‘By travelling through the Forest of Gorgon.’
‘Then we are all dead.’
‘Now it is for you to trust me, Brontes. I am not a man who understands your mysteries, or the power of the Enchantment, but I know the ways of war and the nature of enmity.’
‘Gorgon will kill you, Parmenion. He hates Humans even more than I.’
‘I am counting on that,’ answered the strategos. ‘We have a saying, Brontes: The enemy of my enemy must be my friend.’
‘Gorgon has no friends. Not now... not ever.’
‘You know him?’ asked Parmenion softly. ‘I do not wish to speak of it.’
Derae lay awake, her spirit floating in the night sky, seeking signs of hidden watchers. But there were none, and this worried her. Did it mean that they feared her powers, or that they had somehow found a way to neutralize them and were even now spying on the caves? The thoughts were not comforting.
You need sleep, she told herself, settling down and covering herself with the rust-coloured cloak Aristotle had supplied. It was thick wool, warm at night, cool in the heat of the day, and she snuggled under it. But sleep would not come.
She had not known what to expect in this strange new world and had prepared herself for surprises. But Chiron had astonished her. He was almost a twin of Aristotle. Derae had gently reached out, touching the man’s memories, and in the same moment he became aware of her. He did not close off his thoughts but greeted her with a mind-smile.
He was not Aristotle, having no memories of Macedonia or the Greece she knew. Yet the halls of his memory were vast, full of vanished nations, changed worlds. He had walked in Akkady and Atlantis, in many forms - warrior and mystic, demi-god and demon, made immortal by the magic of the same golden stones possessed by Aristotle.
‘Are you satisfied?’ he had asked, jerking her back to the present.
‘Yes,’ she told him. That had been earlier in the day when Brontes and his hideous brothers had met with the centaurs and planned the ambush that saved the two Macedonians. Brontes had been scouting ahead and had seen the chase, judging quite rightly where it must end. Even so it was close-run and had left Derae trembling.
‘Where are you from, my dear?’ Chiron asked her as they walked from the battle site to the caves.
‘I am a priestess - a Healer,’ she answered. ‘A friend urged me to come here to aid Parmenion.’
‘This friend... does he look like me?’
‘Indeed he does.’
‘Curious. I wonder how much of our history is shared? I would like to meet him. Will he be following you through?’
‘I do not think so. There is something here which frightens him greatly.’
Chiron chuckled. ‘There are things here which frighten me greatly. Have you known Parmenion for long?’
‘We have met - but briefly,’ she answered, with honesty.
‘Now that is a surprise. I notice your gaze is never far from him. Is it merely that he is a handsome warrior?’
‘There are some subjects we should avoid, sir,’ she told him primly.
‘As you wish.’ He had left her then and walked back to join Brontes at the rear.
As the night wore on Derae slept fitfully, waking with the dawn. The child Alexander peeked in at the cave-mouth, smiling as he saw her. ‘Good day,’ he said, moving into the cave and squatting down beside her.
‘And to you, young prince. You are awake early.’
‘Yes, I don’t need much sleep. What is your name?’
‘You may call me Thena.’
‘Ah, but it isn’t your name, is it?’
‘I did not say that it was. I said that is what you may call me.’
‘Then you must call me Iskander.’
‘I shall... Iskander. Are you frightened?’
‘No,’ he replied with a wide grin. ‘Parmenion is here. There is no greater warrior in all of Greece - and he’s the best general too.’
‘You have much faith in him, Iskander. You must admire him greatly.’
‘After my father he is the man I love best. Where are you from?’
‘I am a Healer. I dwell in a Temple across the sea, near the ruins of Troy.’
‘Have you always been a Healer?’
‘No. Once I was just a girl, who dreamt of marrying the man she loved. But it was not to be.’
‘Why?’ The question was asked so simply that Derae laughed and reached out to ruffle his hair. As her hand was about to touch him she felt a burning pain in her palm and jerked back. His face crumpled. ‘I’m sorry. It hasn’t done that for a long time; I thought I was free.’
Steeling herself she reached out again, her fingers pushing back the golden fringe above his green eyes. The pain touched her once more, but she showed nothing. ‘It was just a cramp,’ she assured him. But he shook his head.
‘You are very kind, but please do not touch me. I do not wish to see you in pain.’
A dark shadow fell across the cave-mouth and Parmenion entered. ‘There you are,’ he said, kneeling down beside the prince. ‘Come, we must prepare for the march.’
‘Her name is Thena,’ said Alexander. ‘She’s very nice.’ Then he scampered from the cave and Derae looked into Parmenion’s eyes.
‘You have chosen your route, strategos?
‘Yes.’ He settled down beside her. ‘Are you sure we have not met, lady?’
‘What makes you think so?’ she countered.
‘I cannot say. Your face is not familiar to me, but I feel I know you.’
‘We have met,’ she admitted, ‘on the isle of Samothrace.’
‘You!’ he whispered. ‘You were hooded and veiled; I thought you were in mourning.’
‘I was. And I am. Now,’ she said, rising smoothly to her feet, ‘you said we must prepare for the march.’
‘Yes, of course. You know where I plan to go?’ he asked, pushing himself upright.
‘To the Forest of Gorgon.’
He smiled then, his face becoming remarkably boyish. Derae was forced to look away. ‘There is no other way,’ he said.
‘I know. What is your plan?’
‘We will walk to the edge of the forest. Brontes says it will take three days. I will leave the others there and make my way to Gorgon.’
‘Why must you risk this? What can you gain?’
Parmenion’s smile faded. ‘We can go no other way. In the open we will be hunted down: nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. The forest offers sanctuary and a chance to reach the Gulf.’
‘Brontes says the evil there is worse than the Makedones.’
‘Yes, and I believe him.’
‘Then how can you bargain with them? What can you offer?’
‘The dream of Iskander: to open the Giant’s Gateway and bring back the magic. Evil or not, they are still creatures of Enchantment.’
‘I will go with you,’ she said.
‘There is no need to risk yourself. I am capable of negotiating with the Forest Lord.’
‘Even so, I will accompany you. I have many talents, Parmenion. They will prove useful.’
‘I do not doubt it.’
For two days the group moved on, heading west, higher into the mountains, seeking the long pass that snaked down into the Forest of Gorgon spreading out below them in an ocean of trees. On the morning of the third day, as they sheltered from a sudden storm under a wide overhang of rock, they heard the sound of hoofbeats on the path. Attalus and Parmenion drew their swords and walked out into the storm, followed by Brontes and Chiron.
A stallion came trotting along the path, lifting its great head and whinnying as it saw the magus. ‘Caymal!’ shouted Chiron, running forward and stroking the horse’s neck. ‘It is good to see you, boy.’
Taking the beast’s mane, Chiron vaulted to the stallion’s back. The rain eased and the magus rode Caymal alongside Parmenion. ‘I shall scout on ahead,’ said Chiron. ‘I will find you before nightfall.’
‘Be careful, magus, we will need you and your m
agic if the Vores return,’ Parmenion warned him.
The storm passed overhead, the clouds breaking up behind it, allowing sunshine to bathe the mountains as the group moved on, the centaurs riding ahead. Parmenion ran back up the slope, shading his eyes and studying their back-trail.
Attalus joined him. ‘You see anything?’ the Macedonian asked.
‘I’m not sure. Look over there, beyond the pines. There is a cleft in the rocks. I thought I saw a man moving between them.’
‘I see nothing. Let’s move on.’
‘Wait!’ urged Parmenion, grabbing Attalus’ arm and hauling him down. ‘Look now!’
A line of men was moving down the slope several miles to the east, sunlight glinting from helms and spear-points. Above them a Vore circled. ‘How many?’ Attalus whispered.
‘More than fifty. Happily they are afoot and that means they could not come up to us before dark. Even so we must hurry.’
‘Why? They’ll have a difficult task trying to track us in the forest.’
‘First we need permission to enter the forest,’ said Parmenion.
‘From whom?’
‘The monsters who dwell there,’ answered the Spartan, moving back from the rim and loping down the pass.
‘Monsters? You said nothing of monsters,’ shouted Attalus, running after him.
Parmenion slowed and grinned. ‘I like to surprise you, Attalus.’ The smile faded and he gripped the other man’s shoulder. ‘I may not come back. If that be the case, do whatever you can to bring Alexander to Sparta.’
‘I’ll come with you. I’m getting used to your company.’
‘No. If we both die, what hope is there for the boy? You stay with him.’
It was dusk when the travellers came to the foot of the mountains. The centaurs rode off to find their own private places while Brontes, Steropes and Arges prepared a fire in the centre of a cluster of white boulders. Attalus and Alexander settled down beside the blaze to rest, while the woman Thena strolled from the camp to stand alongside the Spartan as he studied the forest.
‘When will you go in?’ she asked.
‘I would prefer it to be dawn,’ he told her. ‘But the Makedones are close behind and we may not have that long. Where in Hecate’s name is Chiron?’
‘It would be best if we entered the forest before nightfall,’ advised Thena.
Parmenion nodded. ‘Then let us be about it.’ Striding to the boulders, he outlined his plan to the others.
‘You are a madman,’ stormed Brontes. ‘I thought you would realize your folly. Don’t you understand? Gorgon will kill you - and if he doesn’t, he will betray you to Philippos.’
‘You may be correct, my friend, but our choices are limited. If I am not back by the dawn, you must make your own way to the Gulf as best you can.’
Without another word he swung on his heel and walked across the open ground towards the dark wall of trees.
Thena came alongside him. ‘Are we being observed?’ he asked, his voice low.
‘Yes. There are several beasts in the trees watching us. They are thinking of murder,’ she said.
She felt Parmenion stiffen, his stride faltering, his hand easing towards his sword. ‘We could go back,’ she whispered.
‘These creatures,’ he said softly, ‘you can read their thoughts?’
‘Yes - such as they are.’
‘Can you talk to them?’
‘No, but I can influence them. What do you wish them to do?’
‘Take me to the Lord Gorgon.’
‘Very well. Count up to twenty and then shout his name. That will give me time to work on them.’
Derae took several deep breaths, calming herself, then sent her spirit into the trees. The first creature she touched - part reptile, part cat - made her recoil. His thoughts were of blood, and rending flesh. There was little intelligence here and she moved on, coming at last to a Vore who sat in the highest branches of an oak, his pale eyes staring at the two humans. He also relished thoughts of murder, but Derae sensed curiosity too.
‘Gorgon!’ yelled Parmenion. ‘I wish to speak to the Lord Gorgon!’
The Vore tensed, unsure what to do. Derae’s voice whispered deep within his mind, sending up thoughts from his subconscious. ‘I must take them to the Lord. He will be angry if I do not. He will kill me if I do not. One of these others will tell him the man called for him. He will blame me.’
Spreading his wings, the Vore launched himself into the air, gliding down to land some twenty paces from the Humans.
Derae opened her eyes and instinctively reached out to take Parmenion’s hand.
The Vore moved closer, its taloned feet uncomfortable on flat ground. ‘You wish to see the Lord?’
‘I do,’ answered Parmenion.
‘You are from Philippos?’
‘I will speak only to the Lord Gorgon,’ Parmenion said.
‘I will lead you, Human.’
The Vore swung round and began to walk clumsily towards the trees, its treble-jointed feet making it stoop as it moved. Several times it slipped, but its wings flashed out to steady its balance.
Still holding Derae’s hand, Parmenion followed the creature. ‘What are the others thinking?’ he whispered.
‘One of them plans to leap upon you the moment you reach the shadows of the trees. Beware! But do not kill it. Leave it to me!’
Letting go of her hand Parmenion walked on, gripping the hilt of his sword. Sweat bathed his face and his heart was beating wildly. Yet not all his thoughts were of fear. The touch of the woman’s hand had been like fire moving through his blood, lifting him. The trees came closer, dark and forbidding, no sound emerging from the forest, no bird-song, not even the chitter of bats.
A reptilean creature sprang from an overhead branch and Parmenion leapt aside, but the beast plummeted to the ground and lay without moving. The Vore hissed out a warning to the other beasts nearby, then walked stiff-legged to the unconscious creature. ‘Is it dead?’ he asked.
‘Sleeping,’ Derae answered.
The Vore knelt over the body, ramming its talons through the creature’s neck and wrenching clear the head. ‘Now it is dead,’ he hissed, licking the blood from his claws.
Slowly they walked on through the gathering gloom. Derae could hear the sounds of beasts moving on either side of them and in the branches above, but no further violence threatened them.
‘Sweet Hera!’ whispered Derae.
‘What is it?’
‘The Lord of the Forest... the Gorgon. I touched him. Such hatred.’
‘Against whom is it directed?’
‘Everyone.’
The track widened and the Vore led them down into a huge hollow where a score of fires were lit and a monstrous figure waited, seated upon a throne of skulls. His skin was dark green, mottled with brown, his head enormous, his mouth cavernous and rimmed with fangs. But upon his head, in place of hair, writhed a score of snakes. Parmenion walked forward and bowed.
‘Death to your enemies, sire,’ he said.
The Hills of Arcadia
Far to the south, across the Gulf of Korinthos in the low hills of Arcadia, a bright light blazed briefly across the marble Tombs of the Heroes. It shone like a second moon, flickered and then died.
A shepherd boy saw the light and wondered if it presaged a storm, but his sheep and goats were undisturbed and there were no clouds in the night sky - the stars bright, the moon shining clear.
For a moment or two the boy thought about the light, then pushed it from his mind and huddled into his cloak, switching his gaze to his flock, eyes scanning the perimeters of the pasture to seek signs of wolf or lion.
But there was only one wolf close by, and the boy did not see him, for he was nestled down behind a marble gravestone in the nearby hills; and he too saw the light. As it flared up all around him, dazzling, terrifying, his thoughts of hunger fled before it.
The wolf was old, banished from the pack. Yet once he had been mighty, a leader
to be feared, cunning and deadly. But never in his long life had such a light blazed around him and it left him confused, uncertain. He lay still, lifting his grizzled head to sniff the air. Here was something he knew - and feared. The scent of Man.
And close by.
The wolf did not move. The scent was from his left and he slowly turned his head, yellow eyes watching for movement.
A man was lying on a slab of marble, his naked skin pale in the moonlight. He groaned and moved. Only moments before, the wolf had leapt to that same slab to look out over the flock, selecting his victim. There had been no scent of Man then. Yet there he was, stretched out.
The wolf had survived his many years by knowing when to be cautious and when to be brave. Men who appeared from the air, amid bright unnatural light, did not inspire courage in the old beast. And though he was hungry he slunk away towards the northern woods, far from the scent of Man.
Helm stirred. The stone was cold and uncomfortable on his back and he groaned as he woke, rolling to his side and swinging his powerful legs over the side of the slab. Sitting up, he yawned and stretched. The night was cool, but not unpleasant, and he saw a wolf loping away down the hillside towards the trees. Helm’s hand reached for his sword, and it was then he realized he was naked and unarmed.
‘Where is this place?’ he said aloud. ‘How did I come here?’
In those first few moments Helm was not concerned. He was a warrior - strong, tested in the heat of many battles, confident in his power. But as he searched his memories, fear akin to panic flared within him. He did not know how he had come to this strange place, but worse than this - so much worse - he realized with a shock which sent his heart hammering wildly that the corridors of his memory were silent and deserted.
‘Who am I?’ he whispered.
Helm. I am Helm.
‘Who is Helm?’ The name was small comfort, for with it came no memories of times past. Looking down at his hands, he saw they were broad and calloused, the fingers short and powerful. His forearms showed many scars, some jagged, others straight cuts. Yet how he had come by them was a mystery.
Be calm, he warned himself. Look around this place. It was then that he realized he lay within a graveyard, full of silent statues and marble tombs. Quelling his panic, he leapt lightly from the slab and explored. Some of the tombstones had cracked and fallen, others were overgrown with weeds. No one tended this place then, he thought. A cool wind hissed over the stones and he shivered. Where are my clothes, he wondered? Surely I have not walked across the land naked like a field slave? A gleam of light came from his left. For a moment only he thought a warrior stood there, moonlight gleaming from a full-faced helm of bronze and a gilded breastplate. He tensed, his hands curling into fists; then he saw that there was no silent soldier, only a suit of armour placed on a wooden frame.