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Fall of Kings (Troy Book 3)
By David Gemmel

“Beware the wooden horse, Agamemnon King,
Battle King, Conqueror, for it will roar to the skies on wings
of thunder and herald the death of nations.”
“A pox on riddles, priest!” replied the king.
“Tell me of Troy and of victory.”
“The last king of the Golden City will be Mykene.
The gods have spoken.”
—THE ORACLE OF THE CAVE OF WINGS


PROLOGUE
A bright moon shone low in the sky above the isle of Imbros, its silver light bathing the rocky shoreline
and the Mykene war fleet beached there. The curve of the bay was filled with ships: some fifty war
galleys and more than a hundred barges drawn up so tightly that there was not a handbreadth
between them. On the beach the Mykene army sat around scores of cookfires, eight thousand
soldiers, some preparing their weapons, sharpening swords, or burnishing shields and others playing
dice or dozing by the flickering fires. The beach was so crowded, many of the sailors had remained on
their ships rather than jostle for a strip of rocky ground on which to lay their blankets.
Agamemnon, king of the Mykene and warlord of the western armies, stood outside his canopied tent,
his gaunt frame wrapped in a long black cloak, his cold eyes staring out to sea toward the east, where
the sky glowed red.
The fortress of Dardanos was burning.
With luck and the blessing of the war god Ares, the mission had been totally successful. Helikaon’s
wife and son would be lying dead in the blazing fortress, and Helikaon himself would know the full
horror of despair.
A cold wind blew across the beach. Agamemnon drew his cloak around his angular shoulders and
turned his gaze to the men laboring to build an altar some distance away. They had been gathering
large stones for most of the day. The round-shouldered priest Atheos was directing them, his thin,
reedy voice sounding as shrill as that of a petulant seagull. “No, no, that stone is too small for the
outside. Wedge it closer to the center!”
Agamemnon stared at the priest. The man had no talent for prophecy, and that suited the king. He
could be relied on to say whatever Agamemnon wished him to say. The problem with most seers,
Agamemnon knew, was that their prophecies became self-fulfilling. Tell an army that the portents
were dark and gloomy, and men would go into battle ready to break and run at the first reverse. Tell
them victory was assured and that Zeus himself had blessed them, and they would fight like lions.
On occasions, of course, a battle would be lost. It was unavoidable. All that was needed then was
someone to blame. That was where idiots like Atheos were so useful. Talentless and flawed, Atheos
had secrets. At least he thought he had. He liked to torment and kill children. Should any of his
“prophecies” fail, Agamemnon would expose him to the army and have him put to death, saying the
gods had cursed the battle because of the man’s evil.
Agamemnon shivered. If only all seers were as talentless and malleable as Atheos. Kings should not
be subject to the whims of prophecy. Their destinies should be chained entirely to their will and their
abilities. What glory was there in a victory ordained by capricious gods? Agamemnon’s mood
darkened as he recalled his last visit to the Cave of Wings.
Damn the priests and their noxious narcotics! Damn them and their riddles! One day he would have
them all killed and replaced with men he could trust—fools like Atheos. But not yet. The priests of the