As she pushed herself up with the help of the trident, the mare galloped back towards the Greek camp. She was barely on her feet before a Trojan soldier came roaring towards her, sword raised above his head. Without pausing for breath, she swung the trident, its golden prongs connecting with the man’s breastplate.
As though it was an extension of her arm, the trident released a burst of life-threads, amplified by the gold, which sent the soldier flying in a violent spin, twenty feet into the air.
Danae stared at the weapon and grinned.
No wonder the Olympians’ powers had always seemed vastly stronger than her own with their weapons and armour. Then she thought of Metis, and of the raw power of Gaiasight. Danae had both.
Her hands tightened around the trident’s shaft as she stared about the battlefield, then dived into the throng. Her eyes blurred with tears from the still-smoking ships as she scoured the mass of fighters for golden armour amongst a storm of bronze.
To her left a soldier’s head was cleaved clean from his shoulders, another’s chest ripped open by the spiked wheel of a chariot. Soon, she could no longer tell enemy from ally, the men’s sweaty, ash-smeared faces all snarling like beasts in a lion pit.
So much power, said the voice.All yours for the taking.
She clenched her jaw as the trident seemed to sing in response beneath her hands.
A man fell in front of her, his throat slit, his life force seeping away into the dirt.
She paused, staring at the blood pooling beneath his head, her whole being aching with longing.
Then, through the din, she heard an unmistakable cry. Ignoring the voice, she leapt over the dying man and charged in the direction of the sea, weaving through the chaos.
The thunder rumbled, and another vein of lightning cracked the sky. With the lashing rain and dense black smoke, it was near impossible to see.
Channelling her will into the trident, she swung the weapon through the air, glowing threads streaming from the triple prongs to whip a clear path of air ahead of her.
The golden-armoured Olympian stood amongst the battling soldiers, an arrow protruding from between the join of the metal across their thigh. Children of Prometheus soldiers lay broken around them, bodies piled on one another like sacks of grain. A few remained standing, ready to sacrifice everything, while other Greek and Trojan soldiers fled in fear.
With a jolt, Danae caught a flash of silver nearby andspotted Atalanta fighting sword to sword with a Trojan soldier with hair the same coppery hue as his battered armour.
For a heartbeat she was torn, but before she could make a move the god lunged towards Atalanta and the Trojan. They grabbed her by the neck, lifting her off the ground, then turned to the man she’d been fighting.
‘Run, Aeneas! For the love of your mother, run!’
There was no time for fear or self-doubt. While the Olympian was distracted, Danae threw herself forward, swinging the trident like a club. The god was knocked off their feet, crashing into a mass of soldiers.
Atalanta gasped, falling to her knees, hands around her bruised throat.
Their eyes met, and Danae’s heart swelled for a beat, before she turned and ran after the god.
She squinted against the rain, focusing on the Olympian through the torrent of droplets. They were already on their feet, a twitching soldier clutched in their fists as they sucked the man’s life-threads into their body, healing their wounds.
She had moments.
Lungs screaming with the smoke, she sprinted, the trident gripped in one hand, her other reaching beneath her cloak. The god turned as she approached, eyes widening beneath a helm wound with a filigree of golden ivy. They were smaller than Danae had expected, shorter and with a much slimmer build than Poseidon. A dark smudge of blood trailed down their leg from where the arrow had been buried.
The drained soldier slid from the Olympian’s grip as Danae drove the trident into the earth between them, with a shockwave that sent the god tumbling to the ground. As the Olympian hurried to their feet, she reached inside the pack fastened to her belt. The god lunged, clutching at the trident. Just as Danae hoped they would.
As their fingers closed around the shaft, she drew out the collar and snapped it around their neck. The god stumbled back, clawing at the iron ring with their gauntleted fingers. As they flailed, Danae ripped the golden helm from their head.
The face beneath was that of a pale youth, barely older than fourteen. He strongly reminded her of a young Philemon.
Lip quivering, Hermes, Messenger of the Gods and the Lord of Tricksters, sank to his knees in the bloody dirt.
‘Please, don’t kill me.’
51. A God and a Titan
When Hermes woke, he thought he’d drowned.
