Chapter 129
At dawn, the sound of distant hoofbeats shook the earth, drawing ever closer to Lykke.
From the watchtower, a horn sounded. Infantrymen, roused from their deep sleep in the outer barracks, hurriedly retreated within the city walls, while those already on night watch scattered throughout the city.
Quick-witted archers snatched up their bows and were already climbing to the battlements in perfect order.
The commotion of soldiers gathering and dispersing throughout the city woke the townsfolk, who peered out with frightened eyes at the streets now filled with armed men.
It had only been a few days since they watched the king and his guards depart on the long procession to Davys. Now, Lykke was without its king.
A rumor quickly spread within the city: that the King of Argos was marching south along the Salonica River.
Rumors, as always, were like swallowing poison. At the news that Argo was invading Lykke, some people collapsed to the ground in terror, weeping and crawling about. While others dashed in all directions, desperate to escape before it was too late.
But as long as the gates remained firmly closed, the safest place was within the walls. Most people understood this, yet some simply couldn’t bear their anxiety sitting still. In the face of war’s terror, reason vanished.
Soldiers gathered at every intersection, trying to break up crowds that only fed on each other’s panic, while messengers galloped out, spreading the alarm even further.
With the king absent, invaders would surely swallow Lykke. Were they all to die like rats trapped in a jar? If the Argos breached the city, there was nothing to do but die.
Crowds began to press in on the city gates, desperate to escape.
“Open the gate!”
“Please, let us out! Please, just for a moment!”
“Didn’t you hear? Argos is coming!”
Those begging for the gates to be opened were shoved down by the soldiers, but the crowd only swelled.
Trapped on the inside, the soldiers struggled to maintain order against the tide of civilians. Even when struck with spear shafts or kicked, the people would not retreat. Yet the soldiers could not simply cut them down without risking punishment. From the ramparts, curses rained down on the crowd below.
Amidst the chaos, someone raised an axe, and that’s when the real trouble began.
A soldier was killed by a citizen’s axe. Disgusted by the sight of an internal riot as the enemy approached, a captain finally decapitated the man who had wielded the axe. Then, the new owner of the axe—who tried to strike him—was also cut down.
Archers, who had been holding the crowd back with drawn bows, began shooting anyone who resisted. Those at the very edge of the mob fled into the city, screaming that Lykke’s own soldiers were killing their own people like enemies, shooting them down like animals.
People of Lykke trembled at home, horrified by tales of ruthless soldiers slaying their own, while the king was away and the soldiers were killing citizens. It was a ripe time for rumors and whispers behind closed doors—after all, the gates were still shut, and people always needed someone to blame.
Then, as the sun rose over the horizon, the cavalry of Paetusa appeared with the sun at their backs.
Out of the dust raised by the charging horsemen, a green banner emerged. A single archer who had secretly slipped away from the city walls to verify the oncoming force brought the truth: it was not the King of Argos approaching Lykke, but the son of Pelagon.
Soon after, a royal courier arrived from over the ridge where General Vassilios’s troops were stationed. Among the people of Evdokia, there was no name more trusted than Vassilios.
So some citizens began to await the King’s brother as a savior. What could be worse than Lykke’s soldiers slaughtering defenseless citizens?
Dawn broke. The women of Paetusa began slaughtering sheep, collecting the blood, and sharing it with their neighbors.
If they marked their doorposts with lamb’s blood as a sign of submission, they would survive and become the subjects of the Lord of Paetusa. Thus, everyone was told to lock their doors and quietly have their breakfast indoors.
Just as a drop of blood in water spreads from outside the city to inside, from the palace gates inward, the turmoil crept ever closer. Even the voices of the daimons had fallen silent.
Pherenike slowly opened the eyes she had kept closed for so long.
“Kybellaune.”
The summons came soon after. As always, the guards entered under the open curtain of her chamber, armor clinking. Still kneeling in prayer at Kybellar’s altar, she turned her head to face them.
“Lykke is under attack.”
There stood a familiar centurion. For such urgent news, his face was oddly calm. Pherenike dusted off her knees as she rose.
“By whom?”
“The King’s brother, Your Majesty.”
Her brow creased sharply, as if she’d heard the unthinkable.
“The Lord of Paetusa is attacking the capital.”
“What is the situation?”
“We’re holding the gates on all sides and resisting, but… the southeast gate has fallen. There were traitors hiding inside, like poison in the well.”
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