Chapter 178: The Desert Wolves
They came from the east, a thousand riders spread across the plain like wolves circling wounded prey.
Hector saw them from the northern wall as the first alarm bells rang. The city stirred behind him—soldiers running to their posts, militia captains shouting orders, women dragging children inside and barring doors. The sound was familiar now, the rhythm of a city that had learned to live with war. Hector had heard it too many times in the past two years, but the edge never dulled.
Miros was already on the parapet when he arrived, his left hand resting on his sword, his useless right arm bound against his chest. His eyes moved over the approaching riders with the calm assessment of a man who had spent his life reading battlefields.
"A thousand. Mounted mostly. Some chariots. No siege equipment." He paused. "Shasu. Desert raiders. They fight for coin."
"Then someone paid them." Hector looked at the plain, at the dark shapes moving through the winter grass. "Close the gates. Man every tower. Archers to the walls. I want Paris on the eastern tower with Antenor’s hunters."
The orders went out. Within the hour, the walls bristled with spears and bows. The Shasu were still a mile out, riding slowly, deliberately, their dark cloaks rippling in the wind. They made no move to attack. They simply watched, waiting for the sun to finish its descent below the horizon.
"They want darkness," Miros said. "The moon is new. They think the night will hide them."
"Then we’ll show them it won’t."
The first assault came an hour after full dark.
The Shasu came in groups of thirty and forty, riding hard for the walls, loosing arrows as they came. The arrows clattered against the stone, most falling short, but the speed of the attack was unnerving. A group would charge, loose a volley, wheel away—and moments later another group would strike from a different quarter.
Hector stood at the centre of the wall, counting, calculating. These were not soldiers. They were skirmishers. They were testing the walls, testing the archers, testing how fast the defenders could respond.
"Hold fire," he called. "Wait until they’re in range. Then make every arrow count."
The Trojan archers had trained for this. They waited, bows drawn, eyes tracking shadows. When the first group came within range, they loosed as one. Five riders fell, horses screaming in the dark, thrashing in the dirt.
The others scattered.
Silence.
Then they came again, from the north. Sixty riders at a gallop. This time they were close enough to draw blood. A Trojan archer fell with an arrow in his throat. Another went down clutching his shoulder. Hector saw Paris on the eastern tower, drawing and releasing with the steady rhythm of a man who had found his weapon. Each arrow found its mark. Riders fell. The Shasu broke and fled.
This was how the night went. Wave after wave, each one a probe, each one repelled. The Shasu were wolves, circling the walls, looking for weakness. They found none.
But they did not retreat.
Dawn came grey and cold, and the Shasu were still there.
They had withdrawn to the edge of the plain, beyond bow range. Fires burned in their camp—not attack fires, but cooking fires. They were settling in.
Hector stood on the wall, looking at the distant flames. He had not slept. He had not eaten. His eyes were red, his voice raw from shouting orders.
"How many did we lose," he asked.
Miros came to stand beside him. "Nine dead. Seventeen wounded. Two more won’t see sunset."
"And them."
"At least sixty. They took most of their dead, but there are bodies on the field." Miros paused. "They’re not leaving. They’ve been paid to stay."
"Then I’ll give them a reason to go."
He turned from the wall and made his way down to the northern gate.
The army assembled in the grey morning light.
Five thousand men—the palace regulars, the settlement militia, the tournament champions, the archers from the eastern hills. They formed ranks before the gate, their armour catching the pale sun, their spears a forest of bronze and iron. Hector rode before them, his helmet under his arm, his face set.
"The Shasu are mercenaries," he said, his voice carrying across the formation. "They came here for gold, not for glory. They will keep bleeding us as long as it profits them." He paused. "So we are going to show them that fighting us is not profitable. We are going to show them what they face if they stay. And then I am going to give them a choice."
He put on his helmet.
"March."
The gates swung open, and the army came out in a long, deliberate line.
The Shasu watched from their camp. They did not attack. They did not flee. They simply watched, with the patient stillness of men who had seen armies march before and were not impressed.
Hector led the column, riding slowly, his shield slung across his back, his spear resting on his shoulder. Behind him, the five thousand came—the militia with their round shields, the champions with their heavy clubs and double-headed axes, the archers with their bows strung. The dust rose in pale clouds. The sound of five thousand men marching was a deep, steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
At the edge of bowshot, Hector raised his hand. The army halted. The dust settled.
Then Hector rode forward alone, with twenty riders behind him, a white flag streaming from a spear.
The Shasu leader came to meet him.
He walked out from the camp alone, his curved sword at his belt, his dark eyes watchful. He was older than most—fifty, perhaps, with grey streaking his dark beard and the scars of a hundred fights on his bare arms. He wore no armour, only a leather tunic and the quiet confidence of a man who had faced death many times and was not afraid of it.
Hector dismounted. The two men stood facing each other on the open plain, the white flag stirring in the wind.
"I am Hector, son of Priam."
"I know who you are." The man’s Greek was accented but clear. "The one who kills from the walls. I am Zimri. I lead these men."
"Nine hundred and forty riders. Plus their families."
Zimri’s eyes flickered—surprise, quickly masked. "You counted."
"I count everything." Hector’s voice was calm, steady. "You cannot take this city. You have no ladders, no rams, no siege towers. You have arrows and horses and courage, and none of those things will get you through the walls." He paused. "What you can do is bleed me. Kill some of my men. Cost me arrows and time and supplies that I need for the war that is coming. But in the end, you will lose. Every rider who attacks this city will die on the plain below the walls, and his bones will rot there with the bones of every other enemy who tried."
Zimri smiled. It was not a warm smile. "And yet you came out here to talk. If you were so certain of victory, you would have attacked us already. You would not be standing here with a white flag."
"Certainty is not the same as stupidity. I am certain I would win. I am also certain it would cost me men I cannot afford to lose." Hector’s voice didn’t change. "The Greeks are coming. The Sea Peoples are massing. I have a war to prepare for, and I do not want to spend lives on a fight that serves no purpose."
"So you want to buy me off."
"I want to give you a choice. Take gold and leave, or stay and die. There is no third option."
Zimri laughed—a short, genuine sound. "Direct. I appreciate that. Most kings talk in circles. You talk like a soldier." He studied Hector for a long moment. "How much gold."
"Enough to feed your people through the winter. Enough to buy passage on ships if you need to move again."
"And if I want more."
"You want what every mercenary wants. Profit." Hector met his eyes. "But profit is only profit if you live to spend it."
Zimri was silent. The wind stirred the dust on the plain. Behind them, the five thousand soldiers stood in their ranks, motionless. Behind Zimri, the Shasu camp was quiet, the women and children watching from the shadows.
Then Zimri extended his hand. "We have a deal, Prince Hector. Gold for departure."
Hector clasped his forearm. "Safe passage through my territory for three days. After that, I will hunt you as I would hunt any enemy."
"Fair." Zimri’s grip tightened. "And because you did not simply kill me and take the gold for yourself, I will give you something in return. Something the Greeks do not know."
Hector felt the weight of those words settle into him. "What."
Zimri’s dark eyes were unreadable. "Come to my fire. This is not a conversation for standing on a battlefield."
He turned and walked toward the camp. Hector followed, his hand resting on his sword, his eyes moving over the faces around him. The Shasu parted to let them pass—lean men, hard-eyed, their hands never far from their weapons. Women with knives at their belts. Children who looked at him with the same flat, watchful stares as their parents.
They reached a fire at the centre of the camp. Zimri sat, gestured for Hector to sit opposite him. A woman brought watered wine and then withdrew.
"My people have been in these lands for three months," Zimri said. "We came west because the east is no longer safe. Drought. Earthquakes. Rivers running dry. Crops failing in the fields." He paused. "You have seen the refugees at your gates. You have seen the Sea Peoples on your shores. They are not the worst of it. They are the beginning."
Hector said nothing. The fire crackled between them.
"There is a storm coming," Zimri continued. "Not a storm of wind and rain. A storm of nations. Whole peoples are moving—driven from their lands by hunger and fear. They are coming west, Prince Hector. And they will not stop until they reach the sea."
"The Sea Peoples are already here."
"The Sea Peoples are only the first wave. Behind them, on land, there are others. The Dorians. The Thracians. The tribes from the northern mountains. And beyond them—" He paused, his eyes fixed on the fire. "Beyond them, something worse."
Hector felt the name coming before it was spoken. "The Assyrians."
Zimri looked up. "You know the name."
"I know it from the trade routes. From the eastern merchants. They say the Assyrians are growing. That their army is like nothing seen before."
"That is not the half of it." Zimri’s voice dropped. "I have fought as a mercenary for thirty years. I have served the Hittites, the Babylonians, the Egyptians, and a dozen kings whose names are now forgotten. I have watched cities fall and empires crumble. And I have never seen anything like the Assyrians. They do not raid and leave. They come and stay. They burn cities and plant their crops in the ashes. They take whole peoples and move them across the world like cattle." He paused. "They will come west eventually. Not this year. Not the next. But they will come. And when they do, everything you have built will be dust."
Hector stared at the fire. The wind stirred the embers. Somewhere in the camp, a child was crying, and the sound was thin and lost in the vastness of the plain.
"Why are you telling me this," he asked.
"Because I want you to understand what is coming. Because you are not my enemy. My people need food, not walls. We will take your gold and go, and we will find somewhere to hide until the world settles again." Zimri’s eyes met his. "But you cannot hide. Your city is fixed. Your walls are fixed. You will face what is coming, whether you want to or not."
Hector was silent. The weight of the old mercenary’s words pressed down on him.
"There is more," Zimri said. "But first, you will bring the gold. Then we will finish this conversation."
Hector looked at him. The old mercenary’s eyes were unreadable in the firelight.
"The gold will be here before sunset."
"Good. Then I will tell you the rest when it arrives." Zimri clasped his forearm again. "Now go. My people need to prepare for the journey."
Hector walked back through the camp, past the women and children and the lean, watchful men. At the edge of the camp, his twenty riders were waiting. He mounted and rode back toward the army, toward the gates of Troy.
Behind him, the Shasu were already breaking camp, preparing to ride west with the gold of Troy and the knowledge of a dying world.