Age of Heroes Read Online Free Page B
years. Their paths seldom crossed. He wasn’t even sure where Achilles was these days, what alias he was going by, or what he was busying himself with. Fighting, probably. That was the occupation Achilles loved best. When he wasn’t having a big schoolgirl strop about not getting his due spoils of war, of course.
They hadn’t ever really been friends, he and Achilles. As young men they had, after all, been on opposite sides of the biggest fight going, although they themselves had clashed only once on the battlefield, and that a skirmish more than anything, brief and inconclusive, with more name-calling than swordplay. Since then they had avoided each other more by chance than design, and on the rare occasions they did bump into each other they engaged in wary, bluff banter, never quite able to forget that at one time there had been lethal enmity between them, but equally well aware that life had moved on. It bonded you, whether you liked it or not: the act of desperately trying to kill another person who was desperately trying to kill you. It was as intimate, in its way, as sex.
Young caught Anthony eyeing him sidelong.
“I’m not gay, you know,” the Englishman said.
“Neither am I.”
“It’s just, the way you’re looking at me...”
“You remind me of someone, that’s all,” Anthony said. “Someone from the dim and distant past.”
“Oh. Okay. Thought I should clear it up, though, the gay thing. I didn’t suggest we go hiking so that I could seduce you, or vice versa.”
“In this cold? Are you mad?”
Young laughed. “Too damn right. My dick’s so shrivelled up right now, I doubt I could even find it.”
“That the excuse you trot out for the girls, is it?”
“Shut it, you wanker.”
Definitely a soldier.
Another kilometre, deeper into the forest. Trees rattled their bare branches, and now and then a bird flapped away, a mammal skittered. Young checked their position on his iPhone twice more. Anthony still thought it amazing that he lived in an age when you carried a device in your pocket that told you exactly where you were to within a few metres – among the many other feats it could perform. He remembered a time when sailors navigated by the sun, the stars, landmarks and luck. How could anyone say life had not improved? How could anyone deny that progress was a steady ascent – with, admittedly, the occasional plateau and stumble? Roy Young, with his mayfly lifespan, was simply unable to see how humankind strove constantly to better itself. He was too mired in the now. Give him a few hundred years, time to view the big picture, and he would get it.
The two men came to a clearing. On one side, a slight rise, a three-metre-high bank. On the other, a trickling stream, ice-rimmed, worming its way through a depression in the landscape.
“Coffee?” Young produced a thermos flask.
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Anthony.
“Fair warning: I’ve laced it with whisky.”
“A sensible precaution.”
They sat on rocks and drank from plastic cups. The coffee steamed. Their breath steamed.
Anthony felt good. Yesterday’s lapse into self-pity embarrassed him. All he’d needed to lift his spirits was some company. Not being alone reminded you why you existed.
“And now,” said Young, rising, “to answer the call of nature. Coffee does that for me.”
“Good luck.”
“Good luck?”
“Finding your dick.”
“I’ll do my best. Anthony?”
“Yeah?”
Young seemed on the brink of saying something. Something heartfelt.
But then that wouldn’t be very British, would it?
“Doesn’t matter. You’re a good sort, that’s all.”
“Thanks. So are you.”
Young padded off to find some privacy.
Anthony sat still and listened to his surroundings. The rattle of the stream. The sough of the breeze. The subtle crackle of fallen snow.
Even an immortal should pause and appreciate moments of tranquillity like this.
Especially an immortal.
The bullet hit him a split second
They hadn’t ever really been friends, he and Achilles. As young men they had, after all, been on opposite sides of the biggest fight going, although they themselves had clashed only once on the battlefield, and that a skirmish more than anything, brief and inconclusive, with more name-calling than swordplay. Since then they had avoided each other more by chance than design, and on the rare occasions they did bump into each other they engaged in wary, bluff banter, never quite able to forget that at one time there had been lethal enmity between them, but equally well aware that life had moved on. It bonded you, whether you liked it or not: the act of desperately trying to kill another person who was desperately trying to kill you. It was as intimate, in its way, as sex.
Young caught Anthony eyeing him sidelong.
“I’m not gay, you know,” the Englishman said.
“Neither am I.”
“It’s just, the way you’re looking at me...”
“You remind me of someone, that’s all,” Anthony said. “Someone from the dim and distant past.”
“Oh. Okay. Thought I should clear it up, though, the gay thing. I didn’t suggest we go hiking so that I could seduce you, or vice versa.”
“In this cold? Are you mad?”
Young laughed. “Too damn right. My dick’s so shrivelled up right now, I doubt I could even find it.”
“That the excuse you trot out for the girls, is it?”
“Shut it, you wanker.”
Definitely a soldier.
Another kilometre, deeper into the forest. Trees rattled their bare branches, and now and then a bird flapped away, a mammal skittered. Young checked their position on his iPhone twice more. Anthony still thought it amazing that he lived in an age when you carried a device in your pocket that told you exactly where you were to within a few metres – among the many other feats it could perform. He remembered a time when sailors navigated by the sun, the stars, landmarks and luck. How could anyone say life had not improved? How could anyone deny that progress was a steady ascent – with, admittedly, the occasional plateau and stumble? Roy Young, with his mayfly lifespan, was simply unable to see how humankind strove constantly to better itself. He was too mired in the now. Give him a few hundred years, time to view the big picture, and he would get it.
The two men came to a clearing. On one side, a slight rise, a three-metre-high bank. On the other, a trickling stream, ice-rimmed, worming its way through a depression in the landscape.
“Coffee?” Young produced a thermos flask.
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Anthony.
“Fair warning: I’ve laced it with whisky.”
“A sensible precaution.”
They sat on rocks and drank from plastic cups. The coffee steamed. Their breath steamed.
Anthony felt good. Yesterday’s lapse into self-pity embarrassed him. All he’d needed to lift his spirits was some company. Not being alone reminded you why you existed.
“And now,” said Young, rising, “to answer the call of nature. Coffee does that for me.”
“Good luck.”
“Good luck?”
“Finding your dick.”
“I’ll do my best. Anthony?”
“Yeah?”
Young seemed on the brink of saying something. Something heartfelt.
But then that wouldn’t be very British, would it?
“Doesn’t matter. You’re a good sort, that’s all.”
“Thanks. So are you.”
Young padded off to find some privacy.
Anthony sat still and listened to his surroundings. The rattle of the stream. The sough of the breeze. The subtle crackle of fallen snow.
Even an immortal should pause and appreciate moments of tranquillity like this.
Especially an immortal.
The bullet hit him a split second