Styxx (Dark-Hunter 22)

Galen snorted. "I see no child in our veteran ranks."

Styxx saluted him sarcastically with his kylix. "Both of us know I have no business leading men into battle. The Thracians were right today. I don't have enough experience for this."

Scoffing, Galen sat down in the chair beside Styxx, and retook the wine he'd been drinking earlier. "No other commander could have gotten us this far with as few casualties as we've had. Look at your history, my lord. Name me the only man who has ever made it to Atlantean soil with an invading army from any foreign land?" Galen paused. "There's only one. Styxx of the House of Aricles. Prince of Didymos."

Maybe, but he was tired of the blood and sickened by watching men, young and old, hacked to pieces, and for what? Power? Money? Glory?

What good was it when you only needed a single obolos to pay Charon for the final crossing?

Every decision he made, good or bad, ended with someone being slaughtered. With someone calling out for a mother, wife, or one of the gods ... With them burning someone's home and possessions until nothing but ashes remained. A lifetime of memories and savings to build, a few minutes of war to destroy.

Styxx raked a hand over his eyes, trying to banish the images that wouldn't leave him in peace any more than the voices would. He would give anything to have a handful of minutes with Bethany so that she could kiss away his nightmares, and give him something beautiful to look at.

Something beautiful to hold on to.

Galen leaned forward. "How's your side, my lord?"

"Like my head. Throbbing."

The old man's gaze fell to Styxx's hand on his cup. "You're still not wearing a signet ring?"

Styxx glanced down at his bare fingers and shrugged. "To what purpose? If I fall, I'm not worth the price of a ransom. Why should I go home when the other soldiers fighting under my banner would be put to sword or market by our enemies? Better I should join them in death or slavery than live on in peace, knowing I failed to keep them safe." He poured more wine for himself and then handed the pitcher over to Galen, who declined drinking any more of it.

Sighing, Styxx toyed with Galen's flute the old man had been playing earlier. "Tell me, Galen, how do you sleep at night? I've seen nothing compared to the battles I know you've fought and led. Please tell me how to make peace with my conscience."

The old man's breath left him in a ragged rush. "It's hard, my lord. I won't lie. And I walked away from this way too late."

"How so?"

Galen reached for the dish of olives on Styxx's desk and took a handful. "My father was a simple farmer with a tiny farm. I hated working it in ways you can't imagine. Every day, I swore I was going to get away from the pig shit and plow no matter what I had to do, or who I had to kill. And then one day, I saw an army coming through our back field. The sun glinted off their armor and they looked like proud gods. Before I could stop myself, I ran to them and joined their ranks. But nothing, not even our fall slaughters or a butcher's hall, had prepared me for the true horrors and cold brutality of a soldier's life."

He swallowed. "Still, to me, it was far preferable to that little farm I'd despised. The fame and glory, and in particular, the riches and women, kept me distracted for a long time. And then one day, as my army was traveling through another backwoods field, I saw the most beautiful woman the gods had ever created. Her winsome smile dazzled me even more than that armor had when I was a boy, and so I stopped, right then and there, to talk to her."

Galen paused to savor his wife's memory. "She gave me two fine sons and two beautiful daughters. And while I was at war, she buried our youngest daughter who was stricken with a fever, and our son who fell from a tree and broke his neck. I still, and always will, hate myself for leaving her alone to deal with that in my absence." Unshed tears glistened in his old gray eyes. "My oldest son followed me into war and I was so proud." His voice cracked with the weight of his paternal love. "My Philip was a lion on the field. Tall, strong, respectful, and glorious. I would look at him and thank the gods for their benevolence in giving me such a magnificent child. Who was I to deserve such given how many sons I'd taken from their fathers?"

Swallowing hard, he swiped at his eyes and cleared his throat. "And then the day all fathers fear came. I can still see him as I slipped and fell in battle. I lay there thinking it was my time to have my thread cut by mighty Atropos's shears. Crying out, Philip ran toward me to save my life. And just as he reached me, his head was sent flying by the single stroke of an enemy's axe." His eyes burning with rage, he wiped his hand across his mouth. "I pray to the gods, young prince, that you never know the horror of picking through bodies, trying to find a part of the only thing in this world you truly took pride in. There is no greater nightmare and it's one that continues to stalk me even when I'm awake."

With an unfathomable strength, Galen took a deep breath and calmed his emotions. "After my Philip was gone from a battle we shouldn't have been in, I broke my xiphos in half and swore I'd never bend to the call of Ares again. I was done with him and Athena both. So I retired to that farm I'd hated so much as a boy and spent the best years of my life with my sweet Thia. I watched our last child grow into the most beautiful of women and wished I had more to give to my precious Antigone and her children. Then one day, another soldier came to my door and told me that the king wanted me to tutor his brat for war. I laughed in his face. But not at the mighty coin he offered."

Lifting his cup in salute, Galen grinned. "How could I pass on that? Plus, it gave me the opportunity to knock around the spoiled son of the man who had ordered me into the unnecessary battle that had taken my boy's life."

Styxx snorted as he drank his wine. "I commend you on your prowess, Master Tutor. Whenever the weather turns cold, I can still feel some of your finer lessons in my bones, and in particular, my wrist."

Galen pinned a malevolent glare on him. "The moment I first laid eyes on you, Highness, I hated you passionately. There you stood, barely reaching my waist, in child-sized armor far finer than any I'd ever worn to battle for the sake of your father or that my Philip had worn when he was slaughtered in service to a king who couldn't care less about his life or death. You held your head high with a commanding arrogance that offended me to the core of my soul. And I wanted to put my fist through your pretty, pampered face."

"As I recall, you did. And then you kicked me in the ass and sent me sprawling, pampered face first, into a pile of horseshit."

Galen chuckled at the memory. "And you said not a word about it to anyone. You got up, took your training sword, and faced me as if you'd landed in a bed of poppies. All the while, shit dripped off you."

"I stupidly thought you liked me and feared what you'd do if you didn't."

Galen shook his head. "I know you better than that, boy. But it took me awhile before I could let go my hatred and see that what I'd mistaken for disdainful arrogance was afflicted defiance that was trying to stand strong against all those determined to watch you burn and to do the right thing for others, even when it cost you dearly. It was that boy, who even then had the heart of a man, who taught me to respect a crown I'd grown to despise. A crown I'd sworn to never again defend. Forgive me for the treason, young prince, but I still hate your father and I always will. He cares nothing and thinks nothing of those who fight for him. But you ... it is and will always be my honor to stand with you against any foe. In battle, you don't hang back and order others to die for you. You lead us in, and I've seen you, time and again, throw yourself against much larger and stronger opponents to protect your men. I've seen you carry wounded soldiers, low and high, to safety with no regard for your own well-being, even today when you're badly wounded yourself."

"And I see the faces of all those I couldn't save. The faces of those who stared into my eyes as they died by my hand. Who am I to stand as their executioner?"

"You are Styxx of the House of the most famed Aricles, the prince and heir of Didymos. And one day, you will be king. Who better to rule the kingdom than a man who realizes he isn't a god and who knows the value and sacrifice of those who serve him and protect his people?"

"I don't feel like a prince, Galen." He felt like a tired whore.

"And that, Highness, is what makes you the worthiest to wear your father's crown."

Styxx laughed bitterly. "I wish I saw myself through your eyes." His saw only his flaws and shortcomings.

To his shock, Galen pulled him forward until their cheeks touched and held him in a fatherly embrace. Then Galen kissed his head and released him. He set his wine down on Styxx's desk and retrieved his flute. "You should try and sleep, Highness. The morning light will bring more battle to our swords."

And more ghostly shades to haunt and plague his conscience ...

May 24, 9531 BC

Invisible to the humans around her, Bethany picked her way through the Greek camp, looking for Hector. She kept hearing his name, but every time, it was another soldier they called. Apparently, it was an extremely popular name among the Greeks.

Frustrated and angry, she paused as she found herself outside Prince Styxx's tent that was guarded by four men.

Really? The Greeks hated him that much?

Disgusted, she glanced around at the men who slept in the open and fought for him while he used them to bring comforts from home at their expense and effort. And one of those packhorses was probably her beloved Hector. Her anger rising at his pompousness, she entered the tent, and froze.

This was not the lush environment she'd envisioned for a young prince. The tent was empty except for a strategy desk, maps, a handful of folding chairs, a small washing basin, his arms mannequin, and a plain soldier's pallet on the ground.

He didn't even have a pillow....

Already dressed in his black armor, Styxx was lacing on his greaves. Alone.

Where were his servants?

His hair was much shorter than it'd been months ago when she'd first seen him fighting with Athena. He'd cropped it so short that it held no hint of his thick blond curls. And he was no longer clean-shaven. Because of the helmet he'd worn yesterday, she hadn't seen that his sculpted cheeks, upper lip, and chin were covered with dark whiskers. He smelled of oil, blood, sweat, leather, and horse. A far cry from Hector's pleasant masculine scent.

As he armed himself, there was no fear in this prince. Only a quiet torment that tugged at the edges of her heart. His eyes were shadowed with an inner turmoil and a raw intelligence that few mortals held. He looked far wiser than his young years.

As he straightened up, he grimaced and placed his hand to his injured side. He took several quick, ragged breaths before he expelled an elongated one and subdued his misery. He reached for his swords and buckled them on. His heavily defined biceps and shoulders rippled with every move he made.

Why do you fascinate me so? She couldn't understand it, especially since her heart was already claimed by an innocent, sweet boy. It made no sense. Perhaps because the prince and Hector were about the same height. And their voices were similar ...

Both were blonds with lean, ripped bodies.

Bethany sucked in her breath as the comparison slapped her again. Are you my Hector?

Could it be?

No. It wasn't possible. Why would the prince pretend to be a merchant's son to spend time with a blind fisherwoman? A man of Styxx's station would be quick to let her know he was wellborn. And he would never deign to beg a commoner to run away with him. Why would he when he owned the world in which he lived?

Everyone knew how much the king of Didymos loved and cherished his heir. The exceptional quality of his armor and horse said as much.

No priest would hazard to mar this man's body or his beauty with red-hot brands.

Not to mention this powerful, fierce beast would never be clumsy enough to fall from his horse and stumble alone through the woods to find her fishing spot. Her Hector was hesitant and sweet. Bashful and unsure. There was no uncertainty in the prince's movements. This was a man who was confident in his role and place.

Ferocious.

No one would have ever dared to rape him.

And Styxx would never deign to ask to kiss a lowly peasant girl. He'd take it if he wanted it, and dare anyone to punish him for his actions. And while he'd declined her offer yesterday when she'd been disguised as a young Atlantean woman, he held such powerful sexual magnetism and prowess that it was obvious he was well tutored in the physical side of Agapa's domain. Most likely, the girl hadn't been pretty enough for his tastes.

Or, more probable, too far beneath his station for him to touch.

Unaware of her presence, Styxx tugged at the laces of his vambraces to make sure they were tight. Rolling his shoulders, he reached for his helm and shield then left the tent.

"What are you doing here?"

Bethany looked over her shoulder to find Athena watching her. "Checking out my next victim."

Athena laughed. "You won't defeat my champion. His is a core of steel the likes of which you can't fathom. He has the heart of a Titan and the mind of a philosopher."

"All mortals fall eventually."

"As do some immortals."

Bethany glared at her. "You have brought your army onto our shores. Do you really think we'll let you come any closer?"

The mocking smile on Athena's face made her want to yank out the bitch's hair by its roots. "You didn't let us come this far. I do believe we've done it with you battling us every step of the way. And we will continue onward. The Greeks love my chosen prince. They will follow him anywhere."

"Then let them all follow him to your Elysian Fields."