Chapter six: The Betrayer and the Betrayed

The darkness had shaded the better part of his vision as he stumbled through the foliage. “Why must all these damnable trees look the exact same?” he thought to himself, as he found himself once more on the ground, his foot caught in the crook of a tree root. The moon cast its yellowed gaze upon the forest, lighting his better part of the way until an opening had finally made itself clear. There in the clearing, lay the Persian camp, a commander’s tent pitched at the forefront and its army sprawled in every space around it. He had planned this meeting beforehand, taking caution not to send himself to his death. There was nothing more dangerous than an army caught by surprise, especially in the middle of the night. As he stepped down the leafy hillock, relishing the thought of finally feeling solid ground, he crept to the entrance flap and made his presence known.
“You must be the man I’ve been waiting for” the Persian general said softly, his back turned.
“I am indeed” he answered.
“Your intentions are applaudable, but the notion of betrayal stands out above all” he continued, turning around.
“My only intention is revenge. Would you still accuse me of betrayal if I could give you the exact whereabouts of the army who so desires to kill you?” he asked suavely.
“A Spartan is a Spartan” the general replied simply, his hate of the word quite clear.
“All the more reason to add strength to your army.”
“I suppose I could always kill you if you prove yourself disloyal” the general pondered, rubbing his chin. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I can assure you that my allegiance is quite sound” the man continued.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Now, about that location . . .”
__________________________________________
Morning fell upon Herite’s men at last, the sun shining blissfully through the canopy as they were rallied to their feet. Fifteen minutes later, all one hundred men were mounted; their belongings neatly bundled to the back of their horse and in a line, awaiting orders. Enyo had just finished rolling up her bedroll when Herite returned from the roll call.
“We have a problem” he said to Enyo, as she threw the bedroll onto the back of her horse, securing it into place.
“And what would that be?” she asked sighing.
“Tyrus is gone.”
Enyo looked at Herite in disbelief, but not all unsurprised, cast her eyes to the ground and shook her head.
“That bastard” she muttered climbing onto her horse.
“You don’t suppose he’s gone back to Sparta?”
“No, even he’s not that stupid. No, he’s gone to rally with the Persians.”
Herite shook his head.
“If we meet him on the battlefield, treat him as such” she added, sliding her finger across her throat.
“Then we’ll have to move quickly” Herite started, “Persia’s bound to know where we’re striking from. If they have reinforcements, we won’t stand a chance.”
“We’ll have to” Enyo answered, “We’ll just have to be tougher.”
Koropi was an hour’s ride away at best, but Herite and his men traveled as fast as their horses were willing to go. They kept to the main footpath of the forest, all the while heading north, secluded between the trees as Enyo and Herite stayed in the lead. Tyrus’ betrayal preyed on Enyo’s nerves, gnawing at her constantly. She should have known not to trust him; should have kept a more watchful eye on him and not taken his word on anything, not even something as simple as “sleep.” He had crept off in the middle of the night, hiding in the underbrush after she had dozed off. He had found the Persian camp simply by chance and intuition. Serving under a woman had bruised his spirit and more importantly wounded his pride. He would not stand for it; never again would he take an order from an inferior. She had beaten him in battle years ago, but now it was his time to return the favor. He would do so willingly, and mercilessly, relishing the moment where he’d end her life and look in her eyes as her spirit slowly drained from her. It was all he could do to control his excitement at the thought.
Koropi was nothing more than an open field, as barren and stark as any known desert; whose sand was replaced by rolling hills and an occasional birch tree towering over the horizon. The sun was far in the east, casting its glow upon the ground; fearful of seeing it soon covered in blood. The atmosphere held a scene that could be compared only to peace; soft and brittle and weakened by war. It possessed a comfort that would all but be destroyed as these two opposing benefactors sought to rip it in two. The Persian general sat mounted upon his horse, reins hanging loosely from his slender fingers, his army gathered in a line on either side as he waited in amusement to his Herite and his Athenian legion, already convinced he had sealed a victory. Herite positioned his men in a similar manner, riding up front with Enyo at his side.
“Give me Athens Herite and I can make all this go away” the general called from across the field, sounding bored.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that” Herite called back. “My country is not for sale.”
“Don’t say I never gave you the chance.”
“I don’t see Tyrus in his battlements” Herite whispered, turning to Enyo.
“He’s probably waiting in the recovery”
“You’re forgetting that we don’t have one of those” he added.
“You’re forgetting that we don’t need one” she replied, confidently.
“Are we going to fight or stand about talking?” the Persian general called once more “I’m at least giving you the courtesy of a head start” he mocked, his men starting to shuffle in anxiousness.
Herite had singled out one hundred of his finest and able bodied men, and with the exception of a single Spartan, he had finally realized what it felt to be truly alone on a battlefield. Thanks to Tyrus’ betrayal, Persia had enlisted three hundred men, not including the hidden legion waiting in recovery. Enyo’s attempt at confidence was applaudable, but her notion at the idea of actually managing a victory was completely absurd. He looked to her, her focus set straight ahead, her eyes squinting in defiance, her determination entirely undaunted. He admired her strength and respected her own respect in the face of violence, yet his mind could not be set at ease.
“On your call Herite” Enyo said quietly, grabbing her reins.
The Persian general and his army stood still over the horizon, waiting for his call; stretching a black line of death across the border. The general only continued to smile as Herite shifted in his saddle, his arm slowly rising in the air.
The air was silent as all life seemed to stand completely still. Herite dropped his hand and the battle commenced. Enyo stayed on Herite’s heels as his men dispersed onto the field; the Persians now jumping into the fray.
Herite’s men held their ground as best they could manage, biting back the stings of broken flesh as they continued to push forward. Enyo remained at Herite’s flank, taking the lives of all who dared to challenge her. A kick to the face sent one backing into an Athenian blade, a swipe across the face sent a head flying through the air, a stab to the chest sent a cry of pain echoing through her ears as she became covered in Persian blood, parrying each of their blows until not a single one remained. And then in an instant, she found herself sprawled upon the ground; her horse collapsing out from under her with a spear protruding from its side. Looking up, her eyes fell upon Tyrus, a smile etched across his face as wide as he could manage.
“Tyrus, you son of a whore!” she screamed, drawing her sword. “Fight me you bastard!”
Tyrus only laughed, his hands planted on his hips as the recovery dispersed in all directions from behind him. Enyo would not stand for it.
All around there was chaos. The cry of the fallen echoed through the air lighting the purple haze of war as the battlefield became nothing more than a burial ground. The steeds of either side lay crumpled to the ground, their riders either fighting for their lives or succumbing to the kiss death as they slowly came to join them. Enyo’s blade rang out with the sound of oblivion, her victims beginning to join in a pile upon the blood soaked ground. They flew from her left and right, some coming out completely severed as steel sank into flesh. And then she would simply rip it free and begin the process anew. Her body became coated in their blood, the taste of gore forever resting on her tongue.
The Persians had resorted to an aerial bombardment. A series of short thwoops ricocheted through the sky as the Persians relinquished a hail of arrows; tips lighted in fire.
“Get down!” Enyo yelled, ducking beneath her shield.
Her call rang out, but not everyone heard and more of Herite’s men soon found themselves impaled upon the dirt, the flames beginning to bite them as they slowly burned from within. Their cries would never be heard. And yet the Athenians fought on relentlessly refusing to back down. Their city would not fall. In the midst of battle, Enyo had found herself separated from Herite. She had gone hunting for Tyrus, while he had eyes only for the general. An arrow, shot out from the distance, found itself lodged in the shoulder of his horse, forcing him roughly to the ground as his mount fell from under him. The general dropped his bow in anger as Herite rolled to his feet, drawing his sword in the process, the general gritting his teeth in annoyance.
“Looks like I’m taking matters into my own hands” he muttered, spurring his horse onto the field. Herite ducked as the general swung out his blade, his horse coming to a rough halt from a pull on the reins as the general attempted to turn himself around. He charged a second attack, sword raised, but Herite was one step ahead. Herite dropped to his knees in an instant, arching his back until it lay parallel to his ankles until he was kneeled directly below the general’s horse. With a swing of his sword, the horse’s underbelly split; its rider plummeting to the ground in a cloud of dust and smoke.
“Fight me like a man you bastard!” Herite yelled, wiping blood from his eyes.
“What man lets a woman lead him into battle” the general sneered, getting to his feet.
“A man who will not rest until he has your head upon his blade!”
Enyo had finally caught sight of Tyrus and she refused to let him flee. Tearing through his forces proved to be more a chore than a challenge. Their attacks were sloppy and their entire form was pathetic. They had taken a toll on Herite’s legion, but they had only painted Enyo with their blood, and as she swung yet another victim to the ground, she decided to bring the killing blow. Only five Persian men stood between her and her former ally. Five that would not see tomorrow’s light of day. Leaping into the air, she balanced upon their heads, her feet finding footholds upon their helmet and shoulders. She jumped from one soldier to the next all the while kicking them behind her as she glided down the line. Upon reaching the last one, she landed with a soft drop, her sword raised and dripping with gore. Swinging it full circle, she made Tyrus her new enemy.
Tyrus parried each of her blows, as steel clashed upon steel. He had advanced as far as she in battle, but where Enyo lacked the desire of murder, Tyrus made it up entirely until it was the only force he was capable of unleashing.
“I’ll not allow you to gain the upper hand this time” he mocked, dodging another blow.
“Your pride will be your downfall” she replied through clenched teeth; their blades grating each other in a standstill, “But do not think you can run back to Persia like some frightened pup. I won’t allow it.”
“It will be your life or mine-but only one will walk away today.”
Tyrus attempted to send his foot into her face, but Enyo, far too agile, ducked beneath his blow, knocking her elbow into his groin. Tyrus stepped back gasping for breath, staggering to stay on his feet. He struck his sword sloppily beneath her feet, but she leaped over his attack with ease and brought the butt of her sword handle down upon his helmet sending it crashing to the ground with a loud clang. Tyrus regained his composure and struck out once more with his sword, feeling his blade cut into flesh. Enyo landed behind him touching her hand to her cheek feeling blood. Her eyes alight with rage as it oozes down her skin. Tyrus launches out with his foot in a second attempt to kick her down, this time succeeding as Enyo, caught off guard, fell upon her back, her sword sliding from her hand. She is defenseless. Looking around, her sword is too far for any aid.
“Damn” she thought to herself, trying to locate anything to ward off his attack. Tyrus may have possessed confidence, but his most infamous quality by far was his cockiness. He took his time strolling to her, swinging his sword around and around between his fingers. He had her, and he would take his time in killing her. From the corner of her eye, Enyo spotted a soldier. He was nothing more than a heap of cloth and armor, lying in a pool of his own blood, a spear jutting from his back. In the split second Tyrus dropped down with his final blow, the spear had been pulled and climbed into Enyo’s hands, breaking in two as it severed Tyrus’ impact and buying her precious time. With a backwards roll, she was on her feet in an instant, spinning the shaft of the spear between her fingers until the tip pointed out front. Tyrus rushed forward with a yell . . . and then stopped, the splintered shaft embedding from his chest. He dropped his sword, blood beginning to fall from his mouth as he dropped to his knees gasping for air. Enyo strolled to him casually, picking up her sword and sheathing it.
“Looks like I’ll be the one walking away” she said quietly, and with the tip of her foot, tapped him on the head. Tyrus fell to the ground and was no more.
Herite managed to secure a killing blow against Persia’s precious general. With the defeat of their only backbone, the remaining soldiers retreated from the field in fear. The Athenian army had taken its toll with no more than thirty of her men remaining. And the once peaceful field of Koropi had transformed into a smoking haze of pandemonium. And what was left? A field of littered bodies and blood soaked earth, a once natural beauty now stained in fire and destruction. It had become nothing but a bone yard. Athens may have called this a victory, but at what cost?