Ektalis sat apart from his men under a small overhang of rock, watching the rain on the grey stone cascading down before him. He was drier here, but the wind occasionally blew the curtain of water against his bare legs, where it trickled behind the bronze greaves he wore. Staring gloomily out over the storm-lashed gulf, Ektalis wished he were back in Korinthos with his wife and sons.
He glanced to his left where the remaining ten men of his detachment sheltered in a shallow cave, then looked to his right where the five Makedones sat in the open, watching the sea.
Ektalis felt his hatred rise like bile in his throat. Loathsome barbarians! How such a cultured city as Korinthos could form an alliance with the Demon King was beyond him. But form it they had, and now he rode with the devil’s army.
If you were a man, he told himself, you would have stood against the decision in the agora when the councillors put the question to the public vote. But you did not... and stayed alive. The debate had been heated. Leman, Parsidan and Ardanas - good friends all - had spoken heroically, denouncing the alliance. All had been murdered within a day of the meeting. Now Philippos ruled.
Ektalis shivered as the wind hurled more rain over his drenched white cloak. ‘Find the Golden Child,’ his general had told him. ‘It is the King’s order.’
He is not my King, Ektalis wanted to say. But he had not. Instead he had saluted, gathered his century and set off for the west. The priests first said the boy was in the Forest of Gorgon. Now a message had been received saying he was aboard a ship heading towards the coast. There were ten bays where a ship could come in close to the shore and Ektalis ordered men to guard them all.
Then the five Makedones had arrived - grim, cold-eyed warriors, proud and haughty. What have they to be proud about, wondered Ektalis? Ten years ago they were mating with sheep in the barbarous hills of their native land. They have no culture - no history. But now they strode among civilized men, looking down upon them, treating them like slaves. Treating ms like slaves, he corrected himself.
But then that is what we are, he realized. Slaves to the dreams of a child-murdering madman.
A patch of blue appeared in the sky to the east, sunlight shining on the distant hills. For a moment only, Ektalis felt his spirits lift; then he saw the Makedones rise to their feet, one of them pointing at the shoreline. Ektalis glanced down to see a small child emerging from the water.
His heart sank. Everyone knew the boy’s intended fate - to be sacrificed to the Demon King.
The rain petered out, the clouds breaking. Ektalis moved back to his men. Sending two of them to fetch the soldiers from the other bays, the Korinthian led his warriors down the cliff path to the beach, following the five Makedones who had already drawn their swords.
Then came a sight which Ektalis would long remember. A dolphin swam into view, with a naked woman alongside it holding to its fin. It moved close to the shore, allowing the woman to find her feet and walk through the swell.
‘I praise thee, Poseidon, Lord of the Deep,’ whispered a man alongside Ektalis. The other Korinthians took up the prayer. ‘Look upon us with favour, bless our families and our city.’
The goddess moved forward, kneeling down beside the boy and putting her arms around him. The Makedones reached the sand and advanced upon her.
‘Stop!’ cried Ektalis, but the Makedones ignored him and he began to run, his men following. A lean Makedones warrior pulled back his sword, ready to ram it into the woman’s belly. Ektalis hurled himself at the man, knocking him from his feet.
‘What in Hecate’s name do you think you are doing?’ stormed the Makedones officer, a tall, broad-shouldered warrior with a trident beard.
‘She is one of Poseidon’s daughters, Canus. Did you not see her riding through the waves upon a dolphin?’
Canus shook his head. ‘You fool! She is a witch, that is all. Now stand aside.’
‘No!’ cried Ektalis, drawing his own sword. ‘She will not be harmed. Take the child, but the woman is not to be harmed.’
‘If you go against me in this,’ hissed Canus, his dark eyes gleaming, ‘then you go against my King. And that is treason.’
‘Even so,’ answered Ektalis, trying in vain to suppress his fear.
Canus saw his terror and laughed. The sound of his laughter ripped into Ektalis worse than a blade, and he felt his new-found courage melting before it.
‘Say the word, captain, and we’ll cut the dogs into pieces,’ said a Korinthian warrior. Ektalis was amazed. He knew the men held him in low regard - as well they might, for he had never been a man of action. Canus turned and stared at the eight Korinthians.
‘You think to thwart me? You believe five Makedones could not kill you all? Well, think on this, you worthless scum. My thoughts are linked to the High Priest, and his to the King. Everything that happens here is known already. And if you persist in this, then not only you will die but all your families. You understand?’ Canus saw the Korinthians relax, hands moving away from sword-hilts, and turned back to the woman. But as he moved towards her Ektalis leapt to stand before her.
Canus lunged at the Korinthian but Ektalis parried the blade, sending a reverse cut at the Makedones’ face. Canus swayed back, the sword slashing harmlessly by him. Then he sprang forward, his sword plunging into Ektalis’ groin. The Korinthian knew he was finished, but with his last strength he rammed his blade into Canus’ neck, slicing it up under the jaw-line, through mouth and tongue, before burying it in Canus’ brain. The Makedonian fell forward, his weight tearing the blade from Ektalis’ grasp as the dying Korinthian fell to his knees.
The goddess moved alongside him, pulling clear the sword. But his vision was failing and he fell against her.
‘I... am... so sorry,’ he whispered.
Derae eased the dying man to his back, ignoring the remaining Makedones. Her spirit flowed into him, moving through arteries and veins until she reached the terrible wound that had ripped into his lower belly. As swiftly as she could she began to work on the severed artery at the groin, closing it, increasing by tenfold its ability to heal. Moving on to the muscle wall she first slowed the flow of blood, then brought the tissue together in a perfect join. The Korinthian was wearing a leather kilt and this had prevented the blade from making deep penetration. The worst wound was to the groin, but with this now sealed the warrior would live. Derae returned to her body and opened her eyes.
‘The woman may live,’ said a tall Makedones, ‘but the boy is ours.’
‘Take him and go,’ said the Korinthian who had first spoken in support of Ektalis.
‘The boy stays,’ said another voice, deep and metallic, and Derae swung to see a warrior walk into sight. His face was masked by a bronze helm, and his armour was bright in the sunlight. He moved smoothly across the sand and, as he came closer, she saw that the bronze covering his features was no mask but living metal; bronze lids above bronze eyes, a bronze beard and mouth.
‘Who are you?’ asked the new Makedones leader, a hatchet-faced warrior called Plius.
‘I am Helm. And the boy is mine.’
‘Take him!’ yelled Plius. The four warriors sprang at the newcomer, but Helm’s sword slashed through the throat of the first man and came up to block a wild cut from the second. Helm spun on his heel, ramming his elbow into Plius’ face, smashing his nose and hurling him back into the path of the fourth attacker. The bloody sword rose and fell - and a second Makedones died. Helm leapt at Plius, who tried to block the deadly thrust; but the pain from his broken nose had partly blinded him and Helm’s sword slid home in his throat. The last Makedones threw himself at Helm, but the newcomer sidestepped, slashing his sword through the back of the man’s neck as he stumbled past. The soldier fell face-first into the sand and struggled to rise. Helm struck him again, the blade almost decapitating the man.
‘The boy is mine,’ said Helm again, turning to face the Korinthians.
At that moment Ektalis woke and stared up into Derae’s face. ‘Is this death?’
he asked.
‘No. You are healed.’
‘Thank you, goddess.’
Smiling, she helped him to his feet. The Korinthians moved forward, gathering around the captain, mystified and amazed by his recovery.
Derae looked at the newcomer. ‘Do you mean harm to the child?’ she asked.
‘No, lady,’ came the metallic voice, ‘but I need him.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘To free me from the curse of this helm.’
‘How do you know that he can do this?’
‘I was told to seek him.’
‘By whom?’
‘I do not know,’ he answered wearily. ‘I know so little.’
Derae reached into the man’s mind and saw that he spoke the truth.
There were no memories before waking upon the slab in the graveyard, no hint as to his identity.
The priestess withdrew, then called Alexander forward. ‘Can you help him?’ she asked.
For a moment the boy was silent. ‘This is not the time,’ he whispered.
Ektalis wrapped his white cloak around the shoulders of the naked goddess while two of the other Korinthians stripped a dead Makedones of his armour, pulling clear his tunic and offering it to Derae. The men were silent, awestruck. They had seen a goddess rise from the sea, and watched as their dead captain was brought back to life. And they had stood by as an enchanted warrior had slain the Makedones. Nothing would ever be the same for them again, and they waited for Ektalis to speak to them.
He drew them apart from the warrior, the goddess and the child, leading his men to a cluster of rocks some fifty paces to the west.
‘You have all seen the miracle,’ he said. ‘I felt the sword pierce my belly. Yet there is now no wound. You saw Poseidon’s daughter ride the dolphin. But where does that leave us, my brothers?’
No one answered. No one knew. Ektalis nodded, understanding their fears. The Makedones leader, Canus, had said it all. Their treachery was already known, their lives forfeit.
‘The Spartans still stand against the Tyrant,’ said Ektalis. ‘What choice do we have, save to join with them? Either that or ride to the nearest port and seek a ship to Aegyptus, there to sign as mercenary soldiers?’
‘What of our families?’ a young soldier asked.
‘What indeed?’ answered Ektalis sadly. ‘We have no hope of seeing them unless the Tyrant is overthrown.’
‘But the Spartans cannot win,’ said the lean, bearded waqaor who had first stood by Ektalis.
‘Yesterday I might have agreed with you, Samis. But today? Today I have seen the power of the gods - and they are not with Philippos. I was killed today - yet I live. I am a new man, Samis. I will never bow the knee to evil again.’
‘What of the others?’ asked Samis. ‘They didn’t see the miracles. When they arrive, how will we persuade them to follow us? What if they turn against us, or deliver us to the Tyrant?’
Ektalis nodded. ‘You are right. We must hide the bodies and send the others back to camp. No one else must know.’
Samis suddenly smiled. ‘This is madness,’ he said, ‘but I’ll stand by you. I hate the cursed Makedones - always have. If I have to die in battle I’d sooner it was while killing those scum.’
‘Are we all agreed?’ asked Ektalis.
‘Aye,’ chorused the other seven Korinthians.
‘Then let us hide the bodies and return to the cliff-top.’
Parmenion hauled himself clear of the breakers and collapsed on the beach. A wave broke over him, dragging him back, but he dug his fingers into the sand, fighting the undertow. Pushing himself upright he staggered towards the shelter of a shallow cave in the cliff-face. The rain lashed at his tired body and the wind howled around him. The cave was not deep, but the wind was less here and it was dry.
Slumping to the ground he looked back over the storm-lashed sea, but there was no sign of Attalus.
The rain began to ease, the clouds breaking. A thin shaft of sunlight broke through to the east, and a rainbow appeared like a huge bridge across the Gulf. It seemed then that the grey storm-clouds were fleeing from the light, and the sky shone clear blue. Within a few heartbeats the storm was but a memory, the sea clear and calm, the beach and cliffs bathed in sunlight. Parmenion stood and walked out towards the shoreline, his keen eyes scanning the shimmering water. Several bodies lay on the beach and one floated face-down in a shallow pool. They were all sailors from the Makedones trireme.
What now, strategos, he asked himself? What wonderful plan can you conceive?
Hearing a sound behind him he reached for his sword, but the scabbard was empty. Fists clenched he swung round - to see the giant Gorgon standing with hands on hips, watching him.
‘You were to give me my dream,’ said the monster softly. ‘So tell me, where is Iskander?’
‘I am alive,’ answered Parmenion, gazing into the glowing eyes. ‘You are alive. If Iskander lives, then so too does the dream. If not, then it is finished.’
‘I should not have listened to you,’ said Gorgon. ‘I should have killed you as I first planned. Perhaps I will even now. That would give me at least some small pleasure.’
‘No, it would not,’ said Parmenion swiftly. ‘For then you would truly have nothing. You have made your decision. You have set yourself against Philippos for good or ill. There is no turning back for you. Now swallow your anger and let us search for the others.’
‘You want me to search the seabed? Even now the crabs are feasting on the child. He was not Iskander.’ Lifting his serpent-framed head, Gorgon let out a deafening roar of anger and frustration. Parmenion tensed, waiting for the beast to turn on him.
‘Now you see his true soul,’ said the voice of Brontes, and Gorgon turned to see the minotaur sitting upon a boulder. Gone was the man. Once more he was the creature of Enchantment, horned and colossal.
‘I should have known you would return to haunt me, brother,’ muttered Gorgon. ‘What words of comfort do you offer?’
‘I have nothing to say to you. But the Human is right. Until we know Iskander is dead we must continue. And I shall - even if it means continuing in your foul company.’
Gorgon laughed, his good humour curiously restored. ‘I shall stay the course. But know this, Human,’ he said, turning to Parmenion. ‘If the child is dead, you will follow him to Hades.’
Parmenion said nothing, for in that moment the sweet voice of Thena flowed into his mind:
‘We are safe, Alexander and I. We are less than an hour’s walk to the east of you. Attains is asleep exhausted in the bay just to your west. I cannot locate the centaur.’
‘Thank you,’ said Parmenion, aloud.
‘You thank me for threatening your death?’ said Gorgon. ‘You are a strange man.’
‘The child is alive,’ said Parmenion. ‘The quest goes on.’
‘How do you know this?’ Brontes asked.
Parmenion ignored the question. ‘I am very weary. But if you are still strong, Brontes, I would be grateful if you could walk to the next bay and bring Attalus to us. He is resting there.’
‘It is the witch woman,’ said Gorgon. ‘She is alive, is she not?’
‘Yes,’ said Parmenion, with a wide smile. ‘Alive.’
‘Is she your lover?’ enquired the Forest King.
‘No.’
‘But you would like her to be.’
Parmenion walked away, but the words stayed with him. His heart had leapt when her voice whispered into his mind, and the weight of his emotion surprised him. Put such thoughts from your head, he told himself. She is not a priestess of Aphrodite selling her services for silver.
He lay down in the cave, allowing himself to drift into a healing sleep, but her face stayed in his mind and his thoughts were far from battles and enchantments, plans and strategies.
He dreamt he lay in a grove of oak trees back in Arkadia, where the sun was setting behind the mountains. Beside him lay Thena, her head on his shoulder, and he was at pea
ce. He stroked her hair and kissed her, but as he gazed lovingly at her face it shimmered and changed, becoming Derae.
Guilt touched him then, and the dreams faded.
Unaware of his torment, Derae also experienced the surge of joy when her questing spirit found Parmenion alive, and now her soul flew high above the war-torn land of Achaea, tracing the course of the Gulf as it ran east towards the white-walled city of Korinthos.
Far below her she saw the armies of the Tyrant, the phalanxes and cavalry of the Makedones, mercenary archers from the islands to the south, warriors from Illyria and Thrace; a host geared for slaughter.
She flew to the south, seeking the Sparta of this strange world. But before she reached it she saw another army marching to face the Makedones. Though fewer in number they marched proudly and her Talent reached out to them. They were the warriors of Kadmos, their city destroyed but their courage remaining. With them were soldiers from Argolis and Messenia, and rebels from Athens and Euboea. She sought out the Spartan force, and found to her surprise that only 300 were from the city.
Mystified, she moved on, flying further south until she hovered over the twin of the city of her birth. So much was the same - the Cattle Price Palace was still there, and the statue of Zeus at the top of the acropolis - but many of the streets were subtly different. The Avenue of Leaving did not boast a statue of Athena, the temple of Aphrodite was nowhere in sight; instead a barracks was built near the sacred lake. Yet, though it was not her home, still it was close enough to bring a touch of sorrow to her soul.
Sensing a presence close by she garbed her spirit in armour of white light, a blazing shield upon her arm. A figure hooded and robed in white appeared, the face in shadow.
‘Who are you?’ came a familiar voice.
‘Tamis?’ whispered Derae. ‘Is it you?’
‘Who else would it be to guard Sparta in this hour?’ responded the woman. ‘But I asked for your name.’
‘I am called Thena. I am not an enemy.’
‘I know that, child. Come to my home.’
The hooded figure became a glowing sphere that sank towards the city. Derae followed it to a small house nestling in a grove of cypress trees close to the sacred lake. There were only two rooms here, with little furniture and no rugs. The floors were baked earth, the chairs simply made and unadorned. In the tiny bedroom upon a pallet bed lay an old woman, her blind eyes open, her wasted frame covered by a single thin blanket.