Sons of Zeus (The Warrior Trilogy #1)

Again, he blocked off his mind from terrible possibilities.

Riq lay on his side, facing away from Dak. The poor guy, Dak thought. Something about him seemed to suggest he’d finally run out of steam. He reminded Dak of a balloon that held on for as long as it could after a birthday party, clinging to the ceiling, but then eventually sank to the floor, a wilted, crumpled heap of rubber. Dak felt it, too, but he still had hope. Once someone figured out they had Aristotle in their prison pit, surely all would be well in the world again.

The Let’s-Throw-Rocks-at-Dak-and-Riq Show had ended as soon as a guard had spotted Sera running away, and most of the guards had left in pursuit. Several returned now, but Dak couldn’t tell from their whispers or body language if she’d been captured. The fact that they didn’t bring her back, of course, was a very good sign. Unless . . .

One of the soldiers lowered a wooden ladder into the pit, steadied it, then climbed down, followed by two others. Dak shifted around to fully face them, sitting on his rear end, feeling like a lassoed pig. The three guards were armed, and one of them actually had his sword in hand, using only the other as he descended. Though Dak held on to the hope that they had come down for some other purpose, it was quickly dashed. They headed straight for Riq.

Riq noticed them at the last second, jolting and squirming as he tried to get away from them. Useless effort, of course. They snatched him under the arms and hauled him to his feet, then dragged him to the closest wall of the pit, where they — very ungently — threw him back down into the dirt. He landed with a heavy thump and a grunt. Next, they came for Dak, who didn’t resist when they did the same thing to him. A few seconds later, he was sitting next to Riq, his backside a little sorer than it had been.

Not surprisingly, Aristotle was their last target, picked up and dragged along to join the two boys with whom he’d arrived at the camp. The soldiers treated him just as roughly, and Dak wanted to hit somebody. Really hard.

Once the three of them were all lined up, the guard who’d come down the ladder brandishing his sword stepped right in front of them. He looked at one of his partners and gave a curt nod. That man came forward and yanked the cloth gags out of each prisoner’s mouth. Dak coughed and spat when his came out, feeling the sweet rush of air — which only made him thirstier. The soldier threw the wet, slightly bloody pieces of cloth onto the ground and took a place behind the guy in charge.

“Listen to me well,” the man said. “You’re the first people to wander into our camps since we heard of . . . ill tidings toward our king and hegemon. On the cusp of the greatest period in Greek history, we have neither the time nor patience to ask who you are or what you want. We’ve been ordered to take the utmost of precautions, and not to trouble our great leader.”

This dude is good at speaking a lot of words without saying anything, Dak thought.

“Do you know who I am?” Aristotle asked, his voice a scratchy rasp.

The soldier’s face showed no emotion. “I don’t care. If you were anyone of importance, you’d know to stay clear of these lands.”

“I’m Aristotle!” the philosopher yelled, as loudly as his weakened condition would allow. “I practically raised the son of the great king of whom you speak! I demand you take me to him so we can clear up all this nonsense. I demand you free my friends!”

“Aristotle?” the soldier barked, looking around at his comrades. “Look, men. The greatest philosopher in all the world sprouted wings and flew here from Corinth. His powers are even mightier than I thought.”

“I can explain, you fool! The hegemon and his son are in great danger!”

The soldier dropped to one knee and leaned toward them so quickly that Dak recoiled, knocking the back of his head against the hard dirt of the wall.

“I know,” the man said. “We know all too well. Which is why we’ve been ordered to . . . deal with lunatics like yourself who come marching into our camp.” He stood back up, brushing dust from his knee. “You have two choices, prisoners. And consider yourselves lucky that it’s not only one. Circumstances allow for a little leniency, when war is on the morrow.”

“What are you talking about?” Dak asked.

The soldier gave him a nasty look, like he didn’t care for interruptions. “Your choices are these: death at sunrise, by the gallows, or fight for your redemption on the front line of the king’s army when we attack our first foe. We’ll need all the bodies we can get up there, and yours will serve justly.”

“Either choice is death!” Aristotle yelled.