So.

I'm oddly hooked by what I wrote a few days ago (see below - actually, don't yet). Today is my day in between classes. My to-do list:

- Read the last act of Tony and Cleo.
- Stretch
- Swing by my coach's office
- Do some Spanish homework
- Organize my room

I don't have any reading to do for two of my classes (this may never occur again) because we are a bit behind shedule (misspelling purposeful). We've spent the time fleshing out the previous works (which I am happy with).

Wow, I'm using a lot of parentheses.

Anyway. It's been two weeks since I've actually worked on something. And since I have the time today...

Yes, that's right. I wrote. I wrote on the Iliad-inspired thing I started a few days ago. Here it is. This is starting from the very beginning (the way I began the original short was too abrupt for me), so after a couple pages, you'll realize it's the same material you've read before, but tweaked. As always, LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK.

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The air felt like death. I wasn’t given to second-sight or prophecy as Cleon, but I felt danger holding its breath in the dry Greek afternoon, lingering around the next bend of the rift. I glanced over my right shoulder. “Patroclus.” I nodded at him to catch up.

Patroclus’ sword rattled in its hilt as he fell into stride next to me. “Yes, Altes.”

I considered him for a moment as we continued into the ravine. My father’s most trusted friend, nearing his fiftieth year but strong as Atlas holding up the sky. “I don’t like this path.”

He rubbed a hand over his chin, studded with grey stubble. “Its rockiness or its feeling?”

I stepped onto a rock slab jutting from the dried riverbed. “Both. Namely the feeling. It’s as though Hades is waiting to ambush us.”

The left corner of Patroclus’ mouth flickered down. He came from the school of thought which discouraged speaking the names of the gods. “It does not reassure me how many skulls we’ve seen.”

At that moment I saw the sun-bleached skeleton of a wild deer, its ribs no thicker than my middle finger. Each bone was smooth and white, in its correct position. It did not seem it died violently, but as if something snatched the life-breath from it, and it collapsed there. “Do you consider them omens?”

Dymas turned and snorted. “Omens? Hardly. Perhaps there have been more wolves this year.”

“In which case it would still be a warning, whether of the gods or not.” This from dark-skinned Lysias, who sailed to Greece several years ago from a place across the Mediterranean. He was nearly as devout as Patroclus.

I shook my head. “Remain alert. I’ll be glad to clear this ravine.”

Patroclus laid his hand on my shoulder, only for a moment, always careful to respect my status as my father’s child. “It won’t be long.”

I nodded, not looking at him. Patroclus knew my secret. Lysias suspected, I know, but he would not question me, or reveal his suspicions to anyone. Dymas was blind as the steep rock walls rising on our sides. Neither Harmon or Nomion spoke much of anything. Excellent fighters and dependable men, yes, intellectuals, no. I found myself in an uncomfortable position as proficient
in both disciplines.

A horse whinnied around the bend.

I felt the warm metal of my sword grip under my palm before I realized I’d reached for my weapon. Both Lysias and Harmon had hands on their swords; Nomion swung his bow over his shoulder an instant later.

Dymas and Patroclus rested their hands near their weapons, Dymas grimacing as though he longed for the familiar weight of his spear. I know he regretted having to send it ahead with the main party. He could pin an apple to a tree trunk from fifty paces back.

Patroclus made as if to step in front of me. I held a hand up. “Perhaps it’s a band of traders or nomads.” Anyone with equal or even slightly great numbers would be mad to engage us. The weakest fighter at the moment was Dymas, only because he was a master of the spear and not sword. As the leader of our group, I rounded the bend first.

Seven men stood across the ravine, barring the path, sun glinting from their armor.

I knew then, before a word had been spoken, they were here to meet us. Yesterday Perin suffered a deadly snake bite – mostly through his own foolishness – and was left behind for his troubles. We numbered six now.

The man in the center of the ravine unfolded his arms, looking at each of us, gaze settling last on me. “Altes.”

“What do you want?” I said. “We’re not on business of war.” Though if they attacked, that would soon change. “And if you’re wondering about our seventh man, he was bitten by a viper and left to recover.”

He lifted eyebrows the color of washed-out sand. Trojan coloring, faint accent. “Why would I be wondering of Perin?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t condescend to me. You’re waiting, fully armed, in a little-traveled ravine with seven men. Coincidentally the same number of men in my band until yesterday. It’s all a very convenient accident.”

In my side vision, Patroclus’ mouth twitched, likely in a combination of mirth and caution.
I kept my right hand draped over my sword hilt. “Dispense with the absurdity. What do you want of us?”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting like blue ice. “It’s nothing I want of you, Altes.” He said my name with irritating familiarity. “It’s you and your men that I want.”

I felt cool fear wafting into my stomach. “Your first problem is if you think my father will be coerced into paying ransom, you are mistaken, and second problem that there are many wealthier families to kidnap from.” I half-turned and took in my group with a glance. “And with no insult intended, no one in this band possesses anything of absurd value.”

Except Dymas.

“Except for Dymas,” said the man. He did not shift his gaze to my red-haired spear thrower.

He knew, then, of Dymas’ pearl-beds. Perhaps not of the methods Dymas’ oysters produced such large stones – no one knew that – but he did know whose pearls were the most lustrous and valued.

“Well then,” I said. “One of seven. I congratulate you on your fine catch.” I paused. “Except for the minor issue that you have chosen to assault a highly-trained group of fighters. I suppose the laurel wreath will be due after you’ve defeated us.”

Patroclus made a suppressed sound of impatience. I understood the cause of his concern, but I could be much more insulting if I chose. All I said was true.

The Trojan smiled and drew his sword, metal singing once and again with the voice of Echo in the cliff walls. “Then I take that as a challenge.”

“Hardly,” I said. “We have business to attend to elsewhere that does not involve Trojan kidnappers.”

Dymas wavered in the corner of my left eye, glancing at me. I dipped my chin once. His fault was impatience, but he’d waited for the enemy to draw weapons first. Therefore I would allow him to respond for us.

He unsheathed his weapon, bronze glittering in the light.

The canyon sang with metal on metal, the clear ring of sword and sheath. I felt the weight of my sword, familiar as the laced sandals on my feet. Swinging my shield from my back, I slid it onto my left arm.

It was then I saw the man on the enemy’s side. At first I did not know what drew my gaze. As I cinched the straps on my shield, I began to discern. Something of the air around him appeared different – hazy, flickering, as the air on a scorching day.

He returned my gaze in a manner not describable with words – unflinching? Little wonder. He was huge. Not flabby, but the most muscular man I’d seen. And as sure as I knew my sword, I knew I was going to fight him. A total mismatch, yes, between the slight boy and the giant (not a true giant, of course).

So, it came as little surprise to me when a moment later we squared off. Half-grinning, my opponent brought down his sword with what seemed a casual turn of his wrist. His blade struck mine with enough force to clack my teeth together. I cursed myself for not anticipating the blow and took a half-step back, tightening my grip. Our blades met again, and my arms felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. I couldn't decide exactly what about this man worried me so much. There were many things. There was something about him physically that seemed...almost superhuman. Even without a helmet, he stood just enough taller than the rest. His shoulders filled armor inches wider than even my father's friend Argos. It was unnatural. By nature I was one of the best swordsmen - swordspersons - in Greece, and my father theorized that Artemis blessed me in my toddling days. Never had I met one who could put so much force into a stroke.Sunlight flashed against his sword, the bronze throwing specks of light into my eyes. I continued parrying, dodging. He was a giant, yes, and I was a girl masquerading as a boy, but I was by nature quicker. At one thrust, however, I could not dodge, and shoved my shield arm forward. Pain exploded in my arm as the blow knocked me backwards three steps. That was when I comprehended the truth I’d known all along but refused to admit.
He was toying with me. Impossible but true.
Teeth gritted, I scanned the ground near his feet. A rock the size of my fist laid on the sun-baked ground a few feet behind my opponent. If I could trick him into stepping backwards onto it, I might have the advantage for a few crucial moments."Yah!" I shouted and swung my blade at his head. A startled expression broke across his sun-tanned face, and he skipped backwards with surprising agility. His left heel came down on the rock, and he stumbled, shield swinging sideways.With a grunt, I slashed sideways. I hated killing, but I would hate to be killed more. With some impossible maneuver, he twisted at the last moment, regaining his balance. The blade bit into his arm instead of plunging into his side. At the least his sword arm was injured, giving me a hope of survival. I pulled back a few paces, glancing at the top of my sword. The other metallic rings of swords faded in my ears, the thuds, shouts, wind in my ears died.
I thought I would see crimson tipping my sword. Over the bronze of my sword, golden liquid gleamed, flecks of silver glinting in the sun, droplets sliding toward the hilt.It fell together. A man stronger than all the rest. An unnatural fighter. Golden blood.Ichor. Blood of the gods.It could not have been a breath later I looked up, eyes wide. "Ares."The edges of his lips curved up, smooth as a new archer's bow. No doubt he was pleased with my paralysis, my awe, my fear. With no warning change in his posture, he attacked. Three strokes later my wrist snapped. A choked sound of pain split my lips as pain rushed through my right arm. My sword clanged against the ground. I bent for it, knowing I had no time.A blur of glimmering, flashing bronze, and a wall of metal slammed into my chest, driving me backwards into the cliff side. A spur of jagged rock dug into my skull, and light flared in my eyes for an instant. The edge of his shield dug into my throat. I prayed to Pallas Athena and to Artemis to act in these last few moments, to spare my life.The goddesses had other business than to interfere with this pitiful mortal's affairs, because Athena did not appear with her shield, or Artemis the Huntress with her bow.
A sharp edge bit into my neck, and I forced my eyes open. I would not die as a coward. Just cut down by an immortal’s blade."That would be Lord Ares to you, boy," said the god of war.I repressed a last impudent comment. Dying quickly and cleanly appealed than some of the more grisly deaths Ares was famed for. All I wanted to know was why, why me, why an immortal deigned to meet swords with me.I did not ask, because something slammed into my temple, and the dark mists of unconsciousness swirled over my eyes.