ACHILLES: Soul of Her King (Kings of the Blood Book 3) Read online

  ACHILLES

  Soul of Her King

  Kings of the Blood ~ Book 3

  by

  Julia Mills

  No One Escapes Destiny…

  Not Even the King.

  Copyright © 2016 Julia Mills

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  NOTICE: This is an adult erotic paranormal romance with love scenes and mature situations. It is only intended for adult readers over the age of 18.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Edited by Amy Pro

  Proofread by Tammy Payne with Book Nook Nuts

  Cover Designed by Linda Boulanger with Tell Tale Book Covers

  Cover Model: Burton Hughes

  Photographer: Eric David Battershell with Eric Battershell Photography

  Formatted by Charlene Bauer with Wickedly Bold Creations

  DEDICATION

  Dare to Dream! Find the Strength to Act! Never Look Back!

  Thank you, God.

  To my girls, Liz and Em, I Love You. Every day, every way, always.

  To Kelli Smith, thank you for pushing me to continue in this amazing world of the Kings!

  You are the best!!

  Also by Julia Mills

  *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

  The Dragon Guard Series

  Her Dragon to Slay, Dragon Guard #1

  Her Dragon’s Fire, Dragon Guard #2

  Haunted by Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #3

  For the Love of Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #4

  Saved by Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #5

  Only for Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #6

  Fighting for Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #7

  Her Dragon’s Heart, Dragon Guard #8

  Her Dragon’s Soul, Dragon Guard #9

  The Fate of Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #10

  Her Dragon’s No Angel, Dragon Guard #11

  Her Dragon, His Demon, Dragon Guard #12

  Resurrecting Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #13

  The Scars of Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #14

  Her Mad Dragon, Dragon Guard #15

  Tears for Her Dragon, Dragon Guard #16 (Published in the Shifters Hallows Eve Anthology)

  Her Love, Her Dragon: The Saga Begins, A Dragon Guard Prequel

  *****

  Kings of The Blood Series

  VIKTOR: Heart of Her King ~ Kings of the Blood ~ Book 1

  ROMAN: Fury of Her King ~ Kings of the Blood ~ Book 2

  *****

  The ‘Not-Quite’ Love Story Series

  Vidalia: A ‘Not-Quite’ Vampire Love Story

  Phoebe” A ‘Not-Quite’ Phoenix Love Story

  Zoey: A ‘Not-Quite’ Zombie Love Story

  Jax: A ‘Not-Quite’ Puma Love Story

  Heidi: A ‘Not-Quite’ Hellhound Love Story (Magic & Mayhem Kindle World)

  Index of Greek

  as spoken by the Kings of the Blood

  Fýlakas tis Kardiás Mou ………. Keeper of My Heart

  Se Agapó………. I Love You

  Agápi Mou………. My Love

  Agapiméne Mou………. My Beloved

  I Kardí Mou………. My Heart

  O Vasiliás Mou………. My King

  Vasílissa mou………. My Queen

  Me óli Tin Kardiá Mou, Tóra Kai Gia, Pánta, s ágapó……With All My Heart, Now and Forever, I Love You

  I mitéra mou………. My Mother

  Me óla aftá pou eímal………. With All That I am

  Oikogéneia………Family

  I Kardiá Mou Tha Eínai Pánta Dikií Sas………. My Heart Will Always Be Yours

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  VIKTOR – HEAR OF HER KING

  HER MAD DRAGON

  HEIDI – A NOT QUITE HELLHOUND LOVE STORY

  ABOUT JULIA

  Prologue

  Almost Three Millennia Ago

  The crescent moon hung low in the sky. Shadows from the present chased visions of the past as every cell in his body cried out for relief from the bitter, unrelenting temperatures of the desert at night. Merciless gusts of wind ate at the archer’s exposed flesh where he hung on the traitor’s cross, waiting for the sweet release of death. The Persians had done their best to break him, to make him reveal the location of his comrades, to give away their battle plans, but through it all the archer had stood strong…stoic. Never crying out, refusing to do more than flinch, he had taken every lash of the enemy’s whip with pride knowing he had not forsaken the great Grecian Empire or the men he called oikogéneia.

  Weeks of torture had led to this hour, the time when his soul would finally take its rest in the Elysian Fields. Zeus’ eagle had crossed the sky, leaving a trail of lightning in his path, calling the mighty warrior home. Achilles no longer felt the tearing of his joints or the breaking of his bones as he hung on the cypress cross. His festered wounds that oozed and bled were but an afterthought. This, the third night of his crucifixion, would be his last.

  During his torture, thoughts of Romanus, the man who was not only his General but also his mentor, had given Achilles the strength to withstand all manner of degradation. He remembered how, after the death of his mother and sisters at the cruel hands of the Persians, Romanus and his army had ridden into his village, chased away the marauders and taken those still alive to the great city of Athens.

  The faintest of smiles touched his cracked and bleeding lips as Achilles struggled to breathe, the blood and fluid filling his lungs, rattling louder than even the howling of the cruel night wind. Thoughts of how, day after day, he sat outside the Grecian army’s encampment just a small boy, all alone in the world, with dreams of defending his homeland and delivering retribution to those who had robbed his family of their lives kept him company on his lonely journey to the afterlife. His one true hero, the mighty Romanus, stopping every day to give him food and water.

  Finally, the day came. The General walked outside their stronghold and instead of offering Achilles nourishment, he beckoned the young man into the camp, gave him a tent of his own and over the years taught him to be the most feared archer in all the land. Achilles became the General’s most trusted advisor, promoted to the rank of Brigadier and after the death of their Supreme Commander, Viktoras, Romanus’ second and only confidant.

  Soul-wrenching pain cut through what small part still beat of the archer’s heart as he remembered the day of the General’s death. Together with the other Brigadiers, Achilles and Romanus had decided to divide their forces and attack the enormous Persian army from opposing sides. Being the only man Romanus truly trusted, Achilles was sent to lead the troops to the north while the General kept command in the south.

  The battle was hard fought but in the end, Achilles and his men rose victorious, leaving a trail of dead Persians all the way from Thessaly to the great city of Athens. Bloody from the battle and ready to celebrate with their brothe
rs in the arms, the archer was instead welcomed home to a war-torn city and the demise of his mentor.

  Not since the death of his family had Achilles felt such utter loss and despair. Seeking answers, he sought out Bain, philosopher to Romanus and student of Thales of Miletus. The teacher instructed the archer to take command, avenge the death of their mighty General and see to the death of those who had wronged the great Empire of Greece.

  Immediately returning to camp, Achilles called together the Brigadiers, Colonels and Battalion leaders. It took several long days but together they came with a battle plan to rid the world of the scourge that was the Persian Army.

  Battling the cruel winter temperatures of the desert, the archer led his men across the sand onto Persian soil and in a never-before attempted strategy, surrounded the massive regimen as they slept. Remembering all he had learned from the mighty General, Achilles took the high ground with his battalion of archers while the hoplites and the cavalry stood at the ready below with the horse archers as the Grecians final line of defense.

  Waiting for the first rays of dawn to break over the horizon, Achilles prayed to Artemis, Goddess of the hunt and protector of all archers for her guidance. At the first sign of light, he gave the signal and as one cohesive legion of war, the Grecian army descended upon the Persians, slaying them where they laid, reveling in the look of shock and horror in their dark soulless eyes. The battle was quick and bloody, with Achilles and his men leaving only the servants and handmaidens with their lives to tell the tale of the massacre.

  Celebrating their victory, the Greeks made their way home. In Athens, they were greeted with shouts of adulation and week-long parties in their honor. At one such festivity, Achilles was approached by an older man, crippled from a previous battle but with the fire of the fight still burning within his eyes.

  “You are Achilles, famed archer and loyal follower of Romanus?” The older man asked.

  “I am. Who are you to ask?”

  Hobbling closer, the elderly soldier motioned for Achilles to come closer and in hushed tones replied, “I am Jotham, former hoplite for the great Romanus, who comes to offer you the true story of the fate befallen our beloved General.”

  Unable to squelch his curiosity, the archer commanded, “Continue.”

  Without hesitation or cause for doubt, Jotham recounted the betrayal of Romanus at the hands of Xenophanes and how the mighty General battled hordes of the very men he had trained before finally succumbing to the blade of the spear of a Persian in league with the traitor.

  Fury unlike any Achilles had ever known raged within him. The need to avenge the death of the only father he had ever known burned anew within his soul. It was not enough that they had just slain thousands of Persians, the archer had to know the heathen who had taken his General’s life was bathing in the fires of the Underworld along with the blasphemer, Xenophanes. Without a word to his troops and with only the old man’s description of Romanus’ assassin to guide him, Achilles strapped on his quiver, took to his saddle and once again crossed the desert.

  Arriving at the enemy encampment days later, he found a thousand Persian soldiers replacing those the Grecians had slain preparing for battle. Taking his place on the highest ridge with the best view of their leader’s tent, Achilles took aim and waited. Hour after hour, vengeance fueling his tenacity, the archer sat vigil, waiting for one glimpse of the scarred Persian who had robbed the archer’s beloved General of his life.

  Night fell and the brutal cold of the desert battered at the archer but his resolve never wavered and then right after daybreak when the heathens had just begun to stir in their tents, the huge, disfigured Persian Commander stepped into the light. Achilles took one long deep breath, held in it the depth of his lungs and let his arrow fly true.

  With the twang of the bowstring on his ballista still ringing in his ear, the archer waited until the arrow’s head dove deep into the Persian’s heart and the mountain of a man fell to the ground in a pool of his own blood. The enemy soldiers were immediately at attention, swords drawn, searching the high ground for the man who dared to attack their Commander. Unable to hold back his unadulterated glee and unafraid of the consequences, Achilles stood with the sun at his back and shouted, “It is I, Achilles of Athens, who takes the life of your General in retribution for the life of Romanus, mighty General of the Grecian army.”

  Within seconds the air filled with the war cry of the Persian troops as they charged up the hillside, blades at the ready and the look of death in their eyes. Pulling arrow after arrow from his quiver, Achilles struck down as many heathens as he could before he was forced to draw his own double-edged sword and engage in hand-to-hand combat.

  Clash after clash of metal against metal echoed as one after the other the Persian soldiers attacked. Blow after blow shook the mighty warrior but Achilles refused to fall. The muscles of his arms and legs burned from exertion, sweat and blood poured down his face making his enemies little more than shadows that only multiplied in number.

  Blocking one well-placed strike, Achilles was forced to spin to the left thus leaving his right side unprotected. Outnumbered and suffering from extreme fatigue, the archer fell to his knees as several Persians struck at his weakness in unison.

  Battered but far from beaten, the archer allowed himself to be taken. Having been in the military the whole of his adult life, he knew what was to come and welcomed any and all attempts the heathens would undoubtedly make to break him. His cocksure smile infuriated his captors as they carried him down the mountain almost as much as their Admiral’s command that he not be harmed. He wasn’t surprised to find himself stripped down to his tunic, tied in the center of their camp and left for days with only a few drops of water while the elements beat away at his body.

  The crack of the whip shattered the silence of the cold desert night as the knot at the end of the leather popper tore through the cloth of his tunic and ate at the skin of the archer’s back. Refusing to cry out, the warrior felt the warmth of his own blood flow down his arms and across his feet where the enemy had hung him spread eagle from two, tall Cypress poles.

  Strike after strike of the Persian’s bullwhip tore at his flesh while the heathens taunted, “Look at the mighty Roman.”

  “He is nothing special. He bleeds red.”

  “Harder! Strike him harder!”

  “Make him squeal like the pig he is.”

  The sound of leather striking sand silenced not only the heckling but also stilled his tormentor’s whip. From the corner of his eye, Achilles could see the gold of the approaching admiral’s armor signifying not only his rank but also his status as a nobleman. He spoke with authority as he barked, “What is the meaning of this? Were my instructions not clear?” When no immediate answer was given, he continued, “Did I not order him tied and left untouched?”

  Tense silence filled the air. No one moved. No one answered. The Admiral’s hand massaged the grip of his blade as his hardened gaze landed on each of the soldiers in attendance. Stepping closer to where Achilles hung, beaten and bleeding, the Persian leader ran the tip of his finger along an especially deep lash mark. The archer bit his tongue and clenched his fists, refusing to shout out. He recognized the tactic for exactly what it was, an attempt to regain control and strike fear in the underlings. The archer would have applauded the Admiral’s attempts had his hands not been tied, he instead prepared for what he knew would come next having doled out the same punishment to prisoners captured by the Greeks.

  True to form, Achilles held his breath as he listened to the Admiral’s retreating footsteps, closing his eyes as he waited for the beating he knew was to come. Strike after strike, the Commander removed the skin from the archer’s back, goading Achilles, telling him if he only acknowledged his pain the beatings would end. Finally, screaming questions about the Greek army’s position on Persian soil, demanding details of their battle plans, and in the end relenting to casting taunts and dispersions on the Greek army who had left the arche
r to die.

  Panting as if he were the one being beaten, the Admiral grabbed Achilles by the hair, jerked his face to his and spat, “Tell me, Greek bastard, where are they? Where are your troops?” Closing the scant distance between them, now nose-to-nose, the Persian added with a growl, “I’ll make your death quick, if only you’ll tell me where they are.”

  With a strength not even he knew he possessed, Achilles grinned and with a dry, gravelly chuckled responded, “You shall never know.”

  Shoving the archer’s head towards the ground with such force, the crack of the bones in his neck echoed over the roar of the crowd, the Admiral bellowed, “Flay the skin from his body. Whip him until he cannot stand. Beat him to within an inch of his life but do not kill him. I want him crucified with the traitors and thieves at the waxing of the moon.”

  Cheers went out from the crowd and as the Admiral walked away he added, “Send his horse back to the worthless Greeks with his armor and his ballista. That should bring the enemy to our shores.”

  Achilles could only smile, for he knew his brothers in arms would follow the instructions he had left with Jotham and would not seek revenge for his death. They instead, would lay in wait for thirty days, leading the Persians to believe they had been victorious in their tactics of fear then arrive on Grecian soil in mass. Then, and only then, would the world be rid of the Persian infestation. It was that one thought, along with the memories of his training, that kept the archer alive and strong during his torture and now as he waited for the hour of his death, he did so with a clear conscience and a heart free of worry.

  Drawing another ragged breath, he paused as the sound of footsteps echoed through the darkness. Sure that it was vagabonds, only looking to steal what, if any, belongings still hung from the dead, his nearly dead heart skipped a beat when a voice he had never expected to hear again asked, “What has become of you in my absence, my loyal archer?”