Spreading his wings, the Vore launched himself into the air, gliding down to land some twenty paces from the Humans.
Derae opened her eyes and instinctively reached out to take Parmenion's hand.
The Vore moved closer, its taloned feet uncomfortable on flat ground. 'You wish to see the Lord?'
'I do,' answered Parmenion.
'You are from Philippos?'
'I will speak only to the Lord Gorgon,' Parmenion said.
'I will lead you, Human.'
The Vore swung round and began to walk clumsily towards the trees, its treble-jointed feet making it stoop as it moved. Several times it slipped, but its wings flashed out to steady its balance.
Still holding Derae's hand, Parmenion followed the creature. 'What are the others thinking?' he whispered.
'One of them plans to leap upon you the moment you reach the shadows of the trees. Beware! But do not kill it.
Leave it to me!'
Letting go of her hand Parmenion walked on, gripping the hilt of his sword. Sweat bathed his face and his heart was beating wildly. Yet not all his thoughts were of fear. The touch of the woman's hand had been like fire moving through his blood, lifting him. The trees came closer, dark and forbidding, no sound emerging from the forest, no bird-song, not even the chitter of bats.
A reptilean creature sprang from an overhead branch and Parmenion leapt aside, but the beast plummeted to the ground and lay without moving. The Vore hissed out a warning to the other beasts nearby, then walked stiff-legged to the unconscious creature. 'Is it dead?' he asked.
'Sleeping,' Derae answered.
The Vore knelt over the body, ramming its talons through the creature's neck and wrenching clear the head. 'Now it is dead,' he hissed, licking the blood from his claws.
Slowly they walked on through the gathering gloom. Derae could hear the sounds of beasts moving on either side of them and in the branches above, but no further violence threatened them.
'Sweet Hera!' whispered Derae.
'What is it?'
'The Lord of the Forest. . the Gorgon. I touched him. Such hatred.'
'Against whom is it directed?'
'Everyone.'
The track widened and the Vore led them down into a huge hollow where a score of fires were lit and a monstrous figure waited, seated upon a throne of skulls. His skin was dark green, mottled with brown, his head enormous, his mouth cavernous and rimmed with fangs. But upon his head, in place of hair, writhed a score of snakes. Parmenion walked forward and bowed.
'Death to your enemies, sire,' he said.
The Hills of Arcadia
Far to the south, across the Gulf of Korinthos in the low hills of Arcadia, a bright light blazed briefly across the marble Tombs of the Heroes. It shone like a second moon, flickered and then died.
A shepherd boy saw the light and wondered if it presaged a storm, but his sheep and goats were undisturbed and there were no clouds in the night sky — the stars bright, the moon shining clear.
For a moment or two the boy thought about the light, then pushed it from his mind and huddled into his cloak, switching his gaze to his flock, eyes scanning the perimeters of the pasture to seek signs of wolf or lion.
But there was only one wolf close by, and the boy did not see him, for he was nestled down behind a marble gravestone in the nearby hills; and he too saw the light. As it flared up all around him, dazzling, terrifying, his thoughts of hunger fled before it.
The wolf was old, banished from the pack. Yet once he had been mighty, a leader to be feared, cunning and deadly.
But never in his long life had such a light blazed around him and it left him confused, uncertain. He lay still, lifting his grizzled head to sniff the air. Here was something he knew — and feared. The scent of Man.
And close by.
The wolf did not move. The scent was from his left and he slowly turned his head, yellow eyes watching for movement.
A man was lying on a slab of marble, his naked skin pale in the moonlight. He groaned and moved. Only moments before, the wolf had leapt to that same slab to look out over the flock, selecting his victim. There had been no scent of Man then. Yet there he was, stretched out.
The wolf had survived his many years by knowing when to be cautious and when to be brave. Men who appeared from the air, amid bright unnatural light, did not inspire courage in the old beast. And though he was hungry he slunk away towards the northern woods, far from the scent of Man.
Helm stirred. The stone was cold and uncomfortable on his back and he groaned as he woke, rolling to his side and swinging his powerful legs over the side of the slab. Sitting up, he yawned and stretched. The night was cool, but not unpleasant, and he saw a wolf loping away down the hillside towards the trees. Helm's hand reached for his sword, and it was then he realized he was naked and unarmed.
'Where is this place?' he said aloud. 'How did I come here?'
In those first few moments Helm was not concerned. He was a warrior — strong, tested in the heat of many battles, confident in his power. But as he searched his memories, fear akin to panic flared within him. He did not know how he had come to this strange place, but worse than this — so much worse — he realized with a shock which sent his heart hammering wildly that the corridors of his memory were silent and deserted.
'Who am I?' he whispered.
Helm. I am Helm.
'Who is Helm?' The name was small comfort, for with it came no memories of times past. Looking down at his hands, he saw they were broad and calloused, the fingers short and powerful. His forearms showed many scars, some jagged, others straight cuts. Yet how he had come by them was a mystery.
Be calm, he warned himself. Look around this place. It was then that he realized he lay within a graveyard, full of silent statues and marble tombs. Quelling his panic, he leapt lightly from the slab and explored. Some of the tombstones had cracked and fallen, others were overgrown with weeds. No one tended this place then, he thought. A cool wind hissed over the stones and he shivered. Where are my clothes, he wondered? Surely I have not walked across the land naked like a field slave? A gleam of light came from his left. For a moment only he thought a warrior stood there, moonlight gleaming from a full-faced helm of bronze and a gilded breastplate. He tensed, his hands curling into fists; then he saw that there was no silent soldier, only a suit of armour placed on a wooden frame.
He approached it warily, eyes scanning the graveyard around it.
The helm was beautifully crafted, save that it had no plume or crest. The skull was clear, showing no sign of the armourer's hammer, nor a single rivet. The face-guard had been shaped into the features of a man, bearded and stern of eye, with high curved brows and a mouth set in a terrible smile. The breastplate was also of superb design, the shoulders padded with bronze-reinforced leather, the chest fashioned in the shape of a strong man's musculature, curving pectorals and well-developed muscles at the solar plexus. Beneath it was a kilt of leather strips edged with bronze, and below that a pair of doeskin riding boots.
Beside them lay a scabbarded sword. Helm reached down and drew the weapon. His heartbeat slowed, confidence returning. The blade was of polished iron, double-edged and keen, the balance perfect.
The armour is mine, he realized. It has to be.
Swiftly he dressed. The breastplate was a perfect fit, as were the boots. The kilt sat well on his waist, the sword scabbard sliding easily into a loop of bronze at his left hip. Lastly he lifted the helm, easing it down over his short-cropped hair. As it settled into place a searing pain flowed over his features, burning like fire. He screamed and tried to pull the helm loose, but molten metal ate into his skin, pouring into his nostrils and mouth and anchoring itself to the bones of his face.