* * *
The night was still early. The moon shed light upon the verged ground leading down to the Northern Pinnacle. The warlords spurred their mounts onwards ever faster at sight of their destination, not slowing up until they were but a few meters short. There they dismounted and crawled along the ground to gain a moonlit view of the beach.
Peering over the verge they looked out at the scarcely visible landscape. “That’s it? Looks like... tents.” Arbicos whispered, looking at Arbephest.
“What did you expect?” The stench of the dead still lingered on the air despite their corpses having been picked clean by the wildlife, the wretched smell of human faeces and the taste of blood was something neither man would ever grow accustomed to, though they had come to know it, and to tolerate it was all that could be done. “No lights, I can’t tell if there are patrols even.”
“Be sure to take care as you go, Arbephest.” The veteran nodded briefly before he raised himself to his knees.
“Let’s split up, I’ll take Annabelle east to where the verge begins to dip, be back as soon as you see anything that might give us an advantage.” Arbicos turned to his kinsman without words said and they locked arms for a moment, nodding to one another, then stood and guided their mounts away into the night.
At the point on the land verge that began to slope dramatically away from the earth’s pinnacle, Arbephest turned to Annabelle and stroked her face, he looked at her, stay put, girl, he whispered softly and patted her cheekbone. With careful step he began his descent to the beach, towards the masses of tents spread out across the Northern Pinnacle.
Slowly his eyes began to adjust to the dim moonlight. He noticed the lack of life amidst the settlement, not a single being stirred. No sound. No firelight. The only disturbance was the soft sea waves enclosing and retreating back and forth upon the beach.
A sudden tremor of worry struck the warlord, are they already upon us? He looked into the distance for his comrade though Arbicos was hidden by the darkness. The scarred warrior sighed before stepping with the lightest of movements in between the first tents he came across. The material they were crafted from appeared thick, it had a deep grey tone to it that the warlord could not identify, he had not seen beasts covered by such skin.
The smell of the sea brought with it a pleasant relief from the smell of decaying flesh, to know the smell was coming from his own fallen kinsmen almost made the warlord heave with each inhale of the vile abomination of odours.
The further inwards he crept the more relaxed he became. His eyes grew fully aware in the darkness, giving sight about the camp. He noticed numerous Athenian weapons and garments, spoils of war, yet it was unlike anything he expected. There were no signs of burnt out fires, simply tents pitched with no order, it disgusted him that such amateurs of war were daring to rest foot upon Greece.
In silence he crept towards the shore in hopes he might see how numerous the invader’s ships were. Making his way, he noticed a number of tents pitched in a tight semi circle closest to the encroaching tide. With a new found curiosity the warlord stepped delicately towards the structures.
There was scarcely a body’s width between the interlocking tents, forcing the warlord to press lightly in between the canvasses. His back and chest pushed at the materials causing a dense scraping to hum in the air. He hoped the sea waves would disguise the sound.
Pushing through the enveloping tents with utmost delicacy, he at last saw a gap through which he could escape, with a troubled step he lunged for the exit. He stumbled, landing upon his knees on the soft grassy sand.
Looking up, the rugged warrior gasped. He stared with amazement across the Hellenic beach, they spoke the truth. Suddenly a heavy blow injected a pang of pain through the veteran’s head and darkness immediately followed.
Arbephest was aware he had been stricken down violently, before he knew it he was awakening in a slumberous haze. His vision was tightly restricted by a material that dug into the wounds lining his face, the linen his wife had bound him in had been stripped away and his entire head pulsed with immense pain.
The warrior could hear two males talking to one another in an unknown tongue, he was on his knees and his wrists were bound tightly together. Suddenly one of the males yelled in the warlord’s face in what he assumed was an effort to communicate. The language was like nothing he knew. Each sound the male uttered was broken into several parts.
After some moments without reply the warlord felt a horrendous spike of agony poke at a throbbing wound on the back of his head. The aging male roared furiously attempting to jump up from his position, however two arms pinned him with incredible strength. He was helpless and at the mercy of his enemy.
The Echoes of Solon Page 20