“The girl is demented,” Idomeneos cried, but his voice sounded thin and frightened.
The sky darkened, and Agamemnon looked up to see a huge flock of birds fly overhead toward the west, thousands of them blocking out the gray hazy light, their screaming voices like those of Harpies.
Kassandra waved at them, a childish gesture, her hand moving up and down. “Bye bye, birds,” she said. “Bye bye.” The Mykene king shuddered and felt panic tightening his chest.
“Everyone is waiting for me,” Kassandra told the kings happily as the ground shook violently again. “Mother is waiting for me. And Hektor and Laodike. They are just beyond.”
Suddenly she stood on her tiptoes and pointed to the Burned Isle. There was a noise like a thousand thunders, and a hot black pillar erupted from the top of the volcano and soared into the sky. The monstrous sound it made broke something in his ears, and Agamemnon screamed and fell to the ground as blood poured out of them. Hands to his head, he looked up to see the tower of black fire roaring higher and higher. The sound was intolerable, and the blast of heat from it scorched the skin of his face. Great boulders were flung from the volcano, soaring like pebbles through the sky to crash into the sea and onto the isle near them, destroying buildings and narrowly missing the temple. The sound was appalling, and Agamemnon thought he would go mad from the power of it.
Kassandra was the only one still standing, without fear as she gazed at the tower of fire rising. It seemed to go up forever. Then it slowed, and the top of it started flowing outward, spreading its canopy of smoke and ash wider and wider, darkening the earth and blotting out the sun.
Kassandra looked down at Agamemnon compassionately. She seemed to have grown taller and stronger, and he wondered why he had thought her ugly. Her face was radiant, and she blazed with beauty like a sword in a flame.
Then she pointed again, and from the top of the volcano a red-brown flow like a glowing avalanche started to belch out and move down the slopes. It slithered swiftly over the black rocks of the Burned Isle and soon reached the sea. Agamemnon got to his feet with difficulty, for they were all knee-deep in warm ash. He saw that his ships were under oars, beating their way as fast as they could row toward the harbor entrance. The cowards are leaving me, he screamed inside his head. He saw Idomeneos shouting but could not hear what he said.
Agamemnon thought the red-hot avalanche would stop when it reached the sea, but instead it carried straight on, rolling across the surface toward the fleet. Long before it reached the first ship, the vessel burst into flames, burning hotly before it was engulfed in the hideous flow. One by one the galleys were overtaken and destroyed, their crews blackened and charred in an instant. When it reached the base of the cliffs on which they stood, the rolling avalanche of fire started to crawl up toward them, but then it slowed to a halt. Agamemnon breathed out shakily.
His relief lasted only for a few heartbeats. There was another terrifying sound from deep in the earth beneath them. As he watched, he saw the sea in the harbor dent in the middle, and an enormous whirlpool started to form, sluggishly at first and then with greater speed. There was another great noise, an army of thunders, and the sea suddenly fell away from them, swallowed instantly into the earth. The entire fleet of charred ships disappeared in moments as sea rushed into the harbor to pour into the hole in the world.
There was a building roar, and the ground started to shake wildly.
Agamemnon’s last sight was of Kassandra, a joyous smile on her face, as she waved goodbye.
He closed his eyes.
Then the island rose up under them and flung the kings screaming into the sky.
Not far to the west Helikaon stood on the aft deck of the Xanthos, his arm draped loosely over the steering oar, looking up at the sail stretched taut against the wind. He was at his happiest when the black horse danced over the waves. Although there were sixty or more men lounging about on the decks, gossiping, eating and drinking, laughing and telling tall tales, he felt alone with his ship when she was under sail. He could feel the shift and groan of the timbers beneath his bare feet, hear the finest vibrations of the huge sail, and sense through the oak of the steering oar the valiant heart of the galley. You are the queen of the seas, he told his ship as she cut through the waves, rising and falling with grace and power.
His eyes moved, as they always did when given the chance, to Andromache. She was sitting on the forward deck under the yellow canopy. The boys were curled up beside her. They had been running around the ship all morning, delighted to have the oarsmen at their beck and call to play games with them and tell them tales of the sea. Now, tired out, they were both asleep under the canopy, protected from the noonday sun.
Andromache was gazing back toward Thera, though the island was now out of sight. Helikaon knew her heart now and understood that she did not regret leaving Kassandra, as the girl had asked. Yet it had made Andromache sad to leave her sister to a lonely death, cared for only by the old priestess. Helikaon had spent some time since their departure cursing himself for not climbing the cliffs to fetch the girl, then had put those feelings aside ruthlessly. The decision was made. He always would remember Kassandra with love, but she was now part of the past.
He left the steering oar to Oniacus and walked down the length of the ship, drawn helplessly toward his lover. He made himself pause as if to inspect the racks of weapons—swords, shields, and bows and arrows—stored beneath the rails. As usual, thanks to Oniacus’ watchful eye, they were all immaculate, cleaned and ready for action if needed.
“Where will we beach tonight, Golden One?” asked gray-bearded Naubolos, a veteran who had sailed on the Xanthos since the launch in Kypros and on the Ithaka before that.
“At Pig’s Head Cove or on Kalliste if the east wind is our friend.”
There were shouts and grunts of approval from the men. Even before the war, the whores on Kalliste had been more welcoming than any others on the Great Green. Now there were fewer ships sailing these waters, and a galley the size of the Xanthos would receive an enthusiastic greeting.
Helikaon moved on. He checked the great chests holding the nephthar balls in their protective cocoons of straw. There were only ten left. He frowned, then dismissed the problem. It could not be helped. There was a good chance they would reach their final destination without seeing another ship, let alone a hostile one.
His feet registered a minute shift in the direction of the ship, and he looked back along the deck. Oniacus was steering the galley to catch the wind as it shifted slightly north. Helikaon gazed back the way they had come. There was no longer any sign of the Bloodhawk. The Xanthos’ greater speed had left the smaller ship farther and farther behind.
“How are you, Agrios?” he asked a leathery old sailor sitting on the deck with his back to a rowing bench. The man had suffered a terrible injury to his arm in a battle off Kios in the summer when a Mykene warship had plowed along the side of the Xanthos, ripping into its oars. Agrios had been hit by an oar as it whipped back at him before he could get out of the way. His arm had been broken in so many places that it could not be set, so it was cut off close to the shoulder. The old man had survived the amputation, and when he was recovered, Helikaon allowed him to return to the rowing benches, for Agrios swore he could row as well with one arm as most men could with two.