Lion of Macedon (66 page)

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“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 from 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 and withdraw?”

“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 cobwebbed 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 had 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 colors to the roses now; all were shades of gray 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 that 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 had said it was necessary that the bodies be guarded at all times.

From what? Leucion had inquired.

Aristotle had shrugged. “From the unpredictable,” he had replied.

Leucion turned toward 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 toward him. Their heads and shoulders were scaled, their arms and torsos the gray 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.

As he backed 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 toward 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. Gray 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 three hundred 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-gray 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 in 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 him 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 toward 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 their eyes from the brightness, and Parmenion felt the weight of fear lifting from his heart. The heartbeat of chaos sounded again, louder, and the dark oozed forward.

Light and dark, terror and hope, came together at the center of the pass, merging, twisting, rising higher into the sky, swirling into a great streaked sphere, lightning lancing from its center.

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 gray 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.”

The king smiled. “You would do no less for a kinsman, Parmenion. Go. Protect the child. He is born to be great.”

Aristotle opened his eyes just as the demon reached for Derae.

“No!” he screamed. A shaft of light smote the creature’s chest, pitching him back against the far wall, his skin blistering, flames licking from the wound. Within moments fire covered the beast, black smoke filling the room.

The
magus
rose from the bed, a sword of golden light appearing in his hand. Moving swiftly forward, he touched the blade to the blazing beast, which disappeared instantly.

The corridor vanished, the walls of the room reappearing; Aristotle gazed down on Leucion’s dismembered corpse.

“You fought valiantly,” whispered the
magus
, “for there would have been more than one.” The sword flowed into Aristotle’s hand, becoming a ball of fire, which he laid on Leucion’s chest. The body was healed of all wounds, and the head was drawn back into place. “It is better for Derae to see you thus,” Aristotle told the corpse, reaching out to close the dead eyes. Fishing into the pouch at his side, he produced a silver obol, which he placed in Leucion’s mouth. “For the ferryman,” he said softly. “May your journey end in light.”

Returning to the bed, Aristotle took Derae’s hand, calling her home.

PELLA, SPRING, 356 B.C.