While she waited for the helicopter to arrive, she walked down the slope toward the circle Davon had called the Whispering Knights.
“What are you doing?” Davon asked, but she ignored him.
Ariana passed between two of the standing stones. She felt the slightest of tingles on her skin. There was power in this place. She went to the center and slowly turned about. Davon was standing outside the circle, looking worried.
Ariana cocked her head. At the very edge of her hearing she could almost pick up something. Then the sound of helicopter blades overwhelmed all other sound, and she quickly left the circle.
Pytor Shashenka’s entire world was split between pain an unconsciousness. He preferred the latter, but he had no control over either.
Reluctantly, Pytor opened his eyes. The table across from him was occupied by the warrior. He was strapped down, muscles bulging against the straps as he futility attempted to free himself. Tangled black hair cascaded over the man’s face. His clothes were at his feet. His skin was pale white except the arms. He had apparently not been worked on by the Valkyries yet.
“Who are you?” Pytor called out in Russian, not really expecting an answer.
The man looked across at him, eyes raging with fury. He seemed to understand the question because he replied with one word. “Ragnarok.”
“Pytor.”
Ragnarok blinked, indicating he understood. He said something in his native tongue.
“I do not understand,” Pytor said. He was about to try English, when something appeared in his peripheral vision. A white form glided to a halt in front of Ragnarok. Pytor recognized it because one of the red crystal eyes was smashed.
It fired a probe into Ragnarok’s head and then consulted a small device attached to the wires. After several moments, it removed the probe and tossed the machine aside. Then it lifted one arm, a razor-sharp claw extended. With a savage slice, it cut through Ragnarok’s right wrist, severing the hand from the arm. The warrior didn’t’ even cry out, although the muscles in his jaw worked hard to keep his mouth shut.
The movement was repeated, and the left hand fell the floor, the fingers balled in a fist.
With its other arm, the Valkyrie extended a red, glowing tube. It tapped both stumps briefly, and there was the sound and smell of burning flesh as it cauterized the wounds. At that, Ragnarok passed out.
Pytor yelled curses at the creature to no avail until his own pain overwhelmed him, and he joined the warrior in blessed unconsciousness.
CHATPER FIFTEEN
The galley arrived at the entrance to the Hellesponte at nightfall. Captain Fabatus didn’t want to try the passage in the dark, but a forceful order from General Cassius changed his mind.
The Hellesponte had a long and rich history. Forty miles long and a mile and a half to four miles wide, the Hellesponte was the dividing line between Europe and Asia, a strategic waterway, the rights to which had been the true cause of the Trojan War hundreds of years earlier. It connected the Aegean with the Sea of Mamara, which led to the Bosporus Strait into the Black Sea. In 480 B.C. Xerxes I, king of Persia, had crossed the strait on a bridge built of boats during his campaign against the Greeks.
“It is said that Helle drowned here when she fell from the back of the ram Chrysomallus,” Kaia said as they entered the channel. “The legend of Hero and Leander also surrounds this area. It is legend that Leander drowned in these very waters on his way to visit his beloved Hero.”
“Do you believe legends?’ Falco asked. They were in the prow of the gallery watching the land slip by on either side. General Cassius had retired for the evening, Falco could tell the trip was a strain on the old man, who had not completely recovered from their ordeal at Thera.
“There is truth in all legends,” Kaia said.
A voice called out in the darkness from somewhere ahead. Fabatus hurried forward, a lantern in his hand, and returned the hail. In a minute, a small boat carrying four men appeared in the glow of the lantern, just below them.
Falco could see that they were dressed in armor, and squinting, he could make out the insignia on their helmets: VII. Formed by Claudius over thirty years previously, he knew the legion was stationed in Macedonia, with responsibility for control of the straight.
“Greetings!” Fabatus called out.
A man stood in the bow of the small boat, looking up, the crest of a centurion on his helmet. “Greetings, ship bearing the imperial banner. Where do you travel?”
“To Upper Thrace to join with the XXV Legion,” Falco replied, thinking the man’s way of phrasing his greeting was quite odd. The farther one traveled from Rome, the less strong the hand of the emperor.
“Why are you trying the strait at night?” the man asked.
“I am Falco, Centurion of General Cassius. And you are?”
“Attius, centurion primus pilus of the VII.”
Falco knew that primus pilus indicated that Attius was in charge of the first century of the first cohort of his legion, meaning he was senior centurion. Fabatus had one of his crew throw a rope ladder over the side, and Attius climbed up and joined them on deck.
“Your reason for passing at night?” Attius asked as he looked about the ship, noting Kaia’s presence.
“We are in need of haste,” Falco said.
Attius shook his head. “No one passes through at night. We saw your light many miles away and kept waiting for you to drop anchor, but when I saw you enter, I thought it best to come out and warn you.”
“Warn us of what?”
Attius rubbed the stubble of his beard. “There is trouble to the north. Strange stories. Ships have long been known to disappear on Pontus Euxinus, but lately this trouble has been coming south, into the strait.”
“What kind of trouble?” Falco asked.
“Like I said: Ships and their crews simply disappear. No sign of wreckage, and the weather fine. And strange fogs that suddenly appear when none should. Some say there are demons about, others that the gods are angry and punishing us.” He indicated a light on the western shore. “You can spend the night in our fort and continue on your journey in the morning.”
Kaia spoke for the first time. “There is danger ahead, but I do not think it will make any difference whether we try the Hellesponte at night or during the day; the danger will be there.”
“There’s more—” but Attius hesitated.
“Go ahead,” Falco said.
“I told you I have heard strange stories told in whispers in the taverns. Traders coming from Bospora say there is a darkness upon the land that any who enter never come out of.”
“Where is this darkness?” Falco asked.
“Near the Dnieper River, about four hundred stadia from the sea. And —” Attius looked about. “Where is the general?”
“Resting,” Falco said.
“Are you the Centurion Falco who served with Cassius in the X? And then fought in the arena?”
Falco nodded.
Attius took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Can I have a word with you privately?”
Falco wondered what could be worse than what the centurion had already told them, but he indicated for Fabatus and Kaia to move back.
“What is it?” Falco asked.
“You said you were going to join the XXV?”
“Yes.”
“Will Cassius become legatus?” Attius asked, wanting to know if Cassius was going to take command of the legion.