The Belial Warrior (The Belial Series Book 9)

by R. D. Brady

  Paris glowered. “I am in charge here.”

  “So you keep telling me.”

  He pursed his lips, looking to Helen like a spoiled child, which no doubt he still was. She wouldn’t have been surprised if at that moment he had stamped his foot and stuck out his tongue. “I expect you to look stunning when we arrive,” he said.

  She bowed low, fluttering her eyelashes. “Of course, my prince.”

  He nodded. “Very well.”

  His guards left with him, except for the one who, as usual, stood just inside Helen’s door. She nodded to him. “You will need to leave while I change.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  When the door had closed behind him, Helen turned to her wardrobe, looking for something that made her look “stunning.” Anger and humiliation raged inside her at the thought of the upcoming farce. The only thing that kept her focused was imagining that when this ridiculousness was done, she could return to her family. She also imagined all the creative ways she was going to hurt Paris.

  Over and over again.

  Chapter 39

  The island of Pharos, off the northern Egyptian coast

  King Proteus had built a thriving kingdom by controlling the waters along the coast of Egypt. Helen had even heard him referred to as a sea god, as the tales of his control over the waters had been exaggerated in foreign lands. Helen went up on deck to watch as the island of Pharos came into view. It was beautiful. Long white beaches stretched along its outer rim, with tall palm trees beginning thirty feet from the water’s edge. It looked raw and primitive—except for the large home that sat in its center, rising high above the trees.

  Adorna stood by Helen’s side. “It is stunning.”

  Helen nodded, wrapping Adorna’s arm in hers. “It is.”

  “And you are as well. That blue sets off your eyes.”

  Helen’s voice dripped with disdain. “Then my love should be pleased.”

  Adorna squeezed her hand. “You can do this. For your children, you can do anything.”

  Helen nodded. Yes, I can.

  Too soon the ship was moored at the dock. Paris waved at the people who had lined the dock to watch them arrive. Then he turned to Helen with a smile, extending his hand. “They have heard that I bring with me the most beautiful woman in the world, and they have come to catch a glimpse her.”

  Helen hid her revulsion behind a smile as she placed her hand in his and stepped to the edge of the gangplank. Cheers erupted from the crowd.

  Paris tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “Shall we, my dear?”

  Helen graced him with a small smile. “Yes, of course.”

  Surprise flashed across Paris’s face, and for a moment he leaned in close. “Very good. Just keep smiling at me like that.”

  Helen envisioned slamming his face into her knee and shoving her fingers through those beautiful eyes. “Of course, my prince.”

  Together they descended to the dock, Paris waving at the crowd, Helen quietly maintaining a demure smile.

  A litter awaited them. Four men lined the poles at the front and another four stood at the back. A servant held open the door. “The king of Pharos bids you welcome. He awaits your arrival at his home and hopes you find the ride comfortable.” Inside the conveyance, silk pillows in bold colors were strewn about, and red curtains could be pulled to allow privacy.

  Paris smiled. “The king is most kind.”

  The servant bowed and ushered them inside.

  Paris extended his hand to Helen. “My dear.”

  Helen smiled. “Thank you.” She climbed in carefully.

  Paris crawled in after her. As soon as they were settled, the servant gave the signal, and the conveyance was lifted.

  Another cheer went up from the waiting crowd.

  Paris waved to the crowds outside, not turning to Helen as he spoke. “Do not forget to wave, my dear. They are here for you.”

  Disgusted at how the prince preened at the attention, Helen nonetheless moved to the window and waved and smiled. Soon though, the crowds were left behind, and silence descended in the carriage. Paris smiled to himself, but Helen cringed at the thought of word of this arrival making its way to Sparta.

  The king’s home sat at the highest point on the island, and they slowly weaved their way through the trees along the long road toward it. As they came closer, Helen could see the three levels of balconies that dominated the front. Marble gleamed in the sunlight, and bright flowers spilled from boxes at every window. The king had a larger home on the mainland, but everyone knew he preferred his island retreat.

  “It is beautiful,” Paris said.

  For once, Helen agreed with him. She took some calming breaths, steeling herself for the performance to come.

  At the gates, more people stood waving and cheering. Helen mustered a smile and waved as they passed.

  Finally they entered the courtyard, from which the crowds were forbidden, and the conveyance was carefully lowered to the ground. The door beside Helen opened, and a hand was extended toward her. “Your Majesty.” A tall, heavily muscled, dark-skinned man in an orange vest ringed in purple and matching pants stood waiting to help her out of the vehicle.

  Barnabus, Helen thought, but she said nothing to indicate she knew him. Barnabus was the illegitimate son of King Proteus. Ignoring convention, Proteus had named him his heir.

  She placed her hand in his with a regal nod. “Thank you.”

  Paris exited from his side of the vehicle and came around to join her.

  Paris looked up at Barnabus with annoyance on his face. “Where is your king? Why is he not here to greet us?” From his tone, Helen realized that Paris believed Barnabus to be only a servant.

  Apparently Barnabus was not going to correct that assumption. He bowed. “He is just inside, sir. He thought you would not like to be out in the hot sun any longer than is necessary.”

  “Fine,” Paris said dismissively. “Lead on.”

  Paris took Helen’s elbow as they climbed the steps behind Barnabus. They passed through a large entryway guarded by two huge guards. Paris glanced at them nervously, and Helen wondered if he’d just realized that by providing them the “honor” of his carriage, Proteus had successfully separated Paris from his own security.

  Barnabus stopped at an open doorway to their right. “May I present Prince Paris of Troy and Queen Helen of Sparta.”

  Paris stood straighter as he stepped into the room.

  The dark skinned man across the room from them was close to seven feet tall, with a large barrel chest and hair just beginning to gray. King Proteus’s gaze raked Paris from head to toe, and his voice thundered across the space. “How dare you steal the queen of Sparta.”

  Chapter 40

  Paris’s heart leapt into his throat. “King Proteus, there is some mistake here. The queen of Sparta was not stolen. She is here by her own volition.”

  Proteus turned his attention to Helen, and for a moment his gaze softened. Paris looked between the two. Had they met before? Did Proteus know Helen?

  Helen bowed deep before the king. “Good King Proteus, I realize our first meeting brings with it some unusual circumstances. But my love speaks the truth. I am here under my own volition. I have chosen Paris as my heart’s true desire.”

  Proteus frowned. “You are married to Menelaus. An agreement was put in place to assure that no one took you from him.”

  Paris jumped in. “In truth, I should have been given Helen. Had my heritage been known, I no doubt would have triumphed at the competition for her hand.”

  Proteus scoffed. “You were a child when Helen was wed. You would have eaten your teeth in the first round if you had been a contestant.”

  Rage billowed up inside Paris, and he straightened his shoulders. “I have been promised Helen by none other than Zeus himself.”

  “Did ‘Zeus’ speak with you as well?” Proteus asked Helen. He didn’t even glance at Paris as he spoke, and Paris bristled at the slight.

&n
bsp; Helen kept her gaze downcast, every bit the submissive woman. “No, but my beloved would not lie.”

  At least she’s playing her part well, Paris seethed.

  Proteus’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Paris. “And what right have you to the wealth of Sparta? Did Zeus promise you that as well?”

  Paris’s mouth fell open as he realized he had been tricked. The royal conveyance had not been an honor at all, but a way to slow their arrival to the king—giving the king’s men time to search Paris’s ships.

  Paris fought his rising anger. “I took only what I would have been given had I received a dowry, as is my right.”

  Proteus's voice was filled with disdain. “The men who competed for Helen’s hand paid for that honor. They did not need to be paid. Now you steal a man’s wife and then argue you are entitled to his wealth as well? You assume much, Prince.”

  “I expect what is my right. I am a prince of Troy.”

  “And I expect you to leave both Helen and the treasure here. I will not let you take either. You may fix your ships and be on your way. But your ships and your men are all you may take with you.”

  Paris fumed. Red splotches appeared in the corner of his vision. How dare the king think he could tell Paris what was or was not his due? He gripped Helen’s elbow and pushed her forward with a hiss. “Do something.”

  “Remove your hand,” Proteus bellowed.

  Paris snatched his hand back but glowered at the king, who stormed toward him.

  Helen stepped in front of the king, her hands up. “Good King Proteus. I appreciate your anger and your sense of fairness. But Prince Paris does speak truthfully. He should have been my husband, but he was not at the contest. Had he been, he would not only have been my heart’s choice, but I’m sure he would have bested the other competitors. I’m sure my father would have agreed. Regardless, as queen of Sparta I choose him now. And that is my right.”

  Proteus stared down at her for a moment before stepping back with a bow of his head. “Of course, Queen Helen.” He turned to Paris, his face hardening. “But you are not entitled to the wealth of Menelaus. So I will give you a choice. You may choose the queen or her fortune. You may not have both.”

  Paris glared. He had been promised riches. Wealth beyond his imagining. He wanted to throw the king’s demand back in his face, but by some miracle, he was able to choke down his anger. Greater glory awaited him. And he would have his wealth. Not just half the wealth of one kingdom, but the entire wealth of many. Zeus had promised him that if he was successful he would have a treasure tenfold the value of Sparta.

  He bowed his head. “Then I choose love, Your Highness. Helen is worth more than any amount of wealth.”

  Proteus looked between the two of them before stepping back. “Very well. Barnabus will see you to your rooms. Your separate rooms.”

  Helen initiated another deep curtsy. “Thank you.”

  Paris merely inclined his head before taking Helen’s elbow and leading her from the room. Anger flowed through him and he squeezed Helen’s arm tightly. He knew it was painful, but she did not look at him or even change her breathing. He dropped his hand in disgust. She never behaved the way a woman should.

  Barnabus stepped forward. “If you would follow me.”

  “Fine. Go.” Paris waved the man on, stomping after him and promising himself that one day he would repay King Proteus for his high-handedness. He would make the man grovel at his feet and turn his kingdom to dust.

  Chapter 41

  Rhodes, Greece

  Battle-scarred, with red hair and muscles that seemed to strain against his skin, Dugal held up a goblet in the packed tavern. “And then the man looked up at me and said, ‘Achilles? Why didn’t you say so? Please choose from among my daughters.’”

  The crowd roared their approval.

  Dugal stepped down from the table and wound his way through the crowd to a table in the back where a huge warrior sat. The man towered over everyone in the tavern, in both height and brawn.

  Dugal fell into the seat across from Achilles with a grin. “That story never fails.”

  “And you always fail to mention that the daughters were both about as attractive as a cow.”

  The woman on Achilles’s lap laughed and whispered in his ear. He nodded as she stood up. “I’ll be right there.”

  Dugal watched the woman walk toward the stairs, shaking his head. “I get that you’re the son of a god and all, but couldn’t you share some of the wealth with the rest of us?”

  Achilles stood with a grin. “Nope.”

  Dugal huffed out a grunt. Grabbing the bottle of wine off the table, he took a long swig.

  Achilles slapped him on the shoulder. “Have a good night with your hand.”

  Dugal grunted. “I will, although I doubt it will be as good as yours.”

  Achilles laughed and made his way through the crowd. Men stopped to speak with him or compliment him every few feet. A few bought him a drink, and he could not turn them down. By the time he was halfway across the room he had half forgotten the woman he was supposed to joining.

  A man grabbed his arm. “Good Achilles, have you heard the news from Sparta?”

  “Sparta?”

  The man nodded, his eyes bright. “Their slut of a queen ran off with Paris from Troy. Guess Menelaus couldn’t—”

  Achilles grabbed the man by the throat, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him into the wall. “Have care what you say about the queen of Sparta.”

  The room went silent as all attention turned to Achilles and the man he held in his grasp.

  Another man rushed to Achilles’s side. “Forgive him, my lord. My brother has had too much to drink.”

  Patroclus, Achilles’s older cousin, appeared at Achilles’s other side. His resemblance to Achilles was undeniable. He was a few inches shorter and slightly less wide, but he had the same broad shoulders, the same sun-lightened hair and blue eyes. When Achilles had left Sparta he had spent two years drifting from place to place, before hearing his old teacher Chiron was in Thessalonikil. He had wanted a taste of the familiar, and when he had found Chiron, he had found Patroclus as well. The two had been by each other’s sides since that moment.

  Patroclus raised an eyebrow. “Problem, cousin?”

  “This man,” Achilles shook the man for emphasis, “spoke disrespectfully of the queen of Sparta when imparting his news.”

  Patroclus winced. “How unfortunate for him. But perhaps we could allow him to live at least long enough to tell us this news.”

  Achilles stared at the red-faced man he held. Then he dropped him to the floor without a word.

  The man’s brother helped him to his feet. “Thank you, Achilles. Thank you.”

  Achilles crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, what is this news of Sparta?”

  The man Achilles had grabbed rubbed at his throat, not meeting Achilles’s gaze. His brother spoke instead. “We heard it when we were boarding at our last port. The queen of Sparta has—” He paused. “Um, she left Sparta with the young prince of Troy, Paris. There are some who say she left willingly.”

  Achilles growled.

  The man continued quickly. “And others say she was taken against her will. I, of course, believe the latter, and I will make it my life’s work to make sure everyone I come across is told exactly that.”

  “When did this happen?” Patroclus asked.

  “It’s only been a few days, maybe a week.”

  Patroclus waved the men away. He spoke to Achilles, his voice low. “Menelaus will no doubt raise an army to go after her.”

  Achilles nodded.

  “What do you want to do?”

  Achilles shook his head. “Nothing. It is no matter to me.”

  Chapter 42

  The island of Pharos

  Helen paced her room, ignoring the guard who watched her. Paris had wasted no time ordering his men to guard Helen’s room, insisting one stay inside her room at all times. At least the room itself wa
s on the opposite side of the palace as Paris’s.

  Adorna had arrived with the guards, and she had quickly set up the room and run Helen a bath—which Helen had greatly appreciated. Helen hadn’t gotten more than a quick wash on the ship, but here she could relax, if only slightly. After her bath, she’d eaten dinner in her room, claiming an upset stomach. And now she paced—waiting. Darkness had descended a few moments ago, and she knew it would not be long.

  The smallest of movements on the balcony drew her attention. She spotted Barnabus standing in the shadows.

  Helen turned to Adorna. “Adorna, would you mind taking my clothes to the laundress? Gods know when we will next be able to have them laundered.”

  “Yes, mistress, of course.”

  As Adorna gathered the clothes from the bathing room and their satchels, Helen made a point of not looking out to the balcony. And when Adorna left, Helen moved far from the balcony doors. A few seconds later, the guard by her door slumped to the ground, a small dart sticking from his neck.

  Barnabus stepped into the room.

  Helen raised an eyebrow. “I take it he is just sleeping?”

  Barnabus shrugged. “If I grabbed the correct dart, yes.” He bowed deeply. “It is good to see you again, Your Highness.” Then he opened his arms.

  Helen ran across the room and hugged him tightly. “And you as well, old friend.” After a moment, she pulled away from him. “Where is he?”

  Barnabus nodded to the balcony. “Where else?”

  Helen groaned good-naturedly. “He never makes things easy, does he?”

  Barnabus smiled, his eyes twinkling. “No. Much like someone else I know.”

  With a sigh, she stepped away from Barnabus, pulled her ring from the pocket in her dress, and slipped it on. A tingle ran over her due to the man in front of her.

  Barnabus looked at the ring. “I was wondering if you brought it.”

  “I couldn’t leave it behind. But I cannot let anyone know I have it.”