank to one knee as Hector in his bright armor reached the ships, completing the barricade of armed men across their path. The Trojan hero threw his torch high into the air; for a brief moment all the battlefield seemed to grow still as faces tilted up to watch it. It spun end over end, trailing flame like a comet, and stuck in the rigging of the nearest beached ship. Within moments the ropes were ablaze.

“Now Zeus has given us a day that pays all back!” Hector bellowed. The approving din of the Trojans swelled around him.

Renie was trying so hard to think of a way to overcome the apparently hopeless situation that at first, even as the clamor increased, she did not understand that something had changed. Men were shouting excitedly, and where the fighting was less intense, they waved their spears in the air in salute. But for the first time that morning, it was the Greeks who were cheering.

“The Myrmidons have come out!” someone shrieked. “See—they fall upon the Trojans from the side!”

“Myrmidons?” Renie squinted. There was indeed a commotion on the far side of Hector's assaulting force; she could see what looked like horses and chariots rushing toward the thickest part of the struggle, dirt flying from beneath the horses' hooves.

Jonas looked stunned. “The Myrmidons . . . those are Achilles' men.”

“You mean . . . ?” Even as she tried to make sense of it, some soldier closer to the struggle began to shout in excitement that might have been joy or terror.

“Achilles! Achilles! The son of Peleus has entered the battle!”

A figure in bright armor stood in the lead chariot, holding himself upright with rather less grace than would be expected of a hero, but holding a spear high over his head. Just the force of his presence had already sent some of the nearest Trojans scattering; several of them could not escape fast enough, and were run down by the foaming horses. As his charioteer steered around a larger group, the shining figure leaned out and jabbed with the spear. More chariots and a surging mass of armored men came rushing up behind him, and together they plunged into the battle like the thrust of a knife.

“Jesus Mercy, what is he
doing?
” Renie shouted.
“Orlando! Don't be a fool!”
But it was hopeless—if he had been standing ten meters away he would have had trouble hearing her above the screams of men and terrified shrilling of wounded horses, but he was a dozen times that or more, leading his Myrmidons into the thickest part of the Trojan force.

The return of Achilles sent a flash of confidence through the Greeks, as suddenly as if the gods themselves had poured courage back into their hearts.

“He's too sick for this,” Renie said worriedly. “Where is Fredericks? Why would he let his friend do something like this? Over an imaginary battle!”

“It would not have been imaginary if the Trojans burned the ships and overran the camp,” !Xabbu pointed out.

The Trojans, who had been scenting victory only moments before, now fell back toward the gates in a disorganized muddle. Hector and his men had been cut off from the rest of the attacking force; surrounded and in danger of being taken, Priam's great son began a dogged, bloody march away from the ships and back to the mass of his comrades.

“And see—they are falling back,” !Xabbu said. “Orlando has done what was needed.”

“Op that,” said T4b, impressed.

“More than what was needed.” Jonas stood on tiptoe, trying to make sense out of the swirl of bodies in the middle of the camp. “The young idiot has got the Trojans on the run, but now he and his men are chasing them back out through the gate. God, if only he could hear us!”

!Xabbu clambered up onto the nearest of the beached ships, all but abandoned now as the fighting had shifted all the way back to the settlement walls, where the Trojans were trying to keep some order in their retreat. Renie and the others followed him, scrabbling along the ship's slanting deck until they reached the prow. “What's happening?” Renie asked. “Where is he?” Part of the battle had already spilled back out through the gate and onto the plain, the Greeks now actively in pursuit as the Trojans fought a desperate rearguard action.

“Orlando in his wagon is chasing some of the Trojan wagons. No, chariots—isn't that the word?” !Xabbu shook his head. “It is hard to see, but I think that is Hector, who has fought his way back out again, and now is getting into his own chariot.”

As Renie watched, the rest of the combatants rushed out the gate and onto the plain like sand pouring through the neck of an hourglass. “We have to go after him,” she declared. “Orlando, I mean. We can't leave him out there—Hector will cut him to bits if he catches him.”

“Go out there?” T4b demanded. “Without armor?”

“We'll find you some on our way,” Jonas said. “There's plenty of men who won't need theirs anymore.”

“We have to go,” Renie repeated. “Now we've all found each other, we have to stay together.” She began to work her way back along the deck. “If we're lucky, we can catch up to him—pull him away from the fight and then just keep going.”

“Keep going where?” Jonas said, jumping down onto the sand beside her.

“Troy?” Renie shrugged. “If we can avoid getting killed until we reach Orlando, we'll worry about it then.” She gave him a sour grin. “Welcome to how things work around here.”

!Xabbu swung down from the prow and led them back through the camp. The sun was only a short way into the sky, but had almost vanished behind the pall of the burning ships, bringing a premature twilight to the battlefield. As they stepped over the sprawled corpses that littered the camp and bloodied their hands searching among them for new armor for T4b, the little voice began to sing in the back of Renie's head again, reminding her over and over again just exactly what war was.

 

O
RLANDO awoke from a rare dreamless sleep to a world that seemed subtly different.

He could feel the rough blanket under his back, the leaves and boughs beneath it prodding at him like small, gentle fingers. He could smell smoke from a fire, sharp and crisp, although the fire in the brazier in the corner held only dark ashes. He could hear men's voices, but the noise was far away, murmurous as the ocean. None of those things were new.

No, I feel . . . stronger.
He sat up, and although it made him a little dizzy, the sensation passed quickly.
In fact, I feel pretty good.

The last wave of illness, which had almost drowned him after the escape from the temple of Ra, seemed to have receded. He was nowhere near completely healthy—the world around him seemed less than totally real, and he felt fragile, as though his body were made of flexible glass—but he still felt better than he had in days.

The shadowed cabin was empty. He shouted, “Fredericks!” but no one came. He was not hungry, yet he had a tremendous urge to eat something anyway, to drink, to feed the furnace of his system with something more substantial than whatever dripped nutrients were keeping his real body alive.

He didn't care. He was alive again, more or less. He wanted to celebrate.

He swung his legs to the floor and felt dirt beneath his toes. That was pleasure enough; he spent a moment enjoying it. When he did stand, his legs wobbled a bit before his knees finally locked, but the terrible vertigo that had kept him in his bed most of the time since he had arrived was gone. He took a few steps. It worked.

After a few more careful steps he leaned against the doorpost to check the state of Orlando again and found it fairly good. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the morning sunlight, blinking. The sky was blue, scribed with odd streaks of black cloud. The smell of burning wood was very strong.

He shouted for Fredericks again, without response. The camp seemed to be deserted. A few fires still smoldered, but they did not seem enough to account for the strong smell of burning in the air. He stepped out farther and looked around, but there was no sign of any of the Myrmidon soldiers.

As he walked through the eerily empty camp his view of much of the Greek siege-city was blocked by the prows of the large black ships, but he could see a few human forms in the distance and could hear faint voices. Startled by a shadow moving across the sun, he looked up and saw that the trailing clouds were not natural, but were the wind-tattered outer edges of a vast funnel of black smoke—smoke that was rising from only a short distance away, back along the row of ships.

“Scanny!” Eyes fixed on the smoke, he stepped on a sharp stone; he cursed and hopped for a moment, then turned back to the cabin to get his sandals.

As he stooped to pick them up from the floor, he noticed that something else had changed since he went to sleep. The armor and weapons that had stood in one corner of his cabin were gone, nothing left behind but the empty armor-stand, sad as a roadside grave marker, and a single long spear lying on the earthen floor.

Sandaled now, but fighting another slight wave of dizziness, he banged back out the door of the cabin again and almost collided with a bent old man who was carrying an armful of firewood. The man took a staggering step back, goggled at Orlando for a moment, then shrieked and dropped the logs.