David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

In an instant she was gone.

Derae sat back on the bed and closed her eyes, flying once more to the palace on Samothrace, feeling her way back through the hours. She saw herself bringing the wine to Philip, pouring him a drink, watching him drain it. She saw her flight, and her battle with Aida.

Then with a sense of dread she returned to the palace, watching Parmenion's attempts to rouse the King. She cried out when she saw the Spartan stand up and remove his clothes, donning the helm and cloak of the Chaos Spirit.

'Oh, sweet Heaven!' she whispered as he embraced the naked girl.

Derae fled the scene, opening her eyes back at the temple.

'Without your help. . my dreams could not have been fulfilled.'

She saw it all now, the arrogance and the stupidity.

Tamis had seen the vision of the Dark Birth and then the face of Parmenion. Believing him to be a human sword she could wield against the forces of darkness, Tamis had entered his life — moulding his future, forcing him along a path of bitterness and hatred. She had created in him the perfect warrior, the perfect killer of men. .

The perfect human father for the Dark God.

Anger flared in Derae. The years of dedication, of healing; the years of hopes and dreams. All for nothing!

Now there would be no life with Parmenion, no journey to love in Macedonia.

She gazed out of the window, over the rolling hills and meadows and the cloud-shrouded mountains, seeing again the visions of bloodshed and horror that had haunted her for decades. Annies marching across bloody battlefields, widows and orphans, ruined cities, fallen empires. Sometimes the Dark God had been Greek, at other times Persian — a chief from Parthia, a young prince from the tribes to the far north. Once he had even been black, leading his troops from the lush jungles far to the south of Egypt. These myriad futures no longer existed in the same form. Derae allowed the Oceans of Time to lift and carry her into distant tomorrows, and there she saw a young man with golden hair, his face beautiful, his armour bright with the glow of gold.

In every future the armies of Macedon were marching, their long spears stained with blood.

She studied the golden figure through hundreds of possible — even probable — futures. All were the same — the Dark God triumphant, becoming immortal, a creature of blood and fire, the human flesh burning away, the full evil of the Horned One sitting on the thrones of the world. Despite her despair Derae searched on, finding at last a glimmer of hope like the fading spark of a winter fire.

The child had been conceived at the last stroke of the Unholy Hour, giving him at least a spark of humanity. The Dark God would be powerful within him, but at that moment Derae decided to spend her life fanning that spark, seeking to feed the human spirit within the devil who was to be.

'At the last you were right, Tamis,' she said sadly. 'We cannot fight them with their own weapons.

There can never be victory there.' And like the old priestess before her, Derae prayed for guidance.

And she saw, as Tamis had seen, one man standing beside the Dark God, a strong man — a good man.

Parmenion — the Lion of Macedon.

Phaedra closed her eyes, seeking to locate the source of the danger. Around her the sounds were all reassuring — the steady, slow, almost rhythmic hoofbeats of the royal guard, the rolling of the brass-rimmed wagon wheels over the shifting shale and scree, conversation and laughter from the soldiers on either side of the heavily-curtained carriage.

But somewhere deep within her Phaedra could hear the screams of the dying, while scenes of blood and violence flashed across her mind. Yet she could not pin them down. She opened her pale blue eyes and gazed across the carriage cabin to where Olympias lay on pillows of down-filled silk. The princess was asleep. Phaedra longed to reach over to her. Anger flared briefly, but the seeress swiftly quelled it. Olympias was beautiful, but that beauty was now marred by her marriage to the barbarian from Pella, ruined by the babe swelling her belly to twice its size. She tore her gaze from the sleeping face.

'I don't love you any more,' she whispered, hoping that by speaking the lie she could make it true. It was a vain hope.

We are sisters again, no more than that, thought Phaedra. Their love was now as dead as the blooms of summer. The seeress sighed, remembering their first meeting three years ago. Two fourteen-year-old girls in the

King's palace; Phaedra shy and yet blessed — cursed? — with the gift of Seeing, and Olympias, gregarious and joy-filled, her body already sleek, her skin glowing with health, her face beautiful beyond imagining.

Phaedra felt comfortable with the princess, for she had never been able to see her life, nor read the secrets hidden in the dark corridors of her mind. Olympias made her feel ordinary, and that was a gift beyond price.

No one understood the loneliness of Seeing. Every touch brought visions. A kind, handsome man stoops to kiss your hand, but you see the lecher, the dominator, the possessor. A woman smiles, pats your arm, and you feel her hatred at your youth. All the cobwebs of the human soul laid bare to your all-seeing eyes. Phaedra shivered.

With Olympias it was so different. No visions, no unpleasantness. Just love, first as sisters, then. .

The carriage lurched as the huge wheels rolled over a stone. Phaedra pulled back a curtain and stared out of the window. To the left was the glittering Lake Prespa, beyond it the rearing Pindos mountains separating Macedonia and Illyria.

Olympias yawned and stretched. Running her fingers through her flame-red hair, she sat up and smiled at Phaedra. 'Where are we?'

'Soon we will reach the plain,' answered Phaedra. 'There we will be met by the King's escort.'

'I am hot and thirsty,' Olympias complained, 'and this awful wagon is making me feel sick.'

Phaedra stood, opening the flap on the roof of the cabin and calling out to the driver. He hauled on the reins and Olympias stepped down into the sunlight. Immediately the Epirite captain of the guard dismounted, bringing a waterskin and filling a silver cup. Olympias smiled. 'Thank you, Herkon, you are most kind.'

Phaedra watched the young man blush. She did not need to touch him to know his thoughts. Stepping down alongside Olympias the vision struck her again, this time with awesome power. She saw horsemen thundering down the slopes, the wagon overturned, Herkon dead, his throat slashed open.

.

She screamed and fainted.

She awoke to see a man bending over her dabbing at her face with a water-soaked cloth. 'They are coming,' she whispered.

'Who is coming? What are you talking about?' Herkon asked.

The air was suddenly filled with the thunder of hoof-beats. For a moment only, Phaedra thought the vision had returned, but then Herkon lunged to his feet, his cavalry sabre hissing from its scabbard.

From the slopes of the mountains came hundreds of riders, bright cloaks streaming behind them like rainbow banners.

'Illyrians!' shouted Herkon, running for his horse. The fifty soldiers of Epirus drew their weapons — then the attackers were upon them. Olympias ran to where Phaedra lay, dragging the girl back under the wagon. Dust rose in choking clouds. Olympias covered her mouth with a linen kerchief and the two women huddled together, listening to the clash of weapons and the screams of the dying. A horse reared close to the wagon, the rider falling head-first to the ground, his face striking the wheel.

It was Herkon, his throat open, his dead eyes gazing at Olympias who turned away her head.

The battle seemed to rage for hours, but at last the dust began to settle. Shapes could be seen, men moving among the wounded Epirites and killing them with sharp daggers. Olympias drew a slender knife from the hidden sheath high on her thigh, and waited. Phaedra closed her eyes, unable to bear the terror any longer.