Cassandra and Apollo

Chapter 10

"Hector!"

The shout echoes throughout the beach and clears the walls. It scrapes the sky and shakes the land beneath the waves. Bronze rattles, fish skitter like spears arcing through the air.

It is the godborn son of Thetis and Peleus. Although he has never been injured, and so no one knows for sure, his blood is said to be streaked with gold.

Aristos Achaion hunts for blood, and only one man's blood will do.

The Greek army falls back, even they do not wish to stand between Achilles and his battle. Somewhere in the tens of thousands of Greek faces, a king smiles and thanks the fates for this bounty.

Bronze gates groan awake, yielding a single man. His walk is stilted and he is favoring his right leg.

The Best of the Greeks breaks into a sprint, his armor catching the light from all angles. It is god forged, of that there can be no doubt. His muscles are tight as lyre strings, animated from their idleness during the last few weeks.

"Hector!" he shouts again, it is a curse and a challenge.

"I am not leaving, you can stop shouting, Aristos Achaion," says the doomed Trojan.

Achilles drops his shield with contempt.

"No, you are not leaving. You shall die on this patch of earth and your shade shall cling to it forever," the demigod's voice is rough, drawn from lack of sleep. "I will allow no prayers to be said over your body, no pyre. You have stolen my soul, and for that, I will brook no peace for yours."

Hector narrows his eyes. There is no surprise or fear in them. No, there is something much darker, as if it all suddenly makes complete sense.

"I thought he was you," he says simply, knowing it will make no difference.

Achilles throws his head back and lets out a brutal, barking laugh.

"Yes, so they tell me." He hefts his spear but does not throw it yet. It is a signal, there is nothing more to say.

Their movements are swift as stormwinds, a gale of sword and spear. Achilles ignores his shield, determined to heap as much abuse on Hector as he possibly can. The sand swirls around them, blocking what little the eye might be able to follow of the fight. Hector endures for as long as he can, but in the end, all that remains is this: a man fighting a god.

When the sand settles, Hector is leaning forward, bracing himself on one knee. Blood trails down his left thigh, draining old wounds and new.

He says something, but it is faint. Only Achilles can hear him.

His reply: a spear through the chest.

**

A group of Trojan soldiers has cornered a line of Acheians by the walls.

Godborn Achilles circles like a hawk, determined to break the Trojan cavalry.

Suddenly, he stops. Spotting Hector, he commands his charioteer to double back. Forgetting his men, he launches toward Hector.

Hector sees him, and a silent agreement passes between them.

Golden-armored Achilles dismounts from the chariot, the soldier next to him shakes his head, as if waking from a dream.

Unexpectedly, Achilles hefts his spear and throws. The duel has not begun and there is no honor in clearing an enemy from afar.

Hector dodges right, the iron point grazes his cheek—he is not wearing a helmet.