‘I can feel your presence,’ she said aloud, her voice faint like a breeze whispering through dead leaves. ‘I have been waiting for you.’
Derae could find no words. This was not the Tamis she had known, the woman whose meddling had caused the birth of the Dark God, yet even so the sight of this twin caused a mixture of emotions Derae found hard to contain.
‘Speak to me, child,’ said Tamis. ‘I have waited so long for you that I often wondered if the visions had been false.’
‘Why have you waited? What can I do for you?’
The old woman smiled. ‘Only the Source could answer that, and I am but the least of His followers. But I have seen the Chaos Spirit abroad in the land, listened to the screams of the dying, heard the cries of the dispossessed and widowed. These have been hard years, Thena. Hard, lonely years. Even now, with your coming, the darkness moves towards my city.’
‘What would you have me do?’
‘Is he with you?’
‘Of whom do you speak?’
‘The One who is to be. The strategos.’
‘Yes, he is here.’
Tamis sighed and closed her opal eyes. ‘The Spartan King is riding to his death. Nothing will change that. He is a noble man, a good man. I have helped him through these desperate years. But even now the Fates have worked against me. This is the time of the Festival of Apollo, when the priests say no Spartan army can march, so the King is leading the forces of Light with only his personal bodyguard. And he will die.’
Derae said nothing. Even in her own world Sparta had suffered through such stupidities. When the Persian King Xerxes led his army into Greece, the Spartans had refused to march against him because of a religious festival. And then, as now it seemed, the King had led his personal bodyguard of 300 men to block the pass of Thermopylae. Three hundred against a quarter of a million! Their courage and valour had held against the Persian horde for several days, but at the last they were slain to a man.
‘What was your vision?’ Derae asked.
‘I saw the strategos and the Golden Child, and a warrior with a face of bronze. And with that vision was a rainbow and the fleeing of a storm. I hoped it meant the Dark God was vanquished. But perhaps it did not. Perhaps my hopes have been in vain.’
‘Did you try to prevent the birth of the Dark God?’ asked Derae, remembering the dark deeds of Tamis in the world of Greece.
‘I considered it, but it seemed folly. Was I wrong?’
‘No,’ said Derae. ‘You were wise, very wise. I will bring the strategos here. But I do not know what he can achieve.’
‘You will understand very soon, child. Very soon. May the Source bless you.’
‘He has, in many ways,’ said Derae, but there was no response from the blind seeress.
Parmenion awoke from an uneasy sleep, his mind whirling with the many problems he faced. His head ached as he sat up and he sucked in a deep breath. Alexander was alive, and that in itself was a victory; but the strategos knew that, in battle as in life, only the final victory counted. And all the odds favoured Philippos.
One step at a time, he cautioned himself. Brontes had not yet returned with Attalus and Gorgon was sitting nearby staring out over the Gulf. Parmenion leaned his back to the cliff-face, calming his thoughts.
Through most of his life he had been forced to battle against the odds. In Sparta, as a despised mix-blood, he had fought alone against the hatred of his fellows. In Thebes he had engineered a victory against the Spartan overlords, inflicting the first major defeat on a full Spartan army. In Persia he had led the forces of minor satraps and governors, always finding the path to conquest. And in Macedonia he had helped a young King, beset by enemies, to build a nation feared across the world.
But here, in this enchanted realm, he was not a strategos or a general. He was a weaponless stranger in a world he scarcely understood. There were some similarities. Philippos was King of Makedon and had built an army to crush all opposition. Sparta was still the city of heroes. But here magic ruled; creatures like Gorgon, Brontes and Camiron were accepted as a normal part of life. Winged beasts patrolled the skies and the Demon King could read the hearts and minds of his enemies.
How then can I defeat him, Parmenion wondered?
Chiron had said the King was invulnerable to all weapons of war, his body immune to poisons. ‘I only ever saw him hurt once,’ the magus had told him. ‘He was a child and playing with a sharp dagger. It cut his finger and blood flowed. It healed very swiftly. His mother scolded him in my presence, then turned to me, offering me the blade. “Cut him,” she told me. At first I refused, but she insisted. So I took the dagger and gently ran the edge over the skin of his arm, but could make no impression.’
‘Then why did it cut him?’ Parmenion had asked.
‘The sorcery protects him from his enemies, but he is within the spell. Should he choose, he could no doubt kill himself.’
Parmenion smiled at the memory. All he had to do was find a way to defeat the greatest army of this strange world, outthinking a King who could reach his mind and ultimately forcing that King to take his own life.
‘Why do you smile?’ asked Gorgon.
‘Why should I not? The sun is shining.’
‘You are a curious man, Parmenion,’ observed the Forest King, turning his great head to stare out over the waves. Parmenion sat quietly, watching the creature. The skin of Gorgon’s huge shoulders seemed lighter here in the sunlight, the mottled colours of the forest, dark green and rust brown, giving way to the paler hues of summer grass and polished pine. The snakes hung lank and lifeless from his head and his eyes had lost their demonic glow.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked the Spartan.
‘I am not looking. I am remembering. It is more than a century since I last gazed upon the sea. I had a house once, with Persephone, on the island of Andros. We often came to the beach, to swim and to laze. The memories have been buried too long. Ah, but she was a beauty, her skin pale as marble, even in summer, her eyes like turkis, yet not cold and blue but warm and enchanting as the midsummer sky.’ Gorgon sighed, then a low growl rumbled from his misshapen mouth. ‘Why do I talk like this? My mind is failing.’
‘You have spent too long in the forest,’ said Parmenion softly.
‘Aye, that is true. Persephone used to sing. We would sit under an awning watching the sunset over the waves, and she would sing. Yet I can remember no words. All that fills me is the memory of peace and joy. But I was a man then, and arrogant in the ways of youth. I could not begin to imagine a time when she would not be beside me, sending the sun to sleep with a song.’
‘No one can take that from you, my friend. Not ever.’
‘I have no friends, Human,’ snapped Gorgon, surging to his feet and walking away. Parmenion watched the giant for a few moments and then followed him to the shore-line.
‘I do not pretend to know your pain,’ said the Spartan, ‘and it would be trite to point out that we all carry scars. But I will do all that I can to fulfil my promise to you. Iskander tells me he is the chosen one. I believe that, and I will risk my life to see that he has the chance to prove it. But that is the greater quest, Gorgon, and for another day. Today we are a small group, battling for survival, and friendship is not to be spurned - not even by a child of the Titans.’
‘You seek to lecture me?’ hissed Gorgon.
‘Perhaps I do. Perhaps your years in the slime of the dark forest have affected your perceptions.’
Gorgon nodded. ‘Perhaps they have,’ he conceded, his voice carrying no conviction. Then he smiled. ‘Or perhaps I am now what I always was, a distorted monstrosity.’
‘If that were true, would Persephone have loved you?’
‘You do not understand, Human. How could you? The war was terrible and we all committed acts which would turn your soul to ashes. There is no escape from those memories. My brother Brontes is correct - you do not know what I have done, what colossal evils are stamped upon the pages of his
tory in my name.’
‘Nor do I need to,’ answered Parmenion, ‘for you are right that they would change my thoughts of you. But that was yesterday and whatever is hidden in the past can remain there. Today you stand on the side of the just, and seek to save the people of the Enchantment. And yes, if you succeed it will not wash away the evil of the past, but it will give at least some hope for a future.’
‘How can we succeed,’ asked Gorgon, ‘when all the forces of Philippos are ranged against us?’
‘We are not talking of defeating Philippos in a battle. We are speaking of opening the Giant’s Gateway. If the Spartans can hold the Demon King for a little while, we can bring Iskander to his destiny.’
Gorgon sighed. ‘I will not travel on with you, Human. Now that you are - for the moment - safe I will return to the forest to gather what followers remain and bring them to the Gateway.’
‘How will you bring them all across the Gulf?’
‘We will not cross the Gulf. We will travel the old paths, between Achaea and Hades. No Human may pass them and keep his sanity. But my... people... can walk them. I have played my part, Human. I have brought you across the sea. Now it is for you to bring Iskander to the Gateway.’
‘We will succeed or die, my lord. It is all we can do. But let us, at least, part as friends.’
‘Why is that important to you?’
‘It is important to both of us,’ answered Parmenion, extending his hand.
Gorgon glanced down at it, then looked into Parmenion’s eyes. ‘I have said it before, but you are a strange man, and I do not remember the last time I talked of friendship.’ His arm came up, his fingers gripping Parmenion’s hand, and they stood for a moment in silence.
Then the Forest King waded out into the sea and began to swim.
It was late afternoon before Brontes returned with Attalus. The swordsman’s face was bruised, his right eye swollen where a wave had dashed him against the rocks, but he did not complain as he sank down beside Parmenion.
‘It was difficult to rouse him,’ said Brontes, ‘but he refused my offer to carry him.’
‘I am glad to see you alive,’ said Parmenion, gripping the Macedonian’s shoulder.
Attalus smiled. ‘You saved my life. I shall not forget it. The breastplate would have killed me. What now?’
‘We will find the others and make our way south.’
‘And after that?’
‘I do not know.’
Attalus nodded. ‘No, of course not. It is just... well, I am used to you, strategos. And my faith in your talents grows day by day.’
‘I cannot see why. After all, I failed to get the trees to uproot and march with us.’
Attalus chuckled. ‘Forgive me for that, Spartan, but that cursed forest seeped into my soul. By all the gods, I swear it is good to be back in the sunlight. Brontes tells me Alexander is safe?’
‘Yes,’ answered Parmenion. ‘And now it is time to find him. But first I must speak with Brontes.’ The Spartan rose and walked to where the minotaur sat on a boulder overlooking the sea.
‘Where is my brother?’ Brontes asked.
‘Gone.’
Brontes nodded. ‘I thought he might stay the course. But what can you expect from such a creature?’
‘He told me he was returning to gather his forces, and that he would bring them to the Giant’s Gateway. I think that he will.’
The minotaur lifted his head and laughed. ‘You cannot trust him, Parmenion. He is a creature of darkness.’
‘We shall see. But we must proceed as if we do believe him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if Gorgon does lead his beasts towards the south it is likely the people of the Enchantment will think he is attacking them.’
‘As he probably will,’ Brontes muttered.
‘Listen to me: put aside your hate. I need you to travel alone to the woods around the Gateway. I want you to prepare the way for Gorgon.’
‘Never! He is a traitor and a killer.’
‘Then I shall see Iskander does not fulfil his destiny.’
The minotaur stormed to his feet. ‘You dare to threaten me, Human?’ he raged.
‘Yes,’ answered Parmenion. ‘What is wrong with you? The war is over - and he is your brother. Without his aid none of us would be alive.’
‘For his own purposes he helped us. Do not forget that!’
‘And are you any different? Did you not threaten to kill me? You are only here because of Iskander.’
‘You don’t understand! Gorgon killed my children and raped my... our... mother. There is no good in him. He was born in darkness and he thrives on it. And you want me to prepare the way? Better for the Enchantment to die than for a creature like him to benefit from its return.’
‘You do not believe that,’ whispered Parmenion. ‘That is the voice of your hatred. We are not talking here about your grief, or your bitterness. We are considering the future of all the people of the Enchantment. You have no right to make decisions concerning them. You are a dying race with one hope of survival: Iskander. Now go to the woods and do what must be done.’
‘You will deny us Iskander if I refuse?’
‘No,’ admitted Parmenion. ‘I will not deny you. That was the voice of my anger. Will you do as I ask?’
‘I will think on it,’ promised Brontes, but he looked away as he spoke, avoiding Parmenion’s eyes.
The Plain of Mantinea
Helm was the first to see the two men emerge from the tree-line and walk towards the waiting group. He studied them as they approached, his hand resting lightly on his sword-hilt. The nine Korinthians all stood, but the golden-haired child shouted a name and began to run towards the newcomers.
The first of the men leaned forward to sweep the child into his arms. He had no sword, Helm noticed, but he moved like a warrior, smoothly and always in balance. The second man was pale-eyed, his movements cat-like and sure. The lion and the wolf, thought Helm.
The taller man lowered the child to the ground, ruffling his hair, then swung his gaze over the waiting warriors, coming at last to Helm. There was no expression in his blue eyes as he saw the face of bronze.
The Korinthians were waiting, but the newcomer strolled directly to Helm. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, the tone easy, the question spoken without a sign of arrogance yet with quiet authority. Here, thought Helm, is a man used to command.
‘I wish I could tell you. But I know nothing of my past, save that I was told to find the child.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘I do not know that either - but it was not to do him harm.’
‘My name is Parmenion. If you ride with me, you follow my orders. If that should not suit you, then you can leave now.’
‘It suits me,’ answered Helm easily.
The man smiled and nodded, then turned to the Korinthians, singling out Ektalis. ‘My thanks to you, sir, for helping the boy. You and your men have risked much, and I applaud your courage. I see there are enough horses for all of us, and I think it wise we move south before continuing our conversation. The enemy is closing in on us even as we speak.’
Ektalis nodded and gave the order to mount. Parmenion walked to the woman, laying his hand on her shoulder, but Helm could not hear the words that passed between them and moved on to the horses. The mounts of the Makedones were smaller than the horses of the Korinthians, but they were deep-chested and powerful, reared for stamina rather than speed; Helm chose a roan gelding, taking hold of the mane and smoothly vaulting to its back.
‘You know your horses,’ said Parmenion. ‘He is one I would have chosen.’
For two hours the group rode in silence, angling south and east through rolling hills, skirting small villages and towns and holding to the tree-line.
At last, as the sun began to set, they made camp in a sheltered hollow.
Parmenion called Ektalis to him. ‘We will need sentries,’ he said, ‘one on that hillside, a second in the trees to the north.
’
As Ektalis saluted and moved away, Helm grinned. The salute had seemed natural, Parmenion accepting it as his due.
‘I think you are used to larger armies than this,’ offered Helm.
‘I am indeed,’ the man answered, his hand resting on the hilt of a Makedones sword now belted at his side, ‘but this is all we have. May I see your sword?’
‘Of course,’ answered Helm, sliding the blade from its scabbard, reversing it and passing it hilt first to the general.
‘It is a fine weapon. How did you come by it?’
‘When I awoke it was close by, along with the armour and the helm.’
‘What made you think it was yours?’
‘I cannot answer that. I was naked and alone... and it fitted me well. Especially the helm which, as you can see, has melted over my face.’
Parmenion was silent for a moment. ‘You concern’me, warrior,’ he said, and Helm became acutely aware that the man before him was now holding his sword. ‘How do I know you were not sent by Philippos?’
‘You don’t,’ answered Helm. ‘But then neither do I.’
‘You fight well. That is good. Your slaying of the Makedones supplied Attalus and myself with weapons, and for that I am grateful. Such a deed makes it unlikely you are an enemy. Unlikely but not impossible.’
‘I accept that, Parmenion. And where does that leave us?’
‘In mortal peril either way,’ the general answered, returning Helm’s sword and turning away.
By the afternoon of the following day the riders had reached the high ground overlooking the Plain of Mantinea - a wide, flat area between the mountains, bordering on the kingdom of Argolis. In the distance they could see two mighty armies facing one another. Thena dismounted and sat on a cliff-ledge, closing her eyes, her spirit soaring out over the waiting forces.