"Around twenty were spotted, heading up to the mountains." Pataran said as Apollas pulled tied the leather straps of Patarans cuirass.

"Warriors?" Apollas asked.

"The scouts couldn't make it out, but they had quite a few carts, said it looked more like civilians."

"A rich merchant maybe. But twenty men?"

"Nethates the bronze merchant maybe. He would have that kind of money, but who knows. Kition is full of these rich cowards."

"Well we can send a party after him when the city is taken." Apollas said as he finished the preparations on Pataran armor and slapped his shoulder.

"You embarrass me. Helping an old man putting on his armor."

"Has to sit tight, it's going to be a long night."

"Right. You have been right a lot lately."

Apollas turned to face Pataran.

"The men are spinning stories about the golden sword. There are frictions between our men and the bulls, but what does it matter? Every strategic move has its drawbacks and any leader worth his salt knows that. It's the mark of a great leader to take great risk and you took them and you invigorated the men... Your men."

Pataran rose and took Apollas by the shoulders.

"I have been a fool to cling to leadership for as long as I did. These men follow you. Give me just this one last battle and then you lead or people to glory."

"I'm honored."

Wordless they left the captains cabin and walk to the ships bow. The rowing men on either side stopped talking and followed them with their eyes.

The air was warm, the sea steady, Apollas drew a deep breath. He felt light as if the weight of his armor and body had gone.

"Do you often think about your family Pataran?"

"I've had six boys, all of them gone. Except for one." and he laid his hand upon Apollas shoulder.

"We have chosen a different path."

From behind a cliffs edge, illuminated by the pale glow of the moons light, appeared the giant bronzen body of Taish. It was the signal to the men that they had reached their destination.

Apollas lighted and raised a torch. In quick succession torches lit up all over the sea behind him and in an instant they all expired and so did the noise of paddles clashing on water.

Almost without noise, the wooden vessels filled with men, slide across the seas surface now. Only the pounding of their cargos beating hearts could betray their position.

The great doors of Kition lay wide open surrounded by silence. From the rubble of her former waterfront home, the eyes of a little girl followed the progression of a group of four men stalking the abandoned streets.

Forcibly suppressing her impulse to scream she observed them in utter silence.

In their attempts to loot her former neighbors houses they had come dangerously close to finding her.

She dared not move a muscle and every step leading the group closer to her position made her insides tighten evermore in fear.

When one of the men stared across the street directly into her eyes, her little heart stopped for a moment.

But before the man could open his mouth to tell of what he had seen, he was gone.

The girl didn't know what had happened, she leant a bit forward, to see if she was spotted. Now all her strength went into this slight movement of her back.

She almost crashed back down, because of the shock of what she saw. A great black dog was ripping at the mans throat. His ebony fur was glistening from the blood jetting all over his body.

Another man swinging a whip over his head and commanding two more dogs pulling their leashes, shouted at the remaining marauders.

"You dirty dogs! I will teach you what happens to greedy cowards!"

The man was herding the marauders back to the upper city, were the battle for Kition was still raging.

Eighth hours since the gates had fallen, through darkness the maps of the traitor Fatar had led the Sherden to emerge behind the walls of Kition.

From the hidden smuggler tunnels burst forth Apollas ahead his feared pack. Fifty fighters, more wolf then men, slaughtered their way to the great gates of Kition and opened them. To let the city embrace the swords of their people.

Now they stood before the last wall, behind it there was the last king of Ugarit.

The men were working the gates with a great ram. In turns they let the rams bronzen head swing against the heavy doors.

The Sherden didn't bring the ram. They found it in an armory. Forgotten. From a time when Kition was a more warlike kingdom.

Now the last warriors of Kition were loosening impotent arrows upon their shielded enemies.

But there was no time to appreciate the irony, for the last thirty minutes Apollas was standing over a dying Pataran, an enemies sword had pierced his lung and he was taking his last gargling breaths.

On a wooden table in a merchants stall he lay smearing blood all over Apollas, for he had clawed at him when the convulsive fits came over him, but Apollas did not let go of his hand.

Apollas did not love the old man like he did in his early years with the Sherden, but still he had a great loyalty to him and his fear for Patarans life was genuine.

He did not dread the loss of his foster-father, but he did dread the loss of something within himself.

Pataran was in the middle of a particularly harsh bloody fit, when he suddenly stopped, raised his upper body and stared into Apollas eyes.

"I am sorry.", Pataran said in a collected manner.

In the next instant his body went limp and fell on the table.

For a moment Apollas felt as if the earth under his feet would give way. Sound ceased to exist and all he could do was to slowly lower the bloody head of the man closest to being his true father.

He saw the door opening and a man entered, but it took him an eternity to regain his ability to hear and comprehend the words coming from the mans mouth.

Even then he only caught fractions.

"Door... few minutes... waiting..."

Apollas couldn't make out what was said to him, but he did leave. His body forced him to move, an urge overpowering his mind took over his body.

He left the house his father had just died in. He extended his arm, in his hand there was placed something heavy, he could feel a swords hilt, pressing against the palm of his hand, his fingers tightened.

People formed an alley before him, fearful of awakening him from his trance.

Apollas stopped before the great palace gate, it was about to burst, he could tell. The metal bolts driven deep into stone, the heavy oaken wood reinforced with bronze, they sang to him.

Men carrying heavy shields danced around Apollas, catching arrows directed at him from atop the walls, one of them fell to the ground, a wooden bolt straight through his calve. They carried him away, a place in their songs he had earned. They all moved so slow.

The dull pounds of the rams bronzen head vibrated through the heavy air. With his sandaled feet, Apollas could feel its impact shacking the earth beneath and with every pound of the bronzen rams head, Apollas grip around the hilt in his hand tightened further. Blood was rushing so loud through Apollas skull, it canceled out even the rams mighty head, crashing against the door.

When the doors finally gave way his body bounded forward. He could see himself passing the gates ruins and before him appeared a group of Palace guards. As Apollas arm readied itself to take the first strike, he saw the terror in the mens eyes. The warrior at the groups helm tried to engage him, but panic took hold the group behind him.

Apollas saw his sword take the mans head, after that it was nothing but limbs and blood. No pain or exhaustion, just instinct, he did not feel nor care if he was hit, as long as his sword would find warm flesh to cut and stab.

Apollas men tried to keep his pace, but it was impossible. The bull afraid of losing the golden sword threw himself into battle as only a man of his stature could.

Any resistance mounted behind the palace walls was broken now, the reckless yet furious attack broke the remaining fighting spirit. Men in ugarithian colors were running through the palace halls, ripping of their armor, trying to find a place to hide or at least to fortify.

Apollas rampage was stopped when he arrived before the closed doors of the palace hall, with no immediate way to proceed his senses slowly returned.

He heard a shout from his right, he turned his head, the picture of were he was and why, started to form.

The man calling for him was the bull, he ran towards him, pointing at something behind him.

Apollas understood and turned, but before he fully comprehended what was happening he felt himself being lifted off his feet.

He snapped back to his senses, but before he could defend himself, he was already heaved in the air and moved towards a great window and before he could struggle, Apollas was thrown outside.

Falling down he could make out the bulls face above him, he was a fool to give into his rage, let it cloud his mind weaken his senses. Now the bull had won.

Mid fall seconds turned into eternity, Apollas was shaken by hate, regret and the anticipate of his frame being smashed on the marble floor.

Suddenly he felt something different. Not the expected cold marble, it was thin, at first soft, then even thinner and ever harder, cutting into his flesh. It happened all over his body.

Then he hit the ground and all went black.

In the distance there was the noise of running water, Apollas was sitting at the small lake in the woods behind his house, he was a boy again, his father sitting next to him, he turned to see his face, there was none.

His father pointed at the shallow stream running over a small cliff, feeding the lake.

"In the great cities the water doesn't fall from up high down to the ground, it flows from the bottom to the top and shoots into the air."

There came a feeling over the boy the love for his father, maybe it was only in this one instant that he truly loved his father, but he did and that's what he was left with when his senses returned and he was pulled back into the carnage of battle.

Apollas found himself in the middle of a pleasure garden, he was surrounded by stripes of red colored cloth. They must have been what had broken his fall.

Behind him there was a fountain dribbling water. The remaining red cloth above him was catching fire, as was the rest of the furniture and plant life in the garden.

Apollas tried shaking of his confusion to return to battle and deal with the bull, but the sudden vivid memory of his father was still lingering in his heart and refused to be shed of.

Distracted by this he was surprised when he was faced with a group women in common robes on the other end of the garden, they were already in flight and his appearance before them gave them little pause.

They ran from him, but they left behind a straggler. As the others the straggler was dressed in a hooded robe, but the figure suggested a female. Burdened with a bulky bundle of cloth she failed to keep up and also failed to detect Apollas observing her as she is clumsily attempting to figure the way the others had taken.

But as she finally noticed him, Apollas got lost in the blue lakes, framed by jet black hair, which were her wide open eyes. There was something special in those eyes, but before Apollas could approach her she let go of the bundle and ran away following the others.

Caught in the enchantment of her beauty Apollas failed to pursue her. All he could do instead was walk over to the bundle. See what the girl had left behind.

To his surprise out of the bundle he pulled the kings golden sword. The women must have been his harem, the blue eyed girl possibly his newly wed bride, trying to escape into the city dressed in common robes in hopes of escaping rape and slavery.

His musings were cut short though when he heard the women scream and shortly there after a group warriors wearing Lukka colors appeared.

"So he is still alive." the man at the groups helm exclaimed.

"He has found the golden sword." a warrior in the back remarked, unable to hide the fear in his voice.

"Who will know? Look at him he can barley stand. Think of our reward, not only have we disposed of the Sherden, but we deliver the claim of leadership to Bull. Charge!" answered the warrior at the mens helm.

But his men didn't move as Apollas slowly walked towards them. Apollas knew he did not have much left, but his name and intimidation it carried. He had a sharp pain in his left knee and his right shoulder burned when he tried to lift his arm, but he didn't let it show in his walk.

Lukka warriors were trained by the Hittite rules of war and they internalized the preeminence of their superiors.

When their leader bounded forward Apollas could see the insecurity in his blow, shifting his weight to his right leg, Apollas dodged and shooting up from below, slashed, spilling his guts all over the marble floor. He had to be careful not to bend or break the soft golden blade of the sword, but by the look in the remaining warriors eyes he knew he had already won.