I need no friends, he told himself. But the words echoed in his mind, flat and unconvincing. Life without Philip was worth nothing. He was the sun, the only warmth the swordsman had known since childhood.
He need not know you slew his child. Now this thought was tempting. At some point he could lure Alexander away from the others and kill him silently. Breaking Philip’s heart in the process.
As Attalus rolled to his side the darkness was lifting, thin beams of moonlight piercing the overhanging trees. There came a sound, a soft swishing, like a stick cutting the air, and Attalus looked up to see a Vore gliding down from the upper branches of a tall pine. The creature landed lightly, moving silently towards the sleeping Alexander.
The swordsman did not move. Wings folded, the Vore leaned over the child, reaching out...
Here, thought Attalus exultantly, was deliverance!
The creature’s taloned hands dropped towards Alexander. Attalus’ dagger flashed through the air, glittering in the moonlight to plunge into the Vore’s back. The beast let out a high-pitched shriek. One wing flared out, but the second was pinned to its back by the jutting dagger. Gorgon surged to his feet and ran towards the Vore. The dying creature stumbled, pitching face-first to the ground. Parmenion and the others, awakened by the Vore’s screams, gathered around the still twitching corpse.
Attalus stepped past them, ripping clear his dagger.
‘Be careful,’ snapped Gorgon, ‘the blood is poisonous. One touch and you will die.’ Attalus plunged the blade into the earth at his feet cleaning the dagger on the moss before returning it to its sheath.
Gorgon flipped the Vore to its back. ‘He was one of mine,’ he said. ‘It is time to leave.’
‘You saved me,’ said Alexander, moving alongside Attalus and gazing up into the swordsman’s face.
‘Are you surprised, my prince?’
‘Yes,’ answered the boy.
‘Are you?’ Attalus asked Parmenion.
The Spartan shook his head. ‘Why should I be? Did you not give me your word?’
‘Spoken words are small noises that vanish in the air,’ said Attalus softly. ‘Do not put your faith in words.’
‘If that were true, you would not have intervened,’ countered Parmenion.
Attalus had no answer and swung away, his thoughts full of guilt and self-loathing. How could you be so stupid, he railed at himself? Moving back to his bed he gathered the cloak he had used for a blanket, brushing the dirt from it and fastening it once more to his shoulders with the brooch of turkis given to him by Philip.
The others were all preparing to leave - save the priestess, who was sitting quietly beneath a spreading oak.
Gorgon’s voice broke the silence. ‘Stay close to me, for where we travel it is very dark and the dangers are many.’ But still Thena sat beneath the tree. Attalus walked across to her.
‘We are ready,’ he said.
‘I will not be travelling with you,’ she whispered.
‘You cannot stay here.’
‘I must.’
Parmenion joined them and the seeress looked up at the Spartan. ‘You go on,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘I will join you when I can.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Parmenion, kneeling down beside her.
‘I must delay the Makedones - and fool the Demon King.’
‘How?’ Attalus asked.
‘Like that!’ she said, pointing back across the camp. Attalus and Parmenion turned... to see themselves apparently still sleeping by a fire that now burned brightly. Across the clearing the form of Gorgon could be seen, lying beside the minotaur Brontes, while Alexander snuggled against the sleeping centaur. ‘You must go swiftly - before the spirit of Philippos returns.’
‘I will not see you in danger,’ said Parmenion.
‘We are all in danger,’ she insisted. ‘Go now!’
Attalus could see Parmenion had more to say and seized his arm. ‘No more foolishness, remember? The boy must be saved. Now come on!’ Parmenion pulled clear of his grip, but moved away to stand alongside Gorgon.
‘She has great power,’ said the Forest King, gazing at his own sleeping form several paces away.
The Spartan did not answer and Gorgon led the way into the depths of the forest; Parmenion and Brontes followed, Attalus bringing up the rear just behind the centaur and the boy.
As Gorgon had said, the trail was dark, and they made slow progress for the first two hours. Then the dawn light began to seep through the intertwined branches, though no bird-song greeted the morning and all was silent.
But towards mid-morning Gorgon, at the front of the small column, suddenly waved his hand and darted into the undergrowth, moving with surprising speed for all his bulk. Swiftly the others followed him, Parmenion grabbing Camiron and pulling the centaur to his side. For a moment the beast’s hooves flailed in the air. ‘Quiet!’ hissed the Spartan. From the north came the sounds of many men trampling through the undergrowth. Dropping to his belly, Attalus eased back the bush before him and saw a troop of soldiers emerging from the trees some thirty paces away. They were marching in single file, their spears held carelessly to their shoulders.
After they were gone Gorgon rose from his hiding place and the group set off once more, this time angling to the north.
Parmenion dropped back alongside Attalus. ‘How many did you count?’ asked the Spartan.
‘Eighty-five. You?’
‘The same. That means there are more ahead of us.’ Parmenion glanced back. ‘I hope she escapes them.’
Attalus nodded, but said nothing.
Derae sat in the moonlight, her thoughts sorrowful. This, she knew with calm certainty, would be her last night alive. In order to keep the Makedones away from Parmenion she needed to hold the spell, but in so doing was forced to remain in the clearing, drawing the warriors of the Demon King towards her.
The night was cool, the trunks of the nearby trees bathed in silver. A fox moved out into the clearing, drawn to the carcass of the Vore. Carefully it moved around the body and then, catching the putrid scent of the dead beast, it slunk away into the undergrowth.
Derae took a deep breath. The golden stone was warm in her hand and she gazed down at it, marvelling at its beauty and its power. Aristotle had given it to her as they stood in the Stone Circle.
‘Whatever you wish - within reason - the stone will supply,’ he had told her. ‘It will turn stones to bread, or bread to stone. Use it with care.’ The stone was but a fragment of gold, veined with slender lines of jet. But as she held the spell in place the black lines thickened, the power in the fragment fading.
‘Where did you come by it?’ she had asked the magus.
‘In another age,’ he answered, ‘before the oceans drank Atlantis and the world changed.’
Closing her fist around the stone, she looked across the clearing at the sleeping image of Parmenion. It was a surprising thought that these five days in Achaea had doubled their time together.
Her thoughts sped back over the years, her mind’s eye picturing the gardens of Xenophon’s home near Olympia where she and Parmenion, uncaring of danger, had kissed and touched and loved. Five days: the longest and shortest five days of her life. The longest because her memories dwelt in them, seizing on every passionate moment, the shortest because of the weight of the barren years that followed.
The seeress Tamis was the source of all the pain Derae had endured, yet in truth it was impossible to hate her for it. The old woman had been obsessed by a dream, her mind dominated by one ambition - to prevent the birth of the Dark God. Walking the paths of the many futures, Tamis had discovered all the identities of the men who could be used by Chaos to sire the demon. What she needed was a man to use as a weapon against them - a Sword of the Source.
In order to achieve her desire she caused Derae to be taken from Sparta and hurled into the sea off the coast of Troy, her hands bound behind her. When Parmenion discovered her fate it unleashed within him a terrible ha
tred, changing his destiny and setting him on the path of revenge. All this had been planned by Tamis, in order that Parmenion would become the man of destiny she longed for.
It would have been better, thought Derae, had I died in that sea. But Tamis had rescued her, keeping her prisoner in the Temple, filling her head with lies and half-truths.
And for what?
Parmenion did kill all the possible fathers save one. Himself.
‘I will not miss this life,’ she said aloud.
She shivered as fear touched her soul. Gazing up with her spirit eyes she saw the image of Philippos hovering in the air above the camp-site, his golden eye staring at her and probing her thoughts. Filling her head with memories of the past she obscured all her fears of the present, while the power of the Eye whispered through her mind like a cold, cold breeze.
In the distance she could hear the stealthy sounds of men creeping through the forest and her fear swelled. She licked her lips, but there was no moisture on her tongue. Her heart began to hammer.
Just then she felt the elation of Philippos as he gazed down on the sleeping child. Anger flared in Derae and she let fall the spell, revelling in the King’s shock and disappointment as the bodies disappeared.
Rising from her body, she faced Philippos. They have escaped you,‘ she said.
For a moment he did not reply, then a smile appeared on his handsome, bearded face. ‘You have been clever, witch. But no one escapes me for long. Who are you?’
‘The enemy,’ she answered.
‘A man is judged by the strength of his enemies, Derae. Where is the boy?’
The golden eye glowed, but Derae fled for the sanctuary of her body, her hand closing around the golden stone and shielding her thoughts.
‘I do hope you will gain some enjoyment from your last hours alive,’ came the voice of the King. ‘I know my men will.’
Soldiers burst clear of the bushes surrounding the clearing. Derae stood - and waited for death, her mind suddenly calm.
Two men ran forward to pin her arms, while a third strode out to stand before her. ‘Where are they?’ he asked, his right hand on her throat, his fingers digging into her cheeks.
‘Where you will not find them,’ she answered icily. Releasing her chin he struck her savagely with his open hand, splitting her lip.
‘I think you would be wise to tell me,’ he warned her.
‘I have nothing to say to you.’
Slowly he drew his dagger. ‘You will tell me all I wish to know,’ he assured her, his voice deepening, his face flushing. ‘If not now - then later.’ His fingers hooked into the neck of her tunic, the dagger slicing through the material, which he ripped clear to expose her breasts and belly. Sheathing the blade he moved in, his hand sliding over her skin, fingers forcing themselves between her legs.
She felt her emotions swamped by the surging lust of the men all around her, then the soldier whispered an obscenity in her ear.
All her adult life Derae had followed the path of the Source, knowing with cold certainty that she would rather die than kill. But in the moment he spoke all her training fled away, taking with it the years of devotion and dedication. All that was left was the girl from Sparta - and in her ran the blood of a warrior race.
Her head came up, her eyes meeting his. ‘Die,’ she whispered. His eyes widened. The stone in her hand grew warmer. Suddenly he gasped and fell back with blood spurting from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth.
‘She’s a witch!’ someone shouted, as the officer’s lifeless body slumped to the earth. The men holding her tightened their grip on her upper arms, but she raised her hands - which transformed themselves into cobras, hooded and hissing. The soldiers leapt back from her. Spinning on her heel she pointed the snakes at them. Lightning leapt from the serpents’ mouths, smashing the men from their feet.
Derae swung once more, as the remaining soldiers drew their weapons and rushed at her. A flash of brilliant light seared across the clearing, blinding the warriors, causing them to stumble and fall.
In the confusion that followed Derae strode from the camp-site and into the woods.
Derae moved silently towards the south, drawing her cloak tightly around her naked frame. The trees were thinner here, the stars bright above them, and she broke into a loping run, following a path that sloped down to where a dark stream rippled over black stones.
In the distance behind her she could hear the shouts of the soldiers, but she knew they would not catch her now. They were blundering around in the dark, with no idea of the direction she had taken.
Come daylight it would be different, when they could send the Vores soaring above the trees to hunt her in the sunshine. But this was the night - and it was hers! She had waited for the enemy, fooled them and killed at least one. A savage joy flowed through her, filling her body with strength as she ran.
Suddenly she faltered and slowed.
I killed a man!
The joy vanished, to be replaced by a numbing sense of horror. What have you become? she asked herself.
Her gaze flickered to the silent trees, her spirit recoiling from the malevolence of the forest. This place of evil had touched her, eroding all her beliefs, all the years of her dedication.
Falling to her knees Derae prayed for forgiveness, sending her thoughts up and out into the void and beyond. But she felt them echoing in a vast emptiness, seemingly unheard and certainly unanswered. Wearily she rose and walked on toward the south, making herself one promise that she swore to keep for as long as she lived. Never would she kill again.
Never.
On the morning of the third day since they had left the priestess, Parmenion awoke to see Gorgon kneeling over the sleeping form of Brontes. The minotaur was not moving and Gorgon’s hand was resting lightly on the creature’s chest. Parmenion’s heart sank. For the last two days the minotaur had stumbled on, unspeaking, his eyes weary and bloodshot, his limbs leaden.
‘You can make it,’ Parmenion had told him the previous afternoon. But Brontes had not replied, his huge bull’s head sagging forward, his gaze locked to the ground at his feet. The group had made camp early, for Brontes had been unable to keep up with the pace. Now Parmenion rose and moved alongside Gorgon.
‘Is he dead?’ he asked.
‘Soon,’ answered Gorgon. Parmenion knelt by the minotaur. Blood was seeping from both nostrils and he was barely breathing.
‘What can we do?’ the Spartan asked.
‘Nothing,’ grunted Gorgon.
‘How soon will we be clear of the forest?’
‘Not for another day.’
‘In any direction?’ queried the Spartan.
Gorgon shook his head. ‘No. We could move directly east; then we would be at the edge of the forest, but maybe a day’s march from the sea. It is the kingdom of Aetolia - close to the town of Calydon. But the King of Aetolia is a vassal of Philippos, and he keeps a force of over three hundred men at Calydon. They will be watching the forest.’
‘Can you carry Brontes?’
Gorgon’s huge hand snaked out, his fingers curling around Parmenion’s cloak and dragging the Spartan forward. ‘Are you insane? I have given up a kingdom for this quest of yours. Many of my own people have turned against me. And why? So that I can bring the Golden Child to the Giant’s Gateway. Now you would risk it all for this? he demanded, pointing to the dying minotaur.
‘No, I will not risk it all. But the men watching the forest cannot be everywhere. And there is something else, Gorgon,’ said Parmenion softly. ‘There is friendship. There is loyalty. Brontes has risked his life on this quest, saving mine in the process. I owe him a debt - and I always repay.’
‘Ha! What if it was me lying there? Would you risk your life for me?’
‘Yes.’
Gorgon relaxed his grip and smiled, his pale eyes glowing, his expression unreadable. ‘I believe you would. You are a fool... as Brontes is a fool. But then what is one more foolishness? Yes, I will carry him to the sunlight
, if that is your wish.’ The Forest King pushed his great hands beneath the minotaur, lifting him with ease and draping the body over his shoulder.
Parmenion shook the others awake and they followed Gorgon to the east. Within the hour the trees thinned out and bird-song could be heard in the distance. At last they reached the edge of the forest and emerged on to a hillside overlooking a walled town.
Gorgon laid the minotaur on the grass and backed away. Parmenion knelt beside Brontes, his hand resting on the creature’s shoulder. ‘Can you hear me, my friend?’ he whispered.
A low groan came from Brontes, but his eyes opened. Blood was seeping over the lids in crimson tears.
‘Too... late.’
‘No. Use whatever strength you have. Try.’
The minotaur’s eyes closed as Gorgon moved alongside Parmenion. ‘Come away. He needs privacy. The sun will feed him and there is a little Enchantment left here. I can feel it burning my feet.’
Parmenion stepped back into the shade of the trees, turning his eyes from the body on the grass.
‘Will he live?’ asked Alexander, taking Parmenion’s hand.
‘If he has the will,’ the Spartan answered.
‘I am very hungry,’ said Camiron. ‘Will we eat soon?’
‘We are all hungry,’ snapped Attalus. ‘My belly thinks my throat has been cut. So stop complaining!“
‘I will hunt something,’ announced Camiron. Before anyone could speak the centaur, bow in hand, galloped down the hillside, heading south-east.
‘Come back!’ yelled Parmenion, but Camiron carried on running - in full view of the sentries on the walls of Calydon. Within minutes the gates opened and a score of riders issued forth, racing in pursuit of the centaur.
‘At least they are heading away from us,’ observed Attalus. Parmenion said nothing. Glancing back to Brontes he saw the body bathed in dazzling sunlight, the minotaur’s skin glowing like gold. The great head began to shrink, the horns disappearing. Brontes’ right arm twitched and he groaned. The light faded. Parmenion and Gorgon moved alongside him; once more he was a golden-haired young man, handsome and blue-eyed.