Lion of Macedon by David Gemmell
Shadows danced on the dark walls, grotesque shapes which once had been men.
Moving to each of them, she touched her hand to their misshapen brows. ‘The temple is unprotected,’ she told them. ‘Find the body of the woman Derae and devour her flesh - and all with her.’
The shadows faded.
Aida walked to the slab, dipping her fingers into the ashes.
‘I shall miss you, Poris,’ she murmured.
Cresting the mountain, the hunted trio ran down the scree-covered slopes. Tamis fell and slid towards a precipice, but Aristotle hurled himself in her path, seizing her white robes and hauling her to safety.
On they sped, the cries of their pursuers coming ever closer. From above them came the sound of leather wings and Parmenion glanced up to see huge shapes hovering around them - their skins scaled, their forms barely human. But they did not attack and the Spartan ignored them as he ran on.
To the left!’ shouted Aristotle, pointing to a pass between rearing black peaks.
Behind them the ghostly riders were closing fast. Parmenion risked a glance back over his shoulder, then returned his gaze to the pass ahead.
They were not going to succeed. With a muttered curse he halted and spun, sword in hand, to meet the enemy. There were more than twenty riders, faces hidden by the winged helms they wore. In their hands swords of red name glittered like torches.
Tamis came alongside Parmenion. ‘Go on, I will hold them,’ she cried.
‘I cannot leave you to face them alone.’
‘GO!’ she shouted. ‘The soul-flame is everything.’
For a moment only he hesitated, then turned and ran on. The riders swept towards the seeress and her hands came up, white fire blazing across the Void to hurl four demons from their mounts. The rest charged on, sweeping out to pass Tamis by. Once more the lightning flared, scything through the first rank, the long-dead horses collapsing with bones cracking and splitting.
Two riders bore down on the seeress. The first she slew with a spear of light, but the sword of the second pierced her breast, jutting from her back and setting light to her robes. Tamis staggered - but she did not fall. Blasting the rider from his mount, she half turned and saw that Parmenion and Aristotle had reached the pass.
Ignoring the dying woman, the riders galloped on after the running men. Tamis sank to the dust, her mind swimming. She saw again her first passing, remembering the pain and the bitterness. Her soul had fled to the furthest corners of the Void, lost and alone. It was there that the servants of Kadmilos had found her, binding her with chains of fire, sending the Death Crows to rip at her spirit flesh. In her despair, she had been unable to find the strength to fight them.
Taking hold of the sword of fire she drew it from her body, casting it aside.
So many mistakes, Tamis, she chided herself. But here, at the end, perhaps you have atoned. Far ahead of her she watched the soul-flame reach the Elysian Gates. The riders of Hades had halted some distance away, unable to cross the open pass before the gateway without further orders.
The quest is with you now, Parmenion, my son, she thought. And I did - despite my mistakes - train you well.
At last content, she surrendered to the second, final, death.
The gates were carved from shining black rock - as tall as three men, as wide as ten. Beyond them were green fields, flowering trees, tall snow-capped mountains and a sky the blue of dreams. Parmenion ached to walk there, to put behind him the grey, soul-less horror of the Void.
But two guards stood in the gateway.
‘You cannot pass,’ said the first.
Parmenion approached the man. The guard’s armour was archaic, the breastplate gilded, the bronze shield huge and oval, the helm full-faced and red-plumed. Only the blue of the man’s eyes could be seen.
Parmenion lifted the flame. ‘This is the soul of a child in peril. The Lord of Chaos seeks to walk the world of flesh, stealing his life, his body.’
‘The world of flesh is nothing to us,’ said the second guard.
‘Is there no one beyond the gate to whom we can appeal?’ put in Aristotle.
‘Here there is no bending of the law,’ the first man answered. ‘The Word is absolute. Only the souls of dead heroes may pass this way, and those we will recognize by a star of light that shines on their brows.’
Parmenion heard movement behind him and turned. The horsemen had begun to edge forward, and beyond them a vast army of demons had filled the mouth of the pass.
‘At least take the soul-flame,’ Aristotle urged the guards.
‘We cannot. He is of the living... as are you.’
Moving to a nearby boulder, Parmenion opened his palm, willing the flame to flow from his hand. The white light streamed to the rock, leaving the Spartan with a powerful sense of loss. Drawing his sword, he ignored the guards and moved to stand at the centre of the pass.
‘Wait!’ shouted the first sentry. ‘Where did you come by that blade?’
‘It was once mine in life,’ Parmenion answered.
‘I asked how you came by it?’
‘I won it in the General’s Games. Once it was wielded by my city’s greatest hero - the Sword King, Leonidas. He died more than a century ago, defending the pass of Thermopylae against the Persian invaders.’
‘A century? Was it so long? You are Spartan, then?’
‘lam.’
‘Then you’ll not stand alone,’ said the man, walking from the gateway and taking a position on Parmenion’s left.
‘Go back,’ said Parmenion, his eyes on the horde before them. ‘It is senseless enough for one man to die in this way, and a second sword will make no difference.’
The sentry laughed. ‘There are more than two, brother,’ he said. ‘Boleus will soon fetch the others.’ Even as he spoke the sound of marching feet could be heard from behind them, and 300 armoured warriors moved out to form three fighting lines across the pass.
‘Why do you do this for me?’ Parmenion asked.
‘Because you carry my blade,’ answered the Sword King of legend, ‘and because you are a Spartan. Now stand back with your friend, and the soul-flame. The demons shall not pass while we live.’
Behind them the gateway disappeared, leaving only a cliff wall, black and impenetrable.
‘You have powerful friends, it seems,’ remarked Aristotle, taking Parmenion’s arm and guiding him back to where the globe rested on the rocks.
The Spartan was still dazed. ‘He is...’
‘I know who he is - Leonidas, the Sword King. The men with him are the heroes who died at Thermopylae and they are risking eternity for you, Parmenion. It is a humbling thought. But then the Spartans were always a strange people.’
‘I cannot allow it,’ whispered Parmenion. ‘They died once for their city, and for Greece. They don’t know who I am. I humbled their city, destroying its greatness! I must save them!’
‘They know all they need to know,’ hissed Aristotle, seizing the Spartan’s arm. ‘The babe is everything!’
Parmenion tore himself loose of Aristotle’s grip, then saw the globe flickering. The soul of a child. His child! Glancing to his left he saw the Spartan fighting lines - shields locked, spears pointed - and beyond them the vast army of demons.
The Sword King laid down his shield and sword, striding back to where Parmenion stood. ‘They are waiting for something,’ he said, ‘but it gives us time to talk. What is your name, brother?’
‘Savra,’ Aristotle said swiftly.
The Spartan shook his head. ‘That was my name as a child,’ he said softly. ‘Now I am Parmenion.’
The Sword King was silent for a moment, then he lifted his hands to his helm and removed it. His face was regular, though not handsome, his hair long and golden, his eyes the blue of a summer sky. ‘I have heard of you; you have sent many Spartan brothers to the Elysian fields.’
‘Yes. I wish there had been time to tell you the truth. But you were beside me so fast. Can you open the gateway
‘No. Nor would I if I could. It would have changed nothing, Parmenion. It still changes nothing. We stand together.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Parmenion whispered.
‘That is because you are from a different age, brother. At Thermopylae we led a united Greek force against the invader. We stood firm then, and died. We did not die gladly but we did die willingly, brother beside brother. You are a Spartan and that is enough for us. Our blood is in your veins.’
‘You accept me?’ asked Parmenion, all the tortures of his childhood roaring to the surface - the rejections, the beatings and the endless humiliations.
Placing his hands on Parmenion’s shoulders, the Sword King smiled. ‘Come stand beside me, brother, and the demons shall see how Spartans do battle.’
In that moment all Parmenion’s bitterness dissolved, as if a fresh spring breeze had whispered through the cob-webbed recesses of his mind.
Acceptance! By the greatest Spartan who had ever lived!
Drawing his sword, he followed his King into the battle-line.
THE TEMPLE
It seemed to Leucion that the night was more beautiful than any he could remember. The sky was clear, sable-dark, the distant stars glittering like spear-points, the moon a huge coin of shining silver. He had once received a coin like that, minted in Susa, when he served as a mercenary in Egypt. Since most of the warriors were Athenians the Persians had stamped the coin with the owl of Athena. His wonderment at its beauty had lasted only one night, when he had given it to a Numidean whore.
Now, staring at the moon from the ramparts of the temple, he wished he had kept it. Sighing, he turned from the wall and wandered down the steps to the moonlit garden. There were no colours to the roses now; all were shades of grey under the moon, but the fragrance remained.
Walking through the Healing Hall he mounted the stairs to Derae’s room and sat between the two beds. On one lay the sorcerer Aristotle, arms folded across his chest, his right hand curled around the stone on his necklet. On the other was Derae, still dressed in the gown of green which Leucion had purchased in the market. Reaching out, he stroked her cheek.
She did not move, and he recalled with fondness his return to the temple when he had found Derae in the grip of a fever. He had bathed her, tended her, fed her. He had been happy then; she was his, like a child.
Her face was pale and she was scarcely breathing. For two days she had been thus, but Leucion was not concerned. Five, she had said. Then she would return and all would be as it once was; the healing of the sick, then the slow walks in the gardens, quiet conversations on moonlit nights.
The sorcerer moaned softly, his right arm sliding clear of the neck-chain. Leucion leaned forward to peer at the golden stone. It was streaked with black lines and seemed to glow faintly. Returning his gaze to Derae, he was struck again by her beauty. It touched him like a spell, painful and yet welcome. Stretching his back he rose, his scabbard rattling against the chair and breaking the silence. He was uncomfortable with the sword now, the years at the temple having dulled his warrior’s spirit. But the sorcerer said it was necessary that the bodies be guarded at all times.
From what? Leucion had enquired.
Aristotle had shrugged. ‘From the unpredictable,’ he replied.
Leucion turned towards the door... and froze.
It was no longer there. The wall too had disappeared, to be replaced by a long narrow corridor of pale, glistening stone. The silver-haired warrior drew his short sword and dagger, eyes straining to pierce the gloom. Two shadows detached themselves from the corridor walls, and Leucion stepped back as their huge misshapen forms moved slowly towards him. Their heads and shoulders were scaled, their arms and torsos the grey of decaying corpses; their taloned feet scraped on the stone and, as they came closer, Leucion saw with sick dread that their mouths were rimmed with pointed fangs.
Backing away once more, his legs touched the bed on which Derae lay.
The first demon hurled itself at the warrior. Leucion sprang to meet the charge, ramming his short sword into the beast’s belly and ripping it up towards the heart. Talons tore at his shoulder, slicing through flesh and muscle and snapping his collar-bone. As the demon fell the second creature lunged for the wounded warrior, talons closing on his right side, shattering the hip beneath. Leucion plunged his dagger into the beast’s neck, just below the ear. Grey slime pumped from the wound, drenching the warrior’s hand and burning the skin. In its death throes the demon hurled Leucion from him and the warrior fell to the floor, dropping both dagger and sword.
Blood was pouring from the wound in his shoulder, and the agony of his broken hip was almost unbearable. Yet still Leucion struggled to rise.
Gathering up his short sword, he pushed himself to his feet, taking the weight of his body on his left leg. The two demons were gone, but the corridor remained.
‘I did it,’ he whispered. ‘I saved her.’
Five talons the length of swords hammered through his back, bursting from his chest before closing in on themselves and dragging him back.
Blood bubbled from his ruptured lungs and his head fell forward.
The demon hauled the body across the bed, where Leucion’s limp arm fell upon the golden stone on Aristotle’s chest. The stone blazed into light. New strength poured into the dying warrior. Reversing his sword, he plunged it back into the belly of the demon behind him.
The talons slashed into his body once more, ripping clear his head.
Dropping the body the demon staggered, then its slitted opal eyes focused on the still form of Derae. Saliva dripping from its fangs, it advanced.
The demon horde filled the mouth of the pass, standing motionless, their eyes on the 300 crimson-cloaked warriors who barred their path to the light.
‘Why are they waiting, do you think?’ Parmenion asked the Sword King.
‘They are waiting for Him,’ whispered the King, pointing his sword at a dark, rolling storm-cloud in the distance.
‘I see no one.’
The King was silent and the cloud came closer, moving across the land, blotting out the slate-grey sky. As it neared Parmenion saw that it was no cloud, merely a darkness deeper than any he could have imagined. The beasts cowered from it, running to hide behind boulders or into nearby caves.
The Darkness slowed as it reached the pass, and then a breeze blew across the waiting soldiers, carrying with it the touch of terror. All the fears known to man were borne on that dread breeze, all the primal horrors of the Dark. The line wavered. Parmenion felt his hands begin to tremble, his sword dropping to the ground.
‘Spartans, stand firm!’ the King shouted - his voice thin, reedy and full of fear. Yet still it was the voice of the Spartan King, and the warriors’ shields clashed together in a wall of bronze.
Parmenion knelt, gathering his sword. His mouth was dry and he knew with grim and terrifying certainty that nothing could withstand the power of the Dark.
‘All is lost,’ said Aristotle, pushing through the line and tugging at Parmenion’s arm. ‘Nothing can stand against Hun in his own kingdom. Come away, man! I can return you to the flesh!’
Parmenion shook him loose. ‘Go, then!’ he commanded.
‘You fool!’ hissed Aristotle, his hand cupping the stone at his breast. Instantly he was gone.
The Darkness rolled on towards them while from within the cloud came the sound of a slow drumbeat, impossibly loud, like controlled thunder.
‘What is that noise?’ asked Parmenion, his voice shaking.
‘The heartbeat of Chaos,’ answered the Sword King.
And still the Spartans stood firm.
The demonic army gathered itself and edged forward, filling the pass, while the Dark hovered behind them.
The warmth of life touched Parmenion’s back and he swung to see the globe of light swelling upon the boulder, growing, bathing the rocks, rising, glowing like sunlight over the pass.
The horde faltered, shielding
Light and Dark, terror and hope, came together at the centre of the pass, merging, twisting, rising higher into the sky, swirling into a great, streaked sphere, lightning lancing from its centre.
The army of Hades stood still, all eyes turned to the colossal battle being waged in the sky. At first the darkness appeared to swamp the light, but the soul blazed back, rending and tearing, shining clear in golden shafts that lit the pass with sudden flashes.
Higher and higher the battle swirled until, at last, only the faintest sparks could be seen. Then there was nothing, save the unremitting grey of the Hades sky.
The Sword King sheathed his blade and turned to Parmenion.
‘Who is the child?’ he asked, his voice hushed, his tone reverential.
‘The son of the Macedonian king,’ answered Parmenion.
‘Would that he were Spartan. Would that I could know him.’
‘What is happening?’ asked Parmenion, as the demonic army began to disperse, the creatures of the Void moving sullenly back from the pass, seeking their eternal homes of shadows and gloom.
‘The child is born,’ said the Sword King.
‘And the Dark God was defeated?’
‘I fear not. They are locked together, and will remain so, in a constant struggle. But the child will be mighty. He may yet conquer.’
‘Then I failed,’ whispered Parmenion.
‘There is no failure. He will be a child of Light and Dark. He will need friends to guide him, to help him, to strengthen him. And he will have you, Parmenion.’
The Gates to the Elysian fields shimmered open, the sunlight glorious. The Spartan king took Parmenion’s hand. ‘Your life beckons you, brother. Go back to it.’
‘I... I have no way to thank you. You have given me more than I believed was possible.’