Tyrant: Storm of Arrows Read Online Free PDF Page B

Srayanka’s whip, motioned three times and they all began to cross the river. He was ready for the arrow when it came, and he almost greeted it, he knew it so well, and then he was in the water - hands grabbing at him ...
    He was dead, and walking the battlefield, but it was another battlefield, Issus, and the dead were rising all around him like men woken early from rest. And then they began to walk, rubbing at their wounds, some stuffing the intestines into their guts. They tried to speak but failed, and many shrugged, and then, Greek and Persian, they all began to walk away from the battlefield . . . and they were joined by the dead of Gaugamela, more Persians and fewer Greeks and Macedonians, all shuffling along in a column of the wretched dead.
    A single figure emerged from the column. He had two deep wounds, one in his neck and another under his armpit, and his breastplate was gone, and his face was slack and empty of feeling, rotted and black, but Kineas could recognize Kleisthenes, a boyhood friend who had fallen in a nameless fight on the banks of the Euphrates. Kineas could feel that Kleisthenes was sad. Indeed, sadness came off him like heat from a fire. His jaw, almost naked of flesh three years after his death, was working, but no sound emerged. He reached out a hand and rested his finger bones on Kineas’s deeply scarred forearm.
    ‘What?’ Kineas demanded. ‘Speak!’
    Kleisthenes’ jaw worked again, more like a man chewing meat than a man attempting to speak. His mouth opened, and sand came forth. The rotting figure gathered the sand as it vomited from his mouth, catching it in his hands. He held it out to Kineas as if it was a payment, or an offering.
    Even in a dream, Kineas was terrified. He stumbled back.
    ‘Wake up now, or die in your sleep!’ said the voice of Kam Baqca . . .
    Noises in the dark, and too much motion, and the wagon moving as if a man was climbing aboard. Kineas rolled off the furs and his hand was on his sword as the heavy felt that covered the wagon was ripped back and an arrow skidded along his back with a line of pain. There were torches in the dark, and the glint of weapons.
    Srayanka was just coming to her knees and he pushed her down as another arrow bit deep into the wood of the wagon bed. Kineas roared ‘The dead!’ in Greek.
    A black shape came up on to the wagon bed with a sword in each hand. Kineas was still half asleep, his mind in another world.
    The creature’s face was black. The thing hesitated - an all too human reaction - and then he swung both weapons together. The fog of the dream dropped a little more from Kineas’s eyes and he saw that his opponent was a man with charcoal on his face. Even as he realized this, he sensed that the man’s clumsy attack was a distraction, and as he ducked and parried he turned his head to see another black figure at the other end of the wagon, illuminated by the oil lamp. It was raising a bow, also hesitating, as if unsure what to shoot.
    Kineas didn’t hesitate. He cut at his first adversary, a long overhand cut with a wrist rotation at the end, so that the man’s clumsy parry failed to stop the reversed curve of the Egyptian blade from cutting into his neck. He fell without a cry, his head half severed and black ink pouring out in the light of the moon.
    Kineas leaped back and cut at the archer, and his blow severed the bow at the grip. One end of the cut bow snapped back and raked his hand, making him drop his sword with the pain, and the other end slashed across the bowman’s face. Kineas kicked him and the bowman fell back off the wagon. Another arrow whispered out of the darkness and passed between Kineas’s legs.
    ‘Alarm! Attack!’ Kineas shouted in Sakje. He could hear sounds of movement from the fires around them, and shouts in the distance, but the attackers were silent and otherworldly, and the hair on Kineas’s neck began to stand up.
    Even in the darkness, he could see the hilt of his sword gleaming