Dark Prince

The Cliffs of Arkadia

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 peace. 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.

'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 history 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.

What she saw sent a shiver through her and she fled back to her body, crying out as she woke.

'What is it?' asked Parmenion, dismounting and kneeling beside her, gripping her shoulder.

'Send the others south,' she whispered. 'Tell them we will join them later.'

'Why?'

'Trust me! You are about to walk a different path and you must send them on. Swiftly now, for there is little time.'

Parmenion called Attalus to him. 'You must travel on without me for a while, my friend. Take Alexander south — to the Gateway, if necessary. I will meet you when I can.'

'We should stay together,' argued Attalus.

'There is no time for debate. You must protect Alexander. Brontes has gone to prepare the way, and you will be safe in the south. I can tell you no more, for I know no more.'

Attalus cursed softly, then vaulted to his mount. 'Look after yourself, Spartan,' he called, as he led the company away to the south.

Parmenion returned to the priestess. 'Tell me all,' he said.

'Wait,' she advised. 'The battle is beginning.'

The strategos turned his attention to the two armies. At this distance they were just like the tiny carved models with which he had won his first encounter with his rival, Leonidas, thirty-three years ago in another world. They appeared as toys, glittering and bright, moving across the dusty plain. But they were not toys. Within moments living, breathing men would be cut down, swords and spears slashing and cleaving through flesh and bone. The army of Makedon, black cloaks and black banners swirling in the breeze, marched forward confidently, the cavalry to the left sweeping out to envelop the enemy flanks.

But then they were met by a counter-charge, warriors in blue cloaks and shining helms emerging from their hiding-places among the boulders at the foot of the slopes. Parmenion smiled. This was good strategy from the Spartan King. Straining his eyes, he could just make out the monarch standing at the centre of the Spartan phalanx, 300 men in tight formation six ranks deep, fifty shields wide. It was a defensive formation and had been placed at the centre of the field, with mercenary divisions around it. 'He seeks to hold the centre steady,' said Parmenion. 'See how they gather around the Spartans?' More allied cavalry rode from the right, but the Makedones swung their lines to meet the charge. It seemed to Parmenion that the Makedones' defence was moving into action even before the charge, and he recalled with sinking heart that Philippos could read the mind of his enemy.

Even so the charge carried through, pushing back the enemy. The Spartan centre surged forward and Parmenion watched as the King mounted a fine grey stallion and rode back to join the reserve cavalry on the left. The battle was fully joined now, a great heaving mass of men vying for control of the field.

'Now!' whispered Parmenion. 'Now lead the charge!' As if the Spartan King had heard him Parmenion saw the great grey horse thunder into the gallop, riders streaming behind with the sun glittering on their lance-points.

But on the far side of the battle the allied cavalry suddenly gave way, panic sweeping their ranks. Swinging their mounts they fled the field. The Makedones poured into the breach, moving out to surround the allied centre. Two mercenary divisions broke and ran, leaving a gap on the Spartan right.

'Sweet Zeus, no!' shouted Parmenion. 'He had it won!'

The Spartan King disengaged his cavalry from the attack and led his men in a desperate ride across the battlefield, trying to close the gap, but Parmenion knew the attempt was doomed. Panic swept through the allied army like a grass fire, and all but the Spartans threw down their shields and ran.

The Spartan phalanx closed, becoming a fighting square, moving back from the centre towards a narrow pass in the mountains. But the King led one last desperate charge against the enemy centre, almost reaching Philippos. Now Parmenion saw the Demon King riding forward on a giant black stallion, hacking and cutting his way towards his enemy. A spear slashed into the grey stallion and it bolted, carrying the Spartan King clear of the action as he fought to control the pain-maddened beast.

Now the King was riding towards Parmenion and Thena, pursued by a score of black-cloaked riders. Glancing back, he saw them and swung the horse up on to a scree slope, the beast scrambling on to a ledge. There was nowhere else to go and the Spartan King leapt from his mount as the first Makedones reached the top. The man's horse reared as the King ran at it, toppling his rider, but then the others arrived, leaping from their horses and advancing on the lone warrior.

Parmenion's heart ached for the man. He had come so close, only to be betrayed by cowards and men of little heart.

He longed to gallop down to fight alongside the King, but a gorge separated them and the King was but moments from death — before him a score of enemies, behind him a chasm. He fought bravely and with great skill, but at the last a sword gashed his throat and he fell back, teetering on the edge of the abyss. Parmenion cried out in anguish as the Spartan King toppled from the ledge, his bronze-clad body cartwheeling through the air to crash against the mountainside before pitching once more into space to be dashed against the rocks below. Parmenion groaned and looked away. 'So close — so near to victory,' he whispered.

'I know,' said Thena. 'Now we must wait.'

'For what? I have seen enough.'

'There is more, my dear,' she told him.

The enemy soldiers pulled baek from the ledge, seeking a way to recover the body. But the cliff was too steep and they remounted their horses and vanished from sight.

'Now,' said Thena. 'Before they can circle round from the north, we must get to the body.'

'Why?'

'There is no time to explain. Trust me.' Remounting, Thena urged her horse over the crest of the hill and down the gentle slope to the valley floor. Parmenion had no wish to gaze upon the ruined body of so great a warrior, but he followed the priestess on the long ride, coming at last to the blood-spattered corpse. Thena climbed down from her mount and moved to the body, gently rolling it to its back. The red-plumed helm lay close by, scarcely dented, but the breastplate was split at the shoulder, where a white bone could be seen jutting from dead flesh.

The man's face was remarkably untouched, his blue eyes open and staring at the sky. Parmenion moved to the body and stopped, heart hammering and legs unsteady.

'I am sorry,' whispered Thena, 'but you stand before the body of Parmenion, the King of Sparta.'

Parmenion could find no words as he gazed down at his own corpse. He had observed Thena's magic back in the forest when she had created the illusion of the group still sleeping around the camp-fire. Though in its way that had been almost amusing, causing a lifting of tension and fear. But this was real. The dead man at his feet was his twin, and Parmenion felt the anguish of bereavement. Worse than this, the tragedy brought him a sickening sense of his own mortality. The Parmenion lying here had been a man with dreams, hopes, ambitions. Yet he had been cut down in his prime, his body smashed, broken.

The Spartan took a deep, shuddering breath.

'We must move him,' said Thena, 'before the Makedones arrive.'

'Why?' responded Parmenion, unwilling to touch his alter ego.

'Because they must not know he is dead. Come now! Lift him across your horse.'

Parmenion's hands were trembling as he pulled the corpse upright, draping the body over his shoulder, transferring it to the Makedones gelding, then vaulting to the beast's back. The horse was strong, but even so could not bear the double weight for long. Parmenion turned to see Thena sitting upon a boulder.

'Take my horse to the woods,' she commanded. 'I will be there by dusk.'

'You cannot stay here. They will kill you.'

'No, they will not see me. When you reach the woods strip the body and bury it. Then put on his armour. Go now!'

Parmenion tugged the reins and the gelding began to walk away to the west. 'Wait!' called Thena. Gathering up the King's fallen sword and helm, she passed them to Parmenion. 'Now ride — for time is short.'

The ground was rock-strewn and hard-packed, the gelding's hooves leaving little sign as the Spartan rode away. Now and again he glanced back to see Thena sitting quietly, awaiting the Makedones. He tried not to look at the body, but his eyes were drawn to it. It was no longer leaking blood, but the bowels had opened and the stench was strong.

There is no dignity in death, thought Parmenion as he angled the horse up to the tree-line and into the woods.

Once there he followed Thena's instructions, stripping the body, digging out a shallow grave in the loam and rolling the corpse into it. The body fell to its back — dead eyes staring up at the Spartan, dead mouth sagging open.

'I have no coin for the ferryman,' Parmenion told the dead King. 'But you were a man of courage and I believe you will find the Elysian Fields without it.'

Swiftly he pushed the dark earth over the body, then sat back trembling.

After a while he picked up the King's sword, and was not surprised to find it the same blade he himself had won more than thirty years ago in another Sparta. It was the legendary blade of Leonidas, the Sword King, beautifully crafted and wondrously sharp.

Leonidas! A glorious name from the past yet also the name of Parmenion's first enemy, the brother of Derae, in whose name Parmenion had suffered taunts and beatings, hatred and dark violence.

That era had come to an end at Leuctra when Parmenion's battle plan had smashed the Spartan line, killing their King and freeing the city of Thebes from Spartan dictatorship. When the battle ended, so too had Spartan power in Greece.

Parmenion remembered well the day he had won the sword. It was the final of the General's Games where the young men of Sparta, using carved model armies, engaged in battles of tactics and strategy. The final was contested at the house of Xenophon, the renegade Athenian general who had become a close friend of the Spartan King Agisaleus.

Agisaleus, believing his nephew Leonidas would win the final, had offered the legendary blade as a prize. But Leonidas had not won. He had been crushed by the hated' mix-blood, humiliated in front of his peers and his King.

And the sword came to Parmenion.

Yet at Leuctra, with Sparta crushed, it had been Leonidas who had come to discuss the recovery from the battlefield of the Spartan dead, and it was Parmenion to whom he had come.

Leonidas had been dignified in defeat, strong and proud, and — in a moment he had never quite understood -

Parmenion had given him the sword, ending for ever their enmity.

Yet now he sat in an alien forest with the twin of the blade in his hand.

What now, he asked himself? But the answer was inescapable. Parmenion the King had been slain, leaving his enemy triumphant and the Spartan army leaderless.

The Demon King had won.

Derae watched until Parmenion was no longer in sight, then she relaxed, calming her mind, honing her powers, reaching out to seek the Makedones riders who were coming to claim the body of their enemy.

They were still half a mile distant and she focused on the leader, Theoparlis — a stocky, dark-eyed man, strong and fearless, his heart darkened by bitter memories of slavery and torture in the early years of his life. Derae floated within his subconscious, silently preparing him. Then she moved on to the others, one by one.

When at last she opened her eyes they were riding towards the rocks, fanning out, their eyes scanning the boulders.

Drawing rein they dismounted and began to search.

Derae took a deep breath. Not a man had noticed her. Now she stood.

'He is not here,' she said softly. The nearest man gasped and staggered back. He did not see a tall, bony woman in an ill-fitting chiton. His eyes widened in awe as he drank in the sight of a regal warrior woman, a doric helm pushed back on her head, a golden breastplate adorning her torso. An owl sat upon her shoulder, its bright eyes blinking in the sunlight.

The twenty warriors stood silently before Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and War. In her hand was a golden spear, and this she raised to point at Theoparlis. 'Return to your King,' she said, her voice ringing with authority, 'and tell him that Parmenion lives.'

'He will kill us all, lady, and brand us liars,' Theoparlis protested.

'Draw your swords,' she said softly. They did so. 'Now gaze upon them.'

The blades writhed in their hands, becoming serpents. With cries of shock and horror the men flung the weapons aside… all but Theoparlis. 'It is still a sword,' he said, his face white, his hand trembling.

The serpent blade stiffened, the snake disappearing. 'Indeed it is, Theoparlis; you are a strong man,' said Derae. 'But then the magic was not wrought to harm you but to allow you to go to your King and convince him. Has he not the Eye to read a man's mind? He will know you do not lie.'

'How could the Spartan have survived such a fall?' he asked.

Derae pointed to the man beside Theoparlis. 'Take up your sword,' she ordered. The man obeyed. 'Draw the blade across your palm.'

'No!' shouted the man, but the sword rose of its own accord, his left hand opening to receive it. 'No!' he screamed again, but the sharp iron cut into his flesh and blood welled from the wound.

'Hold up the hand so that all may see,' Derae ordered. 'This is no illusion. Theoparlis, touch the blood.' The Makedones obeyed. 'Is it real?'

'Yes, lady.'

'Now watch. . and learn.'

Derae closed her eyes. The cut was shallow and even and it was a matter of moments to accelerate the tissue bond, producing ten days of healing in as many heartbeats. When she opened her eyes the men had gathered around the injured warrior and were staring at his blood-covered hand. 'Wipe clear the blood,' said Derae. Using the edge of his black cloak the man did so. Only a faint scar remained.

'Now you know how the King survived,' she told them. 'I healed him. And I tell you this, he is beloved of the gods.

The next time you see him will be on the day of your deaths — if he should so choose.'

'His army is destroyed,' said Theoparlis.

'You have yet to face the might of Sparta.'

'Five thousand men cannot stand against the forces of Makedon.'

'We shall see. Go now. Report what I have said to Philippos. And tell him the words of Athena — if he marches against Sparta he will die.'

Theoparlis bowed and backed away to his horse, his men following.

Derae let fall the illusion, and it seemed to the warriors as if the goddess had suddenly disappeared from view.

Unnoticed, the priestess walked away to the west and the distant woods.

She found Parmenion sitting by the freshly-covered grave. 'You will take his place?' she asked.

'I don't know, Thena,' he answered. 'We were heading for Sparta because we thought it would be safe and Aristotle could meet us there. But now? Now the Spartans have no war leader and the Makedones could march all the way to the city.'

'What choices are there?'

He shrugged. 'We could make for the Gateway and allow Alexander his destiny — if such it be… and hope Aristotle is there to bring us home before the Makedones arrive.'

'And the Demon King?'

'He is not my problem, Thena. This is not my world.' His words lacked conviction and his gaze strayed to the grave.

He sighed and stood. 'Tell me what is right,' he said.

'Are you asking me — or him? He was you, Parmenion. Ask yourself what you would wish for if the roles were reversed. Would you prefer to see your city conquered, your people enslaved? Or would you hope that your twin could achieve what you could not?'

'You know the answer to that. But there is Alexander to consider.'

'Yet the situation is the same as before,' she said. 'We need Sparta to hold back the Makedones, to give Alexander time at the Gateway. Who better to ensure the Spartans can do just that than their own Battle King?'

'But I am not him. It feels wrong, Thena. He may have a family — a wife, sons, daughters. They will know him. And even if they do not, surely it is an insult to his memory?'

'Would you consider it an insult to yours if it was he who fought for you?'

'No,' he admitted. 'Yet still it does not sit well with me. And what of Attalus and the Korinthians? They know I am not the Spartan King.'

'Attalus knows what he must do. But you and I must ride to Sparta. There is much to be done, and little time, for Philippos will march upon the city within a few days.'

Suddenly Parmenion cursed. 'Why me?' he shouted. 'I came here to rescue my son, not to become embroiled in a war in which I have no interest.'

Derae said nothing for a while, then came close to the Spartan and laid her hand on his arm. 'You know the answer to that, my dear. Why you? Because you are here. Simply that. Now time is short.'

Parmenion moved to the graveside. 'I never knew you,' he said softly, 'but men spoke well of you. I will do what I can for your city and your people.'

Swiftly he donned the dented armour of the dead monarch, strapping the sword of Leonidas to his side. Turning to Derae, he smiled.

'There is much to do,' she told him.

'Then let us begin,' he said.

For two hours they rode south, then cut towards the east over rolling hills, stopping at dusk in a ruined and deserted settlement. Parmenion built a fire against the stones of a fallen wall and sat in silence staring at the flames. Derae did not intrude on his thoughts. At last he spoke.

'The King's bodyguard were engaged in a fighting retreat,' he said suddenly. 'Did they escape?'

'I will find out,' she said. Moments later she nodded. 'They lost more than a third of their number, but they are defending a narrow pass and still holding the Makedones.'

'We must be with them by dawn. If I can convince the King's captain that there is a chance, I can carry this through.'

'Even then,' she whispered, 'can you win against the Demon King?'

'I have fought in many wars, lady, and I have never lost. I do not say this with arrogance, but I am the strategos. If there is a way to defeat Philippos I will find it. Or be buried like. . like my brother in an unmarked grave. I can do no more.'

'You know that you need not fight this war? It is not your world, not your city. You could ride to the Giant's Gateway and wait for Aristotle.'

'No, I could not do that.'

'Why?'

He shrugged. 'Ever since I came here I have heard nothing but good of the Spartan King. Even the creatures of Enchantment speak well of him, saying he gave them lands for their own where they would not be hunted. He was everything I would wish to be. But our lives took different paths. I became a wandering mercenary, filled with bitterness and hatred, with war my only talent. He became a King — and a better man.'

'That is not so. You also are kind, noble and generous of spirit.'

'I am the Death of Nations, Thena, not the father of one.'

'The woman who gave you that title was wrong — wrong in all that she did. She manipulated your life, causing you grief and fuelling your hatred. But you rose above that.'

'You knew her?' he asked, surprised.

'I was… a disciple. It was part of a plan she had — a dream. You were to be the warrior who would stand against the Dark God. But it was a futile, self-defeating vision, and she died knowing it. But here there was no bitterness and hatred. You understand? He was no different from you. He was a man of courage and nobility, intelligent and caring.

But then so is the Parmenion I know.' Her breathing was ragged, her colour high, and she turned away from him, lying down and covering herself with her cloak.

He moved to her, his hand touching her shoulder. 'You are angry with me,' he said, his voice soft, his touch gentle.

'No,' she told him, 'there is no anger. Let me sleep now, for I am very tired.'

She heard him move back to the fire and closed her eyes.

The Pass of Tegaea

Leonidas shouted an order and stepped back from the line. The warriors on either side of him closed ranks and waited, shields held high, short stabbing swords extended. Leonidas ran several paces, then climbed to a high boulder and gazed back down the pass.

The Makedones were dragging aside the corpses, preparing the way for yet another charge. Leonidas strained his eyes to see the new troops massing. The golden sunbursts on their black breastplates proclaimed them to be the King's Guards. So at last they send the best, he thought. But then the Spartans had held against the Illyrians, the Thracians and other mercenary units. How many attacks had they faced? Twenty? Thirty? Leonidas had lost count. It was enough that the battleground was slick with enemy blood. Hundreds of the Tyrant's troops had fallen. Hundreds more would fall.

The pass was narrow here, less than seventy paces, and the three Spartan lines were holding their ground. Barely. .

Leonidas cursed softly. The moon was high, the skies clear, and there was no opportunity to withdraw in battle order.

Yet holding this pass was a doomed enterprise, for even now the Makedones cavalry would be riding the high ridges to cut them off. By morning the Spartans would be trapped.

Leonidas was weary, weighed down with the muscle-numbing tiredness that follows defeat. The battle had been won — and then the cursed Kadmians had broken. Gutless bastards! Anger flared again, feeding energy to his muscles. Yet it was not the fickle courage of the Kadmians that enraged him. No, the main thrust of his anger was against the Spartan Priest of Apollo, Soteridas, who had declared the timing of the battle inauspicious. And the Spartan army could not march without the god's blessing.

Now Soteridas would appear to have been proved correct. Yet Leonidas knew, as did every Spartan fighting man here, that had the whole army been present they would have cut the Makedones to pieces. Instead the allied army had been crushed, the King slain.

Leonidas closed his eyes. Slain… He could hardly believe it.

The enemy drums beat out the signal to advance and Leonidas jumped from the boulder, running to take his place in the front line alongside the giant, Nestus. Blood was flowing from a wound in the warrior's cheek and his breastplate had been gashed.

'Here they come,' muttered Nestus, with a smile. 'They must like dying.'

Leonidas said nothing.

The black-garbed Makedones bore down on the Spartans, the sound of their war-cries echoing in the pass.

At that moment a low rumble, like distant thunder, echoed through the mountains. Leonidas glanced up at the steep rock-face to the left. Several stones clattered down, followed by fist-sized rocks. At the top of the pass, above the Makedones, Leonidas saw a figure in golden armour pushing against a boulder that hung precariously on a narrow ledge. The huge rock slid clear of the ledge, almost dislodging the warrior, then it fell some sixty feet to explode against a second ledge which tore itself from the cliff-face.

'Avalanche!' screamed a Makedones warrior and the cry was taken up. The enemy charge faltered and stopped, the leading warriors turning, trying to get back from the pass. A massive slab of limestone thundered into the Makedones and Leonidas saw men disappear from sight, their bodies crushed beyond recognition. Panic swept through the enemy ranks as they fought to escape the rain of death. Another huge section of rock yawed out above them. . and fell, killing a score of warriors.

A choking dust-cloud billowed up, the wind sweeping it to the north — into the faces of the Makedones still waiting at the mouth of the pass.

Leonidas gazed up through the dust. At the crest of the cliff he caught a glimpse of the warrior in the golden breastplate — and his spirits soared.

'The King!' he shouted. The King lives!'

The figure on the cliff-top waved, pointing to the south, and Leonidas understood instantly. The Makedones were in disarray, hundreds of them slain by the rock fall. Now was the time to move back.

'By rank,' bellowed Leonidas, 'file six!'

Smoothly the Spartans fell back into columns and marched in close order from the pass. His lieutenant, Learchus, moved alongside him.

'Was that truly the King?'

'I believe so. He started the avalanche.'

'Zeus be praised! Then we do have a chance.'

Leonidas did not reply. A chance? All that was left to face the Tyrant was the Spartan army — 5,000 fighting men, with no cavalry, archers or javeliners. Ranged against them would be more than 20,000 Makedones infantry and 10,000 cavalry. The only hope would be a defensive battle, holding a ridge or a pass. And between Tegaea and Sparta there were only ragged hills and plains. The land was open to the conqueror.

Parmenion will find a way, he thought. He will! That was love and loyalty speaking, he knew, and his mood darkened.

As children they had been enemies, but always he had held the young mix-blood in high esteem, and as the years passed that esteem had given way to a kind of awe. Now they were closer than brothers. Yet what plan could even such a general as Parmenion produce to counter the demonic skills of Philippos?

The pass widened and as the soldiers filed out on to the plain two riders came galloping towards them.

'The King!' someone shouted and the Spartans drew their blades, crashing them against their bronze shields in salute.

Leonidas ran forward as the riders approached.

'Welcome, sire!' he called out. The King sat silently for a moment, expressionless, then he smiled.

'It is good to see you, Leonidas.'

The voice was cool and there was a tension about him that Leonidas could not understand. But then these last two days had been hard, and the King had suffered a bitter reverse.

'What are your orders, sire?'

'South to Sparta,' said Parmenion. 'Battle speed, for the enemy cavalry is close.' Leonidas bowed and then looked to the woman. She was stern of countenance but her eyes were locked to him. The King made no effort to introduce her, which surprised Leonidas, but he said nothing and returned to the head of the column.

The men marched until two hours after dawn; then the King commanded a halt, signalling Leonidas to make camp in a small wood on the slopes of a range of gentle hills. The Spartan soldiers moved into the shelter of the trees and then gratefully sank to the ground, stretching tired bodies to the grass.

Leonidas ordered sentries to watch for signs of the enemy, then made his way to where the King sat with the woman.

'I had thought you dead, sire,' he said, sitting opposite Parmenion.

'It was close,' replied the King. 'You fought well in the pass. What were our losses?'

'Eighty-two died in the battle on the plain, a further thirty in the pass itself. Epulis, Karas and Ondomenus are dead.'

The King nodded, but no expression of regret showed. Leonidas could barely contain his surprise, for Ondomenus had been one of the King's closest companions.

'The Makedones cavalry,' said the King, 'has reached the pass but not followed in pursuit. We will rest here for two hours, then continue south.'

'How do you know this, sire?'

The King smiled. 'I am sorry, my friend. My mind is occupied and it has affected my manners. Let me introduce you to the seeress, Thena. She has many talents — and saved my life during the battle.'

Leonidas bowed his head. 'For that you have my gratitude, my lady. Without the King all would be lost. Where are you from?'

'Asia,' Thena answered. Parmenion stretched out on the ground, closing his eyes. 'The King is weary,' she continued.

'May we walk for a while and talk?' she asked Leonidas.

'Of course,' he answered, perplexed. The King's behaviour was beginning to unsettle him. Taking Thena's arm, he strolled with her to the edge of the woods and they sat upon a fallen log looking back over the plains.

'The King,' said Thena, 'fell from a ledge, suffering a severe blow to his head.'

'I saw the dent in his helm, lady. I am surprised he survived.'

'He is a strong man.'

'He is the best of men, lady.'

'Yes, I am sure that he is. I have known him but a little time. Tell me of him.'

'Surely even in Asia you have heard of Parmenion?'

'I meant tell me of the man. It is said he is a mix-blood. How did he become King?'

'He was the First General of Sparta. When Agisaleus was slain in the Great Athenian War three years ago, the ephors elected Parmenion.'

'But he has no links to the royal houses,' said Thena.

'That is not true, lady. He married well.' Leonidas chuckled.

'Married?'

'My own house is of the noble line, and I could have had the throne. But in the dark days of a seemingly lost war I knew we needed a better man than I. And Parmenion was that man. Therefore we brought him into my family. He married my sister, Derae.'

The shock was terrifying. Derae felt her heartbeat quicken, her hands tremble. She knew that her face was betraying her, for Leonidas leaned forward.

'Are you well, lady?' he asked, his voice full of concern.

But she could say nothing. An alternate world in which Philippos ruled and Parmenion was King of Sparta! You fool, she told herself. How could you have not known there would be a twin for you?

'Please leave me, Leonidas,' she said, forcing a smile. 'I have much to think about.' Bewildered the warrior rose, bowed and moved away.

Alone, she felt the full weight of grief descend.

'Why are you unhappy?' asked Tamis, and Derae jerked to awareness as the old woman's spirit hovered before her.

'I cannot talk,' whispered Derae, 'but I give you permission to share my memories. All answers lie there.'

'I would not wish to intrude on them,' said Tamis softly.

'You would not be intruding,' Derae assured her. 'Indeed, I would value your counsel.'

'Very well,' Tamis replied, and Derae felt a flicker of warmth as Tamis merged into her mind, flowing through the thoughts of the past. At last the old woman withdrew. 'What would you have me say to you?' she asked.

Derae shrugged. 'I love him. It seems that all my life I have loved him. Yet all we had was five days together. And the time here. . where he does not know me. I cannot bear to see them together, I cannot.'

'Yet it is different here,' said Tamis gently. 'Here there was no rescue, no five days of passion. In this world Derae loved a man called Nestus, but was forced to put him aside in order to marry Parmenion. They live together now in cold comfort. . without love.'

'She does not love him? I cannot believe it.'

'As I said, here he did not rescue her; they had few meetings before the wedding. And she was betrothed to Nestus, whom she adored. I believe she still does.'

'Then what has it all been for?' whispered Derae. 'Why did this have to be? Why did the Tamis I knew have to interfere?'

'She did you both great harm, and I do not excuse it. But had she not done so then my vision could not have been realized. The strategos would not have come to the aid of my world.'

'What are you saying?'

'Let us assume that your Parmenion had never become the Death of Nations. How then could he help the Sparta of this world? He would never have come here, for there would have been no Alexander to follow, to rescue. Do you understand?'

Derae's mind reeled and she shook her head. 'Then you are saying the Tamis of my world did right? I cannot believe that!'

The older woman shrugged. 'You misunderstand me. In the context of your world she was wrong, for her actions led to the birth of the Chaos Spirit and destroyed your dreams of love. But here? Here the child may be Iskander and the hope of the Enchantment.'

'This is beyond me, Tamis.'

'It comes down to this, my dear. Every action we take has many consequences, some for good, some for evil.

Consider your own life as an example. When you were kidnapped as a young girl it brought you and Parmenion together. An evil action, but the outcome was good. And though my namesake was wrong to take you from Sparta, you became a Healer. We none of us know where our actions will lead. That is why the followers of the Source must not use the weapons of evil. Everything we do must be governed by love.'

'You think that love cannot lead to evil?'

'Of course it can. For love creates jealousy, and jealousy hate. But love also conquers, and deeds inspired by love bring harmony far more often than discord.'

'And do we deal with Philippos with love?' countered Derae.

'I do not hate him,' answered Tamis. 'I feel great pity for him. But I did not bring Parmenion here — though I could have done. Nor have I used my powers to see Philippos slain — though this also I could have done. For I do not know the will of the Source in this.'

'That sounds like evasion,' said Derae, 'for you cannot escape the simple point that my Parmenion is here, and he is a warrior. He will attempt to fight Philippos, and in that battle thousands will be slain. Surely that involves using the weapons of evil?'

The other woman nodded. 'Perhaps. But I cannot, of my will, change the world. All I can do is to maintain my own principles in the face of the world's evil. When a cancer is spreading through the body and the surgeon cuts it out, is he acting on behalf of evil? He is hurting the body and causing pain. Is that evil? All principles can be made to look foolish in the eyes of the world's wisdom. Once there was a city under siege.

The enemy King said that he would spare the city if the inhabitants took a single babe and sacrificed it to him on the battlements. Now the city could not hold against him and surely, it was argued, the slaying of a single babe would be better than seeing all the babes of the city killed when the attacker breached the walls.'

'What did they do?'

'They refused.'

'And then?'

'They were slaughtered. No one survived.'

'What is your point, Tamis?'

'That is a question for you to answer, my dear. You think them wrong?'

'I cannot say. But the babe they might have sacrificed died anyway.'

'Yes.'

'Then why did they refuse?'

Tamis sighed. 'They understood that you do not turn aside a great evil by allowing a small one to be committed. Evil grows, Derae. Give way once and you will give way again. . and again. Would you have killed the babe?'

'No, of course not.'

'Not even to save the city?'

'No.'

'Then why do you ask why they also refused?'

'Because I am used to the evil of Man and I understand the nature of selfishness and compromise. I am amazed that an entire city should exhibit such nobility of spirit.'

'They had a great leader, my dear. His name was Epaminondas and he was King Parmenion's closest friend. The people loved him for his virtue. They died for him.'

'What became of the enemy King?'

'He marches on Sparta, Derae. For the man was Philippos.'

'I will not stay to see it,' said Derae. 'I will travel south to the Giant's Gateway. I will not watch Parmenion with. .

with his wife. Nor will I wait to see him die.'

'You think he will fail?'

'How can he succeed, Tamis?'

The old woman had no answer.

Parmenion lay awake, deeply unhappy about the subterfuge. He knew himself to be an imposter, and it irked him.

Yet what choices were there? Could he say to Leonidas, 'I am not your king, but a warrior from another world'? And if he did, would he still command the Spartan army? He sat up and gazed around at the camp.

He could see Nestus, the swordsman he had slain for ordering Derae's death. And Learchus, the boy he had killed in Sparta on the night of the attack on Hermias. Here and there were other men whose faces he recalled but whose names were lost to him, vanished in some dim corridor of memory.

He stood. 'Officers to me,' he called. They rose and moved to sit in a circle around him, all of them bowing save the giant Nestus. Parmenion met the man's eyes, sensing the hostility there. Leonidas appeared from the woods and joined him. Parmenion looked at his handsome face, the tightly curled hair of red-gold, the clear blue eyes. My enemy and my friend, he thought.

'We learned a great deal,' said Parmenion, 'even though the battle was lost. Philippos is not a good general.'

'How can you say that?' asked Nestus. 'He has never lost.' There was an edge in the man's voice which was almost a sneer.

'The golden eye gives him a power to read the thoughts of his adversary. Then he reacts. Do you understand? He has no need of a battle plan. He merely thwarts the plans of others until they are overcommitted. Then he strikes.'

'How does that help us?' queried Leonidas.

'By telling us that strength merely disguises a weakness. If we can find a way to nullify his power, we can destroy him,' Parmenion told him.

'How do we do that?' asked the slender Learchus.

'I will find a way,' Parmenion promised, with a confidence he did not feel. 'Now tell me, Leonidas, how many men can we gather?'

'Men, sire? There is only the army. Five thousand.'

Parmenion fell silent. Back in the Sparta he knew there were the Sciritai, warriors from the mountains to the north-

west of the city. But did they exist here?

'If we had to assemble a force that was not purely Spartan,' he said carefully, 'where-would you look to find men?'

'There are none, sire. The Messenians have sided with Philippos. If we had time we could enlist the aid of the Cretans- but there is no time. We stand alone.'

'If every man in the city was given a sword, how many warriors would we count?'

'You mean if we armed the slaves?'

'Exactly.'

'Fifteen thousand. . twenty. But they are not warriors, they would have no discipline. And afterwards — even if we won — how would we dispossess them of those weapons?'

'One step at a time, my friend. First we must win.'

'You think the Spartarf army cannot win alone?' asked Nestus, his dark eyes angry.

'Given the right terrain, there is no force in all the world to equal us,' said Parmenion. 'But tell me, Nestus, where is such a terrain between here and Sparta? On open ground Philippos will surround us, his cavalry perhaps passing us by and raiding the city itself. And we cannot defend the city. We must bring Philippos to the battlefield and hold his entire army. We cannot do that with five thousand men.'

'Then what do we do?' Learchus demanded.

'As soon as we arrive back in Sparta you will gather all the slaves, and every Spartan man under the age of sixty-five and above the age of fifteen. Those slaves who agree to fight alongside us will be offered their freedom. Then it will be up to you to give them cursory training. We will have maybe five days, perhaps less.'

'Children, old men and slaves?' sneered Nestus. 'Perhaps we should surrender now.'

'If you are afraid,' said Parmenion softly, 'I will give you permission to remain at home with the women.'

All colour drained from the giant's face. 'You dare suggest. .?'

'I dare,' Parmenion told him. 'And I will have no faint-hearted man serve me.'

Nestus lurched to his feet, his sword snaking clear of its scabbard.

'No!' shouted Leonidas.

'Leave him be,' said Parmenion, rising smoothly but leaving his own sword sheathed.

'This is madness,' Learchus shouted. 'For Hera's sake, Nestus, put up your blade!'

'He called me a coward! I'll take that from no man.'

'Wrong, you arrogant whoreson!' snarled Parmenion. 'You will take it from me. Now you have two choices. The first is to use that sword; the second is to kneel and ask my forgiveness. Which will it be?'

Nestus stood still, aware that all eyes were upon him. In that awful moment he realized what he had done and the fate that awaited him. If he slew Parmenion — as he dearly wanted to — the others would fall upon him. But to kneel to the mix-blood!

'You brought it on yourself!' he shouted. 'You insulted me!'

'Two choices,' snapped Parmenion. 'Choose, or I'll kill you where you stand.'

For a moment Nestus hesitated, then he dropped the sword. 'On your knees!' roared Parmenion. The giant fell forward with head bowed. Parmenion ignored him, his gaze sweeping over the watching men. 'Is there another here who wishes to dispute my right to lead?'

'There is no one, sire,' said Leonidas softly. 'We are yours, heart and soul.'

Parmenion swung back to the kneeling Nestus. 'Get out of my sight!' he said. 'From this moment you will fight in the front rank. You have no command. Never open your mouth in my presence again.'

Nestus rose, stumbling back from the group of officers.

'That is all,' said Parmenion. 'Prepare to march in one hour.' Turning his back on them, he walked away into the wood.

Leonidas followed him. 'That should have been done three years ago,' he said. 'Your patience amazes me. But tell me, Parmenion, why now?'

'It was time. I am glad you are here, I need to talk with you. Look at me, Leonidas, and tell me what you see.'

'My King and my friend,' he answered, nonplussed.

'Look closely. Do I seem older, younger?'

'You are the same — maybe a little tired.'

Thena approached them and Parmenion turned to her. 'Deceit is not my way, Thena. I cannot do this.'

'You must,' she said.

'I want Leonidas to know the truth.'

She met his gaze and knew, without recourse to reading his mind, that argument would be futile. 'Then let me show him,' she pleaded. 'Then he will see it all.'

'As you wish.'

'What is happening here?' asked Leonidas. 'What is it that I do not know?'

'Sit down by that tree and close your eyes,' Thena commanded. 'All will be made known to you.'

Perplexed, Leonidas did as he was bid, sitting on the grass with his back to a slender cypress tree. Thena knelt before him and closed her eyes. Warmth like a hot summer breeze flowed through his mind and he found himself gazing down on the city of Sparta from a great height. Yet it was not Sparta, he realized. There were subtle differences.

'What is this place?' he asked.

'Watch and learn,' Thena answered.

He saw the young Parmenion, hated and hunted, saw himself and his family. But nothing was right. The years fled on and he saw a duel between Parmenion and Nestus, watched the freeing of a city, experienced the defeat of a Spartan army and the death of a King.

Leonidas was entranced.

Then he saw Philippos and anger flared within him. Yet even here there were small changes. Philippos was called Philip and was possessed of no golden eye, no witchcraft to protect him. Events flowed by beneath his gaze — great battles, victories, defeats — until at last he saw the kidnap of the King's son and the journey of Parmenion to rescue him.

Derae's voice whispered into his mind. 'Prepare yourself, for what you are about to see will be painful.'

Once more the battle lines were assembled, the Kadmians on the right panicking and fleeing the field. He saw the King's horse bolt towards the western ridges.

'No,' he groaned as Parmenion fell, his throat slashed, his dead body crashing to the rocks. 'Oh, no!'

The man he served and loved was being buried now, his twin donning his armour and helm.

His vision swam and his eyes opened. At first he could not speak, then he shook his head. 'You are not my King,' he said softly.

'No,' admitted Parmenion.

'But he is the strategos,' Thena pointed out, laying her hand on Leonidas' arm.

He stood, drawing in several deep breaths. 'I knew something was wrong,' he whispered.

'I am sorry, Leonidas,' Parmenion told him. 'I did not wish this.'

'I know. I saw.'

'If you desire me to leave, I will do so,' said Parmenion. 'I do not relish the role of imposter.'

'Were the roles reversed my King would say the same. He was a great man, kind and yet strong. That is why he tolerated Nestus. He felt he had done him harm and owed him a debt. What can I say? I do not know how to proceed.'

Thena stepped forward. 'You have lost a friend — a dear friend. Ask yourself what he would choose. Your Parmenion is dead, may the Source guide his soul. But this Parmenion is also a strategos. What would the King do?'

For a time Leonidas was silent, swinging away from them to stare through the trees. Then he spoke. 'You have been honest with me, Parmenion. For that I thank you. We will go to Sparta and raise the army. I do not see how we can win, but I will fight alongside you. But if we do survive you must leave us. You are not my. . brother. It would be wrong for you to stay.'

'You have my word on it,' said Parmenion. 'Is there an oath you wish me to swear?'

'No oaths,' Leonidas told him. 'Your word — like my brother's — is promise enough.'

'Then we will continue with this. . drama,' said Parmenion. 'I will need your help. There is much I do not know about this world and you must advise me, especially when we reach the city. Who are the ephors I can trust? Where are my enemies? Time is short.'

'You believe we can defeat Philippos?'

'I know I can nullify his sorcery. You and I will discuss the strategy. But it will still depend on the numbers we can raise.'

'I will do all that you ask of me. And you will remain King until the battle is decided.'

Leonidas offered his hand and Parmenion took it. 'Victory or death,' said the young Spartan.

'Victory is preferable,' Parmenion answered.

The Spartan smiled and moved away and Parmenion turned to Thena. 'You think I was wrong to tell him?'

She shook her head. 'No, you will need a friend in the city.'

'I have you.'

'No,' she said sadly, 'I will not come to Sparta. I shall ride south-west to the Giant's Gateway.'

'But I thought. .'

'As did I. It was not to be.'

'I will. . miss you, lady.'

'And I you. Is there a message for Attalus?'

'Yes. And for Brontes. Will you and I still be able to commune from such a distance?'

Thena nodded and stepped forward, taking his hand. 'Across worlds,' she promised.

They sat together for almost an hour as Parmenion outlined his plans. Then Leonidas returned. 'The men are ready,'

he told them.

'As am I,' answered Parmenion.

The City of Sparta

Word of the defeat had reached the city, and there were no crowds to greet the returning soldiers as they marched in formation along Leaving Street to the marble-pillared palace.

'Stay close to me,' whispered Parmenion as the warriors returned to the nearby barracks and he and Leonidas entered the great gates, 'for I have never seen the inside of this place and it would not help our cause if I were to wander off and get lost.'

Leonidas grinned. There are six andron s on the ground floor and the kitchens are ahead of you. Your quarters are up the first flight of stairs and to the right.'

Parmenion nodded and glanced at the luridly painted walls leading to the marble stairs. Battle-scenes were everywhere, filling the hall, and even the mosaic on the floor showed Spartan warriors in battle array. He smiled.

'Sparta does not change,' he said, 'even in another world.'

An elderly servant moved forward and bowed. 'Priastes, whispered Leonidas.

'Welcome home, sire,' said Priastes. 'I have prepared you a bath and some refreshment.' The old man bowed once more and turned to the stairs, Parmenion and Leonidas following. The stairs were lined with statues of spear-carrying Spartan heroes from the past, none of whom Parmenion recognized. Priastes reached the top of the flight and turned right into a wide corridor, opening a door to a series of east-facing rooms. Parmenion stepped inside, following the servant through to a small chamber where a bronze-plated hip-bath had been filled with hot, scented water. The servant unbuckled Parmenion's breastplate and the Spartan swiftly undressed.

The bath was a delight, the heat easing his tired muscles. Priastes poured watered wine into a golden wine-cup, first sipping it before passing it to his King.

'Thank you, Priastes, that will be all,' said Parmenion, lounging down into the bath. The man bowed and left. The new King scrubbed the dust of his travels from his skin and then rose from the bath. Leonidas handed him a towel which Parmenion wrapped around his waist before strolling out to the balcony beyond the main windows. A cool breeze whispered across his wet frame and he shivered. 'That feels good,' he told the Spartan warrior.

'It is always wise to remove the smell of stale sweat and horses before greeting your wife,' said Leonidas carefully.

'Wife? What wife?'

Leonidas took a deep breath. When the seeress Thena allowed him to see Parmenion's life in the other world of Greece, he had observed with sorrow the loss of his love. 'This will not be easy for you, Parmenion. In this world you married my sister, Derae.'

'She is here? In the palace?'

'Of course. But know this: she does not love you. She was to have wed Nestus, but duty came first and she married you to give you a link to the throne.'

Parmenion looked down at his hands; they were trembling. 'I don't think I can do this,' he whispered. 'You cannot know. .'

'I know,' whispered Leonidas. 'Believe me, I know. But we have embarked on a course from which there is no turning back. Be strong, my friend. She will not wish to spend time with you. You will be able to avoid her. Tell yourself that she is not the woman you loved. This is a different world. Now,' he said gently, changing the subject,

'what are your battle plans?'

Parmenion shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to force thoughts of Derae from his mind. 'We will not discuss them in detail. Without Thena here I cannot know whether we are being observed.'

'We have our own seeress, Tamis. She is old, but once her powers were very strong. Shall I order her here?'

'Not yet. If she is gifted, she will know of my. . deception. No. First summon the ephors. I will see them today.

Bring her here in the morning. Now tell me, which of the ephors spoke against the battle with Philippos?'

'Chirisophus and Soteridas. They are very much the leaders of the council. Chirisophus is rich and many men live under his patronage, but Soteridas is also the chief priest at the Temple of Apollo, and it was his reading of the omens that prevented the full army from marching with us.'

'Can you find ten men with open minds and closed mouths?'

'Of course,' answered Leonidas. 'But why?'

'During the meeting I want you to have the houses of Chirisophus and Soteridas searched.'

'What do you expect them to find?'

'I hope to find nothing. But we must consider the possibility that one — or both — may be in the pay of Philippos. You and your men must seek links with the Makedones — letters, Makedones gold. . anything.'

'It shall be as you say.'

'And send out riders to watch for the Makedones army.'

'Yes. . sire.' The handsome Spartan bowed and backed away.

'Leonidas!'

'Sire?'

'I will do my utmost to be worthy of… him.'

'I do not doubt that, my friend. And I will be beside you.'

After Leonidas had gone Parmenion refilled his wine-cup and stood staring out over the eastern quarters of the city.

From here he could see the market-place, where the food-sellers were already setting up their stalls. Several messengers were running along the narrow streets, carrying news of trade convoys or shipments to the merchants.

Beyond the palace street cleaners were sweeping away the debris of yesterday, the sewage that flowed to the streets from the open clay pipes in every house; while high above the city, on the acropolis hill, the statue of Zeus gazed out over the mountains — stern, proud and forbidding.

Just under 40,000 people dwelt here, Leonidas had said, more than half of them slaves or servants. Parmenion's spirits were not high as he considered the coming battle.

It was not enough, he knew, to match the Makedones manpower. His twin had almost done that. No. Quality was the key. . and surprise. But how do you surprise a man who knows what you intend? Was Philippos even now reading his mind?

The thought was not comforting.

The Makedones were coming, but how long before they reached the city? They had fought one battle a few days ago.

It was likely that Philippos would let his troops rest, to enjoy the fruits of victory, the spoils and the plunder. Five days? Three?

He would not consider the Spartans a major threat — not with only 5,000 men. And the addition of a slave army would concern him not at all.

The door behind him opened and the scent of sweet perfume filled the air. He knew instantly who had entered and turned slowly, his heart palpitating, his mouth suddenly dry.

Derae stood before him, dressed in a gown of white bordered with gold. Her red hair was long, drawn back from her face in intricate braids. Her eyes were green, her skin burnished gold. His breath caught in his throat as she approached him. After all these years he was once more face to face with the woman he had loved and lost.

'Derae!' he whispered.

'You shamed Nestus,' she said, her eyes showing her fury, 'and I will hate you for as long as you live!'

Parmenion could not speak, the shock was too great. He felt his legs trembling and backed away from the balcony.

For more than thirty years he had loved this woman. No, he tried to tell himself, not this Derae. But logic was useless against the vision before him. Her face and form had lived in his memory for three decades and the sight of her now unmanned him.

'Well, speak!' she demanded.

He shook his head and lifted the wine-cup, pulling his gaze from her, trying to break the spell.

'Have you nothing to say?'

Anger touched him then, flaring swiftly. 'Nestus is fortunate to be among the living,' he told her. 'And as for your hatred, lady, it will be shortlived. It is likely that we all have but five days to live. If you wish to spend those days with Nestus, go to him; you have my blessing.'

'Your blessing? That is something I have never had. I served your purpose: you wed me to become King, you stole my happiness — and now you give me your blessing. Well, a curse upon it! I do not need it.'

'Tell me what you need,' he said, 'and, if it is within my power, you shall have it.'

'There is nothing you can give me,' she answered, spinning on her heel and striding towards the door.

'Derae!' he called and she stopped, but did not turn. 'I have always loved you,' he said. 'Always.'

She faced him then, cheeks crimson and eyes blazing, but her anger died as she saw his expression. Without replying she backed away and fled the room.

Parmenion moved to a couch and sat, his thoughts sombre.

Soon the old servant, Priastes, returned to the King's quarters and bowed.

'What will you wear today, sire?' he asked.

'I will be garbed for battle,' answered Parmenion.

'Which breastplate do you desire?'

'I do not care,' he snapped. 'You choose, Priastes. Just bring it.'

'Yes, sire. Are you well?' the old man asked.

'Fine.'

'Ah,' said Priastes knowingly, 'but the Queen is angry. The world is falling apart, but the Queen is angry. She is always so — why do you not take another wife, boy? Many kings have several wives. . and she has given you no sons.' The old man obviously had a warm relationship with the King and Parmenion found the open friendliness comforting. He answered without thinking.

'I love the woman,' he said.

'You do?' responded Priastes, astonished. 'Since when? And why? I'll grant she has a fine body and good child-bearing hips. But, by Zeus, she has the foulest temper.'

'How long have you been with me, Priastes?'

'Sire?'

'How long? Exactly?'

'Exactly? You gave me my freedom after the battle at Orchomenus. When was that. . the year of the Griffyn? The time has sped by since.'

'Yes, it has,' agreed Parmenion, none the wiser. 'Have I changed much in that time?'

'No,' said the old man, chuckling, 'you are still the same — shy and yet arrogant, both a poet and a warrior. This war has been hard on you, boy, you look older. Tired. Defeat does that to a man.'

‘I’ll try to see that it doesn't happen again.'

'And you'll succeed,' said Priastes, chuckling. 'All the oracles said you'd die in that battle, but I didn't believe them.

That's my Parmenion, I said. There's no one alive who can beat him. And I know you would have won but for those Kadmians. I hear you dealt with Nestus. About time. How long have I been telling you to do just that? Hmm?'

'Too long. Now fetch my armour — and then let me know when the ephors arrive.'

Priastes wandered away into a back room, emerging with a cuirass of baked black leather, edged with gold, and a kilt of bronze-reinforced leather strips. 'Will these suffice?'

'Yes. Bring me some food while I dress.'

'May I ask a favour, boy?'

'Of course.'

'Leonidas says you are asking every able-bodied man — including slaves — to take up swords in defence of the city.

Well, what about me? I'm only seventy-three and I am still strong. I'll stand beside you.'

'No,' answered Parmenion. 'The older men will be left to defend the city.'

Priastes stood his ground, his expression hardening. 'I would like to be with you… on the last day.'

Parmenion looked into the old man's grey eyes. 'You think I will die?' he asked softly.

'No, no,' answered Priastes, but he would not meet the King's gaze. 'I would just like to be there to share the glory of victory. I never had a son, Parmenion, but I've looked after you for nearly fifteen years. And I love you, boy. You know that?'

'I know. Then it will be as you say: you will come with me.'

'Thank you. Now I'll find some food for you. Cakes and honey? Or would you prefer some salted meat?'

While Priastes fetched the food Parmenion dressed, then wandered to the balcony. The Parmenion of this world had been a good man, he realized, caring and patient. Why else would he allow his servants to address him so informally? Why else would he have tolerated the insubordination of Nestus? Now an old man wanted nothing more than to die beside the man he loved. Parmenion sighed. 'You were a better man than I,' he whispered, staring up at the cloud-streaked sky.

Below the balcony and beyond the palace walls Sparta was beginning to stir. Slaves were moving towards the market-place and shops were opening, merchants displaying their wares on trestle-tables.

So like his own city, he thought. But here there was no Xenophon and no Hermias, he realized suddenly. His only friend in the Sparta of his own world, Hermias, had stood by him when all others felt only hatred and contempt for the mix-blood. Hermias, who had died at Leuctra, fighting on the opposite side.

'The ephors are ready, sire,' said Leonidas.

'Let him eat first,' snapped Priastes, moving in behind the Spartan officer.

Leonidas grinned. 'Like a she-wolf with her young,' he commented.

'Watch your tongue, boy, lest this old man cut it out for you,' retorted Priastes, setting a silver tray down before the King. Parmenion ate swiftly, washing down the honey-cakes with heavily-watered wine. Dismissing Priastes, he turned to Leonidas.

'I will not know the ephors,' he said, 'so I want you to greet them by name.'

'I will. And the men I have chosen are already on their way to the homes of Chirisophus and Soteridas. I will join them once the meeting is under way.'

'If you find anything incriminating, return to the palace and the discussions. Do not say anything, merely point at the guilty.'

'It will be as you say.'

'Good. Now lead me to the meeting.'

The two men walked from the King's quarters and down the statue-lined staircase to a long corridor. Servants bowed as they passed, and the sentries in the royal gardens stood to attention as the two men strolled across the grounds.

They came at last to a set of double doors before which stood two soldiers, armed with spear and shield. Both warriors saluted, then laid aside their spears and pushed open the doors.

Parmenion stepped through into a huge andron. Couches were set around the walls and the floor was decorated with a magnificent mosaic showing the god, Apollo, riding an enormous leopard. The god's eyes were sapphires, the leopard's orbs fashioned from emeralds. Twelve columns on each side supported the roof, and the furniture was inlaid with gold. The six ephors rose as Parmenion entered. Leonidas moved among them and Parmenion listened as he spoke their names.

'Dexipus, I swear you are getting fatter day by day. How long since you attended the training ground, eh?. . Ah, Cleander, any news yet of the shipment? I am relying on it to pay my gambling debts. . What's that, Lycon?

Nonsense, I was just unlucky with the dice. I will win it back.'

Parmenion said nothing but moved to the large couch at the northern wall, stretching himself out and listening intently to the conversation. A man approached him — tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a simple blue tunic and a belt of black leather edged with silver thread. His hair was iron-grey, his eyes astonishingly blue.

'I am pleased to see you alive, sire,' he said, his voice deep and cold.

Leonidas moved alongside the man. 'We were also more than thankful, Soteridas,' he said. 'For had the King not caused the avalanche none of us would be here.'

'I heard of it,' said Soteridas, 'but it was such a small victory to set against so vast a defeat.'

'Indeed it was,' agreed Parmenion softly, locking his gaze to the man's eyes. 'But then defeat was assured, was it not, Soteridas?'

'What do you mean, sire?'

'Did you not predict it? Did you not claim the omens were against us? Now, enough idle talk, let us begin!'

Parmenion looked around the room and Soteridas moved back to sit alongside Chirisophus, a dark-haired man with a powerful, jutting jaw. He wore robes of shimmering green, and a golden tore gleamed at his throat.

'Today,' said Parmenion, 'we have only one question to answer: What now for Sparta?'

Leonidas bowed and backed away, the doors swinging shut behind him.

'Surely,' said Chirisophus, spreading his hands, 'there is only one response? We seek terms with Philippos. We cannot now stand against him.'

'I agree,' put in Soteridas. 'The Makedones King is unbeatable — as even our own strategos has now found.'

'It irks me to vote for such a course,' said Dexipus, a short swarthy warrior, balding and bearded, 'but I do not see how we can stand against him. On numbers alone he could envelop our flanks, forcing us in to a fighting square and winning merely by using his javeliners and archers.'

'I say we fight him anyway,' roared Cleander. Parmenion was surprised that a voice of such power could emanate from so skeletal a frame; Cleander was thin to the point of emaciation, his skin yellow and his eyes rheumy. 'What else can we do, my brothers? We are not dealing with an enemy King but with a demonic force. Surrender will not save us from the horrors of such a man. Better to die in battle.'

'With respect, Cleander,' said Chirisophus, 'you are dying anyway. All of us regret that, but you have less to lose than others in the city — the women and the children, for example.'

'Yes, I am dying, but that is not why I say we must fight. Our children will be no more safe than the children of Kadmos. We face the full force of evil here; there can be no compromise.'

'There is a great deal of exaggeration in any war,' said Chirisophus. 'Always the enemy is depicted as a beast.

Philippos is a warrior King — unbeaten, invincible — but he is a man, no more than that.'

'I would disagree,' said another voice and Parmenion swung to see the speaker. He was Lycon, the youngest of the ephors, a good-looking youth in his mid-twenties, dark-haired and dark-eyed. 'I have met the Makedones King and I saw what he did at Methone and Plataea. I agree with Cleander: we must fight him.'

An argument began. 'Enough!' roared Parmenion. A tall thick-set man with a heavy black beard was sitting at the far end of the room and the King turned to him. 'You have not spoken yet, Timasion. Do you have nothing to offer?'

Timasion shrugged. 'I am undecided, sire. My heart says fight, my head says hold. Might I ask what the omens predict?'

Soteridas rose, bowing first to the King and then to the other ephors. 'Today,' he said, 'we sacrificed a goat to All-father Zeus. Its liver was spotted, its belly cancerous. Death and destruction will follow any attempt to make war on Philippos. The gods are against us.'

'As they were at Mantinea?' ventured Parmenion.

'Indeed, sire,' the chief priest agreed.

'It was an interesting battle,' said Parmenion. 'We broke their attack and almost took their centre. But even three hundred Spartans could not carry the victory. Of course, it is even more interesting to speculate what might have happened had we pushed ahead with five thousand Spartans.'

'The gods spoke against such a plan,' Soteridas pointed out.

'So you informed us. I find it curious that the gods of… Achaea. . should choose to side with the Demon King. But then I am not a seer, and it is not for me to question the wisdom of Zeus. Tell me, Chirisophus, how you would appease the Makedones King and save Sparta?'

'You cannot consider this!' Cleander stormed.

'Silence!' thundered Parmenion. 'I wish to hear Chirisophus. Your turn will come again, Cleander.'

Chirisophus rose and began to speak, his voice smooth, his words comforting. There would be, he said, an ambassadorial delegation to Philippos offering fraternal friendship and lasting peace. Gifts could be taken. Philippos was known as a great horseman and Chirisophus himself would donate his prize Thracian stallions. War would thus be avoided and Sparta would be allied to the strongest nation in the world. He spoke for some time, finally pointing out that Philippos — being a warrior King- would inevitably lead his armies north and west, seeking to conquer the Etruscans and the Achaean cities of Italia. Further west even than this were the fabled lands of the Gauls, where buildings were constructed of gold and gems, and their Kings were said to be immortal. 'By suing for peace now,'

Chirisophus ventured, 'we will in fact rid Achaea of Philippos all the sooner. I will naturally offer myself to lead the delegation,' he added, settling himself down on his couch.

'Naturally!' snorted Cleander.

At that moment Leonidas entered the room. Parmenion, the only man facing the doors, waited for his signal. When he pointed to Chirisophus and Soteridas, Parmenion nodded. Armed men moved into the room, walking slowly to stand behind the couches on which lay the traitors. Chirisophus swallowed hard, his face reddening.

'What is happening here, sire?' Cleander asked.

'Be patient,' the King told him. 'We stand at the edge of the abyss. A great evil stalks the land. We had an opportunity to rid the world of this evil, but we were thwarted, for the agents of Philippos are everywhere.' He paused, allowing his gaze to rest on the two traitors. Parmenion felt rage mounting within him. These men had caused the death of the Spartan King, and thousands of others on the field of Mantinea. He wanted nothing more than to walk across the room and cleave his sword through their foul hearts. Calming himself, he spoke again. 'It is the nature of Darkness to corrupt, and men of weak will, or men of lust and greed, will always be susceptible. Chirisophus and Soteridas have betrayed their city, their people and their King. They entered into secret negotiation with Philippos and they conspired to see the Demon King victorious at Mantinea. I do not know what they were offered for this treachery. I do not care. They have tried to doom us all and their crimes are written in blood.'

Chirisophus pushed himself to his feet, while Soteridas sat, all colour draining from his face.

'What I did was for Sparta!' Chirisophus insisted. 'There is no question of treachery. Philippos was always the ultimate victor; only a fool would try to deny him. But that is the past and it is foolish to dwell on it. I am the only man who can save the city. Philippos trusts me and will deal with me fairly. Without me you cannot survive. Think on that!'

'I have thought on it,' said Parmenion. 'Sparta will fight — and Sparta will win. But you — and your lickspittle priest -

will not live to see it. Leonidas!'

'Sire?'

'Remove these. . creatures. Take them to a place of execution. Do it at once and see their bodies are left in unmarked graves.'

Chirisophus backed away from the guards behind him and moved out into the mosaic floor. 'Do not be fools!' he shouted. 'I can save you!'

Suddenly he drew a dagger from his robe and rushed at Parmenion.

The King rolled to his feet, his sword snaking from its scabbard and plunging through the shimmering green robe.

Chirisophus grunted and fell back. Parmenion tore his sword clear of the dying man, and bright arterial blood soaked through the green silk. Chirisophus fell to his knees, hands clenched to his belly, then his eyes glazed and he toppled to his side. Several soldiers dragged the body back across the mosaic, leaving a trail of blood. Soteridas remained where he was, his face void of expression, until two soldiers took him by the arms and led him away.

'By the gods, sire!' whispered Cleander. 'I cannot believe it. His was a true Spartiate family. A noble house… a line of heroes.'

'To judge a man purely by his blood-line is folly,' said Parmenion. 'I have known the sons of cowards to be valorous, and sons of thieves who could be trusted with the treasure of nations. Such treachery is not of the blood, Cleander, but of the soul.'

'What now, lord?' asked Leonidas.

'Now? We prepare for war.'

Two days ride to the south-west of the city Attalus raised his arm to halt the company, then gazed around at the forbidding landscape — rockstrewn and jagged, thinly wooded and laced with streams. During their travels they had passed few villages in this inhospitable land, but had stopped at several lonely farms where they had been given food and grain for the horses.

Attalus was uneasy: the hunters were closing in. Helm had been the first to spot the pursuers, late the day before, when the setting sun had glinted from the lance-points of a large cavalry unit, perhaps an hour behind them. Through the heat haze Attalus had been unable to make out individual riders, but there were at least fifty.

Ektalis rode alongside the Macedonian, pointing at a dust-cloud to the west. 'Riders,' said the Korinthian. 'Probably Messenians. They serve the Tyrant.'

The company veered east and south, riding long into the night. But the horses were tired, and when the moonlight was lost behind unseasonal clouds Attalus was forced to call a halt. They made cold camp in a cluster of boulders on a hillside, where Ektalis set sentries and most of the company slept. But not Attalus.

Helm found him sitting alone, watching the trail to the north.

'You should rest,' the warrior advised.

'I cannot. Thoughts, plans, fears — they fly around my mind like angry wasps.'

'How far to the woods of the Enchantment?' asked Helm, moonlight gleaming eerily from his metal face.

'Another day — so Brontes told us.'

'Well, we have two chances,' said Helm, rising. 'Succeed or die.'

'Very comforting,' snapped Attalus.

'I find it so,' answered Helm, smiling and moving back amongst the boulders to sleep.

Silence surrounded the Macedonian, and a cool wind whispered across his face. For an hour he sat alone, miserable and dejected. Then the sound of a walking horse jerked him from his reverie. Rising smoothly, he drew his sword.

Why had the sentries not warned them? The horse moved into the boulders and Thena dismounted.

Attalus sheathed his blade and moved to her side. 'Where is Parmenion?' he asked.

'In Sparta, raising an army.'

'Why? He should be here with us. Let the Spartan King fight his own battles.'

'Parmenion is the Spartan King.'

'What madness is this?'

'I am thirsty. Fetch me some water and then we will talk,' Thena told him, moving away to sit on the hillside. He did as she asked, then sat beside her as she drank. Slowly she explained the events leading to Parmenion's decision, and the problems he faced.

'But there is no hope of victory,' said Attalus. 'I am no strategos, Thena, but even I know that the first object of battle is to contain the enemy flanks. If you cannot do that, then you will be encircled and destroyed. Five thousand men cannot contain the army we saw on the plain.'

'I know that,' she answered wearily.

'Are you saying he will die there? Why? In the name of Hecate, why?'

'He is a man of honour.'

'Honour? What has honour to do with it? He owes these people nothing. His duty is to Alexander, and to his King.'

'But Alexander is in your care — and Parmenion trusts you.'

'Well, a curse on him! Does he think he is a god that he can conquer any who stand in his way? Philippos will destroy him.'

Thena rubbed at her tired eyes. 'Parmenion wants you to take Alexander on to the woods and locate Brontes. Once there, we will discuss a plan he has.'

'If this plan involves Alexander and me returning to Macedonia, I will support it — but do not expect me to ride to the city or take part in any ill-fated battle against the Demon King.'

A cold wind brushed against Attains' back and a sibilant voice made his skin crawl. 'How wise of you,' it hissed.

Attalus spun, his sword flashing into his hand. Before him hovered a pale form, seemingly shaped from mist. Slowly it hardened to become a broad-shouldered man, bearded and powerful, whose right eye shone like gold. Thena sat silently, saying nothing. 'Ah, Attalus,' whispered Philippos, 'how curious to find you set against me. Everything in your heart and soul tells me you are mine. You should be marching with me. I can offer you riches, women, lands, empires. And why do you oppose me? For a child who will one day kill you. Give him to me, and his threat to you will be at an end.'

'I do not serve you,' answered Attalus, his voice hoarse.

'No, you serve a lesser version of me. You follow a man. Here you can follow a god. The idea pleases you, does it not? Yes, I can read it in your heart. Palaces, Attalus, nations under your sway. You can be a king.'

'His promises are worth nothing,' said Thena, but her words sounded shrill and empty.

'He knows,' said Philippos. 'He knows I speak the truth; he knows that warriors with his talents will always earn the hatred and envy of lesser men. Even Philip will turn on him one day. But here — with me — he can have his soul's desire. Is that not so, Attalus?'

'Yes,' answered the swordsman. 'I could serve you.'

'Then do so. Bring the child to me. Or wait until my riders arrive. Either way I will reward you.'

The Demon King shimmered, his form fading. Attalus turned to Thena. 'We cannot defeat him. We cannot.'

'What will you do?'

'Leave me alone, Thena. I need to think.'

'No,' she said, 'that is what you do not need. You need to feel. He called Philip a lesser man. Do you agree with that?'

'It does not matter whether I agree or disagree. In life there is only winning and losing. Philippos is a winner.'

'Winning and losing? Life is not a race,' she told him. 'A man who never loses a battle but ends his life alone and unloved has not won. Whatever you may say to the contrary, that is something you understand. If you did not, you would not have served Philip so faithfully. Be honest, Attalus, you love the man.'

'Yes, I do,' he shouted, 'and that makes me as big a fool as Parmenion. But here I could be a king!'

'Indeed you could. All you have to do is betray Philip and see his son murdered.'

Attalus fell silent for a moment, his head bowing. 'I have betrayed men before,' he said softly. 'It is not so hard.'

'Ah, but have you ever betrayed a friend?' asked Helm, moving from the shadows.

'I never had any friends,' answered Attalus.

'What about this. . Philip?'

Attalus sighed. 'He trusts me. He knows what I am and what I have done, yet he trusts me. He even calls me his friend.' Suddenly he laughed, the sound full of bitterness. 'And I am. I would die for the man. . and I probably will.'

'Well,' said Helm, 'if the discussion is over I would like to get back to sleep.'

Attalus turned to Thena. 'I will not betray the boy.'

She rose, moving to stand before him. 'You are a better man than you know,' she told him.

Derae looked into the man's pale eyes. He shook his head. 'I am what I am,' he told her. She watched as he walked back into the boulders to lie alone. Briefly she reached out, soothing his fears and bringing him the sanctuary of sleep.

Her spirits were curiously lifted. Philippos had been wrong. He had read Attalus, and read him right, yet still he had made a mistake. It was the first small gap in the Demon King's armour of invincibility. The Tyrant had failed.

Derae could scarce believe it. Of all the men who could be swayed, the bitter hate-filled Attalus should have been the simplest of victims. Yet he had resisted the promises, even though the dark side of his character cried out to accept.

The priestess sat down, resting her back against a boulder. In the moment that Philippos had appeared she had linked with Attalus, intending to strengthen him, to help him. But there had been no need. There was in the Macedonian one tiny shimmering thread, glowing in the darkness of his soul: his love for Philip.

From where did it come, Derae wondered? Attalus was capable of almost any evil, yet he had proved himself incorruptible. She smiled.

'It is a fine night,' said Helm, seating himself beside her.

'I thought you needed sleep.'

He nodded. 'Sleep without dreams is akin to death, lady.'

'Have you remembered anything of your life?'

'No.'

'You seem very calm. I would not like to be robbed of my past.'

He smiled, the metallic skin stretching, showing teeth of bronze. 'But I do not know what that past is, or was. There is a kind of tranquillity in the lack of knowledge. Perhaps I was an evil man. Perhaps there are deeds in my past that would shame me.'

'I sense no evil in you, Helm.'

'But then the world shapes us, Thena, evil begetting evil. If a man grows with hatred in his heart, then his actions will be governed by that hatred. Like Attalus, perhaps. I have no memories. I am unshaped.'

'The core of you is unchanged,' she said. 'You rescued Iskander, risking your life. And you understand friendship and loyalty.'

'But then the boy can free me from this. . spell. That gives me a selfish reason to fight for him.'

'My life has been long,' said Derae, 'longer than this youthful body shows. It is my experience that evil thrives when men and women are weak. You are not weak. Trust me. I do not say you were a good man, or a holy one — your skill with the sword belies that. But you are not evil.'

'We shall see,' he answered.

Parmenion stood with Leonidas and Learchus at the north entrance to the training grounds, watching dispassionately as the slaves, servants and old men filed past them. Officers moved among the men, greeting old comrades and directing veterans to the west of the area where hundreds of swords, shields and spears had been piled against the walls.

In the distance Parmenion could hear the pounding of hammers as the city's armourers worked feverishly to produce more weapons, arrowheads and blades, spear-points and helms.

'How many men so far?' asked the King.

'Four thousand,' answered Leonidas, 'but the training grounds will not take too many more. Those here this morning are from the south and east of the city. We have asked the. . volunteers. . from the north and west to assemble this afternoon.'

'How can we judge so many?' Learchus enquired. 'And how do we instill discipline into them in less than two days?'

'I wish to see only two skills imparted to the slaves,' Parmenion told him. 'Those we choose must learn to stand in wide line battle order, and to move into close formation for an attack.'

'But that will be of little use,' pointed out Leonidas. 'No matter how good their formation at the onset, once the order to advance is given the lines will break. They will become what they are — a rabble.'

'I know that. But drill them in the two formations. When the order is given I want them to move as smoothly into place as the finest of Spartan warriors. Also find five hundred men who can use bows; we will need them to turn back the Makedones cavalry.'

'It will be as you order, sire,' said Leonidas.

'Good. I will return around mid-morning to supervise the training.'

'Do you want me with you, sire, when you see Tamis?' asked Leonidas.

'No,' he answered, with a wry smile. 'If she is good she will understand all. If she does not, then she can be of little use to us.'

The palace was all but deserted when Parmenion rode in through the main gates. All the male servants — bar Priastes -

were at the training ground. Dismounting by the stables Parmenion led the grey mare into a paddock and pulled clear the leopardskin chabraque, which he hung over a rail. The mare whinnied and galloped around the paddock fence, tossing her head and rearing, announcing her presence to the stallions in the small meadow beyond.

Parmenion strolled into the palace, shouting for Priastes, and the old man came running from the upper rooms.

'The seeress, Tamis, is expected. Bring her to my quarters.'

'Yes, sire, but would it not be better to see her in the western gardens?'

'You think my quarters unfit for a seeress?'

'No, sire,' answered Priastes reproachfully, 'but the lady is very old and the stairs very steep. The garden will be cool and I will bring you wine and fruit.'

Parmenion smiled assent and walked down the long, cool corridor to the western gardens. They were well laid out, with winding paths and small fountains built around four willows, their branches trailing in man-made streams.

Several marble seats had been set in the shade and here Parmenion stretched out his frame, easing the muscles of his neck and back. He was tired and on edge. The night before had been spent in meetings — first with Lecnidas, then the dying Oleander and the other ephors. At dawn he was still awake, discussing strategies with the Barracks Masters whose youngsters he had called upon. There were 2,000 boys over the age of fifteen, and for them he had a special purpose.

Now the sun was two hours short of noon and Parmenion's eyes were gritty and sore, his back aching with the weight of the breastplate.

Priastes brought embroidered cushions which he scattered on the bench, then returned with a stone pitcher of cooled wine and a bowl of fruit — oranges, pomegranates and apples — which he set down before the King.

'You should sleep for a while,' said the old man.

'I will. . soon.'

It was restful here and he leaned back against the soft cushions and closed his eyes to think. So many plans to be laid, so many stratagems to consider, so many. .

He awoke in a moonlit meadow, refreshed and alert. He was without armour and the night breeze was pleasantly cool upon his body.

'Welcome, Parmenion,' said a voice. He sat up and saw an old woman sitting beneath a spreading oak.

'Where are we?' he asked.

'In a neutral place, far from wars and the threat of war. How are you feeling?'

'Rested. Are you the Tamis I knew, back in my own Sparta?'

'No. But then you are not the Parmenion I have known. What can I do to aid you? I must tell you that I will not kill, nor will I help you to kill.'

'Can you shield me from the golden eye?'

'If that is what you wish.'

'I must know also when we are being observed. That is vital.'

'Your meeting with the ephors, and the deaths of Chirisophus and Soteridas, were seen. As was the training this morning.'

'Last night with Cleander?'

'I do not know. But you must assume that Philippos is aware of your plans.'

'Can he see us now?'

'No,' answered Tamis. 'This is but a dream. Everything you say here is known only to me, and you, and the Source of All Creation.'

'Good. Where is the boy?'

'He and his companions are close to the Lands of the Enchantment. But they are in great danger. More than a hundred Messenian riders are waiting for them, and more follow.'

'Can we do anything to aid them?'

'No.'

Parmenion took a deep breath and pushed his fears for Alexander from his mind, concentrating only on the defence of Sparta. 'It is vital that we are not observed leaving the city. All our hopes rest on that. Yet I do not want Philippos to be aware that his… view. . has been restricted. You understand?'

'No,' Tamis admitted.

'My strategy must needs be simple, for I will be leading a fledgling force. I am obliged to depend on Philippos for the victory. He will know that I have an army of slaves, children and old men, built around the power of the Spartan phalanx. His strategy will be based on that knowledge. My only hope. . our only hope… is to fool him.'

'In what way?'

'I require him to attack my strongest point.'

'What has this to do with the army leaving Sparta?'

'I would sooner not say at this time, lady. I mean no offence.'

'I understand,' she said softly. 'You do not know me, Parmenion, and therefore you hold back your trust. That is wise.

I have a gift for you that will help; you will find it upon your return to the world of the flesh. When it glows warm you will know you are being observed, and all the time that you wear it no evil force can enter your mind, nor know of your thoughts.'

He awoke feeling rested, his body free of aches and pains. Sitting up, he looked around and saw the sun was still well short of noon. Filling his wine-cup, he sipped the drink which was still cool. Priastes moved into the garden, stopping and bowing before him.

'Sad news, lord,' he said. 'Tamis will not be coming. She died last night.'

Parmenion cursed softly and was about to speak when he felt a warm glow at his throat. His hand came up, his fingers touching the necklet he now wore.

'Thank you, Priastes, that will be all.'

'Can we win without her aid?' the old man asked.

'No,' answered the King. Standing, he strode from the gardens, returning to his apartments. A shining mirror of bronze was set into the wall and he halted before it. The necklet was of gold strands, interwoven around a fragment of golden stone laced with black veins.

It was still warm. Parmenion saw a movement in the mirror, a misty figure that hovered below the painted ceiling, but even as he looked upon it the figure shimmered and disappeared.

The warmth of the necklet faded.

'Thank you, Tamis,' he whispered.

'It is very dispiriting,' said Leonidas as he and Learchus moved into the small andron where Parmenion awaited them. There were only five couches here, set around a raised mosaic floor bearing the image of the goddess Artemis turning the hunter Actaeon into a stag. Leonidas sat down. 'So many men with so little talent,' he observed.

Removing his helm, he laid it on the floor at his feet and swung up his legs to stretch out on the couch. Priastes filled two wine-cups, passing them to the young officers.

'It would take months,' put in Learchus, with a sigh. 'And even then. .'

Parmenion looked at the two men and forced a smile. 'You expect too much,' he told them. 'This was only the first day. For myself I am pleased with the progress. The bowmen look promising and I am impressed with the officer responsible for their training. . Daricles? A good man. Tomorrow it will be better.'

'It will need to be,' said Cleander, from the doorway. 'Our scouts report that Philippos is preparing to march.'

Parmenion rose, ushering the ephor into the room. Oleander's face was drenched in sweat, his eyes glowing with the brightness of fever.

'Sit down, my friend,' said Parmenion gently, leading him to a couch. 'I see that you are suffering.'

'The end is near,' Cleander whispered. 'My surgeon tells me I will not live to see the battle. I will prove him wrong.'

'Yes, you will,' agreed Parmenion. 'You must. For you will be in charge of the city's defence. The older veterans and the youngsters will be under your command. I want most of the streets barricaded, except for Leaving Street and the Avenue of Athena.'

'But they lead to the agora,' Learchus pointed out. 'The enemy cavalry will simply ride to the centre of the city.'

'Which is where I want them,' said Parmenion, his expression cold. 'That is where they will die in their hundreds.'

The planning went on deep into the night, until at last Cleander fell asleep and the two Spartan officers made their way to the Royal Barracks. Priastes covered the sleeping Cleander with a woollen blanket and Parmenion left the room and climbed to his quarters.

The moon was high, but despite his weariness the Spartan could not sleep. His thoughts were with Attalus and Alexander, and he was concerned that Thena had not made contact. Fear rose in him, but he pushed it away. One problem at a time, he warned himself.

Priastes had left a pitcher of cool water and some fruit by the bedside. Parmenion swung his legs from the bed and drank. The night air was cool on his naked skin as he walked to the balcony to stare out over the sleeping city.

He thought of Philip and Macedonia, of Phaedra and his sons. So far away… so impossibly far away.

You cannot win, said the voice of his thoughts.

He saw again the slaves crashing into one another as they tried to follow the shouted orders. Three men had been seriously injured during the afternoon. One had tripped and fallen on a sword; a second had moved the wrong way, colliding with another man and falling badly, breaking his leg; a third had been hit in the shoulder by a carelessly loosed arrow. Not an auspicious beginning for the new army of Sparta.

He thought of the men he had trained back in Macedonia — Theoparlis, Coenus, Nicanor. . and imagined them leading their divisions through the gateways to stand alongside him against the Tyrant. ‘I’d give ten years of my life to see that,' he whispered.

But this thought he also forced from his mind. Concentrate on what you have, he ordered himself. Five thousand of the finest warriors. Spartans. No battle could be called lost while such men stood ready.

Do not try to fool yourself.

He heard the door of his room open and smelt Derae's sweet perfume.

'I have neither the time nor the energy to fight with you, lady,' he said as she entered. Her hair was unbraided, hanging loose to her shoulders, and she wore only a long linen robe embroidered with gold.

'I do not wish to fight,' she told him. 'How goes the training?'

He shrugged. 'We will see,' he answered. Having spent the day motivating his officers, he was not surprised to find he had little strength left to lie.

'Why did you say you loved me?' she asked, moving to stand before him on the balcony.

'Because it was true,' he said simply.

'Then why have you never said it before?'

He could not reply. He merely stood gazing down at her face in the moonlight, drinking in the living beauty, scanning every contour. She was older than the Derae of his dreams and memories, yet still youthful, her lips full, her skin soft. He was almost unaware of his hands moving up to rest gently on her shoulders, his fingers sliding under the robe, stroking her skin and feeling the warmth of her body.

'No,' she whispered, pulling back from him. 'That is no answer.'

'I know,' he told her, letting fall his arms and walking past her into the room.

'In two years you have never called for me, never asked me to share your bed. Now — with Sparta facing ruin — you tell me you love me. There is no sense in it.'

He smiled then. 'We are in agreement on that,' he admitted. 'Would you like some wine?' She nodded and he filled two golden cups, not bothering to add water. Silently he handed her a wine-cup, then lay down on the long sofa by the balcony wall. Derae sat in a chair opposite him.

For a time they remained in silence, sipping their drinks. 'Do you truly love Nestus?' he asked.

She shook her head and smiled. 'Once I thought I did, when my father first arranged the marriage. But the more time we spent together, the more I saw how boorish and arrogant he was.'

'Then why did you defend him so fiercely?'

'He was what you took from me,' she answered. 'You understand?'

'I think so. A marriage to Nestus would at least have been consummated, and you would have had a role to play.

Instead you were used by a cold-hearted general who sought to be King. What a fool I have been!'

'Why did you never ask me to share your bed? Was the thought so painful?'

'Let us not talk of past bitterness, nor past stupidity. The man I was died at Mantinea; the man I am may be dead within a few days. This is the present, Derae. This is all there ever is in life. This is now.' Swinging his legs from the couch he stood, holding out his hand to her. She took it and he drew her towards him, then leaned down and gently kissed her cheek. Suppressed passion made him tremble and he longed to tear the robe from her body and carry her to the bed. Yet he did not. He stroked the skin of her neck and shoulders, then pushed his fingers through her red-gold hair. She moved into him and he felt the warmth of her body through the robe. His hands slid down her back to rest on her hips and her head came up. Tenderly he kissed her lips.

Her arms moved around him, fingers tracing the lines of tired muscle on his back. As she touched him warmth flowed into his frame, relaxing him. 'You have healing hands,' he whispered.

'Don't speak,' she replied, rising on tiptoe to kiss him again. He parted the robe, pushing it from her shoulders to fall to the floor, then felt her breasts against his chest, the nipples hard against his skin.

He carried her to the bed, then lay beside her — his right hand stroking her flank, tracing an invisible line along the outside of her thigh. Slowly he reversed the movement, this time along the inside, his hand coming to rest against soft, silken hair. She moaned as his finger slid gently inside her. Parmenion was almost beyond conscious thought.

Desire was everything. Not the crazed, lustful desire that had seen him bed Olympias on that terrible night, but the desire born of a lifetime of suppressed feelings and empty dreams. She was here. Not dead, not white bleached bones at the bottom of the sea, but here! The love he had lost a lifetime ago was his again.

Images from the past kaleidoscoped through his brain as he rose above her, feeling her legs slide over his hips. The five glorious days in Olympia when the sun shone in glory, the sky was brilliant turquoise and two young lovers ignored the world and its laws. He saw again the smile of the young Derae, heard her laughter echoing in the mountains.

Together again! His passion mounted and he was suddenly, blissfully, oblivious to his surroundings. There was no Demon King, no army of terror. There were no Gateways between worlds, no sorcerers, no futures.

The now was everything.

Derae's back arched and she cried out again and again. But he did not stop. . could not stop. And when the passion was too great to contain, and he felt as if his soul were flowing from him, he lost consciousness — falling into a darkness so sweet and so fulfilling that, in his last moment of conscious thought, he never wanted to wake.

The Hills of Gytheum

Attalus plunged his sword into an attacker's chest, wrenching it clear and pushing the body back over the boulders. A second man climbed into sight, hurling a short javelin at the Macedonian. Attalus threw himself aside and the missile tore into the back of a Korinthian warrior fighting alongside Helm.

Recovering his balance Attalus rushed at the javeliner, but the man ducked from sight.

'Come on, you sons of dogs!' Attalus yelled. 'Where are you?'

But the Messenians pulled back from the fort of boulders, dragging their wounded with them. Attalus spun round, scanning the defenders. Three Korinthians were dead, four others badly wounded. The seeress was helping to heal the more serious injuries, while Alexander sat calmly by, his young face expressionless.

Attalus wiped away the blood from a shallow cut in his forehead and moved alongside Helm. 'How many?' he asked.

'Twelve we have killed, with maybe six others unable to fight again.'

'Not enough,' Attalus muttered.

'We'll kill some more soon,' said Helm.

Attalus chuckled. 'I am beginning to like you. It is a shame we are to die here.'

'We're not dead yet,' the warrior pointed out.

Ektalis joined them. 'We won't be able to hold this position for much longer. Already we are stretched.'

'I can see that!' snapped Attalus. 'Are you suggesting surrender?'

'No, I am merely stating the obvious. One more concerted attack and they will breach the circle. Once inside we cannot hold them.'

'You have a plan?'

'We could make a run for it. Once in the woods they would find it hard to track us.'

Attalus climbed to the nearest boulder, his gaze resting on the woods less than a mile distant. So close — and yet the trees might as well be growing across the ocean, for more than thirty warriors were waiting below and their mounts were Attic stock — several hands taller than the Makedonian and Korinthian horses, and much faster. 'We would not make half the distance,' he told Ektalis, 'and once on the plain they would take us singly.'

'Then we must fight and die,' said the Korinthian.

Attalus bit back an angry response and merely nodded. They had escaped the first of the riders but been cut off by this second group. Helm had spotted the circle of boulders and here they had made their stand.

But to fail in sight of the woods! Attalus felt his fury rise. This was all Parmenion's fault. Had he remained with them none of this would have happened. But no: he had to play his hero's game.

'There are more coming,' said Helm and Attalus looked to the north. A dust-cloud heralded at least fifty more Messenian riders.

The swordsman swore. 'Let them all come. What difference does it make? Thirty was too many anyway. It might as well be eighty — or a hundred and eighty.' He swore again.

Below them the Messenians waited for their comrades and Attalus watched as the two enemy officers moved away from the men to discuss strategy. The sun was beginning to set, the sky turning flame-red over the distant mountains.

Thena approached Attalus. 'I shall take Alexander to the woods,' she said, keeping her voice low.

'They will capture you,' he argued.

'They will not see us,' she told him wearily. 'I cannot do the same for you and the others. My powers have been drained, but even at their height they would not have veiled such a large group.'

Attalus turned away, his emotions boiling with a murderous rage. 'Take him!' he said. 'Take him and be damned!'

For a moment only the priestess stood her ground, then she backed away and led Alexander to the horses, lifting the prince into place and mounting behind him. The Korinthians watched her in silence and Helm strolled to stand beside the mount.

'Where are you going?' he asked softly.

'To the woods. No one will stop me.'

'The boy is important to me. If he is lost, I will die without a past.'

'I know. Yet his destiny is greater than your desire.'

'Not to me, lady.'

'Then you must make a choice, Helm,' she told him, her voice neutral, her expression serene. 'You can draw your sword and stop me. But then the Demon King will have the child. For you cannot hold this hill against the warriors who surround it.'

'That is true enough,' he admitted. 'Ah well, go in peace, lady.' He lifted his hand and patted Alexander's leg. 'I hope you succeed in your quest, boy. I'd hate to die for nothing.'

Alexander nodded, but spoke no word.

Thena tugged on the reins and the horse moved out between the boulders, walking slowly down the hillside. Attalus, Helm and the Korinthians watched her as she rode in plain sight towards the Messenians. No one moved to stop her, nor showed any sign that they could see her, and the Makedonian mare walked through the enemy camp and on towards the trees.

Attalus pulled a whetstone from his hip pouch and began to sharpen his sword.

'Well, at least the enemy have been thwarted,' said Helm.

'That is great consolation to me,' hissed Attalus.

'Are you always this disagreeable?' the warrior responded.

'Only when I am about to die.'

'I see. You don't think we can win, then?'

Attalus swung to face the man, his fury close to madness. Then he saw the wide smile on the metallic face, the mocking look in the bronze eyes. All tension fled from the Macedonian and he smiled with genuine humour. 'How about a wager?' he offered.

'On what?' asked Helm.

'That I slay the most.'

'With what shall we wager? I have no coin.'

'Neither have I. So let's say a thousand gold pieces?'

'You have already killed three to my two,' Helm pointed out. 'I think we should start even, and count them only from the next attack.'

'It is agreed, then?'

'Absolutely,' said Helm.

'They are coming!' yelled Ektalis.

The priestess rode into the shadows of the trees and halted her mount. Alexander was silent, stiff-backed, his body rigid with tension. Gently her Talent reached out to him.

'Leave me!' came the command, with a burst of spiritual energy so powerful that the priestess swayed in the saddle and cried out. The sound of hoofbeats came from all around them as centaurs moved clear of the undergrowth with bows in their hands, arrows notched to the strings.

'Welcome, Iskander,' said one who was tall, white-bearded and maned, his golden skin merged into palomino flanks, his tail long and whiter than fleece clouds. 'My name is Estipan. Follow me and I will take you to the Giant's Gateway.'

'No,' answered Alexander. 'You think I will restore the Enchantment while my friends and those who serve me are dying within my sight? You have watched the battle on the hill. I know this, for my power is great. You, Estipan, were asked whether it was proper to intervene. You told your brother, Orases, that if I were Iskander I would ride clear. Well, I have. Now it is for you to do my bidding.'

Estipan reared up, his front hooves drumming back into the earth, his face crimson. 'You give no orders here!' he shouted. 'You are here to fulfil your destiny.'

'Not so!' responded Alexander. 'I am here to fulfil your destiny. But first you must earn my friendship. You understand that? Deeds, not words. Now order your followers to attack the Messenians. If you do not I shall ride back to die with my friends. And I shall not come again, Estipan, though the Enchantment dies and all her creatures wither away.'

The palomino centaur hesitated, while the others looked to him for guidance. 'If your power is so great,' he said at last, 'why have you not rescued your friends?'

'Because I am testing you,' hissed Alexander. 'Enough of this! Thena, take me back. My quest is at an end.'

'No! If necessary I will take you by force,' roared Estipan.

'Think you so? Come then, coward, and feel the touch of Death!'

'I am no coward!'

'Deeds, not words, Estipan. Do not tell me — show me!'

Estipan reared again. 'Follow me!' he bellowed, and galloped out onto the plain. More than sixty centaurs armed with bows and knives rode after him. Alexander relaxed and sagged back into Thena's arms.

'I am so tired,' he whispered, and she dismounted, lifting him to the ground. There the boy lay down, his head resting on his arm. Within seconds he was asleep. Thena gazed back to the hill. Warriors were swarming up it, looking like ants at this distance. But the centaurs were closing fast.

Reaching out, she linked with Attalus. But she did not speak for he was fighting desperately against several attackers, and she could not risk distracting him. Sitting down on the grass, she allowed her spirit to fly free and sped to the hillside. Only three men were still alive — Helm, Ektalis and the Macedonian — and they had been pushed back to the western wall of boulders.

She saw Helm block a thrust, then send a reverse cut through a warrior's throat. 'Seven!' he shouted. 'You'll never catch me now. Swordsman!'

The words mystified Thena, but she noticed Attalus smile.

Floating higher she watched as the centaurs reached the foot of the hill, their arrows hissing into the Messenians as they scaled the boulders. Panic-stricken, the enemy on the hillside fled to their mounts. But inside the circle of boulders the fight went on. Helm was cut on both arms, and blood was also seeping from a gash in his right thigh.

Attalus had suffered no new wounds, the cut to his forehead having sealed in a jagged red line. Ektalis was unhurt, but tiring fast. Attalus blocked a wild slashing cut and shoulder-charged the attacker. The man went down, but Attalus slipped on the blood-smeared rocks and fell with him. Two warriors ran in to make the kill. Ektalis hurled himself into their path, despatching the first with a powerful thrust through the belly, but the second man's sword hacked down through the back of Ektalis' neck, killing him instantly.

Attalus rolled to his feet and, back to back with Helm, fought on.

A warrior rushed at Attalus, but an arrow-point punched through his temple and he staggered and fell. More shafts hissed through the air and the surviving Messenians scrambled back, hurling aside their swords and retreating. Helm staggered, but Attalus caught his arm, hauling him upright.

'How many?' Attalus asked.

'Nine. You?'

'Six. I owe you a thousand gold pieces.'

'I'd settle for a drink of rich red wine and a soft, soft woman.'

A white-maned centaur trotted across the clearing, stepping carefully over the bodies. 'Iskander sent us,' he said.

Attalus gazed down at the dead Ektalis. 'You were a little late,' he answered sombrely.

The City of Sparta

Parmenion awoke just before dawn. The room was dark save for a silver shaft of moonlight from the balcony window. He was alone. . and cold. Sitting up, he rubbed the skin of his shoulders. It was like winter and he cast his eyes around the room, seeking a blanket or a cloak. The only warmth he could feel was from the necklet at his throat.

Beyond the shaft of moonlight something stirred and Parmenion rolled from the bed, snatching his sword from its scabbard.

'Show yourself!' he commanded.

A spectral figure moved through the moonlight. The shock was immense. Apart from the golden eye the man was Philip — hair and beard shining like a panther's pelt, movements sure and confident. But it was not Philip, and Parmenion recoiled from the spirit of the Demon King.

'You fear me? That is wise,' the man said. 'But you stand against me, and that is foolish. I know all your actions, I know your thoughts. Your plans lie before me. Why then do you persist in this meaningless struggle?'

'What do you want here?' countered Parmenion.

'There is a child with golden hair. Have him brought to me and I will spare you and your city. He means nothing to you; he is not even of this world. He is a demon, and carries within him a seed of evil that must be destroyed.'

'A demon, you say? Then surely he should be a friend to you, Philippos?'

'I am a man, Parmenion,' answered Philippos, his voice smooth and friendly, his golden eye gleaming in the pale light. 'My deeds are my own. You should understand that. You are a warrior, and a fine general; you came the closest to defeating me. But that is all I am, Parmenion, a warrior king building an empire. Thus has it been since the dawn of time. Great men will always seek power. Look at me! Do you see a demon?'

'I see a man who butchered his own children to try to become a god. I see a man possessed. Do not seek to sway me, Philippos. I am not to be bought.'

'One child for a whole city? And that child not even Spartan! Are you insane or merely stupid?'

'Your insults mean nothing to me,' said Parmenion. 'And you are wrong, I do not fear you. I learnt much during the battle at Man tinea. I learnt that you are a poor general, with no strategic skills. You rely always on your sorcerous eye to feed you victory, but without it you would be nothing. Within a few days you will face the might of Sparta.

And you will know defeat and death. For I know how to kill you, Philippos.'

'Now I know that you are insane. I am invulnerable and invincible. No blade, no poison known to man can kill me.

Bring on your five thousand, and your army of slaves and old men. We shall see how they fare against the power of Makedon! And no false goddess will save you this time. I will order you taken alive, and I will see the skin flayed from your body.'

Parmenion laughed then. 'Do I see fear, demon? How does it taste?'

The King shimmered, his form expanding, features twisting and stretching until his eyes were crimson slits in a mottled grey face, his mouth a huge, lipless gash rimmed by fangs. Curved ram's horns of black pushed through the dark hair, curling to rest against the misshapen skull. The beast advanced, but Parmenion held his ground with sword extended.

'Fear, Human?' came a chilling voice. 'You ask me if I know fear?' Parmenion's mouth was dry, but his sword was steady. The beast halted before him, towering over the slender swordsman.

'I am the Lord of this World. It is mine. It has always been mine, for all that exists is born of Chaos. Everything.

From the smallest seed to the largest star. Before there were men I walked upon this world, when the ground below my feet boiled and the air was fire. I will walk upon it when it is barren and there are no mewling sounds of humans upon the face of it. For it will be ash and dust, dark and cold. I will be here when the stars burn out. And you think to teach me fear?'

'Not you,' admitted Parmenion. 'But he felt fear, else you would not have shown yourself.'

'You are clever, Human. And do not think that I do not know you are an imposter. I watched you in the forest, and in the sea when the death Ship sank. You will fail, even as your twin failed. You cannot prevail. What is more, you know it.'

'What I know is that you must be opposed. And you can be beaten. For your power is finite, it depends upon the men who serve you. They can die — and you can lose.'

'As I said, you are a clever man, Parmenion. But you are doomed. The Spartan army will avail you nothing, and the slaves will scatter and flee at the first charge. Your Spartans will be surrounded and destroyed. What purpose then will your defiance serve?'

Parmenion did not answer, could not answer, but he gazed into the demon's eyes and raised his sword. The demon shimmered and faded, but his voice whispered one last time: 'I will see that you live to watch every man, woman and child in this city put to death. You will be the last to die. Think on it, mortal, for that is your future!'

Parmenion sank back to the bed, letting the sword drop from his hand. Despair washed over him, choking his emotions and clouding his judgement. How could he have dreamt of defeating such a creature? 'I am with you,' said a voice in his mind.

'Thena?'

'Yes.'

'Did you see?'

'I did, and I am proud of the way you stood against him. Alexander is safe; we are at the Gateway, and there are many creatures here with great powers. Philippos would need his army to capture Alexander now.'

Relief swept through the Spartan. 'That at least is good news. Did you give Brontes my message?'

'I did. But he could not convince them to come to your aid: they are fearful of the ways of Man — and rightly so. For centuries they have been hunted and slain, betrayed and deceived. All they want now is for the Enchantment to be restored. But Brontes, Helm and Attalus are riding to join you. No others.'

'I half expected that, but even so it is more than a disappointment.'

'Consider something else for a moment,' she advised. 'Philippos could not read your mind, so at least your plans are safe from him.'

He smiled then. 'I have only one plan, lady. One giant gamble. If it fails, we fail.'

'Only one?'

'There is no time for great subtlety, Thena. One throw of the dice is all we have.'

'Then you must make it work. . and you can. For you are the strategos and the hope of the world.'

Parmenion took a deep, calming breath. Thilippos may not be able to read my thoughts, but others will know of my plan on the day of battle. I will need help then. The Demon King must be distracted. If he should learn of my strategy then all will truly be lost. Is there anything you can do?'

For a moment there was silence. 'I will think on it,' she promised at last.

'It is good to hear you again,' he told her suddenly.

'May the Source of All Life be with you, my. . friend.'

'I would sooner have five thousand cavalry, lady.'

The day was long, hot and endlessly frustrating. The slaves, in their new breastplates and leather kilts, drove the officers training them to distraction. Scores were dismissed from service, many were injured in combat training -

spraining limbs, sustaining cuts.

Parmenion moved among the toiling groups, offering words of encouragement to the officers and men, suggesting small changes in the training methods, urging the officers to have patience with their recruits. And so the day ground on.

By the afternoon Parmenion was helping the barracks youngsters to block the streets — carrying furniture from homes, filling sacks with earth and stones and hoisting them to the barricades.

'I want javelins left on every roof along Leaving Street and the Avenue of Kings,' he told Cleander. 'And men with strong arms to hurl them. I want several hundred bowmen stationed at the agora, behind barricades.'

'It will be done, sire,' the dying man promised.

Returning to the palace at dusk, Parmenion spent two hours with Leonidas, Timasion, Cleander and a group of officers, listening to their reports on the progress of the training.

'Within two days we will have a core of men with potential,' said Leonidas. 'But no more than five thousand. The rest would be useless in any major combat. I would suggest leaving them with Cleander to defend the city.'

'Agreed,' said Parmenion. 'But the men not selected must not be made to feel useless. Split them into groups of twenty, each with their own leader; then have the leaders report to Cleander. In this battle morale must take the place of discipline — let us all understand that. Do not criticize a man for lack of ability with a sword, or for clumsiness.

Neither should you point out to them that Spartan skill comes only with years of training. You must coax the best from them, encourage them always. If you cannot commend their skill, then commend their courage. Treat them like brothers. Any officer who finds such methods disagreeable must be returned to his regiment. I saw several men today shouting and screaming at the recruits; that must stop.'

Black-bearded Timasion leaned forward. 'I appreciate what you are saying, my lord, but the truth is that no matter how hard we train the slaves they will not stand against the Makedones phalanx. Because it does take years of training for men to instantly follow a shouted command, to move smoothly into place, to change ranks. You cannot expect the slaves to learn it in a week or less.'

'Timasion is right,' said Lycon. 'An army is only as strong as its weakest part. We will have no cavalry and the wings will be slaves and veterans. The veterans we can trust, but they are too old to withstand a charge — and the slaves will break.'

'I will not argue with you, my friends,' Parmenion told them, 'but let me say this: To speak of defeat, or breaking, is to herald it. Once we believe that we are lost, then we are lost. The recruits are men; they will do their part. Trust me on this — and if you do not trust me, then pretend to. I want no talk of defeat or weakness. We are all warriors here, and we all understand the nature of war. Everything you say is true. . but it must not be said. Ultimately battles are won or lost on the actions of a single man. One man panics and it spreads like the plague. One man holds and others hold with him. I do not want the slaves to march out with defeat in their hearts. I want them marching like men, full of belief and hope. I want them to be proud, filled with the knowledge that their Spartan overlords hold them in high esteem. I do not care if it is not true. . but it must appear to be true. And then, when they have done their part and the victory is ours, it will be true.'

'You honestly believe we can win?' asked Leonidas.

'I don't believe it -1 know it! We are Spartans. They will not break us. No. They will break upon us. Their cavalry will skirt us. They will ride for the city, for they will know that every man in the ranks will see them and fear for the lives of his wife and children, his mother, his sisters. Then their infantry will attack, outnumbering us by perhaps three to one. The battle will be won or lost in the next hour.'

'How can you be sure that the cavalry will pass us by?' asked Lycon.

'I saw his methods at Man tinea. Philippos is not a cavalryman; he uses his infantry for all major thrusts. And he wants the city taken. He wants it all, and he has no patience. But more important than this, he would not wish to push us back in a fighting retreat only to have us defending Sparta. He will want us isolated, the city destroyed behind us.'

'And if you are wrong?' put in Timasipn. 'How then can we survive?'

Parmenion forced a smile. 'I am not wrong, but if his cavalry do not attack the city, then Oleander will march out with all his men and join us on the field of battle. One other matter. The slaves must not be issued with red cloaks; only the Spartans must wear them.'

'But why?' Oleander asked. 'Surely the object is to make the recruits feel like Spartans?'

'I want the Spartan regiments to stand out. I want the enemy to see them clearly.'

'It will be a day long remembered,' muttered Timasion. 'Five thousand Spartans against forty thousand barbarians!'

'It will be a day the Makedones will never forget,' promised Parmenion.

Nestus lay awake in the narrow pallet bed listening to the snoring of the other soldiers. Forty men slept in this long room, forty non-ranking Spartan soldiers, none of whom would speak to the giant. He was a man alone, and bitterness swamped him.

His own father had refused to receive him, and word of his shame had swept through the city. Friends shunned him in the streets, turning their faces away and pretending not to see him.

His mouth was dry and he rose from the bed and padded through to the empty dining area, where he poured himself a goblet of water. A cold breeze touched his bare back and he shivered.

Life had been so full of promise a mere two years before. He had loved Derae and a splendid wedding had been planned. His father had been so proud. A link with the royal house — brother-in-law to the future King. Everyone knew that Leonidas was the heir apparent, and Nestus was his closest friend. Oh, how bright the future, how golden!

It even outshone his frustration at having to serve the mix-blood who had become Sparta's First General.

Parmenion…

Now more than ever the mere thought of the name made bile rise in his throat, left his heart hammering.

The day had been burned into his memory, never to be erased: Agisaleus dead, Leonidas to be King. Summoned to see his friend at the Cattle Price Palace, he had joyed in the options before him. Was he to be promoted? Which regiment would he command in the new order? But no. He had learned that the wedding was cancelled and that his bride — his love — was to wed Parmenion, in order that the half-breed could become Sparta's King.

'I should have killed him then,' whispered Nestus. He pictured his sword-blade sliding through Parmenion's ribs, the light of life fading from the bastard's eyes.

Slumping down at a long table, Nestus poured another goblet of water.

And what is there now, he asked himself? Death to follow his dishonour. The destruction of Sparta, the massacre of its people. His thoughts swung to Derae and he pictured her being dragged from the palace, raped and then butchered by the barbarians.

The curse of the gods was upon the city for allowing a half-breed to sit upon the throne!

The room grew colder, but Nestus scarcely noticed it.

Why should you stay? The thought leapt unbidden to his mind, shocking him with its clarity. 'Where else could I go?'

Creta. You have friends on the island. . and you have coin.

'I couldn't desert my friends, my family.'

They have deserted you. They shun you in the street.

'I did wrong. I drew a sword upon the King.'

The half-blood? A man who used dark sorcery to win his throne and steal your woman?

Sorcery? The thought had not occurred to him before. Of course, that was it. Leonidas had been bewitched. What other reason could there be for a noble-born Spartan to relinquish his rights to the throne?

Kill him.

'No. No, I couldn't.'

Like the heroes of old, kill the man who stole your bride. Take back what is rightfully yours. Derae loves you. Save her. Take her from the city — to safety in Creta.

'To safety, yes! I could rescue her. She loves me; she would come. We could be happy there. A short ride to Gytheum, then a ship. Yes! Kill the half-blood and reclaim what is mine! Yes!'

The cold disappeared and the room became clammy and hot. The sudden change made Nestus shiver and he rose, making his way back to his bed. Silently he dressed in a grey chiton tunic and calf-length sandals. Then, taking up his cloak and sword, he walked from the barracks.

His father's house was dark and quiet and he climbed through a ground-floor window, moving stealthily through the rooms until he came to his father's study. Here, hidden behind a carved oak chest, was a niche in the stone of the wall; in it were five large leather pouches, heavy with gold. Taking two he left the house, making his way to the stables. A groom sleeping in a bed of hay by the door awoke as Nestus entered. The giant's fist crashed into the man's face, splintering his cheekbone; the groom sagged back unconscious.

Nestus put bridles and reins on two of the fastest horses, then bound their hooves with cloth before leading them out into the moonlit street and on to the Cattle Price Palace. There were only two sentries at the main doors, and both men were known to him. Leaving the horses tethered out of sight beyond the main wall, Nestus strode through the great gates and approached the men.

'What do you want here?' hissed the first. Nestus' fist cracked against the man's jaw, spinning him unconscious to the ground. Then he leapt at the second, seizing him by the throat and savagely wrenching the soldier from his feet. The man's neck snapped with a loud crack. Nestus had not meant to kill him and he dropped the body, stepping back horrified.

Kill the other, came the thought. Nestus drew his sword and, without hesitation, plunged it through the helpless warrior's throat.

Pushing open the doors of the palace he ran inside and up the long stairs to the third floor, making his way along the cold corridor to the Queen's apartments. His heart was beating fast now and his mouth was dry. The door to the Queen's rooms was ajar and he opened it just enough to slip inside. The moon shone brightly through the balcony window and the first thing he saw was a shimmering green robe tossed carelessly to a couch. Moving to it he lifted it to his face, smelling the perfume upon it. Arousal flared within him and he padded to the bedroom where Derae lay on top of the sheets. Nestus stood in the doorway gazing at her moonlit form. The Queen was naked and lying upon her side, her legs drawn up and her head resting on her left arm. Sweat broke out on Nestus' brow. Her golden skin seemed whiter than ivory in the moonlight, yet soft and warm, glowing with health. He swallowed hard and moved to the bedside, laying his blood-covered sword on the sheet. His hand moved to her arm, sliding over the skin, then down to her waist and up over the curve of her hips. She moaned in her sleep and rolled to her back.

Nestus smiled, thoughts of future joy flashing through his mind: a home by the sea, servants, children. .

She awoke and screamed, scrambling to get away. Instinctively he grabbed for her, his fingers curling into her hair and dragging her back.

'Stop it! It is I, Nestus. I have come for you. To rescue you!'

She ceased her struggles, green eyes focusing on his face. 'What do you mean, rescue me? Are you mad? If you are found here you will die.'

'I don't care. I have killed two men tonight and I'll kill any others who try to stop me. I have a plan, Derae. We'll go to Greta. I have friends there and we will be happy. But first you must dress. There is little time. I will explain all when we are on our way.'

'You are insane!'

'No! Listen to me. The city is doomed — nothing will save it. It is our only chance at happiness. Don't you see? We will be together.'

Glancing down, she saw the bloodied sword. 'What have you done?'

'What I had to do,' he answered, his hand reaching up, his fingers stroking her breast.

She pulled away from him. 'Parmenion will kill you for this,' she whispered.

'He is alone here. And he has never seen the day when he could defeat me in combat. No one has. I am the best.'

Suddenly she rolled from the bed. He lunged at her, but she was clear and running for the door. Seizing his sword he ran after her, but she had reached the corridor and was shouting at the top of her voice: 'Parmenion! Parmenion!'

He sprinted after her, catching her at the top of the stairs and hauling her back by her hair. 'You slut! You said you loved me and now you betray me!'

'I never loved you!' she answered him, her hand snaking out and cracking against his cheek. Flinging her from him, he raised his sword.

'I'll kill you!' he shouted. Ducking away from him she fled for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He ran after her but tripped and fell headlong, his sword clattering away from him. Dazed, he rose and gathered it from where it had fallen on an embroidered rug at the foot of the stairs. He swung round, seeking Derae.

'You have your sword,' said Parmenion softly. 'Now use it!'

The King was standing naked in the corridor, Derae behind him. 'You will die now, mix-blood,' Nestus told him.

Parmenion smiled and raised his own blade. Nestus ran forward, sword drawn back for the belly thrust, but Parmenion stepped aside — parrying the blade and hooking his foot round the charging man's leg. Nestus hit the floor hard, but rose swiftly. 'Be more cautious,' advised Parmenion, his voice cold. 'Anger makes a man careless.' Again Nestus charged, this time slashing his blade in a sweeping cut towards Parmenion's throat. The King dropped to one knee, the sword slicing the air above his head, his own blade ramming into Nestus' groin. The giant screamed.

Parmenion tore his sword clear and rose. Nestus stumbled forward several steps and then slumped to his knees with blood gushing from the severed artery. The warrior struggled to rise, but all strength was seeping from him and he fell forward, his face against the cold stone of the corridor floor.

His fury seemed to flow from him with his lifeblood.

What am I doing here, he thought?

He heard the sound of running footsteps and a voice shouting: 'Someone tried to kill the King!'

That must be it, he thought. I was here to save the King from his enemies.

Yes. Relieved, he closed his eyes. Father will be so proud of me, he thought.

Parmenion stepped back from the body and ushered the naked Derae into his rooms, pushing shut the door and letting the sword fall to the floor.

'He was possessed,' said Derae, moving forward with her arms opening to him. He held her gently, his hands in the small of her back, and neither of them heard the door open nor saw Leonidas enter. The Spartan warrior said nothing for a moment, then cleared his throat.

Parmenion turned, but did not release his hold on Derae. 'What is it, Leonidas?'

'I wanted to see that you were unhurt. . sire.'

'Oh, Leon, it was awful,' said Derae. 'You should have seen his eyes. I have never known Nestus to be like that.'

'He killed two sentries,' Leonidas told her, his voice cool. 'But I see that you are well, sire. I shall leave you. . both.

We will be ready to march in the morning. Five days, if you recall.' He bowed and left the room.

'His mood was strange,' whispered Derae, moving in close to her husband. Parmenion felt the warmth of her skin against his breast. Not strange, he thought; Leonidas has just seen his sister being embraced by an imposter.

'I love you,' said Derae. 'Promise me you will come back.'

'How can I make such a promise?' he answered huskily.

'You just say the words. I do not believe that you will be defeated. You are Parmenion, the King of Sparta. You are my Parmenion.'

He smiled and held her tightly. 'A wise man once told me to plan as if you were going to live for ever, but to live as if this were your last day on earth. Let us do that, lady. Let us treat tonight as if it were the last.'

He led her to his bedroom and lay down beside her, drawing her to him. They made love gently, slowly, for he felt no passion — only a desperate need to feel her skin against his, to be inside her, part of her. He felt himself building to a climax, but slowed and withdrew.

'Why are you stopping?' she asked him, reaching out to stroke the skin of his cheek.

'I don't want it to end. Not now, not tonight. . not ever.'

'You said that so sadly, my dear. There should be no sadness. Not tonight. . not for us.'

Her fingers slid along the surface of his chest, over the ridged muscle of his belly and down to his still erect penis, circling it. He groaned. - 'Does that hurt?' she asked him, her tone serious but her eyes mocking.

'You are a wanton,' he told her, pushing her to her back and rolling on top of her. 'And I shall treat you like one.'

Sliding down the bed, he bit lightly at the inside of her thigh. She cried out, opening her leg to escape him, but he turned his head — his mouth brushing across her soft pubic hair, his tongue slipping into her. She cried out again, but he ignored her. She struggled under him, but his hands held her firm. Then suddenly she relaxed and began to moan, her body arching violently, her legs tensing. This time her cries were not of pain nor outrage, but arose from the shuddering, violent release of tension that only orgasm can bring. Finally she slumped back to the bed, her arms outstretched.

Parmenion moved up alongside her. 'Does it feel good to be a wanton?' he asked.

'Wonderful,' she admitted. 'But promise never to tell me how you learned that skill.'

'I promise.'

'I've changed my mind. Tell me.'

'I swear upon my soul that I have never in this world done it before.'

'That cannot be true.'

'I swear it. You are the first woman in all Achaea to be so abused by me.'

Raising herself on one elbow she looked down at his face. Then she smiled. 'I believe you,' she said slowly, 'but there is something you are not telling me.'

'Are you a seeress then?' he asked, forcing a smile to hide his sudden discomfort.

Tamis told me I had Talent, but it was undeveloped. What are you hiding?'

'At this moment,' he answered, gazing down at his naked body, 'I would appear to be hiding nothing.'

'I shall look,' she announced. Rolling to her knees she kissed his belly, her head moving down.

'Oh, no!' he said, reaching for her. 'You can't! It's not seemly.'

Her laughter echoed around the room. 'Not seemly? A kiss that is fit for a Queen should not be spurned by a King!'

He was willing to argue — but only for the one moment before her lips touched him, her mouth sliding over him. Then his arguments died.

Later, as they sat on a couch sipping watered wine, they heard footsteps in the corridor beyond the main room. Derae rose and walked back into the bedroom, while Parmenion gathered his sword and opened the door. Two sentries stood outside, Leonidas with them.

'What is going on?' Parmenion asked.

'Philippos is marching through the night. He seeks to surprise us. Two of our scouts have just come in: the Makedones will be within sight of the city by noon tomorrow.'

'We will be ready for him,' promised Parmenion.

'Yes. Is my sister still with you?'

'She is.'

'May I come in?'

'No, my friend. This. . last night… is for us. You understand?'

'I think I do. But the wisdom of it may seem less sure in the morning.'

'My life is full of many regrets, but even if I die tomorrow this night will not be one of them.'

'I was not thinking of you,' said Leonidas.

The truth of the soldier's words struck Parmenion like a blow. Had he not made love to Derae then her memories of him would have been of a cold-natured King who felt nothing for her, her sorrow at his passing minimal.

Whether he enjoyed the glory of victory or death and defeat Parmenion would vanish from her life, for he had made his promise to Leonidas. For five days he would be King — or until the battle was resolved.

Then he would lose Derae again. .

Leonidas saw the look of despair on the King's face and reached out. 'I am sorry, my friend,' he whispered.

Parmenion said nothing.

Stepping back, he pushed shut the door and stood in the darkness of his rooms.

'Who was it?' called Derae. He walked into the bedroom and lay down beside her.

'It was Leonidas. The Makedones will be here tomorrow.'

'You will defeat them,' she said sleepily. He stroked her hair and drew the sheet across them both.

He was still awake with the dawn when he heard Priastes enter the outer room. Parmenion rose silently and walked from the bedroom, softly closing the door behind him. Priastes, in breastplate, helm and greaves, bowed as the King made his entrance and Parmenion smiled.

'You look ferocious,' he said.

Priastes chuckled. 'Once I was a man to be feared. There is still something left of that man — as the Makedones will find. Now what armour shall you wear?'

'A simple cuirass with greaves and wrist-guards. I will be fighting on foot. And find me an unadorned helm.'

'You do not wish to stand out in the battle?' asked Priastes, surprised.

Parmenion paused. The old man was right. Always before, Parmenion had been a general serving either a monarch or a satrap, or a city. Yet here he was the King, and men were preparing to fight and die for him. It was their right to see their lord in action and, more than that, it was Parmenion's duty. Morale was a fragile creature, and on many occasions the Spartan had seen Philip turn the course of a battle merely by his presence in golden armour and high-plumed helm. Men watched him ride into danger, and their hearts swelled with pride.

'You are quite correct, Priastes,' he said at last. 'Fetch the brightest, gaudiest armour I possess.'

The old man laughed. 'That would be the golden helm with the white horsehair plume and the ivory-embossed cheek-guards. It is a work of great beauty, yet still strongly made. You will shine like the sun and fill Apollo with.jealousy.'

'It is never wise to make the gods jealous.'

'Ah, but then Apollo is better-looking than you. He will not mind that your armour is bright.'

Within the hour, as the sun cleared the mountains, Parmenion — after meeting with Cleander and the city's defence council — strode out through the palace gates to be greeted by Leonidas, Timasion, Learchus and the officers. All bowed as he approached and Parmenion felt his cheeks reddening. The helm was everything Priastes had described and the armour was blinding in the sunlight, beaten gold overlaying iron and bronze. Even the wrist-guards and greaves were embossed with ivory and silver, and the white cloak he wore was interwoven with silver strands which made it glitter in the dawn light.

The army saw him and drew their swords, clattering the blades against their shields in an incredible cacophony of sound. Lifting his hand he returned their salute, his gaze sweeping over the massed ranks filling Leaving Street.

Leonidas approached him, a wide smile on his face. 'Is now the time to outline your plans?' he asked.

Parmenion nodded and called the officers to him. The necklet of Tamis was cool against his throat and he spoke quietly, watching their reactions. They listened in silence, but it was Leonidas who tried to ask the first question.

'What if. .?'

Parmenion raised his hand. 'No, my friend. No "what ifs". What if the sun turns to fire? What if the oceans rise from their bowls? There is no time now for such thoughts. I have seen the Demon King in action, and we have only one chance of victory. It is vital therefore that his infantry attack the Spartans, leaving the slaves — at first — alone. If we can make him do that we have a chance. Without it there is none. Now prepare your regiments and let us march.'

He glanced at the faces of the men around him. None of them was content with his strategy yet, even here in this other Greece, Spartan discipline was paramount. They saluted and moved away.

Parmenion strode out to the head of the columns with Leonidas beside him. 'I pray to the gods you are right, Parmenion,' the warrior whispered.

'Let us hope they hear you,' he answered.

The vanguard was clear of the city when the three horsemen came galloping from the south. Attalus and Helm rode side by side with the minotaur Brontes just behind them, sitting awkwardly on his mount.

Attalus reined in alongside Parmenion and leapt to the ground. 'There will be no aid from the south,' said the swordsman, his eyes drawn to the splendid armour.

'I expected none. Walk beside me.'

Brontes and Helm both dismounted, letting the horses walk free. Man and minotaur joined the King. 'Welcome, my friends,' said Parmenion, holding out his hand first to Brontes.

'I am sorry that my brothers of the Enchantment would not ride with you, Parmenion,' Brontes told him, 'but they will have no part in what they see as the wars of men. It might have been that I could have persuaded them, but when I told them you had offered the new Enchantment to Gorgon their minds were further set against you. Had you not befriended that demon, you might even now have had a second army.'

'Without Gorgon, Alexander would not have reached the Gateway,' pointed out Parmenion. 'But that is no longer important. We stand alone — and there is sometimes strength in that.' The Spartan turned to Helm. 'I thought you would have stayed with Iskander. Is he not the key to your memories?'

'He told me to come,' answered the bronze-faced warrior. 'He said my answer lies with you.'

'And what of you, Attalus?' asked Parmenion. 'You have no need to be here.'

'I have grown used to your company. . sire. And I have no wish to miss the coming battle. The Demon King has hunted me across this world. Now I will hunt him.'

Parmenion smiled. 'We will hunt him together.'

The Field of Blood

Philippos sat upon his battle stallion and thought of his enemy, directing the gaze of his Golden Eye towards the distant figure of the garishly armoured Spartan King.

It galled him that the man had a protective amulet, not because he feared his pitiful strategies but merely because he always enjoyed the fear and rising panic that swelled from the emotions of an enemy facing defeat.

He remembered his last meeting with Parmenion, felt again the wave of anger as the Spartan had spoken of his skills with such contempt. A poor general indeed! He was Philippos, the greatest Battle King the world would ever know!

'I do not need the Eye to defeat the likes of you,' he whispered aloud. And yet… why rob oneself of the small pleasures, he wondered? What dread despairs were felt by Parmenion's generals?

His concentration deepened as he sought out Leonidas. .

'Are you contemplating your death?' whispered a voice in his mind, and Philippos jerked as if struck. It was the witch-woman who had pretended to be the goddess Athena. Closing his human eye, he sought out her spirit form; she was floating in the air some twenty paces from him.

'You cannot harm me, witch,' he told her.

'Nor will I need so to do,' she answered. 'Evil has a way of defeating itself. That will happen today.'

'Begone, woman! I have neither the time nor the inclination to debate with you!'

'Of course you have not,' she sneered. 'The Coward-King must first read his enemy's thoughts. He is incapable of planning a battle for himself. Go ahead. Do not let me disturb you. I would imagine the sight of all those farm-workers and slaves has unmanned you.'

Another voice cut in, a child's voice. 'He is not very impressive, is he, Thena?' Philippos swung his head to see the slim golden-headed boy he had hunted so long.

'I will find you, child. There is nowhere you can hide from me."

The boy looked at him, his expression sombre. 'I do not think you shall,' he said softly, 'but if you do I will kill you.'

Philippos laughed then, though the sound faded as he stared at the solemn face of the child. 'Nothing can kill me!

You hear me? Nothing!'

'I can,' whispered the boy, 'with one touch. But we are detaining you, coward. Shall we ask Parmenion to remove his necklet of power? Would that make it easier for you to destroy the slave army?'

The contempt in the child's voice stung the King with whips of fire and he started to reply, but the spirits vanished.

Furious now, Philippos rode along his battle-lines, summoning his generals and priests. The soldiers stood silently as he passed, spears held vertically, eyes on the enemy some 800 paces ahead.

The Makedones King hauled on the reins and turned his horse to stand facing south. The enemy battle-line was as he expected: the Spartans, in their full-faced bronze helms and red cloaks, holding the low ground between two hills; the slaves split into two groups flanking them on the hillsides. Behind the centre of the main force he could see bowmen and javeliners, awaiting orders.

'How many?' Philippos asked.

An officer moved his horse alongside the King. 'Five thousand Spartans, sire, and around the same number of slaves.

It is hard to see how many archers, perhaps a thousand.'

Philippos did not need to glance back to know the numbers of the Makedones. Directly behind him were the royal guards, 6,000 strong, standing in battle order twenty ranks deep and 300 shields wide, a vast black-garbed fighting square. They were the Bringers of the Storm, for when they marched their battle-cries rolled out like thunder and their swords were deadlier than the lightning bolts of Zeus. Flanking them were the 10,000 Regulars, powerful fighting men, highly trained, their helms and breastplates of polished iron gleaming like silver. On the right were the 5,000 mercenaries from Thessalia, Thracia and Illyria. Cloaks of many colours were worn by these warriors and, though they had little discipline, still they were ferocious in battle, having a lust for blood and death which delighted the Makedones King. Beyond them, on the right flank, were the cavalry — mainly Korinthian, numbering 7,000.

Twenty-eight thousand battle-hardened men were ranged against 5,000 Spartans and a motley mob of hastily-armed slaves and old men.

'His strategy is pitiful,' sneered Philippos. 'You can see through it like a gossamer veil. He invites us to attack his centre; that is why the Spartans are defending the easy way, the low ground.'

'But if we thrust them aside, lord, the slaves will break and run and the day will be ours,' put in the officer. 'Surely we must attack the Spartans?'

'You saw them at Mantinea. To attack them head-on is like hurling water against a wall. They are fine soldiers and they do not break easily. No. That is what he wants — to withstand the full force of an infantry charge, to break the spirit of the Makedones. Once morale is gone the difference in numbers counts for little.'

'What are his thoughts, sire?'

'I neither know nor care. Order the Korinthians to ride wide of the enemy and strike at Sparta itself. Let us see how their morale is affected when they see that their battle is futile. Then order the Regulars and the mercenary units forward, as if to attack the Spartan centre. When they are within fifty paces, sound the charge. Have the mercenaries veer to the left, two regiments of the Regulars to the right. Storm the hillsides and scatter the slaves. The Regulars will then move on and turn to attack the Spartans from behind, while the mercenaries will assail them from the hillside. At that point I will order the Guards forward and we will have them encircled. But remember I want Parmenion alive.'

'Yes, sire. Alive.'

The King turned to his chief priest, a bald hook-nosed man with deep-set dark eyes. 'How are the omens for today, Pharin?'

'There will be a duel of Kings, sire, and Philippos will stand triumphant with his enemy dead at his feet.'

'But I want him alive!'

'That will not be the way of it, sire. You will meet your enemy, blade to blade, and you will kill him.'

Pharin's talent was beyond question but even so the King turned his head, the golden eye gleaming. 'You would not lie to me?'

'I speak the truth, sire: this is the way it will be. A sea of blood, a mountain of corpses, but Philippos victorious.'

'You have never been wrong, Pharin. Not once.'

'Nor am I now, sire.'

The Makedones battle-drums began to beat, the sound drifting across the battlefield like the heartbeat of some mythic beast of terror. Parmenion felt the fear of the slaves around him, saw them glance at one another, watched them wiping sweat from their eyes or licking dry lips with dryer tongues.

'You are men of courage,' said Parmenion suddenly, his voice carrying over the shifting ranks, 'and I am proud to stand here with you.' The slaves closest to him smiled nervously. 'Do not let the noise concern you. Padded sticks against stretched cowhide, that is all it is. And those men waiting to march against you are only men like yourselves.

There is nothing special about them; they will die, as all men die.'

He fell silent; there was little else he could say. He was no Philip, no Battle King with amazing powers of oratory.

Xenophon had called it heroic leadership, the ability of a single man to turn fear into courage the way an armourer fashioned sword-blades from base metal. 'There is within an army,' the Athenian had once said, 'a single, invisible spirit, easily swayed from cowardice to heroism, from savagery to discipline. The right general, or King, understands this. He comes to know the nature of this spirit; he knows that it both feeds from and gives sustenance to the men of the army. This spirit is the seed of panic, yet also the source of greatness. Some coax the best from it, others fill it with passion. But those who ignore it fail.'

Parmenion had always fed it before the battles, on training grounds and during manoeuvres — coming to know the men under him, filling them with confidence both in themselves and their general. It was a time-consuming process, and in this new world there had been not enough days for him to work his quiet magic.

The enemy began to move, mercenary units and Regulars marching out to the sound of the drums, linking shields and advancing across the flat plain towards the Spartan centre.

'Gods, but I could do with a piss,' said Helm, his deep metallic voice breaking the sudden silence. Nervous laughter swelled up around him and the release of tension was almost palpable. Parmenion chuckled. In that moment Helm had expressed the one condition known to all fighting men: a dry mouth and a seemingly full bladder.

His timing had been impeccable and Parmenion glanced at the enchanted warrior beside him. Helm looked up and smiled, one bronze eye winking. 'Thank you,' mouthed the King.

Parmenion cast his expert gaze over the approaching enemy. Five regiments were advancing, some 15,000 men. A dust-cloud rose up on the extreme left and the Spartan swung his head to see the Makedones cavalry outflanking them. 'Daricles!' he yelled and a tall, young bowman raised his hand. 'Fan your archers out in case the cavalry cut back to attack the rear.' The man saluted and Parmenion returned his attention to the infantry.

So far it was all going exactly as he had predicted, the cavalry swinging wide — hopefully to attack the city — while the infantry had been left with the task of clearing the way.

Suddenly the enemy force split, veering left and right, breaking ranks to charge the flanks. War-cries erupted in a terrifying wall of sound, and the pounding of feet upon the dry plain drowned out the incessant beat of the drums.

Philippos watched the battle from his place at the head of the Guards. He had observed with disgust the Spartan slaves moving into formation — men bumping into one another, shields being dropped — and he felt a lessening of excitement. Battles were usually full of savage joy and surging emotions, but this one left him dulled, almost bored.

The chances were more than good that the slaves would break and run even before the Regulars struck.

What followed would be slaughter. .

Transferring his gaze to the red-cloaked Spartans, he saw them move smoothly from offensive formation — a solid phalanx 250 shields wide and twenty ranks deep — to the wider 500-shields line. Their raised spears dropped in a perfect line that sent a shiver of appreciation through the Makedones King. Now these were warriors!

The Makedones broke into a run, the force splitting and angling across the field to left and right. Philippos smiled and peered through the rising dust to watch the dismay in the ranks of slaves. Arrows and javelins soared from the Spartan flanks, plunging home into the charging Makedones. Scores fell, many more tripped over the tumbling bodies. But the charge was now unstoppable.

Excitement rose again in the Makedones King and his hands began to tremble. The slave line on the right was breaking, even before the Makedones reached them.

No, not breaking!

Changing!

At first the King could not believe what he was seeing. The slaves had expertly linked shields in the classic Spartan attack phalanx and were advancing down the hillside. In their haste to crush the enemy the Makedones had broken ranks, intent only on sweeping aside these pretend warriors. There were no battle formations now, only a dark horde racing towards the hills on either side. Philippos jerked his gaze to the right. Here also the slaves were advancing, in perfect formation, to meet the charge.

Madness, he thought. But a tiny sliver of icy fear began to grow in his mind.

Something here was wrong. Yet could it matter? How could slaves withstand a frontal assault?

The dust rose now, thick and blinding. The golden eye gleamed as the Demon King's spirit soared out over the battle-lines. The first Makedones warriors reached the slaves — only to be cut down with consummate ease as swords clove into their flesh, the enemy shields locking like a dam against the surging Makedones tide.

Philippos looked to the main Spartan force. Still they stood their ground, making no effort to come to the aid of the slaves on either flank.

Now the charge was faltering, the field littered with Makedones dead. The slaves continued their advance, hacking and cutting, their swords dripping blood. Desperately the Makedones tried to re-form their lines, but the slaves gave them no opportunity.

Philippos watched the slaughter and confusion tore through him.

You fool! came the voice in his mind . Can you not see what is happening?

'Leave me be!' he screamed.

Parmenion has outwitted you. The slaves are the Spartans. They have exchanged cloaks and helms. You have attacked, in broken formation, the greatest warriors in the world!

'What can I do?'

All is not yet lost. Send in the Guards against the Spartan centre.

'How will that aid us?'

The Spartans will have to break off their attack and it will give our troops time to re-form. Do it now, or all will be lost!

Philippos jerked to awareness and drew his sword. 'Forward!' he shouted.

And 6,000 elite warriors, the pride of Makedon, grim-faced and cold-eyed, hefted their swords and shields and marched against the slaves who surrounded the Spartan King.

The City of Sparta

Much to his disgust, Cleander needed to be carried to the roof-top by two young servants as news reached the city that the enemy cavalry had been sighted. Cleander's ruined lungs had all but given out on him, and he had been forced to discard even his simple leather breastplate and helm, the weight being too much for him. His breathing was ragged as the servants reached the top of the stairs, lifting him to the roof.

A deep shuddering breath was followed by a racking cough which spattered crimson drops of blood to the white-washed stone. Cleander heaved himself upright and moved slowly to the low parapet around the building. From here he could look down on Leaving Street. To the left was the barricaded agora, the market stalls overturned and blocking all exits. To the right he could see the open plains and the distant dust-cloud that heralded the enemy.

Lifting his hand he summoned his manservant, Dorian, a young Kadmian born into his service. The youth carried a curved oxhorn which he lifted to his mouth, blowing a single clear note that echoed across the city. Cleander's gaze raked along the roof-tops as the hidden javeliners and bowmen showed themselves, raising their hands to acknowledge the signal; then they dropped again from sight.

Sweat dripped into Cleander's eyes and his face was ashen below the deep tan.

'Lie down for a moment, sir,' whispered Dorian, taking his master's arm.

'If… I… lie down… I shall die,' he answered. Instead he knelt by the parapet. Pain racked his weary oxygen-starved body, but he willed himself to go on: the King had entrusted to him the defence of the city, and Cleander would be true to his duty. Once more he ran through the strategy, wondering if any flaws remained to be discovered by the enemy. He had closed off all streets, bar the Avenue of Kings and the parallel Leaving Street. Both led to the open market-place, with its scores of alleys and side turnings; but these too had been blocked with stalls and furniture from surrounding homes. He pictured the unit leaders he had selected. Some concerned him, others worried him. But then the best of the warriors had marched with Parmenion, and it was pointless now to fret about the quality of those left behind.

The enemy were closing fast and Cleander could see sunlight glistening on helms and lances. There were thousands of horsemen galloping towards the city and fear leapt in the Spartan's heart. Could they hold off so many?

'Father Zeus, give me strength,' he prayed. He glanced up at Dorian. 'Get down, boy, and be ready at my signal.'

Three men now joined them on the roof-top. Two carried bows and several quivers of longshafted arrows; the third placed himself beside the twenty iron-pointed javelins resting against the parapet. The javeliner hefted the first weapon, testing it for weight and balance. 'Not. . until. . the signal,' warned Cleander and the man nodded and smiled.

I was a warrior once, thought Cleander. With helm and sword I would have been standing alongside my King, cutting down his enemies and glorying in my strength and power. Another spasm of coughing tore at his skeletal frame. Bright lights danced before his eyes and he felt himself slipping sideways. Dorian seized him, holding him upright. Cleander's vision was blurring, darkness closing in on him. With a supreme effort of will he fought it back, concentrating on the galloping cavalry. He saw the force separate and watched half of the riders thunder towards Leaving Street.

In the distant past Sparta had boasted a strong wall but Lycurgus, the legendary founder of the warrior creed, had told them that a wall of men was stronger than a wall of stone, and the city's defences had been torn down. Such was the pride of Sparta, such was the strength of their army that at no time in their history had an enemy ever come close enough to threaten the city.

Until now…

As the cavalry swept along Leaving Street Dorian looked to Cleander, but the dying man shook his head. On they came, their white cloaks streaming out behind them. Many of the cavalry were Korinthians and wore little armour, carrying only lance or sword, their protection lying in the speed of their mounts and the small buckler shields strapped to their left forearms. Cleander waited until they were almost to the end of Leaving Street, the column strung out below him. 'Now!' he whispered.

A long blast blew from the horn and men rose up on every roof-top, javelins slashing through the air in a dark rain of death that ripped into the invaders' ranks. Horses went down in their hundreds, spilling riders to the cobbled street.

Then bowmen began to rake the survivors, who had nowhere to run. White cloaks and tunics blossomed with crimson stains and the screams of dying men echoed through the city. Oleander watched the slaughter dispassionately, then turned to see the vanguard of the column riding into the agora. Here they were met with a storm of missiles.

Armed slaves clambered over the barricades and charged into the demoralized invaders, dragging them from their mounts, sharp knives and hatchets ripping and cleaving into flesh and bone.

The routed cavalry fought to escape, but the only route was back the way they had come and the streets were choked with dead horses and men.

And the slaughter continued.

Cleander sagged back to the roof-top.

His vision darkened, the men around him fading and becoming shadows. Then a bright figure stepped into view, seeming to emerge from a glistening mist. Cleander rose, all pain vanishing, and looked into the eyes of the shining man before him.

'I did not let you down, sire. The city is safe.'

'You did well, cousin,' said Parmenion, King of Sparta. Cleander gazed down upon his own frail body, lying forgotten as the fighting raged on. So thin and wretched… it was such a pleasure to be free of it. Then despair touched him. If the King was here, then. .

'Did we lose, sire?'

'Not yet. The battle continues. Come, follow me.'

'I always have, sire. I always will. But where are we going?'

'To the Field of Blood, my friend. For there are many Spartans there who will need a guide before this day is over.'

The Field of Blood

Despite the carnage on either side Parmenion felt detached from the battle, his mind focused entirely on the feel of the conflict. The Makedones had suffered a terrible reverse; their mercenaries, cut down in their hundreds, were on the verge of panic. Some were already running back, fleeing the combat. The Regulars were still fighting hard despite appalling losses, but they were being forced back by the savage skills of the disguised Spartans.

The battle was not yet won or lost, but balancing on a knife-edge. He looked to his right, where Leonidas and Timasion were leading the assault. The Spartans had formed a fighting line 200 shields wide, and they were gradually turning the enemy back towards the centre of the field. On the left Learchus was no longer making headway, the ground beneath his warriors covered with the bodies of the fallen.

Dust was billowing across the battlefield as Parmenion transferred his gaze to the enemy reserves, the elite Makedones Guards. He blinked and narrowed his eyes.

They were advancing.

Cold fear swept through him. Next to the Spartans these were the most disciplined fighting men of Achaea, victors of a score of major battles. On they came, a solid phalanx of fighting men in tight formation, twenty ranks at least. The combined weight of their charge would carry them deep into any stationary enemy line.

Parmenion silently swore. Had his troops been truly Spartan he would now sound the advance, moving out to meet the enemy head-on, matching their formation and relying on the strength of his soldiers to withstand the charge. But they were not Spartans: they were house-slaves, messengers, gardeners and servants, with no experience of war.

In that dread moment a sudden realization struck him: he had no choice. If they stood still they would be swept aside.

Spartans or no, the strategos was left with only one option.

Attack.

Curiously this thought swept away all his fears, and from some deep well of his being rose a savage lust for battle he had never before experienced.

'Attack formation!' he yelled.

The slaves had learned only two manoeuvres during their few days of training and this had been one, moving smoothly from a wide defensive line into a compact attacking unit.

'Drummers sound the beat!' shouted the King. 'By the step three!'

Behind the battle-lines the ten drummers began to mark the time with a steady, rhythmic pounding.

Parmenion eased himself into the third rank as the men began to march forward to meet the enemy. The first rank carried shield and sword, the men in the second wielding long iron-pointed spears. Once close to the enemy these weapons would be lowered, the men in the front line sheathing their swords and helping to guide the spears home while the wielders, gripping the hafts with both hands, rammed them into the opposing ranks.

Against an ill-disciplined force, or troops without formation, such a tactic was often decisive. But, in the main, close-order troops would block the spears with their shields and the initial stages of combat would be down to the strength and weight of the two phalanxes as they clashed, like two huge bulls coming together head to head.

'Level spears!' bellowed Parmenion and the weapons came down in a ragged line, but the billowing dust prevented the enemy from seeing clearly how inexpertly the spears were brought into position. 'Drummers by the step four!'

The beat quickened, like the thudding of an angry heart.

'Now we will show them,' said Priastes, moving alongside his King. But Parmenion had no time to answer, for the enemy were close.

The Makedones were not moving as fast as he had expected. In fact they seemed hesitant, their line curving — wider at the flanks, concave at the centre. For a moment Parmenion was nonplussed, then realization came to him.

They were frightened! The Guards had seen what they thought to be slaves smashing their fighting lines, and now they believed themselves to be facing the finest warriors in the world. The men at the centre in the first rank were holding back, fearful of the clash. This had the effect of compressing the Makedones phalanx, rank after rank closing and eliminating the vital fighting space between the lines.

'Drummers by the step five!' shouted Parmenion. The drumbeat quickened, the advance gathering speed. 'Ready spears!'

The Makedones were hardly moving when the Spartans struck them. The second rank spear-carriers threw themselves forward, the iron points of their weapons hammering into the enemy. Tightly compressed as they were, the Makedones could not block them all and the points plunged home between their shields. 'Withdraw spears!'

shouted Parmenion and back came the blood-covered weapons, only to stab forward once more.

The Makedones line buckled as hundreds of warriors went down. But the formation did not break.

Again and again the spears clove home, but now the Makedones reformed and began to fight back. The slaves in the front rank drew their swords and the fighting became hand-to-hand. The Spartan advance slowed.

Gaps began to appear in the front line.

Helm leapt into one breach, slashing his sword across the face of an advancing Makedones warrior. 'Keep close, brothers!' he shouted. His voice carried along the line and the effect was instant. The slaves gathered themselves, closing the gaps and fighting back.

All forward movement had ceased now and the two forces stood toe to toe, shield to shield.

Parmenion looked around him. Everywhere the slaves were holding their ground, and his pride in them soared. Cold reality touched the strategos. The Makedones were still hesitant, but soon they would become aware of the lack of skill and advance again.

And in that moment he knew how his twin had felt at Mantinea, the sweet taste of victory so close to his tongue.

Another gap opened before him. Just as he was about to leap forward the giant form of Brontes stepped into the breach, a huge axe in his hand. The blade slashed down, cleaving through helm and breastplate to smash a Makedones from his feet.

Turning, Parmenion raised his arm. 'Rear six ranks wide formation!' he called. No one moved, men glancing one to the other, for this was not something they had practised. Parmenion stifled a curse. 'Rear six ranks follow me!' he called again, pointing to the right. The lines began to move. 'Re-form and attack from the right!'

The men began to run, following the King in his golden armour as he moved across the battle-lines. 'Re-form in wide defensive,' he ordered.

This the men understood, and swiftly they grouped themselves in three ranks 200 shields wide. In the first rank Parmenion drew his sword, hefted his shield and led them towards the Makedones flank. There were no drummers now, and the dust was thick and choking.

At the last moment the Makedones saw them and tried to turn.

Parmenion knew the slaves could not break through, but he hoped that the sudden switch of attack would slow the enemy as warriors were forced to defend both front and flank.

To his left he could see the minotaur still cleaving and hacking with his axe, the Makedones falling back before him -

and Helm, fighting now alongside Attalus in the front line.

A sword slashed for his face. Parmenion deflected it with his shield and stabbed out his own blade in response, but this too was blocked. Dropping to one knee, the Spartan thrust his sword under the Makedones shield. The blade tore through the man's leather kilt, slicing into his groin. Wrenching the weapon clear, Parmenion rose to block another attack.

All around him the slaves pushed forward.

But the Makedones held them off.

And the enemy line began to move inexorably forward.

Leonidas eased himself back from the front line and ran swiftly up the hillside, turning to look down on the battle.

Parmenion's plan had worked beautifully, but the weight of numbers was still against them. The Thracian mercenaries had fled the field, but the Spartan could see their officers desperately trying to regroup the survivors.

Given time they would return to the battle.

Squinting through the dust, Leonidas saw that Parmenion was leading his disguised slaves against the Guards, while on the far left Learchus, hard-pressed by the Makedonian Regulars, was making little headway. As with all battles the first to fall were the less skilful, the weak, the slow, the inept. Now only the real fighting men remained, and there was no question of the bravery of the Makedones. Stunned and demoralized by the early charge, they were now showing their discipline and the battle was slowly beginning to turn in their favour.

The field was littered with corpses, the vast majority being the Makedones or their mercenaries, but Spartans had fallen too and Leonidas ran an expert eye over his fighting lines. He had begun with 2,500 men under his command; just over 2,000 remained in a phalanx 200 shields wide, ten ranks deep.

Against them were ranged some 4,000 Illyrian irregulars in their red breastplates and horned helms. Tough, seasoned fighters, but ill-disciplined. Leonidas' regiment was pushing them back, but the enemy were far from either panic or retreat.

Leonidas was racked by indecision. The slaves could not withstand the might of the Guards, and Learchus on the left needed support. Yet if Leonidas was to send any troops to their aid, his own force would not be able to withstand the Illyrians.

Nevertheless a decision had to be made.

Then he saw Parmenion leading the flank attack against the Guards. It was a courageous move, but doomed to failure unless supported. His decision made, Leonidas ran back to the battle.

'Rear five fighting wedge left!' he shouted. 'Formation Ten!' The rear five ranks of his regiment moved smoothly to the left, re-forming ten ranks deep, fifty shields across, Leonidas at the centre with two officers on either side of him.

'The King!' he bellowed.

The men in the first rank hefted their shields and began to march, angling to the left. The Illyrians, screaming their battle-cries, hurled themselves against the weaker right flank of the phalanx. This was the danger Leonidas had braved. Shields were always carried on the left arm, and when a regiment swung to the left the right side of the phalanx was open to attack, for the shields faced inwards. But he had no choice. To order a switch to the more standard fighting square would make forward movement almost impossible. The men on the right had only their swords to fend off their attackers, yet still they were Spartans and the Illyrians suffered heavy losses as they tried to crash through the phalanx.

Worse was to come, Leonidas knew, for as they fought their way forward the Illyrians would move in behind them.

He could only hope that Timasion, with the troops left under his command, would see the danger and launch a counter-attack to defend the rear.

'At the slow run!' shouted Leonidas. There were no drummers to sound the beat, but the Spartans responded instantly, the front line swinging further left. Leonidas glanced back. Timasion had ordered his men to advance into the breach created by Leonidas, and the harrying Illyrians were now caught between two forces.

A gap opened before the fighting wedge and Leonidas could see Parmenion and his warriors battling to contain the Guards. The huge minotaur and the warrior with the metal face were now surrounded by the enemy, but giving no ground. 'The King!' yelled Leonidas again.

'The King!' came the thundrous response from the Spartans.

He saw Parmenion glance back. Immediately the King ordered his men to pull aside, creating room for the charging Spartans to hammer home against the Guards' left. The enemy flank crumpled under the sudden assault, the Spartans pushing deep into the Makedones square.

For the first time Leonidas saw the Demon King at the centre of his regiment, a bright sword in his hand.

All was chaos now, the battle no longer the standard parallel lines of opposing forces. By breaking the Spartan right Leonidas had gambled everything on crushing the enemy centre.

But here stood the Demon King. And he was invulnerable.

Even in the thick of the fighting, his sword-arm weary, Parmenion knew that the pivotal point in the battle had been reached. He could feel it, in the same way that a runner senses the presence of an unheard rival closing behind him.

The Makedones were fighting furiously, but there was an edge of panic in them. For years they had fought and won, and s this battle was to have been their easiest victory. That expectation had] been cruelly crushed, and their morale was now brittle and ready to "] crack.

Parmenion blocked a savage thrust, slashing his own blade through his attacker's neck in a deadly riposte. The man fell back, and for a moment Parmenion was clear of the action. He swung, looking to the left where Learchus and his regiment were once more making headway against the Regulars. To the right and rear Timasion was urging his men forward into the Illyrians in a bid to reach the centre of the field.

All around the King the slaves were standing firm, though their losses were great, and Parmenion felt afresh the surging determination not to lose. These men deserved a victory.

But there was no place for strategy now. Amid the carnage of the battleground there was room only for strength of arm, allied to the courage of the human spirit. The Makedones fought only for conquest and plunder, while the slaves were fighting for their freedom and the Spartans battling for city, home and honour. The difference was significant as the two armies, their formations broken, fought man to man on the blood-soaked field.

A movement on the hilltops to the south-west caught Parmenion's eye. The swirling dust made identification difficult at first, then the King saw the giant form of Gorgon moving down the slope. Behind him ^ came hundreds of beasts from the forest, some reptilean and scaled, others covered in matted fur. Many were armed with crude clubs of knotted oak, but most needed no weapon save fang and claw. Vores circled above them and, at a signal from Gorgon, swooped down over the Makedones ranks to hurl their poison-tipped darts.

The Makedones at the rear saw the monsters approaching — and panicked. Throwing aside their weapons they fled the battlefield. Others, with more courage, tried to link shields against this new enemy.

The forest creatures fell upon the Makedones with terrible force, their talons slicing through armour and chain-mail, ripping flesh and snapping bones like rotten wood. Nothing could withstand them.

The Guards' defences collapsed.

One moment they were an army, the next a seething, frightened horde desperate to escape.

Gorgon, wielding two iron clubs, clove into their ranks, smashing men from their feet. His pale eyes glowed.

Warriors in his path screamed and froze, their bodies stiffening, shrinking, crumbling to the earth, dry and withered.

Seeing the panic among the Guards, the Illyrians facing Timasion's regiment turned and fled.

Now only a tight-knit fighting square surrounded the Demon King. Philippos drew his sword and waited, secure in his invincibility. Gorgon broke through the shield-wall, one huge club hammering down on the King's shoulder. But the weapon bounced clear and Philippos leapt forward, his sword cleaving into Gorgon's chest. The Forest Lord staggered back with dark blood gushing from the wound. Philippos advanced but Brontes hurled himself forward, dropping his axe and curling his huge arms around the King's frame. The King struggled in his grip, trying to turn his sword on this new attacker, but Brontes pinned the King's arms to his side, lifting him from his feet. Philippos screamed but could not free himself.

The last Makedones resistance crumpled, men throwing down their swords and falling to their knees begging for mercy. At first they were cut down despite their pleas, but Parmenion's voice rose above the battle.

'Enough! Let them live!'

A strange, unnatural quiet fell over the battlefield. To the south the once invincible army of Makedon was fleeing in disorder. Here at the centre the remaining Makedones laid down their weapons.

Brontes threw the Demon King to the ground, dragging back the defeated monarch's arms and calling for thongs to bind him. An archer offered his spare bowstring. Brontes tied the King's thumbs together and then stood, watching Philippos struggle to his knees.

Helm stepped forward and stood before Philippos, staring down into the King's face. Then he staggered and seemed about to fall. Attalus leapt to his side, catching him.

'Are you all right?' the Macedonian asked. Helm did not answer and Attalus saw the bronze face stiffen and swell, becoming solid once more. The enchanted warrior lifted his hand to the helm he now wore; it was no longer part of his face.

Yet he did not remove it.

Parmenion moved swiftly to where Gorgon lay, his lifeblood draining to the churned ground. Kneeling beside the monster Parmenion took his hand, but could find no words for the dying Titan.

Gorgon's eyes opened. 'Surprised to see me?' asked the Forest King.

'Yes. But you were more than welcome, my friend. I think you saved us.'

'No. They were ready to crack.' Gorgon struggled to rise, but fresh blood gushed from the awful wound in his chest.

'I cannot feel my legs. Am I dying?'

'Yes,' whispered Parmenion.

Gorgon smiled. 'Curious. . there is no pain. Will you promise me that my people will have their chance at the Gateway?'

'Of course.'

'Your friendship. . carries… a high price. But. .' The Forest Lord's head lolled back and his body began to tremble. The skin of his face seemed to shimmer, the snakes receded. Parmenion remained where he was as the body slowly changed, becoming at the point of death the handsome dark-haired man Gorgon had once been in life.

Weary and full of sorrow, Parmenion rose.

Brontes stumbled forward, kneeling by his brother. 'Why?' he shouted. 'Why did you do this?' Taking hold of Gorgon's shoulders, he began to shake the body.

'He cannot hear you,' said Parmenion softly.

The minotaur looked up, his huge brown eyes streaming with tears. 'Tell me, Parmenion, why he came?'

'For friendship,' answered the Spartan simply.

'He did not understand the meaning of the word.'

'I think that he did. Why else would he and his people have risked their lives? They had nothing to gain here.'

'But. . my own people refused to help you. And yet this. . creature. . died for you. I do not understand.' Lifting his horned head, the minotaur screamed his torment to the skies.

The laughter of Philippos pealed out. That's it!' he called, 'Wail, you pitiful monstrosity. I killed him. Release me and I'll kill you. I'll kill all of you!'

Brontes lurched to his feet, gathering up his axe. Philippos laughed again. The axe-blade hammered into the King's face, but the skin was not even marked.

Helm stepped forward, approaching Parmenion. 'Let him loose,' said the warrior. The Spartan turned to Helm. The voice was no longer metallic, the helmet now separated from the skin.

'Your memory has returned?' Parmenion asked him, knowing the answer.

'It has. Let him loose. I will fight him.'

'He cannot be killed.'

'We shall see.'

'Wait!' whispered Parmenion. Swiftly he unclasped the necklet, stepping forward to fasten it around Helm's neck.

'Now he will not be able to read your mind.' The warrior nodded and moved away from the Spartan, drawing his sword. Brontes looked to Parmenion. 'Release him.' Brontes slashed the axe-blade through the bindings. Philippos staggered, then righted himself and swung to see Helm approaching him with sword extended.

The Demon King laughed. 'The first to die,' he said, gathering his blade from where it had fallen during the struggle with Brontes. 'Come, let me arrange your journey to Hades.'

Helm said nothing but his advance continued. Philippos leapt to meet him, blade stabbing forward in a disembowelling thrust. Helm parried it, sending a reverse cut that sliced through the skin of the Demon King's bicep.

Philippos jumped back, gazing down in horror at the blood oozing from the wound.

'I cannot be hurt!' he screamed. 'I cannot!'

Helm paused and, lifting his left hand, removed his helmet. Philippos reeled back, the light fading from his golden eye.

Warriors of both armies stood transfixed — for facing the Demon King was his twin, save that his eye was not gold but the colour of opal.

'Who are you?' whispered Philippos.

'Philip of Macedon,' the warrior answered.

The Demon King tried a desperate attack, but it was easily parried and Philip's blade plunged into his enemy's throat.

Blood bubbled from Philippos' mouth. 'That,' hissed Philip, 'is for threatening my son! And this is for me!' The sword slashed in a glittering arc, decapitating the Demon King. The head fell to the left, bouncing on the hard-packed earth.

The body, spouting blood, pitched to the right.

'Is that dead enough for you?' asked Philip.

The aftermath of the battle proved long and mind-numbingly complex. The disarmed Makedones were herded together and Parmenion called their officers to him. They were, he told them, free to return to Makedon, there to elect a new King. But first they were obliged to swear sacred oaths that they would help to rebuild the ruined city of Kadmos. This they did. The baggage-train of the Makedones was captured, and with it the enormous wealth accrued by Philippos. This was taken by the Spartans, but Parmenion promised one-half of it to the victims of Makedones aggression, including twenty gold pieces for every slave who had fought alongside him.

The surviving slaves and half the Spartan army were sent back to the city, while Brontes agreed to lead Gorgon's followers to the Giant's Gateway, there to await Parmenion's arrival.

Emissaries arrived from the scattered Illyrians and Thracians, begging for peace terms. These were granted, on the understanding that the warriors returned immediately to their homelands.

During all of these negotiations Makedones and Spartan surgeons moved among the wounded of both sides, performing operations under torchlight.

By the end of the day more than 11,000 enemy corpses had been counted on the battlefield, another 4,000 slain in the attack on Sparta. The Makedones dead were stripped of their armour, while their living comrades dug several mass graves. The 870 Spartan dead would be returned to the city for honourable funerals. Of the slaves more than 2,000

were dead. The Spartans dug a special grave for them, and Leonidas promised that a monument would be raised above it.

Long after midnight Parmenion finally retired to the tent of Philippos, and was there joined by Philip, Attalus and Leonidas.

'I do not understand,' said Attalus, as the three men relaxed, 'how the Demon King was slain. He was said to be invulnerable.'

'Except to self-inflicted wounds,' Parmenion told him wearily. 'Philip was… is… Philippos: the same men in different worlds. I would imagine that the spell protecting him could not differentiate between the two.'

Leonidas rose. 'I will leave you friends alone together,' he said. 'But first may I speak with you privately, sire?'

Parmenion nodded and followed the young Spartan from the tent.

'I think I know what you are going to say,' whispered Parmenion, 'and I have not forgotten my promise. Will you allow me to ride to Sparta one last time to say farewell to Derae?'

Leonidas shook his head. 'You are wrong, my friend. I am asking you to stay. There is so much to be done now. Who else would be King? Timasion? He will want to go to war with Korinthos and Messenia. He would seek to punish our enemies, creating new hatreds. Lycon is too young and headstrong. There are no others.'

'You do yourself an injustice. You would make a fine King.'

Leonidas smiled. 'Not so, Parmenion. I am a warrior, that is enough for me. Think about what I have said. We need you here.'

The officer walked away into the night, past the glittering torches that lit the battlefield. Parmenion stood silently staring out over the plain, then a hand touched his shoulder. 'There is much to what he says.'

Parmenion nodded. Philip took his arm and the two men strolled out, avoiding the camp-fires around which the Spartan soldiers slept.

'This would be a good life for you, Parmenion. Here you are revered as a saviour. You could build an empire.'

'I have no wish for empires, sire. And I have never desired to be a King.' The Spartan sighed. 'This is not my world.'

'You know how much I need you, and it would hurt like Hades to lose you. But think carefully about this,' Philip advised.

'I shall. But tell me, how did you become Helm?'

Philip swore, then laughed. 'The day after you left a man came to see me, saying he had news of Alexander. Since he insisted on seeing me alone, he was brought to my chambers. Naturally he was searched, but he carried no weapons.

In fact, apart from his clothes he had only a small leather pouch containing a stone veined with gold. A lucky charm, he said. He entered the room — and that is the last I remember. I awoke in a graveyard. Can you believe that? How he spirited me here I do not know. Nor do I know why he took away my memory and turned my face to metal.'

'I would guess that the man was Aristotle,' said Parmenion, 'and I cannot say why he left you with no knowledge of your identity, but the metal face was a great protection. Had you been recognized as Philippos your life would have been short indeed.'

'Philippos,' whispered the Macedonian, letting the name hang in the air. 'Was he truly me? Do you think I could be like him? A destroyer, a demon?'

'No, sire. He was possessed. Driven by a spirit of Darkness.'

'Even so, his army swept across the world much as mine has in the past. It is not a good feeling to see such savagery from the side of the victims.'

‘Perhaps it is,' argued Parmenion.

Philip chuckled. 'Maybe,' he agreed. 'When we get home I shall rethink my plans. Diplomacy shall be the key. I shall convince the Athenians, the Spartans and the Thebans to make me the leader of Greece. Only then will I carry the war into Persia. I shall never be a Philippos, Parmenion. Never.''

'I do not doubt that, sire. It would never occur to me that you would.'

'Stop calling me sire. Here you are the King and I am the soldier.'

'Old habits die hard. . Philip.'

The Macedonian looked into Parmenion's eyes. 'I will not forget what you have done for me, and for my son. You are a good friend, Parmenion; the best a man could have.' Unfastening the necklet which had protected his thoughts from the Demon King he clasped it around Parmenion's neck once more.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Parmenion said nothing and the King laughed, clapping him hard upon the shoulder. 'You always were uneasy with compliments, Spartan. Come, let us celebrate your victory and get drunk together.'

But when they returned to the tent Attalus was asleep upon a couch and, after only a single goblet of wine each, consumed in comfortable silence, Philip also declared himself weary and settled down on the floor to sleep.

For a while Parmenion lay awake, his thoughts jumbled, a series of almost kaleidoscopic images tumbling through his mind. Derae, Phaedra, Thena, Alexander, Leonidas. . Two worlds and a choice of lives. A king or a general.

Derae or Phaedra? The latter he did not love, but she had borne his children and duty demanded he return.

To the pit with duty, he thought! Have I no right to happiness?

But then he thought of Alexander and the beast within him. Another Philippos waiting to wreak his evil on the world.

'I cannot stay,' he whispered.

And a deep sorrow flowed through him.

The Giant's Gateway

Alexander sat alone at the edge of a small tree-lined lake, gazing up at the hilltop to his left. Upon it, silhouetted in the moonlight, stood the twin pillars of the Giant's Gateway, and upon them was a marble lintel stone deeply etched with writings of a form and language Alexander had never seen.

Three times that day the boy had been drawn to the stones, walking around and between the pillars trying to make sense of their hidden messages. The columns themselves were ornately carved and, save for the most subtle differences, identical. There was a sunburst surrounded by eighteen spheres on the left column; on the right there were nineteen spheres. At the base of each was a curious carving of what appeared to be the footprint of a beast with four talons, and higher above it the outline of a crab, or spider, or even a three-headed monster. It was hard to tell what had been intended by the sculptor.

Alexander picked up a stone and skimmed it across the surface of the lake. The Gateway haunted his thinking and he lay back on the soft grass seeking the clue he needed. On each pillar, facing inward, was a jutting stone — like fingers pointing at one another. According to legend the giant who created the Gateway had reached out from between the pillars, taking hold of both stones. Then he had vanished.

But Alexander could not copy such an action. As he held the first stone and stretched out his arm, he was still some six feet from touching the second stone.

Doubt crept into his mind. Are you truly Iskander? He had believed he would need only to see the Gateway in order for its secrets to be revealed.

'What am I to do?' he asked the night.

'Whatever you can,' came a familiar voice, and Alexander swung to see Chiron walking down the hillside.

'You are alive!' shouted Alexander, pushing himself to his feet and running to meet the magus. Chiron knelt to greet him, taking the boy in his arms.

'Yes, I am alive. And glad to be human once more.'

'But you — Camiron — fell overboard during the storm. I could not locate you. I feared you dead.'

'Camiron managed to reach the shore-line and from there, lost and confused, headed south, coming at last to the woods. Here there were those who knew him — me — and had the power to reverse the Change. I shall never again be tempted into shape-changing.'

'Why did you risk it at all so near to Gorgon's Forest?'

The magus looked away, then smiled ruefully. 'I had not intended the Change. But I was frightened, Alexander.

Simply that. The Makedones were coming. Parmenion had decided to walk into the demon-haunted depths of the most evil place in Achaea.' He shrugged. 'I fell asleep, but my dreams were all born of terror. Camiron at least could outrun his enemies — but what I could not have guessed was that the centaur would discard the stone of power. .

leaving me trapped. I think in some way he knew that this was his only chance of true life.'

'Poor Camiron. He was so happy to wake every morning with his memories intact.'

Chiron smiled and sat down beside the boy. 'He could not have lived, Alexander. Centaurs cannot absorb food while their bodies are merged. He did not know it, but he was starving to death when at last he came here. He had no real hope of independent life.'

'I shall miss him,' said Alexander.

'And I shall not,' the magus told him. 'But let us return to your problem. What have you discovered about the Gateway?'

'Little or nothing. The carvings upon the pillars are not quite identical, but that could be considered human error -

though somehow I doubt it. The jutting stones are handles of some kind but, as with the myth, it would take a giant to grip them together.'

'Yet that is the secret,' said Chiron. 'The writings inscribed on the lintel are Akkadian, derived from an ancient Atlantean alphabet of forty-two characters. The Akkadians reduced the alphabet to twenty-nine.'

'You can read it?'

'Of course.'

'What does it say?'

'Nothing now of interest. It tells how the pillars were first brought here, lists the names of the Senior Magus, and the current King in whose name it was erected, and says that the Gateway was built in the thousandth year of the Akkadian Empire. That is all.'

'I had expected more,' said Alexander, disappointed.

Chiron laughed. 'Like a list of instructions? I don't believe that instructions were needed in those days. The Gateway was always open.'

'Then how did it radiate Enchantment?'

'I do not believe it ever did.'

'What? You mean I cannot restore the magic to this realm?'

'I fear not.'

'Then what can I do?'

'The Gateways- and there are many of them- allowed travel between nations, worlds, times. In the far east they are called lung mei, the Dragon Paths. In the west they are known as the Dream Gates, and in the cold, bitter north they are named the Paths of the Gods.'

'How does that help me, if I cannot use them to return the Enchantment?'

'If a horse is too weak to travel to water, then what does the rider do?'

'He brings water to the horse,' Alexander replied.

'Exactly. You cannot bring the Enchantment to Achaea. You must then allow the people of the woods to pass through the Gateway to a world where Enchantment is still strong.'

'Then I must open the Gate?'

'I believe that is your destiny.'

'How will I know where to send them?'

Chiron shrugged. 'I cannot answer that.'

Alexander rose and began the slow walk up the hillside. Chiron followed him and together they examined the pillars anew.

'This section here, what is it?' asked Alexander, running his fingers over the curving lines that made up the bestial footprint.

'That is a map of Achaea. See, here is Sparta and here the Gulf of Korinthos.'

'I do see! The crab then is the Chalcidice, what you call the lands of the Trident.' Moving to the right-hand pillar, he traced the second map. 'And this is the same — except that the Gulf is more narrow. And look, here the lands of the Trident are changed also, the prongs linked.'

Returning to the first pillar, he looked in amazement at the map. 'Wait! Now there is no Gulf of Korinthos. What is happening here, Chiron?'

'As you touch them they change,' whispered the magus. 'Now the one on the right is not Achaea at all. All the islands have linked to the mainland.'

As they watched the maps began to writhe and change faster and faster, in a bewildering series, as if an invisible hand was drawing charcoal lines across the stone.

Alexander moved closer to the left-hand pillar, reaching out and touching his finger to a small indentation at the centre of the lower map. The movement of lines stopped immediately. Slowly the shifting maps on the right-hand pillar also slowed and froze.

Chiron leaned back, hands on hips. 'That is at least an answer in part,' he said. 'This was how they set up the Gateway. One map must be of this world, the second sets up the destination point. I do not believe it is a time portal.

I have seen those and they are much larger, full circles of stone. Yet it is more complex than other Akkadian Gateways used to travel the length of the empire. This must be one of the legendary Six Gateways to alternate worlds.'

'Where are the others?'

'One you have already travelled: Philippos drew you through it. There is another I know of in the east, but the pillars were smashed by superstitious tribesmen. The others? I don't know. Below the sea, perhaps, with lost Atlantis. Or under the new ice at the far edges of the world?'

'How can I open the Gateway?' Alexander asked.

'I don't know,' admitted Chiron, moving between the pillars and examining the stone handles. 'The Guardians of the Gates possessed stones of Sipstrassi, nuggets of power. I too have several, but my store of them is far away and therefore of no use to us. But one thing is certain — this Gateway was once aligned to other portals. At some point in time these alignments were severed.'

They examined the Gateway for another hour, but weariness overtook Alexander and he lay down between the pillars to sleep. He dreamt of Pella and his father's palace, and of Parmenion. The dream was full of anxiety and fear, for a dark mist hovered at the edge of his vision and always he refused to turn his head and look at it. It hung there, never moving, black and forbidding.

At last Alexander could bear it no more and he spun… to find himself gazing on a mirror within a frame of smoke.

His own reflection gazed back at him.

'You are not me,' he said.

'You are not me,' the mirror replied, then the image laughed and horns erupted from its temples to curl back over its ears. 'You cannot open the Gateway without me,' said the Chaos Spirit. 'You know that, don't you?'

'Yes,' Alexander admitted.

'What will you offer me to help you?'

'Nothing,' said the boy.

'Nothing? The people of the Enchantment will tear you to pieces if you fail them.'

'Exactly,' said Alexander, his voice growing in confidence. 'Only you can prevent it.'

'Why should I?'

'Come, you do not need me to answer that. Where are you without me?'

'It would not kill me,' the Spirit told him. 'It would merely mean more waiting until another vessel is ready.'

'But you are impatient,' the boy pointed out.

'That is true,' admitted the Spirit. 'But I ask again, what will you give me?'

'We will strike no bargains,' said Alexander. 'It is enough that we return to our own world, there to continue whatever battles await.'

'I will have you, you know,' the Spirit whispered. 'Just as my brother in this realm had Philippos. Ah, what joys await, Alexander. And you will share them. You should not hate me; I am here to bring you your heart's desire.'

'At the moment my desire is to be rid of this place.'

'Then it shall be so. You have seen the pillars and the maps upon them. But look to the uppermost carvings. They are star maps. You must align these, as well as those of the earth below. When the original settings are duplicated, the Gate will glow into life. Think of it like a man standing between two mirrors, each facing away from him. As they turn there will come a point where he is perfectly reflected in both. When this happens, the Gateways will draw together and become one. Then the second world will be open to the creatures here.'

'But that might send them to our world. I don't want that. They would suffer there as they suffer here. Indeed it would be worse, for at least the people here have known of them always. In Greece they would be feared, hated and slaughtered.'

'Once they existed — even in Greece. How else did you come by your fables? And as for despair — that is a feeling they will know wherever they are,' the Chaos Spirit explained. 'It is their nature, for they are incomplete. The old gods used them — created them — for their own pleasures. They are like left-over toys, Alexander. The war was everything to them. Winning it was the death of them. However, we shall help them, brother, you and I. We will find them a world where they can fight anew.'

'You can do this?' Alexander asked.

'We can do it,' answered the Spirit. Together we can do anything. Never forget that. Now let us begin.'

Alexander awoke. Chiron lay beside him, asleep and snoring. The prince rose and gazed up at the left-hand pillar.

'Climb it,' ordered the Chaos Spirit.

It was not difficult, for the carvings made good hand- and foot-holds. Alexander scaled the pillar, traversing to the front. Just above his head was a carved sphere surrounded by smaller globes. 'Touch your hand to the central stone,'

said the Spirit. Alexander did so and, like the maps earlier, the stones began to shimmer and move. 'It is realigning itself,' said the Spirit. 'Now climb the second pillar.'

Alexander did so, but did not reach out when ordered. 'What is the matter, brother?' the Spirit asked.

'How can I trust you? For all I know you will send these creatures to a world of doom and dread.'

'Indeed I would,' admitted the Spirit. 'But you are Iskander, the promised one. You will not send them there.'

'I do not understand you.'

'Your coming was foretold, young prince. The Gateway has been waiting for you. The alignments are already set, awaiting you. Can you not see? In this you are merely an instrument of destiny. The last man to pass these Gates deliberately misaligned them. Only your hand can make the magic flow.'

Yet still Alexander did not move. 'What more can I say to you?' asked the Spirit. 'Tell me how I can convince you.'

The prince did not reply. Slowly his hand reached out to touch the stone globe. The pillar began to vibrate, almost shaking Alexander loose. Swiftly he climbed down, stepping back from the Gateway. The grey stone began to shine, and a strange smell like burning leaves filled the air, acrid and unpleasant.

Chiron awoke and scrambled to his feet, moving back to join Alexander. 'You solved the mystery?'

'I believe so.'

The stones shone more brilliantly now, silver in the moonlight, the maps and carved script glowing with flames that licked out from the cuts in the stone. The globes were also aflame, like miniature suns, and the hillside was bathed in light.

The Gateway itself began to shimmer, and through it could be seen a plain between mountains and a distant forest lit by glorious sunshine. Alexander stepped forward, intending to pass through the Gateway, but Chiron's hand gripped his shoulder. 'No,' whispered the magus. 'It is not yet open.'

The creatures of the Enchantment moved out from the tree-line. Alexander turned to look at them. They were moving slowly, their eyes gazing in awe upon the gleaming portal. This moment, he knew, had been in their dreams for centuries. For them, this was the culmination of all their hopes. In a great half-circle they spread out at the foot of the hill: centaurs, dryads, nymphs, tall men with huge wings growing from their shoulders, dark-skinned Vores, reptiles, minotaurs; a seething, silent mass, edging forward.

The sunlight of another world bathed the scene in gold, shining upon the faces of the host. And no one spoke. Not a sound came from the creatures of the Enchantment.

Alexander's mouth was dry, and he felt the weight of their expectation like a boulder upon his heart.

Closing his eyes, he sought out Thena; she was sitting alone at the centre of the woods. Alexander felt her sorrow, but then it was as if an iron mask had fallen into place, shielding her.

'What do you require of me?' she asked him.

'I need you to make a journey,' he told her. Her spirit flowed from her. Keeping his eyes closed, his concentration total, he watched with his spirit as the seeress passed through the shimmering Gateway. She returned within moments.

'It is a world of savagery and pain,' she told him.

Once more Alexander climbed the right-hand pillar, touching his fingers to the stones.

Now the Gateway changed colour again, this time shining like polished gold. The view between the pillars altered, becoming a pale blue ocean lapping against a beach of white-gold sand. 'Travel there,' Alexander told Thena.

'There is no need,' her spirit told him. 'I can feel the Enchantment. It is pure and born of joy.'

The woods were silent as Parmenion, Philip and Attalus rode between the trees. The moon was high, her silver light bathing the woods and glistening from stream and rock. But there was no sign of life as the trio rode ever deeper.

Thena's voice echoed in Parmenion's mind. 'Keep moving south until you reach a waterfall, then turn west.'

They rode for just under an hour, emerging at last into a wide clearing filled with creatures of the Enchantment: centaurs, cyclopes, winged men and women, dryads and fauns. Parmenion dismounted and bowed as the white-haired goddess approached him. Her naked body gleamed in the moonlight, but there was nothing about her that aroused the Spartan. Ethereal and exquisite she seemed, far beyond the lusts of a mortal man.

'Welcome, Parmenion,' she said. 'Your road has been long and perilous.'

'Yet we are here, Lady,' he answered. 'Where is the boy?'

'He is examining the Gateway. Tell me how my son died.'

'Among friends,' Parmenion told her.

She nodded and smiled. 'That is good to know. At least a spark of nobility remained in him.'

'More than that, I think.'

'In a thousand years he befriended no one. What special quality do you possess?'

'None that I know of.'

The goddess moved away from him, facing Philip. 'Little did I expect ever to speak to one with your face, sir. Even now I can scarce bring myself to look upon you.'

'I am not Philippos.'

'I know that. You fought well.'

'It was not hard to kill him. All his life he had been invincible, and therefore had no need to learn basic defence.'

'You are a King in your own land?'

‘I am.'

'And do you also bring despair and terror to your neighbours?'

'I do,' he admitted. 'It is the nature of Greece, Lady. We are always at war. But soon we will be as one nation; then we will cease to kill each other.'

'Under your rule, of course?'

'Of course,' he agreed.

'Nothing changes,' she said sadly, moving on to Attalus. 'And you, sir, what have you learned from your visit to this realm?'

The swordsman shrugged. 'Little I did not know.'

'Is that really true? Have you not at least seen yourself in a different light?'

Attalus smiled. 'I know who I am, what I am. I have no illusions.'

'But you faced the Demon King and did not buckle. Did that not make you proud?'

'No. I came too close to giving in. There is no pride in that.'

'You are wrong, Attalus. You came here with hatred and bitterness, and you will leave much of it behind when you depart. Is that not so?'

'Yes,' he admitted.

The goddess moved back to Parmenion, taking his arm and leading him away into the trees. 'You found love here, Human,' she said. 'Will you leave it behind you?'

'I will, for I must,' the Spartan told her.

'Your guilt still haunts you, then?'

'It does. I must see that Alexander lives. The demon is still within him, as it was with Philippos. He will need a true friend — someone who cares, someone who loves him.'

'Indeed he will.' She stopped then and turned to look up into Parmenion's face. 'You know that he will one day kill you?'

'All men die, and no future is written in stone.'

'Not so. Not for you. Alexander will kill you, Parmenion. It is written in the stars, it is carried in whispers upon the wind, it is carved in the stone eternal. You cannot escape it.'

'We shall see,' he told her, his mouth suddenly dry.

'You are a good man,' she said, after a while, 'and you will carry my blessing with you. There is little power in it any more, but a blessing is always better than a curse.'

'Indeed it is,' the Spartan replied. 'Are all our futures set in this stone eternal?'

'No. Only yours and Alexander's. And now it is time to seek the Gateway, to leave this tortured realm. Come — and bid us farewell.'

Parmenion stood alongside Philip at the centre of the vast, silent throng waiting before the Gateway. High above them the moon shone clear and bright, the stars gleaming like gems on sable. But beyond the Gateway all was sunshine which lit the hillside with golden light.

'The magus l' said Philip suddenly, pointing to Chiron. 'That's the sorcerer who cast the spell upon me!'

'I think not, sire,' Parmenion told him. 'That is Chiron. He is of this world.'

'If I see any more twins I shall go insane,' muttered Philip.

Alexander walked back to the pillars, taking hold of the jutting stone on the right and stretching out his hand towards the other stone. For a moment only he stood, then his head fell back, dark smoke oozing from his nostrils and mouth to flow down over his chest and along his arm. The smoke took shape, becoming another Alexander — horned and yellow-eyed, a bizarre and deformed mirror image. Holding to Alexander's hand, the Chaos Spirit reached out and took hold of the second stone.

In that instant lightning forked between the pillars. Alexander was flung forward to the ground, the Chaos Spirit hurled into the air.

The voice of Tamis echoed in Parmenion's mind. 'The necklet! Put it on the boy!'

Parmenion ran forward, kneeling by the unconscious prince. Glancing up, he saw the smoke form of the Chaos Spirit floating down towards them. Unclipping the necklet he fastened it around Alexander's neck. The smoke covered the child but then a cool breeze blew, dispersing it.

Alexander opened his eyes. 'Is the Gate open?' he asked.

Parmenion looked up. 'Yes,' he answered. The first of the centaurs was moving between the pillars.

Alexander struggled to rise. 'I cannot sense the Dark God,' he whispered.

'He is not within you,' Parmenion told him. 'You are wearing now a necklet of great power. No evil can enter your mind as long as it remains in place.'

Philip moved alongside them to kneel by his son. 'You did well, boy,' said the Macedonian King, reaching out.

Alexander embraced his father and Philip rose, holding the boy to his chest.

Parmenion sighed and stood. The creatures of the Enchantment were slowing filing through the Gateway into a new world.

The white-haired goddess approached him. 'Whatever else the future holds, Parmenion, be proud of this day.'

'I shall, Lady.'

With a smile she turned and walked through the Gate. At last only Chiron and Brontes were left and the magus walked to Parmenion, extending his hand. 'Sadly I missed most of your journey,' he said, 'and was of little help to you.'

'You did enough,' Parmenion assured him. 'You rescued us from the Vores on that first day and, as Camiron, you carried Alexander to safety in the Forest of Gorgon. What will you do now?'

'I shall pass the Gateway and see what the new world offers. But there are many gates, Parmenion, and I feel we will meet again.'

'I will look forward to it.'

Chiron bade farewell to Alexander and Philip while the minotaur approached Parmenion.

'I shall not forget you, Human,' said Brontes.

'Nor I you.'

'You gave my brother a chance of redemption; I believe that he took it. For that alone I will always be grateful. May the gods walk with you, Parmenion.'

'And with you,' said the Spartan, as Brontes moved away between the pillars.

As Brontes passed through the Gate the pillars shimmered once more, darkening to the grey of cold stone. . and the world beyond flickered and was gone.

Attalus approached Parmenion. 'What now, strategos?' he asked.

The Spartan shrugged, all energy leaving him. Moving to a nearby tree, he sat with his back to the trunk. In a few short days he had travelled half-way across a strange land, fought a major battle and known, albeit briefly, the life of a King. Now his body was numb with fatigue, his mind confused and weary.

He heard Thena's soft footfalls and smiled as she sat beside him. 'What now?' he asked, echoing Attalus' enquiry.

'We wait for Aristotle,' she said. 'Did you enjoy being King?'

'Yes,' he admitted. 'I found my love there. Derae.' He sighed and tears began to well in his eyes. Clearing his throat, he looked away for a moment.

'You could stay,' Thena whispered.

'No. My destiny is beyond this world. I must remain with Alexander. What will you do?'

'Return to my Temple. I am a Healer and there are those who need my skills.'

'You sound sad, lady. You should not be,' he told her, reaching out to take her hand.

'Life is full of sorrow,' she replied, 'and yet it is still life. You are a good man. I hope you find happiness.' She rose and walked away down the hillside and into the trees.

Aristotle's voice whispered into her mind, echoing as if from a vast distance: 'Have the creatures passed the Gateway?'

'Yes.'

'All of them? Every one?'

'Yes, all of them. Including your twin.'

'Then help me come through to where you are.'

'How?'

'Hold to my voice. Picture me. The Sipstrassi will do the rest.'

Derae felt a pull on her spirit and was almost torn from her body. Crying out she resisted the force, but pain ripped through her and she cried out again. As suddenly as it had come it vanished and a misty figure formed before her, slowly becoming Aristotle. The magus staggered and fell to his knees, his fingers convulsively digging into the solid earth beneath him.

'That was a hard journey,' he said. 'You did well, Derae.'

'Send me back,' she said softly, 'and in my own form.'

'But you wish to keep your youth, surely?' he asked, rising.

'No,' answered Thena-Derae, 'I wish to be as I was.'

He shook his head in disbelief but raised his hand hi which a golden stone shone brightly. Her dark hair became again silver, shot with fading red, the skin of her face sagging into middle age, her eyes clouded and once more blind. 'How could you want this?' whispered Aristotle.

'It is who I am,' she answered. 'Now send me back.'

'You have said your farewells?'

'I have said all that can be said.'

Aristotle lifted his hand. The golden stone gleamed and soft light covered the priestess. When it faded, she was gone.

He made his way up the hillside to where the others waited.

'Chiron!' shouted Alexander. 'You came back!'

'Yes, I did,' answered the magus. 'I have come to take you home.'

'Which one is this?' asked Philip stonily.

'This, I believe, is Aristotle,' said Parmenion with a grin.

'Are you sure?'

'What do you think, Attalus?'

'I agree. This is Aristotle, sire.'

'Good,' said Philip. He took a deep breath. 'You whoreson!' he roared, advancing on the magus.

Aristotle leapt back in sudden surprise and fear. 'It had to be done, sire!' he said.

'Why did you take my memory?'

'That is hard to explain but, if you will give me the chance, I will tell all.'

'I for one would like to hear it,' said Parmenion softly.

Philip folded his hands across his chest. 'Come then, magus, for I like a good tale,' he hissed, his eyes still angry.

Aristotle settled himself down with the others before him in a semicircle. 'I am called Aristotle. .' he began.

'We know that, damn you! Get on with it,' stormed Philip and the magus raised a hand for silence.

'In my own way, my lord, if you please. I am now Aristotle — but once I was Chiron and I lived here with the people of the Enchantment. This is where I first met Parmenion, and Helm, the warrior with no memory, and Attalus the swordsman. Here in this world I also saw, for the first time, the Golden Child Iskander. And — as you have just seen — I passed through this Gateway with the exodus of the children of the Titans. For you it is but moments. But for me it is four centuries since I left this realm.'

'What happened to you then?' asked Parmenion.

'I explored many lands, through many centuries. I found other gates, paths between worlds. I journeyed far. But I longed for human company and so, at last, I came to Asia and then Greece — and heard once more of Parmenion. And I realized I had travelled a great circle in Time: I had arrived at a point before he passed through to Achaea. This was a great problem for me. Could I interfere? Had I already interfered? Of course I had, for when Parmenion first came to Achaea he told Chiron that a sorcerer in another world had sent him. That man, he said, looked just like me. And I realized too that I was caught in a dangerous web. I had to recreate everything as it was, or else risk changing the past — and perhaps destroying myself. Such a paradox, my friends. I sent Parmenion and Attalus through; then I sought you out, sire. I could not know what adventures would befall you all, for my memories of this time were blurred by my existence as Camiron. You see my dilemma? I could tell you nothing — for you knew nothing when first I met you. I longed to come with you, to help you, but I could not. Some laws are immutable. It is not possible to pass through a Gateway into a time, or a place, where you already exist. No man can meet himself. So all I could do was wait, and hope and pray that events would fashion themselves as they had before.'

'For a while there,' said Philip, 'I almost had a grip on what you were saying. But understanding you is like trying to catch a trout with your fingers.'

'I appreciate your difficulty,' Aristotle told him. 'For you these adventures were new, but for me they were part of my history. They had already happened. I had to rely on what I knew as Chiron. All he knew was that a warrior called Helm appeared on the battlefield and killed Philippos, and that this man was the King of Makedon in another world.

Chiron… I… also knew that this King had been robbed of his memory. So when faced with the problem from the other end of Time, I merely recreated the circumstances.'

That's what I mean!' snorted Philip. 'Just as I begin to understand, it all slips away. But answer me this, whose idea was it — originally — to take away my memories and abduct me?'

'It is a circle, sire. Therefore it has no beginning and no end. There is no one to blame.'

'No one to… Listen to me, magus, I am a King, and there is always someone for a King to blame. That is the way of the world. You came into my palace and — without a by-your-leave, sire — abducted me. Give me one good reason why I should not strike your head from your shoulders.'

Aristotle spread his hands and smiled. 'The only answer I can think of, sire, is that were you to try it I would turn you into a lizard and tread on you.'

Philip was silent for a moment, then he turned to Parmenion. ‘I’d say that sounds like a good reason.'

'I agree, sire.'

'I like you, magus,' said the King, 'but you owe me a debt. How will you pay it?'

'How would you like it paid, sire?'

'Come with us to Pella, as tutor to my son.'

Aristotle laughed. 'I would have asked for that as a gift,' he said, 'and willingly accept it as a penance.'

'Good! Now take us home.'

'Parmenion has not yet said farewell to his Queen,' pointed out Aristotle, his smile fading. 'And she is waiting at the foot of the hill.'

Parmenion sighed, pushed himself to his feet and walked down towards the trees. He found Derae sitting on a fallen tree and she stood as he approached.

'You would have left without seeing me, without saying goodbye?'

'Yes. It was the coward's way, I know, but I felt I could not bear to say the words. You have spoken with Leonidas?'

'He told me everything. Am I like her?'

He nodded. 'In every way.'

'So it was not me you loved,' she said sadly.

'It was you,' he assured her. 'At first it was an image, a memory. But the woman I made love to was you. The woman I love is you.'

'Yet you cannot stay?'

'No. I must look after Alexander. It is my duty and my life. Will you forgive me?'

She nodded and stepped into his embrace. Kissing him once on the cheek, she pushed him gently from her. 'Go then,'

she said. 'Go now — and swiftly. I know that you will return one day. I know of your secret, Parmenion. I know the reason why you must travel with Alexander. But your destiny is here and one day you will come back. And I shall be waiting here, just as you see me. I shall be here.'

'I cannot promise that,' he said, 'though I desire it with all my heart.'

'You do not have to. Last night I had a dream. A grey-bearded sorcerer appeared to me and told me to be here tonight. He said you would leave, returning to your own world. But he also said that he would do his best to send you back to me. I will wait.'

Parmenion said nothing. Backing away several steps, he spun on his heel and strode up the hill.

Aristotle was waiting, and as the Spartan came alongside him the magus lifted his arm.

The Gateway shimmered once more. .