Corydon and the Siege of Troy

After the destruction of the city of Atlantis, Corydon is in a selfimposed exile. Clearly his presence only puts his friends in danger. And so he hides out in the desert, tending to goats and camels, keeping his friends safe by staying away. But, as ever, the gods of Olympos have other plans. Now the city of Troy is under siege, and Corydon's friends are trapped inside. And so Corydon reluctantly joins them, hoping to help, and fearing that it is he that will tip the scales against them. In this thrilling conclusion to the trilogy about the gods and monsters of ancient Greece, Corydon knows that it will be up to him to thwart the mighty Zeus if the others are to live. At what cost will he buy their freedom? From the Hardcover edition.

Tobias Druitt is a pen name for the mother-and-son writing team of Diane Purkiss and Michael Dowling. Purkiss is on the faculty of Oxford University, and Dowling attends the prestigious Dragon School. They both live in Oxford, England.

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one

On the side of a sand hill in the arabian desert, a shepherd boy watched over his flock. He still thought of himself as a shepherd, though his flock was composed of lithe goats, and its glory was three milch camels.

Corydon was not alone. The flock belonged to his gang, who had assembled it by a series of lightning raids on the people who lived on the vast desert’s margins.

There were three other boys in the gang, and all of them were outcasts. There was Azil, who had been exiled for stealing a camel to try to win a race. There was Bin Khamal, who understood wind and weather so well that people had said he was a djinn and sent him away out of fear. And, best of all, there was Sikandar, who had once lived somewhere greener, somewhere with sheep, but who now trod the lonely wastes.

Corydon didn’t know why Sikandar couldn’t go home. The gang didn’t spend much time analyzing things. They talked, of course, to pass the long desert days and nights, but they said little of the past. All of them were trying to forget their former lives.

Corydon most of all. There were still nights when his dreams tossed him from the sight of ruined cities and metal monsters to the screams of dying warriors. And sometimes the wind seemed to sing to him of a place a goddess had named. Troios . . . Troios . . . , it sang. When the ghibli blew across the dry desert, it seemed to whisper of a city of towers. . . . But Corydon tightened his blue headdress around his ears. Deaf and sullen, he would not hear what the ghibli wanted to tell him. Cities of towers . . . He was fatal to them. He, Corydon, had destroyed an entire city, the greatest in the world. . . . He had done the Olympians’ will, though he had thought he was defying them. Clearly, if Troy needed saving, Corydon Panfoot should stay away.

He loved the desert because it did not know his name. It was utterly indifferent to him. It might kill him, but it would do so without malice, just by being itself. He loved being forgotten. Disappearing into its vastness.

Sikandar approached him shyly.

“Lord,” he began, “I must ask when we move. The camels must find more grazing soon. The goats also. And the tracks we saw . . . perhaps someone we might raid?”

“Don’t call me ‘lord,’?” said Corydon a little irritably. “I’m just a shepherd like you. And don’t worry about the grazing. Winter is fast approaching, and with it the rains will come. Till then, we can hold out by using the oases. As for the tracks, we must follow them cautiously and attempt a raid when the moon is dark.” The dark of the moon—memories surged over him. He let them run into the sand like water. “Are the animals all watered?” he asked.

They had stopped at a well. It had been called “The Sweet,” but the water tasted as if liquid iron and seawater had gone into it. The taste was so bitter that only the camels drank it willingly. It tasted like the tears of giants. Again, Corydon tried to crush his memories. Sikandar’s voice helped.

“Yes, lord,” he said. “All have had water.”

“DON’T CALL ME ‘LORD’!” Corydon shouted. And then his heart filled with sadness. Sikandar looked forlorn, as if his last protector had struck him. “I’m sorry,” Corydon said. “It’s just—”

“I know,” said Sikandar. “We are all in a desert of the heart, where the ghibli blows all day and fills our mouths with the sands of memory.”

Corydon smiled. Sikandar had the poet’s heart that showed the true shepherd.

As they packed up the tent and stowed everything on the camels, Corydon reflected on how difficult it was to escape from who you truly were. He was still Corydon, poet and shepherd, and because he was s

Excerpted from Corydon and the Siege of Troy by Tobias Druitt
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