Stella Gemmell - Fall of Kings

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, spun 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.