Parmenion was moments from death, gangrene and decay entering his bloodstream and carrying corruption to all parts of his body. Fresh cancers were flowering everywhere.
Derae hunted them down, destroying them where she found them.
'I cannot do it alone!' she realized, with sudden panic.
'You are not alone,' said Aristotle, his voice calm. 'I will hold the growth in the brain."
Calming herself, Derae moved to the heart. If Parmenion was to live through this ordeal his heart needed to be strong. All his life he had been a runner, and, as Derae expected, the muscles were strong. Even so the arteries and major veins were showing signs of wear, dull yellow fat clinging to the walls and constricting the blood flow. The heartbeat was weak and fluttering, the blood thin. Derae began her work here, strengthening the valves, stripping away the pale yellow wastes clogging the veins and restricting the flow of blood, breaking them down to be carried away to the bowels. His lungs were good and she did not tarry here, but swam on into the gall bladder where wastes had been extracted from the blood only to congeal into stones, sharp and jagged. These she smashed into powder.
On she moved, destroying the cancer cells lodging in his kidneys, stomach and bowel, finally returning to the central core where Aristotle waited.
The growth in the head was unmoving now, but covering still a vast amount of the brain, squatting within it like a huge spider.
'We have him now at the point of death,' said Aristotle. 'You must hold him here while I seek him out in the Void. Can you do it?'
'I do not know,' she admitted. 'I can feel his body trembling on the edge of the abyss. One error, or the onset of fatigue. I don't know, Aristotle.'
'Both our lives will be in your hands, woman. For he will be my link to the world of the living.
If he dies in the Void, then I will be trapped there. Be strong, Derae. Be Spartan!'
And then she was alone.
Parmenion's heartbeat remained weak and unsteady and she could feel the cancer pushing back against her power, the tendrils quivering, seeking to grow.
There was no sensation of waking, no drowsiness. One moment there was nothing, the next Parmenion was walking across a colourless landscape under a lifeless grey sky. He stopped, his mind hazy and confused.
As far as his eyes could see there was no life, no growth. There were long-dead trees, skeletal and bare, and jagged boulders, rearing hills and dark distant mountains. All was shadow.
Fear touched him, his hand moving to the sword at his side.
Sword?
Slowly he drew it from its scabbard, gazing down once more on the proudest memory of youth, the shining blade and lion-head pommel in gold. The Sword of Leonidas!
But from where had it come? How did he acquire it? And where in Hades was he?
The word echoed in his mind. Hades!
He swallowed hard, remembering the blinding pain, the sudden darkness.
'No,' he whispered. 'No, I can't be dead!'
'Happily that is true,' said a voice and Parmenion spun on his heel, the sword-blade extending.
Aristotle leapt back. 'Please be careful, my friend. A man has only one soul.'
'What is this place?' Parmenion asked the magus.
'The land beyond the River Styx, the first cavern of Hades,' answered Aristotle.
'Then I must be dead. But I have no coin for the ferryman. How then shall I cross?'
Aristotle took him by the arm, leading him to a group of boulders where they sat beneath the soul-less sky. 'Listen to me, Spartan, for there is little time. You are not dead — a friend is holding you to life even now — but there is something you must do here.' Swiftly Aristotle told Parmenion of the child's lost soul and the perils of the Void.
The Spartan listened in silence, his pale eyes gazing over the twisted landscape that stretched for an eternity in every direction. In the far distance shapes could be seen, darker shadows flitting across the grey land.
'How could any man find one soul in such a place?' he asked at last.
'It will shine like a light, Parmenion. And it must be close, for you are linked to it.'
'What do you mean?' responded the Spartan, fear in his eyes.
'You understand full well what I am saying. You are the boy's father.'
'How many know of this?'
'Myself- and one other: the Healer who holds your life back in the world of the Flesh. Your secret is safe.'
'No secret is ever safe,' whispered Parmenion, 'but this is not the time for debate. How do we find this light?'
'I do not know,' Aristotle admitted. 'Nor do I know how to protect it when we do. Perhaps we cannot.'
Parmenion stood and stared hard in all directions. 'Where is the Styx?'
'To the east,' answered Aristotle.
'And how do I tell which is east? There are no stars save one, no landmarks that I could recognize.'
'Why would you seek the River of the Dead?'
'We must start somewhere, Aristotle. We cannot just wander this desolate plain.'
Aristotle stood. 'To the best of my recollection it is beyond two jagged peaks, higher than the surrounding mountains. Let's see…" Suddenly the magus swung on Parmenion. 'Wait! What was that about stars?'
'There is but the one, flickering there,' answered the Spartan, pointing to a tiny glistening dot of light high in the dark sky.
'There are no stars in the Void. That's it! That is the soul-flame.'
'How do we reach a star?'
'It is not a star! Look closely. It is a tall mountain; the light rests there. Come. Quickly, now.
For it will draw evil upon itself, and we must reach it first.'
The two men began to run, their feet kicking up grey dust which hovered behind them before settling once more into place, undisturbed by any breeze.
'Look!' shouted Aristotle, as they sped across the plain. Far to the left shadows were merging, huge, misshapen creatures lumbering towards the light. 'It draws them with the power of pain. They must blot it out, destroy it.'
There was little sense of time passing as the two ran on, but the mountains loomed above them dark and threatening as they reached the lower slopes. Here there was a forest of dead trees, bleached white like old bones. Parmenion cut to the left, seeking a path.
'Not that way!' screamed Aristotle.
Parmenion tried to turn, but a long branch curled around his throat, twigs like talons piercing his spirit flesh. His sword smashed through the bough and he hurled himself to the ground, where white roots pushed up through the dead earth — skeletal fingers that tugged at his arms.
Aristotle leapt forward with arms extended, and a searing burst of light shone from his hands, bathing Parmenion. The roots turned instantly to powder and the Spartan lurched to his feet.
'That was unfortunate,' said Aristotle, 'and such a display of power will bring our enemies the more swiftly.'
Sword in hand, Parmenion followed the magus up the slope towards the light. As they approached a scattered group of boulders, dark shadows detached themselves from the rocks, skittering into the sky. Parmenion saw that they were birds without feathers or skin, black skeletons swooping and diving above them.
A low moan came from within the boulders. Parmenion halted in his run, turning to seek the source of the cry.