Troy 03 - Fall of Kings Read Online Free PDF Page B

did not smile, nor was there any warmth in those bleak, violent blue eyes. “We are what we are,” he said. “Both of us. You are oblivious to the sufferings of others, but you have never burned men alive and reveled in their screams.”
    He fell silent for a moment, then spoke again. “You say the bridge can be rebuilt swiftly?”
    Khalkeus nodded. “It could be functional within twenty days. I doubt you will want it more than that at this time.”
    “Why so?”
    “You are a rich man, Helikaon, but your continuing riches depend on trade. Every gold ingot you use to rebuild Dardanos could prove to be a reckless waste should the Mykene invade again. And you may need all your gold if this war drags on.”
    “So you would advise?”
    “Make temporary repairs, at little cost. And move your treasury from Dardanos.”
    Helikaon shook his head. “The first I cannot do. There is no nation here, Khalkeus, merely a mix of races who have come to Dardania in search of wealth: Hittites, Phrygians, Thessalians, Thrakians, and many more. They obey my laws and pay my taxes because I shield them from their enemies and crush any who oppose me. If they come to believe that I have lost faith in my ability to defend my own land, they will lose faith in me. Then I will be facing not only invasion from the north but insurrection from within. No, the repairs must be solid and built to last.”
    “Then they will be,” Khalkeus told him. “And at the risk of offending you once more, what of my earlier request? With this war showing no sign of ending, my work is even more vital.”
    “I know. Help my people here, and I shall ensure you have gold waiting for you in Troy.” Helikaon pushed himself wearily to his feet. “You have great faith in these red rocks, Khalkeus. I hope it is not misplaced.”
    “It is not. I am convinced of it. By next summer’s end, Helikaon, I will bring you the greatest sword in all the world.”

CHAPTER TWO

    THE MASKS OF PRIAM
    The dream was terrifying. Xander was hanging above a black pit. When he looked down, he saw scores of blood-red eyes staring up at him and bright fangs waiting to rip at his flesh. Xander glanced up, seeking reassurance from the man whose strong hand held firmly to his wrist.
    Then he screamed, for the man holding him was a corpse with gray, rotting flesh peeling back from his bones. The decaying sinews at the wrist and elbow began to stretch. The bones of the fingers broke away, and Xander fell into the pit.
    He awoke with a start, his legs drawing up in a spasmodic movement. Eyes wide, he stared around the small, familiar resting room. Slowly his heartbeat returned to normal, the panic fading.
    Xander heard again the words of Odysseus.
“My Penelope tells me there are two kinds of dreams. Some come through a gate of ivory, and their meanings are deceitful. Others come through a gate of horn, and these are heavy with fate.”
    Xander sat up. Sunlight was bright outside the shuttered window, but the young healer was reluctant to open it. Once he did so, his time of rest would be over, and he once again would walk among the dying and the maimed.
    “The dream is a deceit,” he whispered. “It is merely a mixture of memories and fears.” In that moment he pictured again the fury of the storm four years before, crashing down on the
Xanthos.
Then only twelve, Xander had been on his first sea journey. Swept over the side by a colossal wave, he should have drowned, but a powerful hand had grasped his wrist. The warrior Argurios had hurled himself across the rain-swept deck to grab Xander before the sea could swallow him.
    “Memories and fears,” Xander whispered, breathing slowly and deeply, this time recalling the dissection of the beggar’s corpse a few days before.
    The surgeon Zeotos had opened the flesh of the dead man’s arm, peeling it back from the elbow. “See,” the old man had said, “how the muscles attach, and the tendons. Remarkable!” Four healers and five