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  Gears of Troy 3 Copyright © 2019 by Daniel Pierce

  Book design and layout copyright © 2019 by Daniel Pierce

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  Daniel Pierce

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  Gears of Troy 3

  Book 3 in the Gears of Troy Series

  Daniel Pierce

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

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  About the Author

  1

  “This is real power,” I said in a low voice.

  As Helen and I watched, the crew of a small ship from a not-too-distant Hittite city were gearing up to head back home, their goods unloaded in the city—my city—built from the ground up by a will I had burning within me like Vulcan’s fires.

  Such trade had allowed Port Superior to grow at an astounding rate, bringing not only tools and materials to improve the speed of our work, but also bringing people from far and wide looking to start a new life who were willing to use those tools and materials to make their mark on the land I was offering to them.

  Everywhere we looked, the midday streets of Port Superior—yes, we even had streets—were alive and busy. There was so much happening everywhere I laid my eyes: men making buildings, children sitting outside learning in the warmth of the sun, grocers selling food, women and their little ones tending to private family gardens. Hammers were hitting nails, chisels were shaping stones—everything was alive and happy and full of purpose. I awoke every day with an overwhelming sense of hope for what was to be.

  Moments like these were rare, where my wife and I found the time to walk off together and observe all of our progress in a single view. Most times, we would wind our way over to our favorite hill, like we had then. We would sit in the grass on the edge of a thicket and watch our city buzz, each worker bee going to and fro, contributing to the good of the whole. I would lean back, as would she, and our fingers would find themselves woven together, a movement for the two of us that had become as second-nature as breathing.

  She looked to me and smiled, as she often did, that radiant grin that told me everything she was feeling without the need for words. I shared her happiness. We had come through so much together, and the fruits of our labor were showing more each day. She was my one true queen.

  I let out a long breath, allowing all residual tension of the day-to-day flow from my body. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we, my love?”

  “Yes, we have, Troy Weston.” Her smile did not falter as she turned back to face the town below. “We have accomplished so much, and in much shorter of a time than I would have thought possible.”

  “I feel like, as long as you’re by my side, anything is possible,” I said.

  Her fingers tightened around mine. Her fingers. Her human fingers. When we first met, she had been a machine crafted by advanced technology and shaped by magic. I had watched her transformation slowly take place over the course of our battle with the Greeks some time ago. She was now a full-fledged woman, more human than even I was with my artificial hands.

  She had spoken all that time, during our first weeks together, of wanting nothing more than to become an individual with a will of her own. I laughed at the irony, thinking how, surely, she already had such a will if she had the ability to desire one at all. But her concerns were more philosophical than I first understood them to be. As long as she was part machine, she worried that there was still a preprogrammed directive she had to follow, a directive that compelled her to follow the will of her creators, the pharaohs of Egypt.

  Now, her machine essence was a thing of the past.

  I looked at our hands; hers slender and delicate, never betraying the deadly efficiency that I had watched them bring to the battlefield many times; mine bulky and solid, no longer made of muscle, but constructed of a carbon-metal hybrid material covered in a thin-but-tough layer of synthetic skin, the science of which was Greek to me. A day did not slip by without me wishing for my old claws. The prosthetics conferred a variety of benefits to be sure—I had even crushed a man’s face in my palm—but, even though they allowed me to feel things as I had before I lost my God-given hands, there was always a void left that they could not feel. Troy Weston could never truly be complete again, though Helen made me feel as close to whole as I could be.

  “I wonder,” I said, looking back to the scene below, “if the magic that made you human could return my hands to me.”

  A musical laugh floated on the air from Helen’s parted lips. “Surely, such a thing is possible, Troy. I must admit that I often forget that these strong hands of yours are not truly your own.”

  She lay down on her side and cradled my arm in both of hers, resting my knuckles against the center of her bosom where her tunic parted. Her heart was beating as rhythmically as her laughter. A wave of calm rushed over me, washing away the remaining puddles of tension that I did not even know were there.

  “Perhaps one day,” she said, “we may ask the Brethren of Stars or the Egyptians if they could do such a favor for you.”

  The Brethren of Stars were now residents of our town. They were a crew of magical engineers that had come to join our cause following my bout with King Mursili of the Hittites in his fortress at the city of Cannakale. They were working on a terrible weapon for him, something that I was told had the power to destroy entire empires in no time at all. I offered them immunity if they came to live in Port Superior and work for me. They had little choice but to accept, and we had kept them busy ever since. Perhaps one day I would ask them to look into restoring my hands as Helen suggested, but for the time being, their attention would be put to better use focusing on other things to improve the quality of life for all of my citizens.

  “That’s not a bad idea, Love.”

  “Yes, that’s not a bad idea.” She laughed again. Helen had taken a recent liking to teasing me over my love of contractions. Where I came from, contractions were commonplace, but here, in this alternate history or whatever it was, most of the people around us seemed to speak fluent English, minus certain words and phrases specific to my time and without all the contractions. It was a peculiar but significant quirk to my situation. Most people understood me just fine, even ignoring my unusual accent and unfamiliar words. I suppose my dress and way of speaking made it obvious that I was a foreigner, so the locals excused me of certain things. But Helen decided that it was funny one day, and it had become something of a joke between the two of us ever since.

  “Indeed, that is not a poor idea, Love,” I responded, doing
my best to exaggerate her cadence in return.

  We both laughed. She rolled on top of me, pushing me all the way to the grass and planting a kiss on my lips. Her hand worked its way to my lower parts and began massaging me.

  “Shouldn’t we do this somewhere more private, Love?” I asked.

  “Perhaps.” She gave me a mischievous look that I had quickly grown accustomed to after first meeting her. Her eyes flicked beyond where my head lay. “The trees may be a fun place.”

  She crawled to her feet and slinked over to the edge of the thicket, her hips gyrating from side to side beneath the thin silk of her tunic.

  She turned to me and said, “Perhaps we could have some fun in here . . . if you can catch me.”

  My Queen had disappeared in the next second, and I was quickly on my feet in hot pursuit. Helen had this astounding ability to move like a cat, in both stealth and speed. She rarely wore anything to cover her feet which gave her the utmost control of her footfalls. Everywhere I walked, underbrush crunched beneath the heels of my boots. Anyone could hear my clumsy stomping coming from forever away.

  She was gone when I came into the trees. I stopped for a moment, not wanting to run off in the wrong direction. The growth was not large enough to be considered “woods” in my book, but it was big enough to lose someone in. I looked around for any signs of bent or broken twigs, either littering the ground on hanging from the trees themselves. Every once in a while she would deliberately leave me hints such as this, but there were none that I could see in the moment.

  “Troy . . .” she sang from somewhere to my right.

  I followed the lilt of her voice, using my member as a compass. Each drop of my shoes announced my approach. She laughed as I drew nearer, but I still could not see her. I stopped at a tree and swung around it, yelling, “Ha!” but she was not there.

  The sound of laughter rang out louder and she said, “Try again, my love!”

  I walked a little further and found her behind a big oak. She was leaning with her back against it, peeking around the opposite end, and jumped upon feeling my hand on her shoulder. She squealed and ran on, her arms playfully flailing from side to side like a startled little girl. She was out of sight again a moment later.

  I quickened my pace and soon found her standing behind a bush. I could not see much of her aside from her exposed shoulders and above, but it was enough to tell me that she had removed her tunic. That mischievous grin was on her face again, daring me to come closer.

  “I’ve got you now,” I teased.

  “I’ve got you now!” she mocked.

  I took a step forward, but she met me halfway, leaping on me from her cover. We tumbled back and she was on top of me once again, this time with her bare chest pressing against my shirt.

  “Why are you still clothed, Troy?” she asked. “Let us fix this . . .”

  Her hands set to work unbuttoning my shirt. It was one of the many I had packed on my ship before being magically transported to this strange land. The tips of her gentle fingers ran up and down the hairs of my chest. More blood rushed in to fill the space between my legs. Unexpected intimate encounters such as this were the best.

  She giggled, pulling my shirt off and beginning to pull me off as well once she had undone my zipper. I closed my eyes and got lost in the ecstasy of it all. My hands snaked over to her thighs and rubbed all along them.

  For a moment, I assumed the rustling I heard had come from my rocking against the thicket floor, but I soon realized that it was not close enough to be coming from anything we were doing.

  “Shh . . .” I said. “Do you hear that?”

  We both stopped and held our breaths. Helen looked around but did not appear to notice anything unusual. I sat up with her still sitting at my waist and peered around as well. There were a few moments of silence and then it came again: a rustling of leaves not too far off.

  “Thirians?” I whispered. Our tribal friends would often take to wooded areas such as this in search of berries and small game. I was sure if they were around, they would have made themselves known by now.

  “Perhaps it is only a hare,” Helen suggested.

  I listened until I heard it again and shook my head. “Definitely bigger than that.”

  “Deer?”

  I shook my head again. It was doubtful. There was not a time I could remember seeing game that big in these small bundles of trees. Maybe one had strayed from a larger forest nearby, but I thought it was unlikely.

  There came a loud screech and I rolled around just in time to see something charging for us from the bushes. Helen fell to the side as I jumped to my feet, my pants still unzipped and working their way to my knees.

  Some bird-thing had erupted from the leaves and was coming at me with vicious intent. It was about the size of a large dog and appeared to walk on all fours. Its hind legs and torso resembled those of a large cat, but the rest of its body was closer in shape to an eagle. Its forelegs ended in talons and were the same girth as those on the rear. Its tail was long and flowing like a horse’s. Each white feathered wing stretched as far as my body was tall, and they worked as best they could to hurl the creature forward among the trees. All of these snap observations fell in the shadows behind the rage in its yellow bird-of-prey eyes and the glint of its massive beak which it surely intended to use to tear me to shreds.

  I held my arms up and braced myself against the impact of its tackle, narrowly catching its forelegs above the talons with each of my metal hands. It reared its head back to lunge its beak into me, but I followed it with the upper half of my body, making sure to keep a firm grip on its front legs. It was unable to finish the attack with my shoulder pressed into its chin and its head reared back as far as its neck would allow. It was left with no more range of motion to bring its dagger-beak bearing down.

  The thing screeched and sent chills down my spine. I had seen my fair share of outlandish beasts during my time in this land, but this was the first time I had encountered a gryphon. It was often the case that such monsters turned out to be mechanical in nature, but not always. This one, whatever its origin was, was a more manageable size than most of the mythical beasts I had faced so far.

  It lurched forward, almost forcing me off balance, but I managed to hold it back, my rear foot only sliding a few inches away against the creature’s insistence. My pants were still falling to my knees, and I worried that they would be my downfall if I did not reign them in quickly.

  “Helen!”

  “Yes, Troy?” she gasped. Her voice was tinged with strain. I knew she wanted to help but was worried that any attempt she made might only get in the way.

  “Stay back! I’ve got this.” I pushed the gryphon a few paces back, and it shrieked. “Do you have any knives on you?”

  “No! I am sorry, Love!”

  “It’s fine!” I shouted through heavy breaths. I cursed inwardly. It was rare that I walked anywhere unarmed, but this was one of the few times I took my safety for granted.

  The beast kicked forward again, and my muscles cried out as they tried to maintain control. The thing was no larger than me while on its hind legs, but it had so much primal energy. If I did not change the status quo soon my arms would give in, and it would tear me to pieces.

  While keeping my shoulder pressed against its chin, I yanked it down, planting its forelegs on the ground. As swiftly as I could, I let go of one claw, wrapped my arm around its neck in a chokehold, and swung my whole body onto its back before it had time to swipe at me. I quickly reached out with my other hand and curled my fingers back above one of its claws, pulling its foreleg back behind it as far as I could without allowing its talons too close to my abdomen.

  It was pinned beneath me and squealing like a baby, its free foreleg flailing uselessly off to the side in a desperate attempt to pull itself back to its feet. It turned its head and tried to snap at me, but its neck would only allow so much range of motion. I thanked the gods that the thing was not part owl, otherwise it might
have swiveled around far enough to peck my eyes out right then.

  I took a deep breath, trying to muster up all the strength I held in reserve. It had been awhile since I faced combat and this little spat was demanding a lot of me out of the blue. The air choked me as I took it in. The gryphon smelled like it had just bathed in a swamp. I was suddenly all too aware of the slick filth caked on its grimy feathers, now rubbing off onto my arm around its neck. Its head rolled around trying to break from of my hold, the grease on its feathers a slippery lubricant, making it all the more difficult to maintain my grasp. It was not unlike attempting to hold onto a worm covered in slime that was trying to wriggle free between one’s fingers.

  The gryphon’s wings flapped madly, pushing me from one side to the next, trying to buck me like a bull in a rodeo. Its hindlegs kicked up and down repeatedly in an attempt to accomplish the same goal. I held tight as best I could, never loosening my grip or allowing it to toss me too far to one side. I flexed my bicep around its throat, hoping it would pass out before I ran out of gas, but my efforts only seemed to bolster it.

  Dirt and leaves were flying in every direction as it tried to scramble to its feet. One time, it swiped a clod of woodland debris into my face, blinding me. I fought my knee-jerk inclination, which was to try and wipe the obstruction from my sensitive eyes. To do so would offer it the freedom it needed to turn the table on me, so instead I scrunched my eyelids to prevent any more dirt from flying into them and applied more pressure everywhere I could—around its throat, its wrist, and on its back—with the pain of a hundred tiny needles stabbing my eyes.