David Gemmell: Lion of Macedon

The demon hauled the body across the bed, where Leucion's limp arm fell upon the golden stone on Aristotle's chest. The stone blazed into light. New strength poured into the dying warrior.

Reversing his sword, he plunged it back into the belly of the demon behind him.

The talons slashed into his body once more, ripping clear his head.

Dropping the body the demon staggered, then its slitted opal eyes focused on the still form of Derae. Saliva dripping from its fangs, it advanced.

The demon horde filled the mouth of the pass, standing motionless, their eyes on the 300 crimson-cloaked warriors who barred their path to the light.

'Why are they waiting, do you think?' Parmenion asked the Sword King.

'They are waiting for Him,' whispered the King, pointing his sword at a dark, rolling storm-cloud in the distance.

'I see no one.'

The King was silent and the cloud came closer, moving across the land, blotting out the slate-grey sky. As it neared Parmenion saw that it was no cloud, merely a darkness deeper than any he could have imagined. The beasts cowered from it, running to hide behind boulders or into nearby caves.

The Darkness slowed as it reached the pass, and then a breeze blew across the waiting soldiers, carrying with it the touch of terror. All the fears known to man were borne on that dread breeze, all the primal horrors of the Dark. The line wavered. Parmenion felt his hands begin to tremble, his sword dropping to the ground.

'Spartans, stand firm!' the King shouted — his voice thin, reedy and full of fear. Yet still it was the voice of the Spartan King, and the warriors' shields clashed together in a wall of bronze.

Parmenion knelt, gathering his sword. His mouth was dry and he knew with grim and terrifying certainty that nothing could withstand the power of the Dark.

'All is lost,' said Aristotle, pushing through the line and tugging at Parmenion's arm. 'Nothing can stand against Hun in his own kingdom. Come away, man! I can return you to the flesh!'

Parmenion shook him loose. 'Go, then!' he commanded.

'You fool!" hissed Aristotle, his hand cupping the stone at his breast. Instantly he was gone.

The Darkness rolled on towards them while from within the cloud came the sound of a slow drumbeat, impossibly loud, like controlled thunder.

'What is that noise?' asked Parmenion, his voice shaking.

'The heartbeat of Chaos,' answered the Sword King.

And still the Spartans stood firm.

The demonic army gathered itself and edged forward, filling the pass, while the Dark hovered behind them.

The warmth of life touched Parmenion's back and he swung to see the globe of light swelling upon the boulder, growing, bathing the rocks, rising, glowing like sunlight over the pass.

The horde faltered, shielding their eyes from the brightness, and Parmenion felt the weight of fear lifting from his heart. The heartbeat of Chaos sounded again, louder, and the Dark oozed forward.

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

The army of Hades stood still, all eyes turned to the colossal battle being waged in the sky. At first the darkness appeared to swamp the light, but the soul blazed back, rending and tearing, shining clear in golden shafts that lit the pass with sudden flashes.

Higher and higher the battle swirled until, at last, only the faintest sparks could be seen. Then there was nothing, save the unremitting grey of the Hades sky.

The Sword King sheathed his blade and turned to Parmenion.

'Who is the child?' he asked, his voice hushed, his tone reverential.

'The son of the Macedonian king,' answered Parmenion.

'Would that he were Spartan. Would that I could know him.'

'What is happening?' asked Parmenion, as the demonic army began to disperse, the creatures of the Void moving sullenly back from the pass, seeking their eternal homes of shadows and gloom.

'The child is born,' said the Sword King.

'And the Dark God was defeated?'

'I fear not. They are locked together, and will remain so, in a constant struggle. But the child will be mighty. He may yet conquer.'

'Then I failed,' whispered Parmenion.

'There is no failure. He will be a child of Light and Dark. He will need friends to guide him, to help him, to strengthen him. And he will have you, Parmenion.'

The Gates to the Elysian fields shimmered open, the sunlight glorious. The Spartan king took Parmenion's hand. 'Your life beckons you, brother. Go back to it.'

'I… I have no way to thank you. You have given me more than I believed was possible.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mothac was beside the bed when the miracle occurred. The colour flowed back into Parmenion's face, the flesh filling out, but more than this — his hair thickened and darkened, the lines around his eyes, nose and chin fading back and disappearing.

He looked younger, a man in his twenties. Mothac could not believe what he was seeing. One moment his master and his friend was dying, the next he looked stronger than he had been for two decades.

Lifting Parmenion's wrist, he felt for the pulse. It was beating strongly, rhythmically.

At that moment a tremendous cheer went up from the soldiers ringing the palace. Louder and louder it came.

Parmenion stirred and awoke. 'By all the gods, I don't believe it!' Mothac shouted.

Parmenion sat up, embracing his friend, feeling Mothac's tears wet against his face. 'I am back.

And I am well. What is the reason for the cheering?'

'The King's son is born,' said Mothac.

Parmenion threw back the sheet covering his body and walked to the window. Thousands of soldiers had surrounded the palace, chanting the name of the heir to the throne.

'Alexander! Alexander! Alexander!'

ANDRONICOS, M., Sarissa (Bulletin de Correspondence Hellenique 94).

ANDERSON, J. K. Xenophon (Duckworth 1974).

ARISTOTLE, Ethics (Penguin.Classics, trans. J. A. K. Thomson, introd. Jonathan Barnes, rev. ed. 1976).

ADRIAN, Campaigns of Alexander (Penguin Classics, trans. Aubrey de Selincourt, rev. J. R. Hamilton 1971).

AUSTIN, M. M. & VIDAL-NAQUET, P., Economic and Social History of Ancient Greece (Batsford 1977).

BENGTSON,H., The Greeks and the Persians (Weidenfeld 1968).