Hearing the news about the flank made Praxis’ blood run cold. Even a good fighter could get overwhelmed if being attacked from two sides. If he didn’t act quickly, all the men he’d killed today would have been in vain.

“Theron! Grab some men and follow me!” roared Praxis as his long legs began to dart across the battlefield. The tall grass tickled against his knees as he ran, breezing past other warriors locked in duels of their own. For the most part, the Argives seemed to be winning the fight but the closer that Praxis got to the flank, the less that held true.

By the time he reached the end, the situation was crumpling. Dead bodies adorned the ground, many of them still clutching their shields with the painted symbols of their city upon them. The Cynurians were vicious and bloodthirsty, especially as they saw victory within their grasp.

Praxis had to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Clutching his shield, he ran at full speed at the closest Cynurian, who was at the moment yanking his sword from the guts of a fallen Argive.

Praxis caught him off balance, knocking the big warrior to the ground before a quick thrust of the sword dispatched him.

The next opponent was more fierce. He was missing an eye, evidenced by the strap of cloth that covered the open socket. The lack of an eye was hardly a handicap by how quickly the man moved.

“I’m going to skin your hide as soon as I kill you,” growled the one-eyed Cynurian. “And then I’m going to wear your face to remember you by!”

He followed the threat with a thrust that came just a little too close to home, slicing against Praxis’ arm and drawing blood.

“So he does bleed!” howled the Cynurian, grinning with pride. “The great Praxis of Argos is human after all!”

Looking at the wound in his arm, Praxis used his thumb to swipe a dollop of blood, spreading it against his lips when he was finished. The one-eyed Cynurian took that as the next signal to attack, launching into a devastating series of blows and maneuvers.

Praxis had to give it to him—he knew how to fight. The only problem was that his missing eye caused a blind spot on the left side of his body, something that he overcompensated for by being more aggressive with his shield. Praxis only had to wait for the right moment when he overextended himself by striking instead of holding.

“You’re mine, famous man!” yelled the Cynurian as he threw his shield one more time.

It was the opening that Praxis needed. He thrust his body forward, striking his sword into the soft flesh between the ribs. His blade penetrated the man’s flesh easily, causing the Cynurian’s mouth to drop.

His barely lucid face seemed to sputter as life fled his body. Praxis twisted the blade before pulling it out.

“No,” growled Praxis. “You’re mine now.”

As soon as he pulled his sword out, the one-eyed Cynurian crumpled to the ground, never to rise again.

By that point in the battle, Theron and a group of men had joined Praxis, fighting off the remains of the Cynurians and saving the flank. The enemy warriors, seeing that the tide had turned, suddenly lost their nerve. They started to move backwards, taking tentative steps until they’d created enough space between them and the Argives.

Then they turned and ran, never stopping until they returned to the backwoods of Cynuria.

“This was a good fight,” said Theron, using a dead Cynurian’s cuirass to wipe the blood from his blade. “Those Cynurians are almost decent fighters. Impetus, yes, but they don’t lack for spirit.”

“They’re worse fighters than Corinthians,” said Praxis. “They are too wild and ill-disciplined to be that much of a threat.”

“That’s because the Spartans probably prefer them that way,” replied Theron. “They make better slaves when they’re not smart enough to realize they’re being used.”

There was a lot of truth to that. Everyone knew that the Spartans used the Cynurians as a cat’s-paw, testing out their neighbors to see who was ripe for an attack. Praxis believed that was part of the reason why Damian and Xanthos didn’t want this fight.

They didn’t want to do anything that might draw the ire of the Spartans toward Argos.

In fact, when Xanthos arrived at the flank to see that everything was fine and that Praxis was still alive, he looked disappointed.

“You’re still here then,” said Xanthos, spitting out each word like it was a foul-tasting wine.

Praxis smirked. “Try not to look so upset about it.”

Xanthos gestured to the fallen Cynurians. “All this killing and for what? Nothing. The Spartans won’t be pleased. They will send their mighty army to Argos next and kill us all.”

“They won’t get far as long as brave men are willing to stand up to them,” said Theron.

Xanthos scoffed at him, but instead of looking at Theron, he glared at Praxis. “My father and I will have words about your actions today. You will be punished for what you’ve done.”

Of course Xanthos would run to his father. It was the only thing he knew how to do. Still, his threats hardly bothered Praxis.

He simply nodded his head. “Then I’ll await my audience with the king.”

Xanthos shook his head and then whistled, signaling the rest of the army to return to the city of Argos. While they were forming up to march out, Theron fell in beside Praxis. The smirk on his face said everything.

“One of these days that man is going to try to kill you,” warned Theron.

“He’s been trying to kill me ever since his father took my mother as his second wife,” replied Praxis. “He hasn’t succeeded yet.”

“That doesn’t mean he might not succeed in the future.”

Praxis chuckled. “Then I guess I’ll just have to rely on my superior fighting skills to save my neck.”

Theron grinned. “It’s good you have something to fall back on then!”

*****

“My son! Let me have a look at you!”

Praxis stood proudly as his mother, Doris, looked him over. It had been over an hour since the end of the battle, and his first stop had been to the small chambers where his mother lived. The dwelling was part of the palace structure, the home of King Damian of Argos.

Doris was over a head shorter than her son. She’d been one of the most beautiful women in the entire city but age hadn’t been kind to her, turning some of her hair gray and putting deep wrinkles in her face. She wore every one of her forty-five years in the crevices on her face, and these days she seemed to be in ill health more so than ever before.

And she seemed far from pleased as she looked upon her son.

“So much blood, Praxis,” she said, gesturing to his stained cuirass. “You’re covered in it!”

Praxis looked down at his torso and smiled. “None of it is mine. Just a simple wound to my arm but that’s it. All of this belongs to the defeated Cynurians.”

Doris beamed with pride. She put her hand over her mouth as she looked at him. “My little hero. My young Aeneas!”

Praxis rolled his eyes. “Mother, don’t call me that.”

“Why not? It’s true! To think that my son, yes my son, is the pride of all Argos, the best warrior produced in the city in a number of lifetimes. Some day they’ll talk of you like we talk of the demigods and the titans today.”

“Mother,” warned Praxis again. “You’re embarrassing me!”

Doris could only grin in return. Praxis knew why she did it. He was her only son, and even at twenty years of age, she still tried to baby him like he was fresh from her womb.

Their bond had always been a strong one. After all, it had just been Praxis and his mother for longer than he could remember. Praxis never knew his father.

In fact, the only father that he had was his stepfather, Damian. And the king was certainly lacking in the proper parental attributes.

Doris seemed to remember her husband at precisely the same time. A worried look appeared on her face.

“Damian isn’t happy about what you’ve done,” she whispered. “He was furious when you led part of the army to battle.”

Praxis shrugged. “What would he have me do, Mother? The Cynurians were raiding our lands. They were killing our people and raping our women. We couldn’t let that continue to stand.”

“The Cynurians have powerful friends,” she warned. “You know how your father feels about the Spartans.”

Praxis growled. “Damian is not my father.”

Doris grabbed his arm. “Don’t say that so loud,” she hissed. “You never know who could be listening. As far as our relationship goes, you need to treat him like he sired you. I won’t always be around, and you need to have a good relationship with him. I won’t always be here to . . . to . . .”

“To what, Mother?”

Doris gave him a sad smile. “To smooth over your mistakes.”

Praxis stiffened. “I will defend my decision to fight if I must. I didn’t realize I needed to seek permission to protect our people. The kings of old would have gone to war for lesser pretenses.”

Doris nodded. “That may be true but Damian is the king we have. We have to always know our place.”

Her words spoke volumes about the way she treated her relationship with her husband. Doris was the second wife of Damian. His first wife, Eulalia, was the mother of Xanthos. By all accounts, the match between Damian and Eulalia had been a love match, creating a true bond between them.

The marriage between Damian and Doris was political. At one time, Praxis’ real father had ruled over Argos, taking Doris as a wife when they weren’t much older than Praxis was now. When he fled the city shortly after Praxis was born, there was an opening in the city’s leadership—an opening that Damian filled. He increased his legitimacy by marrying Doris, further cementing his power.

Doris always knew that their match was never about love. She was also careful to always stay in his good graces, lest he decide that he didn’t need a second wife (and an errant stepson) after all.

“All I’m saying is to think harder before you make any rash decisions,” she said, fussing over his hair like the good mother that she was.

“I promise you that I won’t give him any further reasons to disown us,” said Praxis, softening his tone. “I just did what I thought was right.”

She hushed him and then pulled him in for an embrace. “I know you did, my son. You’re the best thing about my life. The one person I’m the most proud of. You have big things destined for you. Of that I have no doubt.”

“Mother,” said Praxis, rolling his eyes playfully. “You’re doing it again.”

“What? Embarrassing you?”

Praxis nodded.

Doris smiled at him. “It’s a mother’s prerogative after all.”

Praxis never got the chance to respond to that. Suddenly, the doors of his mother’s chambers were thrown open with a deafening slam. Two of the household guards marched into the room—men that were owned by Damian.

Praxis’ stomach dropped.

“Praxis, you are summoned to see King Damian at once,” bellowed the closest guard. “You are to answer for your gross misconduct today!”

Doris gave him a fearful look. The grip on his arm tightened.

“Strength to you, my son. You’re going to need it.”