Lion of Macedon (65 page)

“Not that way!” screamed Aristotle.

Parmenion tried to turn, but a long branch curled around his throat, twigs like talons piercing his spirit flesh. His sword smashed through the bough, and he hurled himself to the ground, where white roots pushed up through the dead earth, skeletal fingers that tugged at his arms.

Aristotle leapt forward with arms extended, and a searing burst of light shone from his hands, bathing Parmenion. The roots turned instantly to powder, and the Spartan lurched to his feet.

“That was unfortunate,” said Aristotle, “and such a display of power will bring our enemies the more swiftly.”

Sword in hand, Parmenion followed the
magus
up the slope toward the light. As they approached a scattered group of boulders, dark shadows detached themselves from the rocks, skittering into the sky. Parmenion saw that they were birds without feathers or skin, black skeletons swooping and diving above them.

A low moan came from within the boulders. Parmenion halted in his run, turning to seek the source of the cry.

“There is no time,” Aristotle shouted.

Ignoring him, Parmenion edged to the right.

At the center of the boulders lay a young woman, chains of fire holding her arms pinned to the rocks. Several skeletal birds were pecking at her flesh, peeling it back in bloody strips that healed instantly. Parmenion ran at the birds, shouting and waving his arms; they rose from the body, wings clicking. His sword smashed one to shards; the rest flew clear. Kneeling down, he gently touched the woman’s face, lifting her head.

“I know you, do I not?” he said as her eyes focused on him.

“Yes,” she answered weakly, her voice dreamlike. “I showed you my youth when you were in Thebes. Are you a dream, Parmenion?”

“No, lady.” Extending his sword, he touched the blade to the chains of fire, which fell away. Sheathing the weapon, he helped Tamis to her feet.

Aristotle ran to his side. “I tell you there is no time for this. The demons are gathering.”

“The child is born?” Tamis asked.

“Not yet,” answered Parmenion. “Come with us.” Taking her arm, he led her up the slope. Far behind them the shadows were gathering, merging, like a dark river flowing toward the mountain.

Higher they climbed, and here a cold wind whispered through the rocks. The light was closer now, a flame of pure white as tall as a man, burning upon a black boulder. Around
it the skeletal birds were circling, their high-pitched cries echoing across the mountain.

A darker shadow formed by the fire … growing, spreading.

“Aida!” whispered Tamis, running forward.

The dark woman raised her arms. Darkness oozed from her fingers to flow over the fire, which guttered, shrinking down until it was merely the size of a lantern flame.

“No!” screamed Tamis. Aida spun, dark spears flashing from her hands. A golden shield appeared on Tamis’ left arm, the spears glancing from it. Aristotle tore open his tunic, his hand circling a tiny golden stone hanging from a chain of silver. The flame on the boulder rose into the air, struggling free of the dark slime that was seeking to smother it.

“Take it, Parmenion,” shouted the
magus
. The Spartan ran toward the flame, which floated onto his outstretched hand, settling upon his palm. There was no sensation of heat, yet an inner warmth touched Parmenion’s heart and the flame grew, curling in on itself, becoming a globe of soft white light.

Tamis and Aida flew at each other. Lightning blazed from Tamis’ eyes, searing through the robes of the dark woman. Aida fell back—and vanished. Tamis turned to Parmenion, her hands trembling above the globe.

“It is the unborn child,” she said, “the child of your flesh. I understand now. Kadmilos must kill it or forever share the body.” Her fingers touched the globe, the light spreading over her hands. “Oh, Parmenion! He is so beautiful.”

“What can we do?” the Spartan asked, turning to glance down the mountain, where the demons were gathering, some walking, others slithering across the stones, their cries drifting on the cold wind.

Aristotle moved alongside him. “I believe Mount Thanatos is close by. If I am correct, there is a gateway to the Elysian Fields, the Hall of Heroes. But they might not let us enter.”

“Why should they not?” Parmenion asked.

“We are not dead,” answered Aristotle, forcing a smile. “At least not yet.”

“Look!” said Tamis, pointing down the mountain, where dark-armored warriors on skeletal horses were riding toward them.

“The gateway, then,” agreed Parmenion. The sphere burning brightly in his hand, he started to run up the slope, the two sorcerers close behind.

ISLE OF SAMOTHRACE

“Still she interferes,” hissed Aida, opening the eyes of her body and rising from the ebony throne.

“What happened, mistress?” whispered her acolyte, Poris. The woman in the black robes stared down at the kneeling girl.

“There are three who struggle against us, keeping the child alive. Tamis—curse her—and the man Parmenion. There is another also, a man I do not know. Wait beside me!” Once more the dark woman closed her eyes, her body slumping back against the ebony throne. The slender acolyte took Aida’s hand, touching her lips to it.

For some time she sat stroking Aida’s fingers, then the dark woman sighed. “The man is a
magus
. His body lies waiting for him at the healer’s temple. The woman Derae lies there also, her soul in Pella holding Parmenion’s body among the living. Well, they have stretched themselves thin, my dear. Very thin. And it is time they died.”

“You will send the nighthunters, mistress?”

“Three should be sufficient. There is only an old man guarding their bodies. Walk with me, my pretty one.”

Poris followed her mistress out into the cold stone corridors of the palace and down to the torch-lit tunnels below. Aida opened a leaf-shaped door and entered a small room; it was empty of furniture, save for a raised stone slab at the
center. Aida traced her fingers on the carved lettering there. “Do you know what this says?” she asked Poris.

“No, my lady.”

“It is Accadian, carved before the dawn of our history. It is an incantation. Tell me,” she asked, laying her hand on the girl’s shoulder, “do you love me?”

“More than life,” the girl assured her.

“Good,” answered Aida, pulling her into a tight embrace, “and I love you, child. You are more than a daughter to me. But Kadmilos must be served, and his well-being is all that concerns me.” The slender dagger plunged into Poris’ back, through the ribs and into the heart. The girl stiffened, then sagged into Aida’s arms.

The woman in black eased the corpse onto the slab and began to speak the words of power. Smoke rose from the letters engraved on the stone, covering the dead girl. A foul smell filled the room, the stench of decay. Aida waved her hand, and the smoke drew back into the rock. All that now lay upon the slab was a tracing of white-gray ashes.

Shadows danced on the dark walls, grotesque shapes that 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 toward 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 flame 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 toward 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 farthest 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 gray, soulless horror of the void.

But two guards stood in the gateway.

“You cannot pass,” said the first.

Parmenion approached the man. The guard’s armor 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 center 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?”

“I am.”

“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 three hundred armored 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.