Fall of Kings

by David Gemmell

  His feet reached the ground, and he pulled away the bandages holding Dex to him.

  “It is still dark,” the tall warrior pointed out. “Andromache will need a torch.”

  He shouted up to the window, “Banokles, throw down a torch!”

  Within moments a flaming brand flew through the air and fell some paces away. Kalliades ran to get it, stamping out the sparks on the dry vegetation and gave the torch to Andromache. Standing tall in the torchlight in a flame-red dress, she had never looked more beautiful, Helikaon thought.

  He said to her urgently, “The Xanthos will wait only until the sun clears the horizon, so you must make haste. Go directly north. See, the North Star is bright tonight.” Realizing her arms were trembling from the effort of the climb, he pulled her into an embrace. Andromache cast a glance of entreaty at Kalliades, who moved out of earshot.

  “Please, my love, come with us,” she pleaded. “I swore to myself I would never say this to you, but you and Kalliades will both go back to certain death.”

  Helikaon shook his head. “You know I cannot. I have friends in there, comrades I have known most of my life. Some of them defended Dardanos for me. I cannot leave them. It is my duty.”

  “We both chose the path of duty before,” she argued. “It was a hard road, but we walked it knowing each of us was doing the right thing. But Troy is now a city of the dead. The only reason to return would be to die with your friends. How will that benefit them? We must leave the dead behind us and set our faces to the sunrise. Your duty now is to your ship and to your family, to me and to your sons.”

  But her last words were lost as Kalliades cried out. He had pulled on the rope, ready to climb back up the cliff, but it fell toward him, looping to the earth from the high window. Helikaon stared at the coils of rope and the cleanly cut end. His chest tightened with fury at the betrayal.

  Kalliades shouted up angrily at the figure they could see outlined in the window, “Banokles!!”

  His voice floated down to them: “May Ares guide your spear, Kalliades!”

  Helikaon saw Kalliades lower his head for a moment, his face becoming grave. Then he took a deep breath and called up to his friend, “He always does, sword brother!”

  They saw Banokles raise his hand in farewell. Then the window was empty.

  Helikaon felt the fury in his chest. “What in the name of Hades is that idiot doing?” he stormed.

  Kalliades replied quietly, “He is saving my life.” He rubbed his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, then added, as if to himself, “It’s something he does.”

  Helikaon looked up at the sheer walls. “I will climb again,” he promised.

  Andromache turned to him, her face angry. “You cannot climb back! There will be no one to throw a rope to you this time—unless it is the enemy. You must leave now, Helikaon. Accept this gift that fate and Banokles have presented to you. Return to the Xanthos and sail away from the dead past.”

  She glanced at Kalliades, but the warrior still stood gazing up at the high window, lost in his own thoughts. She placed her hand on Helikaon’s chest and leaned into him. “You did not hear what I said, my love. I had hoped for a better time to tell you. But Astyanax is your son—our son. You must save your son.”

  Helikaon stared at her wonderingly. The words made no sense. “How can that be?”

  She smiled a little. “Trust me, Helikaon. It is true. It was when you were ill, deep in delirium. I will tell you about it when there is time and we are alone. But both of these boys are your sons. You must help me take them to safety. Dawn is coming, and I cannot get them to the Xanthos in time on my own.”

  Helikaon shook his head, bewildered. He felt suddenly like a ship adrift; the certainties that had guided his life were being washed away by the storms of fate.

  He looked up at the window, an agony of indecision in his breast. Every instinct in his body told him to climb back up to the palace. Even now he believed he could make a difference and somehow defeat the hordes of the enemy despite the odds. Then he thought of what he had said to his crew: “I plan to live.”

  He nodded his head then, accepting his fate. “Very well, we will go to the ship. Kalliades?”

  The warrior turned toward him and admitted, “I cannot climb the cliff without a rope. My leg is not strong enough. I accept the gift my old friend has given me. I will come with you to the Xanthos if we can get there in time.”

  He looked to the east, where the sky was showing dark red on the horizon. “But it will be a close thing,” he predicted.

  The going was difficult in the torchlight. The land was flat horse meadows divided by small streams, but all was bone-dry, and they had to leap the ditches or stumble across them. Helikaon, who knew the country well, led the way, holding the torch and young Dex. His mind still in confusion, he thought of what Andromache had told him. He recalled erotic dreams about her as he lay in a fever in the palace of Hektor. He had guarded the dreams in his thoughts all these years until the wondrous reality of her body had replaced them in his memory. He wondered that she had kept silent about it throughout their voyage together. Then he thought of Hektor’s death, and he understood.

  He paused and glanced back to where Kalliades was following them with Astyanax in his arms. The warrior’s face was pale; his leg clearly was troubling him.

  “Do not fear for me, Golden One,” he said, seeing Helikaon’s look. “I will keep up.”

  “I am sorry about Banokles,” Helikaon told him.

  “Banokles lived each day as if it were his last. I never knew a man to take so much from life. We should not grieve for Banokles.”

  The light was starting to strengthen when Helikaon stopped, hearing a sound. Then, out of the darkness, a group of men loomed. Helikaon swiftly set the boy down and drew his blades. Kalliades moved alongside him, the sword of Argurios in his hand.

  They were a ragged army, twenty or more of them, some in armor and many of them wounded. All had the ferocious look of men pushed beyond desperation. From among them walked their leader. He wore a black and silver chin beard. He seemed grayer and leaner, but Helikaon’s blood ran cold when he recognized the Mykene admiral Menados.

  “Well, Helikaon, this is a strange meeting on a night’s walk,” the admiral said affably. “The Mykene renegade Kalliades, the Burner—most hated of Mykene’s enemies—and a refugee family. Two boys. Let me see. Could it be that one of these boys is the rightful king of Troy?”

  Helikaon said nothing, watching the men, calculating their strength, planning in which order to take them. He and Kalliades edged apart, making room to swing their swords.

  Menados mused, “Thanks to you, Helikaon, these brave men and I are now outcasts. Agamemnon was not pleased that you destroyed an entire Mykene fleet. But we might win back the king’s favor by delivering to him the last heir to Troy.”

  Helikaon spit out, “Make your play, Menados. We haven’t got all night.” From the corner of his eye he saw the sun’s first rays lancing over the horizon.

  Menados ignored him, addressing Kalliades. “You are free to join us, Kalliades, as an outcast yourself. We are going not to the Golden City but back to Mykene and the Lion’s Hall, there to suffer Agamemnon’s judgment—if he ever returns.”

  Kalliades answered him coolly, “The Law of the Road states that Helikaon’s battle is mine. I will stand with him.”

  Menados nodded, as if he had expected that response. “Loyalty has been much prized among the Mykene, although that loyalty seemed often misplaced. You are not the first Mykene warrior to stand side by side with the Trojans. The great Argurios was a comrade of mine. We fought together in many battles. I admired him more than any man I have ever known. Now, Helikaon, when last we encountered each other, you chose the path of mercy. You undoubtedly are regretting that now. And you told me that if we were ever to meet again, you would cut out my heart and feed it to the crows. Is that still your intention?”

  Helikaon snarled, “Try me, Menados!”
>
  A voice behind Menados yelled, “Let’s take them, Admiral! The Burner is accursed and must die!”

  Another shouted, “The gods are with us, lord. They have brought the Burner into our hands!” There was a chorus of agreement, and in the predawn gloom Helikaon heard swords rasping from scabbards.

  Menados turned to his men, annoyance in his voice. “I was speaking of loyalty and mercy, two qualities which used to be admired by the Mykene.”

  Behind Helikaon one of the boys started to cry from tiredness or fear.

  Menados sighed and sheathed his sword. “Go your way, Helikaon. Matters are now equal between us. I give you and your people your lives, just as you once gave me mine. In the name of the great Argurios.”

  There were angry shouts from Menados’ men, but no one made a move. Helikaon guessed that their loyalty to Menados or fear of him was stronger than their need for vengeance.

  Swords still at the ready, the two warriors walked watchfully past the Mykene band. Andromache, with Astyanax on one hip and holding Dex by the hand, followed them.

  As they raced on, Helikaon strained his eyes to find the dark bulk of the Xanthos in the distance. The ball of the sun, rising out of the mist to their right, was almost clear of the horizon, and they still had a way to go.

  “We cannot make it,” Kalliades calmly pointed out. Helikaon’s heart sank. The man was right. It was impossible to get to the ship before she sailed.

  Then, from out of the west, he heard a shout. He paused and turned. A horse was cantering toward them across the rough ground, leaping the ditches, its rider waving to them and shouting. As he came closer, Helikaon saw that he was wearing the armor of the Trojan Horse.

  “Skorpios!” Kalliades cried out in delight. “How in Hades are you here? We thought you long dead!”

  “It does not matter!” Helikaon shouted. “Get down, lad! I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but I need that horse!”

  The fair-haired rider slid quickly off his mount, and Helikaon vaulted on. He grabbed the reins and kicked the beast into a run, heading north toward the river at full pelt. Behind them he heard the newcomer ask, “Where’s he going with my horse? And where’s Banokles?”

  Banokles watched Helikaon climb down the rope into the night. Then he heard Kalliades’ voice call to him for a torch. He grabbed one off the wall and threw it down to him. He watched it spiral into darkness, then returned to the crowded gathering room to see who else could be saved. But among the many wounded and dying there were none who had the strength to lower themselves to safety—only the healer.

  He told the boy curtly, “On your way, lad. There is a rope from the window of the rear chamber leading down to the ground. Climb down it and save yourself.”

  The boy continued sewing a soldier’s scalp wound. There was blood everywhere, and his fingers kept slipping on the bronze needle as he worked.

  Without looking up, the healer replied, “I will stay.”

  Banokles grabbed the boy by the front of his clothing and dragged him upright, shaking him like a rat.

  “That was not a polite request, boy, but an order. Go when I tell you!”

  “With respect, sir,” the healer said, his face reddening, “I am not a soldier for you to command, and I will not go. I am needed here.”

  Frustrated, Banokles flung him down. He could not force the boy to go. What could he do, throw him out the window? He stalked back to the rear chamber and without hesitation cut the rope. He waited, grinning to himself, and shortly he heard Kalliades’ voice shouting, “Banokles!”

  He leaned over the window ledge and called down to his old friend, “May Ares guide your spear, Kalliades!”

  There was a moment’s pause, and then Kalliades shouted back, “He always does, sword brother.”

  Banokles waved farewell. Red always had told him that Kalliades would get him killed, and here he was saving his friend from certain death. In high good humor, he went out to the stone corridor where the last three Eagles were holding back the enemy. There was room only for one man at a time to swing a sword, so each combatant faced a duel to the death. He saw one Eagle cut down, a sword through his belly, and a comrade take his place. Two more to go, he thought, and went back into the gathering room.

  He saw the king’s aide Polydorus lying propped against a wall, blood drying on his chest and stomach. He always had liked the man. He was a thinker, like Kalliades, and a doughty fighter, too. Looking at Polydorus’ face with his veteran’s eye, he guessed the warrior probably would survive if given time to heal. Banokles always told Kalliades that he knew if a wounded soldier would live or die, and he was very seldom wrong. Well, actually he was often wrong, but he was the only one keeping score.

  He squatted down.

  “How are we doing?” Polydorus asked with a faint smile.

  “There are two Eagles left, holding the corridor, then I’ll go in.”

  “You’d better go now, Banokles.”

  Banokles shrugged. “In a moment. You Eagles are a gutsy bunch.” He frowned. “Can you believe that boy refused to leave?” He nodded toward the healer.

  Polydorus smiled. “You could leave, Banokles. You chose not to. What’s the difference?”

  For a moment Banokles was astonished. It never had entered his head that he could have climbed down the rope, too.

  “I’m a soldier,” he answered lamely.

  “Yet you are under no man’s orders. Has it occurred to you, Banokles, that now that Hektor’s son has left the city, you, as the senior soldier here, are truly king of Troy?”

  Banokles was delighted by the idea, and he laughed. “The king? I never thought I’d be a king. Shouldn’t I have a crown or something?”

  Polydorus shook his head weakly, “I never saw Priam wearing a crown.”

  “Then how will people know I’m king?”

  “I suspect you will tell them, my friend, if you get the chance.” Then Polydorus’ face became grave. “May the All-Father guard you, Banokles. It is time now.”

  Banokles stood up, then turned and walked to the corridor.

  The last Eagle was battling courageously. The stone corridor was littered with bodies, and Banokles dragged two corpses back into the gathering room to give himself room to fight. One Trojan soldier lay slumped against the corridor wall, clutching a wound in his belly. He raised a warding hand as Banokles approached him.

  “I would rather die here than in there,” he told him.

  Banokles nodded. He closed the oak door to the gathering room behind him and waited. He did not have to wait long. The last Eagle, weakened by his wounds, fell to one knee, and his Mykene opponent swung his sword at the man’s neck, half beheading him.

  Banokles stepped up. The Mykene warrior looked familiar, but he could not name him. It doesn’t matter, anyway, Banokles thought. He wrenched one sword from his scabbard, blocked a fierce overhead cut, and sent a slashing riposte across the warrior’s face. The man stumbled, and Banokles plunged the blade into his chest.

  He turned briefly to the injured Trojan. “One,” he said.

  Then he unsheathed his other sword and felt a familiar calm settle on him. The only contentment he had felt since Red’s death had been in the heat of battle. His grief for his wife, the burden of his responsibilities—they all vanished, and Banokles rejoiced.

  A huge warrior in a lion-skin tunic leaped toward him, sword raised. Banokles parried the blow and reversed a cut to the warrior’s neck. The blade hammered into armor and broke. Dropping it, Banokles ducked away from a second blow, then twisted his wrist, and his other sword hissed through the air into the man’s groin. As the man stumbled, Banokles chopped him on the back of the neck, severing his spine. He picked up the man’s sword as he fell to the floor.

  “Two,” he heard the injured Trojan say, and he laughed.

  The next warrior took longer to kill. He inflicted two minor wounds on Banokles—one on the leg and one on the cheek—before Banokles blocked a lunge, spu
n his blade, and thrust it under the man’s helm.

  “Three.”

  With the fourth warrior it became a duel. Banokles tried a feint, followed by a lunge to the heart. The Mykene parried it and sent a return cut that struck Banokles’ neck, slicing open the skin. The pace picked up, with both men hacking and slashing, blocking and moving. Banokles realized he was tiring. He knew he could not afford to get tired. He had to end each contest quickly. He feinted with his left sword, and as the Mykene parried it, he swept the right sword up through the man’s belly and chest, disemboweling him.

  There were a few moments of rest while the Mykene dragged away their dead and dying. Then the next warrior stepped toward him.

  As the morning dragged on, Banokles felt his concentration wavering. After one kill he glanced down at himself to see blood still flowing from the gash in his leg. There were other minor wounds, including one on the left shoulder. That arm was reacting too slowly.

  “You are dying, Banokles,” someone said. He realized it was the man in front of him, a Mykene in the old armor of Atreus’ personal guard. Banokles staggered as the man’s blade lanced beneath his ribs, deflecting off the bronze disks of his leather breastplate. Then Banokles got his feet under him and surged forward, his right sword swinging in a high, vicious arc. It tore into the man’s neck protector, ripping through it and opening a deep wound in the man’s throat. He fell back, choking on blood, and Banokles leaped on him, plunging his sword into the man’s face.

  “How many now?” he shouted. There was no reply. He glanced behind him at the injured Trojan, but the soldier had died.

  Seventeen, Banokles decided. Maybe more. He picked up the last opponent’s shield to replace his left sword and guard that side.

  A huge warrior walked down the corridor toward him. Banokles prepared to meet him, but his sword seemed very heavy, and he dragged it in front of him with a massive effort.

  “Banokles,” the warrior’s deep voice rumbled, and Banokles saw that it was Ajax Skull Splitter. Banokles was glad the veteran Mykene champion had survived the battle at the Scaean Gate. He knew he would have to use all his strength and concentration to kill the man, but he felt badly in need of sleep.