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.
“Kalliades?” Ajax questioned him.
Banokles managed a grin. “He’s back there, having a rest and something to eat. He’s up next. And you know he could teach me a thing or two about sword fighting.”
Ajax laughed, the deep rumble making the stones of the corridor vibrate.
“Then you will walk the Dark Road together,” he promised.
He attacked with speed that belied his great size. He was fast, but Banokles already was moving, He ducked under the slashing sweep of the broadsword and kicked out, catching Ajax on the knee. The big man staggered, but he was so well balanced that he recovered in a heartbeat and lunged for Banokles’ throat. Banokles blocked the blow and leaped back a pace.
Ajax attacked again. Their blades met. Ajax hacked and slashed, but Banokles blocked every blow, moving on instinct, his body awash with pain. Suddenly Ajax spun on his heel and crashed his massive fist into Banokles’ face. Banokles fell back.
He blinked. There was sweat in his eyes, or blood, because his vision was fading in and out. Suddenly he found that he was down on one knee and could not get up. I’ll have that sleep soon, he thought.
He was surprised to see Ajax sheathe his sword, then turn and walk back down the corridor. Banokles knew he should leap up and ram his blade into his old comrade’s back. He was planning to do it, but time passed and he found that he still was kneeling on the floor. Angry voices echoed down the corridor. There were armed men there, watching him.
“I order you to kill him,” one man shouted furiously. His deep voice was familiar, but Banokles could not remember whose it was.
“I’ll not dispatch him for you, Agamemnon King,” Ajax rumbled, anger in his voice. “You were a warrior once, too.”
Banokles’ last sight was of a tall figure walking down the corridor toward him. He realized it was Red, and he grinned up at her as the light faded.
Today was a good day, he thought happily.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE GOD OF MICE
Agamemnon wrenched his sword out of Banokles’ chest and handed it to an aide to clean. He was in a good humor. Killing Banokles had put an end to an irritating flea bite he had not been able to scratch. He had no doubt that the traitor’s accomplice Kalliades lay dead somewhere in the mounds of Trojan corpses he had seen between the Scaean Gate and this last corridor.
He had waited all morning with his brother kings Menelaus and Idomeneos, his anger growing as warrior after warrior sent into the stone corridor failed to kill the renegade. But now he was dead, and nothing stood in the way of Agamemnon’s twin ambitions: to kill the boy-king, Hektor’s get, and to win his prize: the treasure of Priam. He knew he must be close to them both for so many Trojans to have died guarding this way.
At the end of the stone corridor was a simple oak door.
“Open it!” he ordered, and two axmen ran forward. But it was not barred and opened at a touch. Preceded by the axmen and flanked by his bodyguard, Agamemnon strode in.
Inside there appeared to be a hospital. Dead and dying Trojans, perhaps forty of them, including a few women, lay on the floor of a great square room. The stench was appalling, and death hung in the air like wood smoke. All eyes turned to him. Some were full of fear; most held acceptance of their fate.
Standing in front of the wounded, holding a sword raised in both hands, was a short young man in a blood-drenched robe.
Ignoring him, Agamemnon looked around. There were no children in the chamber. They must have hidden them. He frowned, his good humor evaporating.
The boy with the sword was saying something. Agamemnon listened impatiently. “Do not kill these people,” the boy asked, his voice trembling. “They can no longer harm you and your armies.”
“Kill him,” Agamemnon ordered the axmen.
“Wait!” Meriones, Idomeneos’ aide, stepped forward in front of the boy. The axmen paused and looked to Agamemnon uncertainly.
“I know you, lad,” Meriones told the boy. “I have seen you with Odysseus.”
The young man nodded and lowered his sword slightly. “I am Xander. I was privileged to be healer to great Achilles and his Myrmidons. I am a friend of Odysseus.”
“Then what are you doing here, lad, with the Trojans?”