posted they were not manning their positions.
He had expected the city to let its guard down, but the extent to which this had occurred was surprising. Had everyone in the place swilled themselves into oblivion? In and around the stables the soldiers they'd rolled hadn't moved a muscle. It had been like undressina manikins. Trent was sure one man had been dead: alcohol poisoning, heart attack, or he'd choked on his own vomitus.
Was everyone in town completely smashed, passed out? Well, they'd soon find out at the high watchtower, the one that guarded the northern gate of Troas.
Those legendary topless towers. Trent regretted mightily having to burn them. But when Anthaemion's lookouts saw the signal fire Trent's men would set, the Arkadians would return in force, in the middle of the night. Trent would then open the main gate of the city and let them in.
And then the bloodshed would begin. The slaughter. The Troadeans wouldn't have a chance. The Arkadians, maddened by two long frustrating years of stalemate, would give no quarter. No mercy. They'd easily kill all the males of military age, probably males of every age, including infants, especially the children of nobility. They'd rape most if not all the women, then carry them off as concubines, servants, and slaves.
And when they'd done all that, when the slaughter and plundering and looting were done, they'd put Troas to the torch.
The sack of Troas.
Damn. Trent did not want to do this. But he had to. He'd given his word.
He gave the signal to move in. Telamon sprinted across the street and flattened himself against the base of the tower. Ion followed.
The honor of opening the door devolved to Trent. It was secured from the inside, of course. Secured very early this evening. But Trent had it open in a trice with a simple door-opening charm. There was no lock; the massive oak door was barred with a heavy wooden beam which a bit of levitation took care of handily (after Trent had used his clairvoyant powers to see behind the door).
They slipped into the tower and closed and barred the door after them. It was pitch-dark inside, save for the light spilling through tiny embrasures on every floor. They climbed the narrow stairs single-file.
It happened on the fourth level. The stairway was locked; with what, Trent could not see. It felt like a stack crates or trunks. Puzzled, he reached behind him, took Ion's hand, waited for him to link with the others, and led into the adjacent chamber.
They were suddenly jumped, and a fight in total darkness ensued. Before he could begin to draw his sword, Trent had several sets of hands laid on him. He kicked out but didn't connect. In answer, a solid clout to the head knocked him down.
Light blossomed. A beam of light stabbed his eyes. A flashlight beam?
He heard a familiar chuckle. Three Troadean soldiers had him pinned. The fight was already over, his commando teammates all subdued.
'Who the devil are you?' Trent said to the man holding the flashlight.
The man turned the beam upward to illuminate his own smiling face. 'Inky!'
Incarnadine's apartment in the palace was luxurious. 'How long have you been mage to the court of Troas?' Trent asked as he stuffed himself with a very late supper. He had to admit the fare was better than the oats and timothy he'd enjoyed earlier. Actually, it was good to be human again.
'Oh, many years, local time,' Incarnadine said, sipping the same dark, sweet wine Trent was drinking. 'In fact, I wormed my way into Mykosian culture chiefly for the purpose of saving Troas, my favorite city here.'
'Tell me again why you used me as a cat's-paw. My head's a little thick tonight.'
'I couldn't very well be in two places at once,' Incarnadine answered. 'I needed someone convincingly good as a strategist, yet someone whose mind I knew well and could second-guess. I couldn't let you in on my plans because Anthaemion surely would have sensed your duplicity. He's as cagey as they come, and a bit of a telepath.'
Trent nodded. 'Okay, I buy that. I had enough trouble with him. Despite my best efforts, he seemed to sense that I disliked him and that I was half-hoping that the whole operation would fail. How did you know I'd try the Trojan horse bit?'
'I didn't, but I was prepared for one sort of commando operation or another, and knew you'd be trying to take the watchtower at the north gate. The horse-transformation thing was a brilliant stroke, Trent. Masterly bit of deception. I think they would have chopped up the wooden version for firewood, it's so scarce around here.'
'Right. But it's strange how the horse motif persists.'
'I've followed the Troy thread in over a dozen worlds so far. It's the central legend in dozens more. Something basic is at the core of it, but I don't know what, yet. One of the things I'm studying. But all the versions I've encountered are the same in essentials.'
Trent looked out the window, west, toward the sea. The city was still dark, but daybreak was not far off. 'Anthaemion's out there, somewhere, waiting for my signal fire.'
Incatnadine nodded. 'And when rosy-figured dawn breaks without his having seen anything, he's off for home, never to return. And Troas is saved.'
'And a legend is lost. You're right, this mythos is central to most Earthlike cultures. What cultural havoc are you wreaking here?'
Incarnadine chuckled and pushed a scroll across the table. 'Scan that.'
Trent unscrolled what looked like the beginning of a long poem written on sheepskin.
''Sing, Muse, of the wrath of Aeakides… '' Trent gave his brother a sardonic look. 'What, you joined the Blind Poets' Guild?'
Incarnadine laughed. 'No, but this culture will have its heritage. As is true in most worlds, later generations will never be sure of the historicity of any of this. But they will have the poem. As for Troy-or Troas-the bay will silt up, the citadel will lose its strategic value, and it will eventually be abandoned.'
Done eating, Trent sat back and drank off the rest of his wine.
'Nevertheless, my dear brother, I am mightily pissed off at you.'
Incarnadine shrugged. 'I can well understand.'
'Why didn't you let me get word to Sheila, for gods' sake? I can't believe your insensitivity. You know how she-'
'There is no need to.'
'What? What the hell are you talking about?'
'The time difference between the castle and this world is variable. I couldn't tell exactly how long you'd be gone, castle time. I knew it would be short, but I didn't figure on how short. The slippage factor shot up to five digits and has remained so the whole time we were here.'
'Five digits? You mean we've been here over two years, and only-'
Incarnadine nodded, grinning. 'Only a few hours have passed back at the castle.'
Trent was struck dumb.
Incarnadine chuckled again. 'So when you get back it'll be late evening of the day you left. Remember that when you see Sheila.'
Trent laughed in spite of himself. 'You rotten, no good…'
'Sorry. But she'll never know, unless you choose to tell her.'
'Are you kidding? I wouldn't… Hold it, hold it. You're forgetting we have to get back to Mykos to go through the portal.'
'It was originally here. I moved it back.'
'Oh.'
'So everything's fine.'
'Whoa, just a another minute now. This doesn't let you off the hook, my friend. You duped me.'
Incarnadine nodded. 'That I did. Rather well, too.'
'Artfully. I'm going to get back at you.'
'I'm rather sure you will. Have some wine.' Incarnadine reached for the pitcher.
'Thanks.'
'By the way, something's been happening at the castle while we've been gone. I'm getting vague vibrations, but I'm sure it's some sort of strange magic.'
