Red Athens, Sample 5, Song of Hong Kong, Mincon Wars, by Jacob Malewitz

Red Athens

By Jacob Malewitz

Author of Champions

100 White Shirt

                                             

              3

Young scholar, Calli may have been smart, Numid and Verce talented, but this hero did many stupid things. The documentation is there, the facts tell the same story. The Pericles line, some said, allowed for failure at the greatest levels. But why would one tell a story without a succeeding hero?

Outside the Blue Babylon lines, Calli couldn’t believe it. He watched the Red Athens prince kill a scout, undress him, and say something to the coming winds. It is said, according to the Tellers of Mycenae, much like the minotaurs could hide behind masks, so too could certain men of Dorian blood, the richest line of Greeks. Or so it was said.

Pericles sprinkled something—something Calli couldn’t quite make out, but it looked like old magik mana to him— and the body disappeared, his complexion changed, and he looked like a Hammurabi Bow. The blue coat, the eyes of a madman, as of course, all Blue Babylonians had an air of chaos to them; he had the small blade even, that one short sword; that one long bow, a weapon of immense power, used so well in later years by other peoples and tribes—the bow created by the Blue Babylonians.   

He looked quite elite, and for a moment happy, then the pain seemed to return to his eyes, then the blade didn’t look so good and his complexion shifted. Still a beginner mage, still in the process of building himself into something.

            “Language, young prince,” Calli said. “It will stop you. May I also say how stupid this is?”

            “It be like the hawk to the birds. I will be in no danger. Athena,” he said, stepping forward to the horse, “watch over me.”

            He went into the wall he knew he had to scale, the presence of what his father supposed he should be, what his forgotten  mother hoped he would be, what he knew he n ever could be.          

It began in such a splendid way. He had always enjoyed cavalry, but being Greek, he was a soldier of the ground. He took to the small animal—as Greek horses are twice as big—gently, not pushing it too hard, always keeping it cool, a white cloth spread over its back.

            He had his own cadence when riding. Anger and angst, magik and madness ahd no place: he was free to ride.

He developed a plan.

He saw a means to ending this war, unless it came down to a battle of good vs evil. Green Sparta demanded the death of every Red Athenian. Once allied with Blue Babylon, nothing would stop the Hordes of Hades.

            He put his hand over the mark born to him. “Where are you today, Aries?”

            He passed bodies on the ground. There eyes were open, there blades with them, coins over there eyes, and a wicked grin on each of their faces. He smelled the drugs before he even approached. He knew not what they were from. One body caused him to stop: a warrior still breathing, blood exiting him, and casting a spell. It be a battle mage! He pulled his dagger out—the one so many thieves had tried to take—took a deep breath, and went closer. He spoke in the Blue Babylon language to this fallen warrior, if that he be.

            “What happened here?”

            “A battle between the armies. Slaves revolted. Slaves always revolt …” He coughed, blood came out, pieces of spit flew around.  “Slaves always …”He stopped breathing, rolled over, a  coin in his hand as though he expected it.

            Knyght didn’t stay long. He was closer to the army than he had expected. Yet, he knew this was on small piece of it; the true army was many thousands strong and could easily conquer Red Athens.

Finally, the journey alone ended. At one point, while closing on the line in the distance, trying to pick up the trail of the Hammurabi Bow, Knyght’s language was put to the test. A guard, a picture of order with his well groomed horse and taut chin, approached. Knyght made no effort to make eye contact, which he feared would make him start laughing. “Name calls of hell!”

            “A son I am. I am new to—“

            “And you aren’t a spy?”

            “Can I say no to that?”

            There was a rumbled laughing. “You must be one of the bow sons. Follow me to camp, young Nubian.” He looked Nubian? He wished he had a mirror! Something went wrong with the magic. What a mage …

            He was able to get a good look at the man after this. This Blue Babylonian smelled of something rich. His eyes were cold, like his prime years were over. But he didn’t look old, merely beaten. Knyght couldn’t see his height, or how strong he was, so he kept to himself for this small journey. You may kill me … but not yet, he thought. That said, he made sure Knyght stayed ahead of him in the beginning of the journey back to the camp. Was he a guard or something more? Knyght had no choice but to go with him. Though, killing him was an option, and Knyght, justice for all as he be, decided he wouldn’t have a problem doing it.

            Now, as the story goes, Pericles Knyght made it very far, bantering with this man, before he felt he was being lured. Could the warrior know he be a Pericles? His hand began to shake, the nerves catching up to him, and he became light-headed like he had taken a drug. Something was amiss. He began to slow, the soldier slowing with him, telling the Red Athenian of his trouble in finding a beautiful woman, finding one, only to discover she was thrice married, and then to discover that he was of a direct line to Hammurabi, only to be told that was on his mother’s side. “The jokes—they never ended. ‘Look’ the boys would say, ‘Poor Hammurabi.’ I hate the city; and it’s foreign to me.”

            “That is terrible,” Knyght responded, feeling the coming of a laugh. “I have a way with words. Take me to Blue Babylon and we can fix it.”

            The soldier stopped, looked at the mounted prince. “Really? You would help me in claiming my riches?”

            “For a small percentage, I would do much.”