‘Thank you,’ he said, reaching up and gripping Parmenion’s hand.
‘Give your thanks to Gorgon,’ answered the Spartan, pulling Brontes upright. ‘He carried you here.’
‘I don’t doubt he had his own reasons,’ Brontes remarked.
‘You overwhelm me with your gratitude, brother,’ said Gorgon, the snakes hissing on his skull and baring their fangs. He turned to Parmenion. ‘Now we must move on - unless of course you wish to rescue the centaur. Say the word, general, and I will surround the city.’
Parmenion smiled. ‘That will not be necessary. Lead on!’
‘But we cannot leave Camiron behind,’ wailed Alexander.
‘We cannot help him, my prince,’ said Parmenion sadly.
A dark shadow flickered across the grass and Gorgon glanced up. High above them a Vore circled, then flew off towards the north.
‘We have been seen,’ said Gorgon. ‘Now it will be a race to the sea.’
The march south-west was slow. For the past few days the companions had lived on sour berries and foul-tasting mushrooms, forced to drink brackish water from dark pools. Parmenion’s strength was fading, while Attalus twice vomited beside the trail. Only Gorgon seemed unaffected and tireless, striding on ahead with Alexander perched upon his shoulders.
They made camp at dusk beneath an overhang of stone, Gorgon permitting a fire which lifted the spirits of the Macedonians.
‘Once across the Gulf, how long until we reach Sparta?’ asked Attalus.
‘If we can find horses - three more days,’ Parmenion answered.
‘Why Sparta?’ put in Gorgon. ‘Why not straight to the Gateway?’
‘We are hoping to meet a friend there,’ the Spartan told him. ‘A magus of great power.’
‘He will need to be - for Sparta will not stand for long against Philippos. Even as you entered the forest my Vores were telling me of the Makedones’ march to the south. Korinthos has declared for the Demon King. Cadmos is overthrown and destroyed. Only one army stands now against Philippos. And they cannot defeat him. Sparta may already have fallen before we cross the Gulf.’
‘If that proves to be true,’ said Parmenion, ‘then we will make our way to the Giant’s Gateway. But Philippos has not yet faced a Spartan army and he may find it a punishing experience.’
Towards midnight, when the blaze had flickered down to coals, Parmenion awoke from a light sleep to hear the sounds of stealthy movement from the undergrowth to his left. Drawing his sword he woke Attalus, and the two men moved silently away from the fire.
The bushes parted and Camiron trotted towards the camp, carrying a dead doe across his shoulders. The centaur spotted the Macedonians and gave a broad smile. ‘I am a great hunter,’ he said. ‘Look what I have!’
Gorgon strode from the camp-site, moving away to the east. Attalus took the doe, skinning it and hacking away the choicest sections with his sword. Within minutes the air was rich with the smell of meat roasting over the freshly-built fire.
‘I swear by Zeus I never smelt anything finer,’ whispered Attalus, as the fat oozed into the flames.
‘You are magnificent,’ Alexander told the centaur. ‘I am very proud of you. But what happened to the men chasing you?’
‘No one is as fast as Camiron,’ replied the centaur. ‘I ran them until their horses were bathed in lather, then cut back to the west. Mighty is Camiron. No rider can catch him.’
The meat was tough and stringy, but no one cared. Parmenion felt strength seeping back into his muscles as he devoured his third portion and licked the fat from his fingers.
‘You realize,’ remarked Attalus, lying back replete, ‘that in Macedonia we would have flogged a hunter who tried to sell us meat as tough as that?’
‘Yes,’ said Parmenion, ‘but was it not wonderful?’
‘Beyond description,’ the swordsman agreed.
‘It would need to be,’ muttered Gorgon, stepping forward from the darkness. ‘The centaur has left a trail a blind man could follow. And the enemy are already close enough to smell the feast.’ Lifting Alexander to his shoulders, he set off towards the south.
‘Did I do wrong?’ asked Camiron nervously. Parmenion patted the centaur’s shoulder.
‘We needed to eat,’ he said. ‘You did well.’
‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ exclaimed Camiron, his confidence returning.
Refreshed, the companions walked on through the night and by dawn had reached the last line of hills before the Gulf of Korinthos. The pursuers were close behind now and twice, looking back, Parmenion had seen moonlight gleaming from armour or lance-point.
As they cleared the trees Gorgon took hold of a jutting tree-root, ripping it clear and holding it above his head. He stood, statue-still, and began to chant in a language unfamiliar to the Macedonians.
‘What is he doing?’ Parmenion asked Brontes.
‘He is drawing on the evil of the forest,’ answered the former minotaur, turning away and walking to the crest of the hill to gaze down on the dawn-lit sea.
Finally Gorgon ceased his chanting and, the root in his hand, strode past Brontes to begin the long descent to the beach below. The others followed him on the sloping path. Camiron found the descent almost impossible, slithering and sliding, cannoning into Brontes and knocking him from his feet. Parmenion and Attalus moved to either side of the centaur, taking his hands and supporting him.
At last they reached the shore. High above them the first of the enemy appeared.
‘What now?’ demanded Attalus. ‘Do we swim?’
‘No,’ answered Gorgon, lifting the tree-root above his head. Closing his eyes the Forest King began to chant once more. Parmenion glanced back up the cliff path. More than a hundred Makedones warriors were slowly making their way down the treacherous slope.
Smoke poured from the tree-root in Gorgon’s hand, floating out over the sea and down into the waves. The water turned black and began to boil, yellow gases erupting from the surface and flaring into flame. Then a dark shape broke clear of the waves and an ancient trireme - its hull rotted, its sails rags - floated once more to the surface of the Gulf. Parmenion swallowed hard as the ship glided in to shore. There were skeletal corpses still seated at the oars, and rotted bodies lay upon the shell-encrusted decks. Glancing back, he saw the Makedones were almost within bowshot.
The ship beached close in, a narrow gangplank sliding from the upper deck to thud against the sand.
‘If you want to live, climb aboard!’ yelled Gorgon, carrying Alexander up to the deck. Parmenion and Attalus followed, then Camiron cantered up the plank, his hooves slipping on the slimy wood.
The trireme glided back on to the currents of the Gulf, leaving the Makedones standing, horror-struck, on the beach. Several arrows and spears flew at the vessel, but most of the enemy warriors just stood and stared as the death ship disappeared into a grey mist seeping up from the night-dark sea.
Derae hid behind the trunk of a huge oak as the soldiers came into sight. The sea was so close, yet the way was barred. She scanned the cliff-tops looking for a way to slip past the Makedones, but the warriors had spread out, seeking other paths to the beach.
It was galling to have come so far and be thwarted. She had managed to evade the many patrols searching the forest and had emerged from the trees just as Parmenion and the others reached the shore.
Ducking back into the forest, Derae ran towards the west until the soldiers were far behind. Then she moved out along the line of the cliffs, looking for a way down. But, sometime in the recent past, the sea had finally clawed away at the last foundations of the cliff edge until great sections had sheared into the water. No paths were left. Derae slowed to a walk, then peered over the edge, seeking handholds that would enable her to climb down. But there were none that looked safe.
‘There is the witch!’ came a shout.
Derae spun, to see more soldiers running from the tree-line, fanning out to cut off her escape. Turning to the cliff-face, she loo
ked down at the breakers far below as they swept over partially submerged rocks. Taking a deep breath, she loosed her cloak and stood naked on the clifftop.
Then she launched herself out over the dizzying drop. Her body arched, then began to fall. Throwing her arms out to steady herself she felt herself spinning out of control and fought to stay calm, angling her body into a dive. The sea and the rocks rushed towards her and she fell for what seemed an age. At the last moment she brought her hands together, cleaving an opening into the water. The force of the impact drove all air from her lungs, but she missed the rocks and plunged deep below the waves, striking the sandy seabed with bone-crushing force. Pushing her legs beneath her she kicked for the surface, her lungs close to bursting. Up, up she moved towards the sunlight sparkling on the water above her.
I’m going to die! The thought gave her the strength of panic and she clawed her way upwards. As she came clear she only had time for one swift breath before a breaker hammered her down, hitting her body against a rock. This time she was calmer and swam under water, surfacing in the swell and allowing her bruised body to float gently for a while safe from the crashing waves. A spear splashed into the water alongside her, followed by a score of arrows. Ducking below the surface, she swam out to sea towards a thick white mist that seemed to seep up from beneath the waves.
Then she saw the ship of the dead gliding across the water.
‘Parmenion!’ she yelled. ‘Parmenion!’
The Spartan saw her and - incredibly - the ghost ship slowed, its broken prow swinging towards her. As it neared she reached up to grasp an oar-blade, but it snapped, pushing her below the waves. She surfaced to see Parmenion climbing down over the side of the ship, holding to an oar-port and stretching his arm towards her. Grasping his wrist, she felt herself lifted from the sea. Scrabbling for a foothold her heel came down on a rotting skull which cracked and rolled into the water, but then she was up beside Parmenion. His arm went around her, pulling her into a hug as he kissed her brow tenderly.
‘It is good to see you,’ he said.
‘And now you are seeing too much of me,’ she answered, pulling away and climbing to the deck.
Attalus removed his cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders. ‘Welcome back, lady,’ said the swordsman. ‘You are a most welcome sight.’
‘Thank you, Attalus.’ The warmth of his greeting surprised her and she returned his smile. Parmenion clambered over the deck rail and was about to speak when Gorgon’s voice rang out.
‘There is a ship to the west! A trireme!’
The companions moved to the deck rail and stared at the oncoming vessel. It was almost forty lengths back, but all three banks of oars were dipping smoothly into the water, the ship moving at ramming speed towards them.
‘Fasinating craft,’ observed Attalus to Derae. ‘See the bronze ram just ahead of the prow? That can rip a ship’s hull worse than a reef.’
‘Can we outrun them?’ Parmenion asked Gorgon.
The Forest King chuckled and pointed to the corpses all around them. ‘My crew have seen better days,’ he said, ‘but we shall see.’
From below decks came a terrible groaning and the oars lifted and dipped into the swell. Attalus looked over the side to see skeletal hands gripping the rotted wood. The ship picked up speed - but not enough to escape the chasing trireme.
‘Swing her left!’ bellowed Parmenion.
The corpse at the tiller rolled to the right, the death ship veering left. The attacking trireme slid past them, her rowers desperately dragging in their oars. Most were saved but the death ship clove into twenty or more, snapping them like sticks.
Arrows flashed from the decks of the trireme. Parmenion threw himself at Derae, pulling her to the deck. A shaft glanced from Attalus’ helm. Then the ships drew apart once more. The mist thickened around them as the death ship glided into the ghostly cloud.
For an hour or more they sailed on in silence, listening to the calls of the enemy as they searched the mist-shrouded sea. The clouds above them darkened, lightning forking across the sky as the sound of thunder boomed across the gulf.
Rain lashed down - the death ship was faltering, slowing.
‘My magic is almost gone,’ confided Gorgon. ‘Soon she will break up and sink - for the second time.’
They were less than a mile from land, but the storm was against them.
The mist fled against the force of the storm winds. As Parmenion glanced back, the trireme hove into view.
Lightning flashed once more, glinting from the bronze ram at the prow as it clove the water towards the death ship’s hull.
Alexander crouched down on the windswept deck, holding hard to a wooden post as the death ship rose and fell in the surging storm-tossed sea. From here he could only see the chasing trireme when the huge swell lifted the prow. A massive wave hit the death ship, a section of the upper deck collapsing under the weight of the water. Camiron lost his grip on the broken mast and was swept towards the raging sea. Alexander screamed, but no one heard him above the roar of the storm. Seeing Camiron in peril, Brontes threw himself across the rain-lashed deck, grabbing the centaur’s hand. For a moment it seemed as if the former minotaur had succeeded, but the ship rolled and a second wave broke over them, plucking both from the deck.
Alexander tried to stand, hoping to reach Parmenion at the stern, but he slipped and almost lost his grip on the post. Thena made her way to him, holding him tightly.
‘Camiron is gone!’ wailed the prince. Thena nodded, but said nothing. Another section of deck, close to the prow, sheared away into the sea.
Alexander reached out with his spirit, trying to locate Camiron.
At first there was nothing, but then his mind was filled with the sweetest music he had ever heard. High-pitched and joyous, it forced all thoughts of the centaur from his mind. The ship shuddered, the rotten wood groaning under the onslaught of the storm, but Alexander heard nothing save the ethereal song from below the sea. He let the music drift across his thoughts, waiting for his talent to translate it. But it was almost beyond his powers. There were no words, merely emotions, rich and satisfying. Reaching out further he sought the source, but the sound came from all around him in a harmony beyond imagining. When he had heard birds singing in the trees he had been able to fasten to each, for they were individual. But this music was different. The singers were empathically linked.
The death ship foundered, water gushing in through the open oarports. The deck split in half, the sea roaring around the child and the priestess. Alexander’s hands were torn from their grip on the post.
Thena tried to hold on to him but the ship rolled, spilling them both into the water. Alexander felt the sea close over him, but still the music filled his soul.
As he sank beneath the waves he felt a soft, curiously warm body alongside him, bearing him up. His head broke clear of the surface and he sucked in a deep breath, his hands thrashing out at the water as he struggled to stay afloat. A dark grey form surfaced alongside him, a curved fin on its back. He grabbed for the fin, holding to it with all his strength. The dolphin flicked its tail and swam towards the distant shore, the music of its song washing over the child and soothing all his fears.
The trireme’s ram smashed through the timbers of the death ship’s stern, the force of impact hurling Parmenion from his feet. Sliding across the rain-lashed deck he caught hold of a section of rail and struggled to rise. He saw Gorgon hurl the tree-root high into the air, watched it caught by the storm winds and carried to the trireme’s deck. Locked together now, the two ships wallowed in the swell. The rowers on the trireme tried to back oars, in an attempt to pull away from the doomed vessel. But the magic which kept the death ship afloat was gone and the full weight of the saturated timbers dragged down on the enemy trireme, pulling the prow down, the stern rising up from the water.
The death ship rolled, pitching Parmenion towards the sea. But he clung on grimly with his left hand, while his right scrabbled at the fastenings of
his breastplate. He would never be able to swim with its weight upon his torso. A massive wave crashed over the decks, pulling the Spartan loose and carrying him over the side.
His helm was ripped from his head - and still the breastplate was in place. Staying calm Parmenion drew his dagger, cutting away the last thongs holding the armour in place. Shrugging free of the breastplate, he surfaced in time to see the doomed ships vanish beneath the waves.
To his right, for a moment, he saw Attalus desperately trying to keep his head above water. Dropping his dagger Parmenion struck out towards the Macedonian. Still in full armour, Attalus sank beneath the waves. Parmenion dived deep, his powerful legs propelling him towards the drowning swordsman.
It was pitch-dark, but a flash of lightning speared the sky and, for a heartbeat only, Parmenion saw the still struggling Macedonian. Grabbing hold of Attalus’ shoulder-guard, Parmenion swam for the surface. His lungs were close to bursting as his head came clear. Attalus came up alongside him, but sank almost immediately under the weight of his breastplate. Parmenion dived once more, feeling for the dagger Attalus wore on his left hip. It was still in place. The Spartan drew it and sawed at the breastplate thongs. The blade was razor-sharp and the wet leather parted. Attalus ducked his head, pushing the breastplate up and away from him. Free of its weight, he rose to the surface.
A wave lifted the warriors high and Parmenion saw the distant shoreline. Keeping his movements slow and preserving his strength, the Spartan angled his body towards the beach, allowing the currents to carry him to safety.
He did not look back for Attalus, nor allow his mind to dwell on the fate of Alexander and the others. Alone against the might of sea and storm he anchored his thoughts to a single objective.
Survival.
Book Three, 352 BC
The Cliffs of Arkadia