Warrior Rising (37 page)

“Yes!” said another warrior whose name Kat couldn't remember. “We may even get to Achilles before he has killed Hector and called the prophesy to him.”

Everyone was looking expectantly at Kat, even Odysseus. Kat wished like hell she could produce a living, walking, talking Patroklos, but of course that was impossible. Even if the warrior was actually alive, he was probably in surgery. Pulling him out of the modern world would kill him as surely as Hector's sword.

“Patroklos can't be brought out here on the battlefield. It would kill him. He's alive, but he's badly hurt. No, I'm all you have. You have to take me to Achilles.”

“Achilles will not see you, my lady,” Automedon said sadly. “It will only be the berserker, and we cannot save you from him if the creature decides to destroy you.”

“I know that. You won't have to save me. I'll save myself.”

Every single man looked at her as if she had just said she was going to sprout a red cape and fly faster than a speeding bullet.

“Just take me to him,” she said with a sigh. “I'll take care of the rest of it. No, I won't hold you responsible for my deadness if things don't work out. And once you get me to him, all you guys back off. I don't want any of you getting hurt.”

She saw the incredulous looks and heard a muttered, “
She
doesn't want
us
getting hurt?” which she ignored. They were definitely not helping her confidence level.

“All right. Let's get her to Achilles,” Odysseus said.

The men snapped to like the experienced, disciplined warriors they were. They created a phalanx, putting her safely in the middle of them. Then they began to move onto the battlefield, fighting slowly, as one man, moving inexorably forward, drawing ever nearer the animalistic cries that came from the creature who used to be Achilles.

Afterward Kat couldn't decide if the nightmare trip across the battlefield had taken a very short or a very long time. It had seemed she had entered a place where time had no meaning, a
Twilight Zone
landscape of death and blood and violence that her eyes took in, but her soul refused, at least temporarily, to see. Later the memories came to her, mostly in black-and-white snapshots of horror, but at that moment she had marveled what the human mind could deny to survive.

Then the pace of the group changed, picked up, before coming to a stop. Odysseus was beside her, breathing hard. “There is only one more layer of men between us and the berserker. We should push easily through.”

“Okay, good. Just get me close to him.”

“You may not have long before he's upon you,” Odysseus said.

“Let me worry about that.”

Odysseus nodded and called the men surrounding them to order. “Push through the line then open the column for the princess!”

Kat was sick and scared. As she moved forward again with the men she thought she might puke and was gritting her teeth together against it when the dark shields in front of her parted to let in daylight and madness.

He was standing in a clearing of dead men. Blood had turned the dirt to rusty clay. His back was to her, giving Kat a bizarrely peaceful moment in which to study him. Odysseus and the other men had been right—this creature was not Achilles. His body had grown to such huge, misshapen proportions that the tunic she had last seen him wearing had split, leaving him naked except for a short linen wrap knotted around his waist. She must have made an involuntary noise because he suddenly whirled to face her. Kat felt the men tense. She glanced at Odysseus and told him “Go!” before walking away from their protection.

The creature growled. Kat took a few more steps, distancing herself from the other men, then she stopped and met his burning red gaze. Blood and gore covered his scarred body. It ran in dirty rivulets from his matted hair. His face was not his own. Like his body, it was misshapen, as if there was something under his skin trying to stretch its way free.

“Achilles, it's me, Katrina.” She made sure her voice was steady and calm, as if he were a client who had just told her that he was thinking about suicide. And wasn't that just what Achilles was doing? He believed he'd caused his cousin's death, so now he was planning on paying for that with his own. “Achilles,” she repeated his name. “Patroklos is not dead.”

Achilles curled his lip, bearing his teeth. He began to move toward her, slowly but with a deadly, almost seductive grace. She thought he reminded her of a huge poisonous snake. Kat wanted to turn and run for all she was worth back into the sea of warriors behind her. Instead she drew a deep breath, sent a silent, pleading prayer asking Venus for help, and held her ground.

“Achilles,” she said sternly. “You have to listen to me. Patroklos is not dead. He's alive and he's going to be fine.”

As he circled her he made a noise that sent chills skittering across her skin—she realized the creature was laughing.

“Achilles,” she said again, turning her body so that she could continue to meet his gaze. “I know you're there somewhere. I know you can hear me. Patroklos is not dead.”

“I will taste you.” His voice was so awful, so utterly
not
human,
not
Achilles that she had to clench her hands into fists so that their trembling wouldn't be obvious.

“No, I don't think you will.” Kat kept her voice as well as all of her mannerisms carefully neutral, as placid as possible. “Achilles loves me, and he won't let you hurt me.”

His laugher was terrible, mocking and monstrous. “Foolish woman, I am not Achilles.” Almost within touching distance he stopped circling her. She could smell him—blood and sweat and something feral and male.

“Well, that's obvious.” She lifted her chin, pretending with every skill she'd learned in her clinical experience to be calm and unaffected by him. “Achilles—” she began, but he cut her off.

“No! Achilles is no more!”

As he lunged toward her, Kat stumbled back, her composure crumbling. “Achilles!” she cried. “You have to come back to me!”

She saw recognition flicker through his eyes, cooling the scarlet and causing the monster to pause awkwardly. “Yes! Achilles!” Kat smiled, dizzy with relief, but before she could say more or move toward him, her arm was being yanked roughly back and up, and she was pulled out of the clearing and off her feet.

“Ah, gods, we thought you were dead!” said the handsome, kind-eyed man who had lifted her onto the back of a quivering black stallion and into his arms. “Polyxena! Sister!”

Kat looked into Hector's eyes as the berserker roared his challenge and charged.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Keeping one arm around her, Hector kneed the stallion so that it sprang to the side, narrowly avoiding Achilles' charge. With a fluid motion, the big horse spun while Hector grabbed a spear from the saddle quiver and hurled it at Achilles. Kat screamed, but with the berserker's inhuman reflexes Achilles knocked the spear aside as if it had only been a toothpick.

“Hector! No!” Thinking frantically she pulled on the stranger's arm. “Leave him. Let's get back inside the city walls.”

Hector glanced down at her, trying to maneuver the stallion to avoid Achilles' next rush.

“You cannot have her!” the creature snarled.

“By the gods! It is you he's after.” His arm squeezed her protectively.

“Get me out of here Hector!” Kat yelled above the noise of battle.

“Trojans! To me! Protect your Princess!”

For a second Kat thought it would work and they would leave Achilles to roar impotently at the walls of Troy, giving her time to figure out what the hell to do next. Hector had begun backing the stallion from the clearing and a line of Trojan warriors was rushing to meet them. Then the creature that had been her lover gave a terrifying cry and hurled himself at Hector's stallion. As Achilles flew past them his bloody sword tore down the horse's flank. The stallion screamed, stumbled and lost his rear footing on the slick, bloody clay. Kat automatically threw herself forward, clutching the stallion's wide neck. She felt Hector's grip on her release at the same instant Achilles snagged his shoulder, ripping him from the saddle.

Then everything happened with blinding swiftness.

Hector regained his footing. He ran to the stallion, pulling his sword and shield free. His eyes met Kat's. She saw his love for Polyxena there, and knew that he would do anything to keep his sister safe.

“Get inside the walls. I'll hold him off for as long as I can.” Hector raised his hand and brought it down on the horse's rump, sending him galloping across Trojan lines.

Achilles followed the horse, roaring with fury. Hector ran, jumped and put himself directly in the berserker's path, cutting him off from Katrina. The Trojan warriors encircled Kat and the wounded stallion, but she had an excellent view of the battlefield as they fought off the Myrmidons, now rallied by Odysseus, and began moving her toward the city gates. Her eyes were locked on Achilles and Hector, and she watched everything as if in slow motion. Hector fought bravely, but he wasn't battling a human. The creature was utterly uncontrollable, but Hector stood his ground, until Achilles sliced through the muscles of his thighs, and even then the brave man fought from his knees, keeping the monster engaged as the massive gates groaned open enough for Kat, the stallion and Hector's guard to slip within. As they closed Kat heard a wail of despair begin from atop the Trojan walls and she knew that Hector, Prince of Troy, was dead.

The soldiers took her directly to the king. Priam's arms enfolded Kat, and she wept with him while he held her.

“A miracle from the gods . . . a miracle from the gods . . .” he kept repeating over and over. Finally he steadied himself and called for wine for both of them. Only then did Kat get a good look at him, and her heart squeezed. He was an older, shorter version of Hector—a handsome man with kind brown eyes and thick silver and black hair. With a little jolt Kat realized that his eyes weren't familiar just because Hector had had them. They were familiar because since she'd been transported to the ancient world and plunked into this body, those same expressive brown eyes had been looking out from her face, too.

Priam collapsed into a high-backed wooden chair exquisitely carved with plunging stallions. His hands shook as he drank deeply of the offered wine. Feeling lightheaded, Kat sipped her own wine, and then handed the goblet back to a servant who had been crying silently but openly. She heard a choked noise, and more arms were suddenly around her. An older, elegant woman who was too thin and a delicate, beautiful twenty something cried while they embraced her. Overwhelmed, Kat could only stand there and wish this had all been different—that she'd managed to make things right.

“It is true. Hector is dead. Achilles has killed him.”

Kat looked up with the women who had been holding her to see who had spoken. A slender man stood in the arched door to the spacious chamber. He was probably not much older than Polyxena, and he, too, had kind, expressive eyes. A blond woman stood behind him in the shadow of the doorway, her beauty undiminished by the tears that washed her cheeks. She stared with adoration at the young man who had just spoken. Kat thought she'd never seen anyone so gorgeous—she easily rivaled even Venus's beauty.
Paris and Helen
—
it has to be.

Then his awful words registered on the group and the woman who must be Priam's wife, the mother of Hector and Paris and Polyxena, threw herself onto the floor at the king's feet while she tore her hair and wailed. The other woman who had been embracing her didn't make a sound, but crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

“Get Astyanax. Holding Hector's son will help her survive this,” ordered the young man as he came into the room.

“Yes, Lord Paris.” A crying servant hurried to do his bidding.

Paris rushed to the fallen woman, whose eyelids were beginning to flutter weakly. He lifted her and carried her to a chaise not far from Priam's throne. Then Kat was in the young man's arms. She hugged him hard and she could feel the tremors that went through his body. “You are alive. . . . You are alive,” he whispered over and over, his warm breath mixing with the tears that dampened her hair.

Kat couldn't do any more than nod. Her mind was in tumult. Her heart felt as if it was shattering over and over.

There was a sobbing gasp from behind them, and Paris released his sister reluctantly, moving back to the chaise. “Andromache, I've sent for your son,” Paris spoke softly to the reviving woman. “Astyanax is being brought to you.” He touched her cheek and then he drew himself up and slowly, almost painfully, he turned to his father.

The king was stroking his wife's hair. Her face was buried in his knees and her wails had become broken sobs. Priam's face was absolutely expressionless.

“Father,” Paris said brokenly, wiping the back of his sleeve across his face. “He's dead, Father.”

The old monarch's eyes rested briefly on his youngest son. His blank expression did not change, but he focused his gaze over Paris's shoulder as if he was looking into the past.

“You should take your sister to her chamber. I cannot see you when I am mourning my son.” Priam's voice wasn't cruel, but it, like his face, was devoid of expression, which made it all the more terrible.

Paris seemed to crumple in on himself. “Father, I am your son, too.”

“Yes, that is something the gods will never let me forget,” Priam said. “Go now. Return to my presence only when I call for you.” He paused, and then added, “Take your woman with you.”

“Come, sister.” Paris held out his hand for hers and, not knowing what else to do, Kat took it and let him lead her from Priam's throne room. As they passed Helen, she fell into step on Paris's other side. Kat saw that she kept her head bowed, as if she was trying to obscure her face with her shining hair.