Lord of the Silver Bow by David Gemmell Read Free Book Online Page A

on his head.
    On the rear deck he saw Helikaon talking with three of his senior crewmen. The trio looked stern and nervous. But then, why would they not? Khalkeus thought. They were about to sail on a vessel designed and built by the Madman from Miletos.
    Turning back from the deck rail, he surveyed his great ship. Several members of the crew were looking at him, their expressions mixed. The new ship had been the subject of much mockery, and Khalkeus, as the shipwright, had been treated with scorn and even anger. Now, however, they were to sail in the madman’s vessel, and they were fervently hoping that his madness was in fact genius. If it was not, they were all doomed.
    The two Mykene passengers also were looking his way, but they regarded him with studied indifference. Unlike the sailors, they probably did not appreciate that their lives now depended on his skills. Khalkeus wondered suddenly if they would care even if the knowledge was imparted to them. The Mykene were a fearless race: plunderers, killers, reavers. Death held no terror for such men.
    He stared back at them. Both were tall and lean, cold and distant. The elder, Argurios, had a chisel-shaped black chin beard and bleak emotionless eyes. The younger man, Glaukos, was obviously in awe of him. He rarely spoke unless to reply to a remark from Argurios. Although they traveled now among peaceful settlements and quiet islands, they were garbed as if for war, short swords and daggers belted at their sides and bronze-reinforced leather kilts about their waists. Argurios had a finely wrought leather cuirass, the shoulders and chest armored by overlapping bronze disks. The fair-haired Glaukos had a badly shaped breastplate with a crack on the left side. Khalkeus reasoned that Glaukos was from a poor Mykene family and had attached himself to Argurios in the hope of advancement. For the Mykene advancement always came through war, plunder, and the grief and loss of gentler men. Khalkeus loathed the whole damned race.
    If the ship does goes down, he thought, that armor will plunge them to their deaths with satisfying speed.
    He felt a flash of irritation at such a defeatist idea. My ship will not sink, he told himself. Then he repeated it in his mind over and over. His heart began to pound, and his fingers started to tremble. Turning to the deck rail, he took hold of it and stood very still, waiting for the panic to pass.
    Ten years of failure and ridicule had damaged his confidence more than he had realized. Reaching into the pouch at his side, he pulled forth a tiny piece of silver-gray metal and ran his thick workman’s fingers over its glossy surface. He sighed. Here was the source of all his misery and the seed of all his hopes. Hidden within this one shard was a secret he believed could change not only his fortunes but the destiny of nations. How galling, then, that he could not discover it.
    His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a booming voice calling out an order to the sixty oarsmen. Zidantas, the hulking Hittite who served as the Golden One’s second in command, leaned over the rear deck rail. “By the mark of one,” he shouted, sunlight gleaming from his shaved skull. From belowdecks came a responding call from the lead oarsman.
    “Ready! Lift! Brace. And
pull
!”
    Khalkeus took a deep breath. The oar blades sliced into the blue water, and the
Xanthos
began to glide out over the sea.
    The shipwright listened to the creaking of the wood, seeking to identify the source of every murmur, every tiny muted groan. Swiftly he calculated once more the amount of rock ballast against the weight of the ship’s timbers and decking, then leaned over the side to watch the prow cleaving the gentle waves.
    The oarsmen below the top deck began to sing, creating a rhythmic harmony between the smooth actions of their bodies and the chant of the song. There should have been eighty oarsmen, but not even the wealth and reputation of Helikaon, the Golden One,