David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

'Go back,' said Parmenion, his eyes on the horde before them. 'It is senseless enough for one man to die in this way, and a second sword will make no difference.'

The sentry laughed. 'There are more than two, brother,' he said. 'Boleus will soon fetch the others.' Even as he spoke the sound of marching feet could be heard from behind them, and 300

armoured warriors moved out to form three fighting lines across the pass.

'Why do you do this for me?' Parmenion asked.

'Because you carry my blade,' answered the Sword King of legend, 'and because you are a Spartan.

Now stand back with your friend, and the soul-flame. The demons shall not pass while we live.'

Behind them the gateway disappeared, leaving only a cliff wall, black and impenetrable.

'You have powerful friends, it seems,' remarked Aristotle, taking Parmenion's arm and guiding him back to where the globe rested on the rocks.

The Spartan was still dazed. 'He is. .'

'I know who he is — Leonidas, the Sword King. The men with him are the heroes who died at Thermopylae and they are risking eternity for you, Parmenion. It is a humbling thought. But then the Spartans were always a strange people.'

'I cannot allow it,' whispered Parmenion. 'They died once for their city, and for Greece. They don't know who I am. I humbled their city, destroying its greatness! I must save them!'

'They know all they need to know,' hissed Aristotle, seizing the Spartan's arm. "The babe is everything!'

Parmenion tore himself loose of Aristotle's grip, then saw the globe flickering. The soul of a child. His child! Glancing to his left he saw the Spartan fighting lines — shields locked, spears pointed — and beyond them the vast army of demons.

The Sword King laid down his shield and sword, striding back to where Parmenion stood. 'They are waiting for something,' he said, 'but it gives us time to talk. What is your name, brother?'

'Savra,' Aristotle said swiftly.

The Spartan shook his head. 'That was my name as a child,' he said softly. 'Now I am Parmenion.'

The Sword King was silent for a moment, then he lifted his hands to his helm and removed it. His face was regular, though not handsome, his hair long and golden, his eyes the blue of a summer sky. 'I have heard of you; you have sent many Spartan brothers to the Elysian fields.'

'Yes. I wish there had been time to tell you the truth. But you were beside me so fast. Can you open the gateway and withdraw?'

'No. Nor would I if I could. It would have changed nothing, Parmenion. It still changes nothing.

We stand together.'

'I don't understand,' Parmenion whispered.

'That is because you are from a different age, brother. At Thermopylae we led a united Greek force against the invader. We stood firm then, and died. We did not die gladly but we did die willingly, brother beside brother. You are a Spartan and that is enough for us. Our blood is in your veins."

'You accept me?' asked Parmenion, all the tortures of his childhood roaring to the surface — the rejections, the beatings and the endless humiliations.

Placing his hands on Parmenion's shoulders, the Sword King smiled. 'Come stand beside me, brother, and the demons shall see how Spartans do battle.'

In that moment all Parmenion's bitterness dissolved, as if a fresh spring breeze had whispered through the cob-webbed recesses of his mind.

Acceptance! By the greatest Spartan who had ever lived!

Drawing his sword, he followed his King into the battle-line.

It seemed to Leucion that the night was more beautiful than any he could remember. The sky was clear, sable-dark, the distant stars glittering like spear-points, the moon a huge coin of shining silver. He had once received a coin like that, minted in Susa, when he served as a mercenary in Egypt. Since most of the warriors were Athenians the Persians had stamped the coin with the owl of Athena. His wonderment at its beauty had lasted only one night, when he had given it to a Numidean whore.

Now, staring at the moon from the ramparts of the temple, he wished he had kept it. Sighing, he turned from the wall and wandered down the steps to the moonlit garden. There were no colours to the roses now; all were shades of grey under the moon, but the fragrance remained.

Walking through the Healing Hall he mounted the stairs to Derae's room and sat between the two beds. On one lay the sorcerer Aristotle, arms folded across his chest, his right hand curled around the stone on his necklet. On the other was Derae, still dressed in the gown of green which Leucion had purchased in the market. Reaching out, he stroked her cheek.

She did not move, and he recalled with fondness his return to the temple when he had found Derae in the grip of a fever. He had bathed her, tended her, fed her. He had been happy then; she was his, like a child.

Her face was pale and she was scarcely breathing. For two days she had been thus, but Leucion was not concerned. Five, she had said. Then she would return and all would be as it once was; the healing of the sick, then the slow walks in the gardens, quiet conversations on moonlit nights.

The sorcerer moaned softly, his right arm sliding clear of the neck-chain. Leucion leaned forward to peer at the golden stone. It was streaked with black lines and seemed to glow faintly.

Returning his gaze to Derae, he was struck again by her beauty. It touched him like a spell, painful and yet welcome. Stretching his back he rose, his scabbard rattling against the chair and breaking the silence. He was uncomfortable with the sword now, the years at the temple having dulled his warrior's spirit. But the sorcerer said it was necessary that the bodies be guarded at all times.

From what? Leucion had enquired.

Aristotle had shrugged. 'From the unpredictable,' he replied.

Leucion turned towards the door. . and froze.

It was no longer there. The wall too had disappeared, to be replaced by a long narrow corridor of pale, glistening stone. The silver-haired warrior drew his short sword and dagger, eyes straining to pierce the gloom. Two shadows detached themselves from the corridor walls, and Leucion stepped back as their huge misshapen forms moved slowly towards him. Their heads and shoulders were scaled, their arms and torsos the grey of decaying corpses; their taloned feet scraped on the stone and, as they came closer, Leucion saw with sick dread that their mouths were rimmed with pointed fangs.

Backing away once more, his legs touched the bed on which Derae lay.

The first demon hurled itself at the warrior. Leucion sprang to meet the charge, ramming his short sword into the beast's belly and ripping it up towards the heart. Talons tore at his shoulder, slicing through flesh and muscle and snapping his collar-bone. As the demon fell the second creature lunged for the wounded warrior, talons closing on his right side, shattering the hip beneath. Leucion plunged his dagger into the beast's neck, just below the ear. Grey slime pumped from the wound, drenching the warrior's hand and burning the skin. In its death throes the demon hurled Leucion from him and the warrior fell to the floor, dropping both dagger and sword.

Blood was pouring from the wound in his shoulder, and the agony of his broken hip was almost unbearable. Yet still Leucion struggled to rise.

Gathering up his short sword, he pushed himself to his feet, taking the weight of his body on his left leg. The two demons were gone, but the corridor remained.

'I did it,' he whispered. 'I saved her.'

Five talons the length of swords hammered through his back, bursting from his chest before closing in on themselves and dragging him back.

Blood bubbled from his ruptured lungs and his head fell forward.