"They prayed upon our weakness. At first they raided unwalled settlements in Arzawa and Ahhiyawa, demanding terrible tribute or delivering bloody slaughter to our people, unchecked by Hittite swords they grew bolder. Encouraged by victory and ever growing ranks, they mounted attacks on wall protected cities, Mietus, Akpinar and even Karakuyu. Breaking down age old walls and burning temples and palaces as if they never were."

- unknown

19 years earlier

The sky turned from purple to the dark blue of night, but as the sun set, the orange glow over the horizon wouldn't go away.

Burning flames of war lite the night as the salty wind coming from the sea brought a current of warm air to cover the land with a heavy blanket.

There was a small contingent of warriors left were the ships had made their landing on the beach, the group was made up of men from a tribe which had just recently joined the Sherden like so many other tribes had before.

They weren't part of the raiding party and the spoils of war were lost to them today, with nothing better to do they bickered amongst each other.

Which was good for Apollas, because they held the attention of the Kush who was orderer by Pataran to watch over him.

The Kush carried an impressive frame with sinewy muscles beneath his dark skin, Pataran trusted him and ordered him to watch over the ships and Apollas, but with the Kush distracted the boy could easily escape his supervision and proceed towards the battle field.

Apollas had lived with the Sherden for over a year now and although he had become part of them, Pataran never let him join in battle even though the boy pleaded with him every time.

In the boys mind Pataran must have deemed him unfit to join their ranks, but the boy determined to prove him wrong.

He sang their songs, danced their dances, marveled at their many gods, he learned about the forms and ways the gods chose to present themselves and the multitude of rituals to please and earn their favor.

Over the last year he had become a part of them, more so then he ever was a part of his own family.

When they ran ashore and the men who had lost their families turned towards the taverns, they had treated them as on of theirs, many of them had shared stories of bitter sorrow with Apollas at night and then joked with him at day.

Even when the supplies during a long raid in dangerous waters were sparse, they never once slapped him or took out their frustrations on him.

Three times he was called upon when the bravest men he had ever know, lay on deck in their last moments, they called upon him to comfort them.

Asak the biggest and strongest men he had ever know, cried as held young Apollas in his arms, with the last strength his dying body could muster.

Apollas had to give back to these men, but whenever he approached anyone with his desire to become a man and fight by their side, a distinct look of sorrow wandered over their faces and they vehemently opposed him and forbade him to ever speak of this again.

In private he spoke to many of the men and they all reacted the same way.

Pataran always reassured him his time would come, but when ever the boy thought about how little he contributed he felt ill.

He never had to turn towards the wards in the streets, he had his place with these men, he couldn't bare disappoint them.

And while his eagerness to fight was meet with resentment, his eagerness to learn was meet with a willingness to teach and they practiced with Apollas the crafts of war.

He learned to use the bow from a group of Lukka warriors which separated from the main Lukka tribe in the east, the use of the scimitar he learned from the Kush who could wield it more gracious then any warrior he had ever seen, but what he excelled at the most was the use of the dirk sword, a short sword with a straight blade which could find its way through any armor and some of them were so light even a boy could wield them.

One of these short swords he stole from the armory back at the Sherden settlement and smuggled it on board.

With this blade in hand Apollas was ready to join the battle and prove that he was a warrior and prove his commitment to the tribe.

He was close now he could hear the screams in the distance, like waves, the howls of war clashed against one another as the waring parties engaged in close quarter combat in the open streets.

Flames cracked loudly as supporting beams gave way and burning buildings collapsed, Apollas could feel the whole town radiating sweltering heat as he entered its sphere of influence.

As he came upon the towns first buildings he had to pause.

The streets were littered with mutilated bodies, mostly men, some clearly ambushed unprepared.

They were laying almost naked against walls and in ditches, slain by slash and stab wounds, some even carried swords and hastily put on armor, but there was no sign of any significant resistance.

There was a dead warrior who fought under the Sherden banner here and there and Apollas certainly recognized them all, but it was nothing compared to the devastation the Sherden had unleashed upon these people.

It was the first time Apollas hesitated as he saw grown men twice his size laying on the ground with slide open bellies and limbs separated from bodies which were twice as wide as his own, there was doubt as he finally saw what war would demand from him.

But as soon as he realized this, he cast the doubt away and moved on, for he learned from the Kush that the deadliest weapon in combat was not made of bronze, but was in fact doubt.

Many warriors better and more capable then him had stood before him he explained, all perished for they hesitated when the moment came.

The only thing to fear was a seasoned warrior for almost every men, which has not seen battle, would hesitate the first time he had to face a true enemies blood.

There was more to war then skill with the blade, the most proficient master of the sword would fall before an average swords man if he had not drawn blood one time in his life before.

But Apollas had killed, he understood the Kushs lessons, he knew the moment of hesitation and he had conquered it and he would prove it, with his blade, for everyone to see.

Apollas moved stealthily through the streets to reach the higher levels of the town were the main fighting force was engaging the by now undoubtedly armed defenders, but he had to be silent for there was no telling if contingents of enemies were still left in these lower quarters.

It was here he first encountered the gods presence, they were wandering the streets observing the devastation.

They were invisible, but like a drum of heat they rolled right through young Apollas, at first he was scared by the heat, he thought he might burn, but as the god wandered past him, he emerged unharmed.

At first Apollas felt graced, emboldened even by the gods embrace, but he was humbled as he realized the god was followed by a cruel specter.

Still recovering from the gods fire Apollas saw a man he knew to be Pliny, a swordsman he felt close to, as he had shared his bread with the boy more then once, but something was wrong.

He stumbled as a drunk man would and he stared vacantly into the streets, unconcerned by the mayhem around him.

Only as he came closer Apollas could make out the reason for this disturbing behavior.

An arrow was embedded in the mans skull, a wooden rod protruding from the warriors forehead, the shaft piercing clean through the skull.

He didn't recognized Apollas as he stumbled after the god, the boy had seen men die on the ships deck, but he never thought he would see a dead man walking the streets in pursuit of a god.

As Pliny disappeared behind a street corner, he

left behind an Apollas caught in a daze, fighting to keep a clear head, thoughts of forfeit crept in only to be cast aside, by the boys iron conviction.

And his meddle was immediately tested as he was shaken out of his thoughts, by rough voices barking in an unfamiliar accent, he recognized to be his enemies this night.

He stopped and pressed himself tight, against the brick wall of the clay house, behind which he knew his enemies to be.

The boys mind was filled with the heroic images of war his fellow warriors had painted with their stories, as his heart pumped ever harder and burning excitement surged through his body he tried to focus, he was alone, but he could take two men at a time, he had to be quick, no mistakes.

He bolted around the corner, only to immediately stop dead in his tracks, as he realized there were five soldiers of the enemy standing before him.

He lowered his sword as they noticed him and turned to stare at the boy.

"What is the boy doing outside? Why isn't he at the caves?" barked one of the men.

"We can't get him there now anyway."

Replied one of the soldiers as he grabbed Apollas arm violently kicked open the house door and threw him in.

As soon as the soldier closed the door Pertidus blocked it with a broken beam hanging from the ceiling.

"He was armed. With a Sherden sword you idiot."

Apollas heard the muffled voices from the outside scream.

"And he was wearing Sherden colors."

Apollas ran across the room and started to frantically rip off the wooden pegs in front of the houses windows, as the soldiers banged violently against a door which wouldn't resist their assault much longer.

The only feasible escape was a jump out of the window, but there was nothing to climb down on and the fall was steep, not only the houses hight, but a whole tier of buildings lower.

At the bottom there was a small heap of dark mud and straw, it still was a long shot, but there was no choice now, as the door started giving way.

So he let go of the window and fell into the darkness.

He landed softer then expected, still his legs burned in pain, only slow to settle as he reached down and massaged them, while gritting his teeth and cursing the pain.

As his sense of smell returned to him, he realized he had landed in a waste heap, the burning stench of ammonia assaulted his nose and as soon as his legs felt good enough to carry weight, he pulled them out of the clinging dung and struggled down to get to the ground.

He picked up his sword, which he had thrown a small distance away to not impale himself and was about to sneak his way back to the ships, defeated, as he saw a figure eerily resembling Pataran illuminated by the flames of a burning house at the end of an ally.

Smoke and burning red ambers obscured the boys vision, the specter resembling Pataran seemed to be alone on the open street, his sword drawn, as he came closer Apollas could make out that it was indeed Pataran he moved slowly in a circle as if he faced an opponent, but he talked to him, Apollas decided to move in to see what was going on.

"You will gain nothing by killing me. My men won't stop, for there are no kings among us."

He stopped as he had to evade the strike of real life giant, a man towering two heads above Pataran, yet striking as fast as a lion.

"You won't talk your way out of this pirate!"

His booming voice answered as he again resumed a fighting stance.

"Your people can still be saved you still can join us and end the slaughter!"

Pataran answered as he too raised his sword.

"To see the fruits of my peoples labour be divided between your marauders? Only to receive crumbs from the bread that is rightfully ours. No Pirate this is where you die, even if my people fall before your blades, you will still join them in this earth of ours."

He resumed his attack, Pataran struggled as he avoided the massive blows, as the giant turned his back Apollas took heart and seized the chance to charge.

He bolted out of his hiding place and leaped, directing the full weight of his body into the tip of his sword, but before his blade could enter the giants shoulders deep enough to pierce the ribcage and puncture the heart, the massive shoulders had already swung back, ripping the blade from Apollas hand and trowing him to the ground.

Before the boy realized what had happened, he was already hit by the giants bronze reinforced sandaled feet, tossed across the street and slammed against a wall.

As Apollas regained his senses, he saw the giant before him raising his sword, only to turn before he could deal the deadly blow, for his back was struck by the now bleeding Pataran.

In response the giant delivered a tremendous sword blow which, even though Pataran blocked it with his sword, send the already wounded Pataran flying through the air.

The battered giant struggled over to Pataran, crashed to his knees and raised his sword over his head.

"You will die here!"

But before he could strike down he felt Apollas jumping on his back, the boy put his sword before the giants throat, the hilt in one and the swords tip in the other leather covered hand, as he pulled the blade slowly back cutting through the giants throbbing throat, the giant mobilized his last strength and tried to grab him, with berserker rage he threshed out flailing the boys body around like a piece of cloth, but the boy didn't relent and even as the leather on his left hand gave way and the blade cut into his fingers, he kept pulling until he and the head flew their separate ways away from the giants shoulders.

The giants body still flailed around, stumbling headless through the street, until he finally collapsed and crashed down into a empty cart.

It took Apollas a while to come to his senses, he stared at the giants body waiting for it to rise again and resume fighting without it's head, it spasmed a few times, but didn't move after that.

As soon as the strength in his legs and the resolve in his heart returned, Apollas rose to look for Pataran.

He was laying on the ground badly battered, bleeding from his arm and head.

Apollas helped him get up, Pataran took his hand in cold silence, he then walked over to the decapitated body searching it.

Apollas slowly walked over, there was something about Pataran, something he couldn't make out.

"You must be glad I came to join you."

Pataran turned around and threw the giants sword, golden belt buckle and various other trinkets before the boys feet.

"Your booty."

He replied harshly as he limped down the ally leaving Apollas behind.

Pataran was gone and Apollas stood still, frozen before his treasure contemplating what to do next.

He was shaken out of his apathy by a roaring wave of screams rolling down from the cities upper tiers, followed by the blow of the horn, signaling the victory of his people.

He tore down a piece of canvas from a nearby abandoned cart, wrapped his treasure into it and carried the load, slung over his shoulder, back to the ships landing.