Bad Omen by Kade Jones (reading well txt) 📖

If only he had been nearer the front. He cursed his cowardice for had he not delayed for a position to the rear, he would have foregone the dubious honour of being the first casualty of this war.

Forcing his head back around to the right, he saw… her!

His murderess! She was still sitting atop her steed surveying the butchery that her cavalry had wreaked upon the poor archers with a look of satisfaction across her face, and what’s more – she

was giving the orders! To Arementes’ addled Athenian mind, a woman on the field of battle was unheard of. Even among the Spartans, who for some unknowable reason treated their women with a level of equality, it was unthinkable, but to have one sitting there, brazenly barking orders to hard men who hurried to obey her commands… was absurd!

Maybe it was because he was dead, or as close to it as is humanly possible, he wasn’t sure, but he was surprised that he looked upon her, not with anger, hatred or loathing as he might have expected, but with simple admiration. She was not a big woman, nor was she scarred with years of service and hardship; but in her night black armour, she was darkly handsome with an air of authority about her that said she had seen and done things that most men could only dream of, and her last minute ambush of the Athenian amateurs was masterfully timed and brilliantly executed. It should be worthy of the highest honour the Spartans had to offer, and to be revered by these natural born warriors deserved a measure of respect, whether you are a Spartan prince… or a piece of meat hanging from a tree!

Blood had been sprayed up one side of her body and along her mount’s flank, probably from some other nameless victim; though he couldn’t for the life of him think what weapon could make a man explode in a fountain of crimson as the unfortunate, unknown soldier must have done. Her age was hard to determine. She looked young but her bearing gave her maturity and her eyes had much knowledge behind them. Her black hair, matted with the same blood which was not her own, framed a face of near perfection and her dark eyes glittered with the thrill of the kill. Her nose was almost cute

as it tilted upwards and her full, red lips were curled at the edges despite the serious tone of the orders she was giving. Quite beautiful

, he thought.

Arementes coughed up more blood as he laughed. Here he was, hanging like a fish in a smoke house making an appraisal of the woman who had just killed him. Athene may have deserted him this day, but the Gods, it seemed, were not without a sense of humour. Or maybe it was just that there was nothing left for him to do in this world but appreciate the last sight he would ever see.

He watched on helplessly as the woman sent Spartans and Sicilian horsemen to position themselves at the edge of the copse until eventually, she found herself alone. What is she up to?

He was beginning to find it hard to focus, but he kept his faltering gaze upon this warrior woman who commanded men, for she had dismounted now and found a place upon a log not fifteen yards away from where he hung. There was something amiss with this whole situation, and Arementes discovered that he needed to know at least some of the story of how a woman could become a leader of warriors.

She had not looked at Arementes once since he had regained consciousness; there was no reason to as he could pose no threat, but now she was pulling something out from inside her cloak and fiddling with it. For some reason, despite his terminal state, he needed to linger for a few more moments just to see what she held in her hands and what it could mean. There was something not right about that strange crackling sound that now emanated from in front of her and there was a mysterious, soft red glow that reflected back from her black armour. What could it be? Why did she need to be alone?

Darkness now encroached upon the periphery of Arementes’ vision. The scene within the grove was beginning to move away from him like a well-lit painting being taken by unseen hands down a pitch black tunnel, yet still he focused on the darkly clad woman with a fever coursing within his near empty veins. I must know!

He said to the Gods. Please, I must know!

As if in answer, the woman shifted in her seated position and turned around, looking down to her hand. In it, she grasped some sort of black, moulded oblong thing with a puzzling red light on the top and a long, thin protrusion that bent as she turned. The crackling noise then disappeared and she did the strangest thing; glancing over her shoulder to check if the coast was clear, she leaned forward and spoke into

the black box as if whispering into a lover’s ear. She spoke in a very quiet and yet, strangely eloquent manner; “Number two, gather your men together and Rendezvous with me in the centre. We’ll hit them from behind when we’ve re-grouped.” The crackling immediately returned and a small voice came back at her from within

the box in an equally articulate tongue, but higher in pitch;
“Very well… number one. I’ll meet with you in two minutes.”

Finally, at the end of his saga, Arementes had gained his understanding of this whole situation. At last, he now saw some of the truth of whom, and what this woman was. As his vision blackened and his heart stopped pumping his useless blood onto the earth, his mind gave vent to its final notions before shutting down forever… Aaaaah, now I understand. This woman is come from the future! She had already seen our ambush and moved against it... Brilliant!

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift into the nether realm and into the arms of whichever God would take him, be it Athene or Hades. In the last second before oblivion took him, and out of nowhere, his very last thought in this world suddenly occurred to him… How in the name of Zeus did I know that!?

***

The woman known by the Spartans simply as Octavia replaced her crude two way radio back within the pocket of her cloak. There were many more advanced ways with which to communicate, but this seemed like the easiest thing to hand at the time.

She mounted her stallion and was about to join the men, when she remembered her spear. “A Spartan without a spear is not a Spartan,” she said to herself, tilting her head from side to side, mocking their silly saying. But, with a roll of her eyes she wheeled her horse around and trotted back to her first kill of the day.

She noted with some amusement at how the body hung from the trunk of a tree a good six inches off the ground and commended herself on how good a throw it was to hit him dead centre of the chest. As she took hold of the solid oak shaft to retrieve her weapon, she paused as she studied the corpse before her. There was absolutely nothing remarkable about his facial features and his hair, now exposed to the elements was worn in the traditional Athenian style. But there was that in his expression that she had never seen before on the face of a dead man… She could only describe it as a look of utter confusion crossed with total frustration, as if his final thoughts had been some sort of unfathomable question to which he will never now know the answer.

With no time to ponder this small phenomenon, Octavia shrugged and wrenched the spear with some effort from both tree and flesh. Rearing her horse in order to make a quick turn, she flicked the weapon once to be rid of its gore, and rode away to lead her men onto the battlefield… and to victory.

Arementes’ body fell to the ground and into his own filth with ne’er a coin for his eyes to pay the Ferryman for the journey across the River Styx.


To be continued……..

Imprint

Text: Original cover art work by myself
Publication Date: 09-03-2011

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
For Jason