Canus lunged at the Korinthian but Ektalis parried the blade, sending a reverse cut at the Makedones' face. Canus swayed back, the sword slashing harmlessly by him. Then he sprang forward, his sword plunging into Ektalis' groin.
The Korinthian knew he was finished, but with his last strength he rammed his blade into Canus' neck, slicing it up under the jaw-line, through mouth and tongue, before burying it in Canus' brain. The Makedonian fell forward, his weight tearing the blade from Ektalis' grasp as the dying Korinthian fell to his knees.
The goddess moved alongside him, pulling clear the sword. But his vision was failing and he fell against her.
'I… am… so sorry,' he whispered.
Derae eased the dying man to his back, ignoring the remaining Makedones. Her spirit flowed into him, moving through arteries and veins until she reached the terrible wound that had ripped into his lower belly. As swiftly as she could she began to work on the severed artery at the groin, closing it, increasing by tenfold its ability to heal. Moving on to the muscle wall she first slowed the flow of blood, then brought the tissue together in a perfect join. The Korinthian was wearing a leather kilt and this had prevented the blade from making deep penetration. The worst wound was to the groin, but with this now sealed the warrior would live. Derae returned to her body and opened her eyes.
'The woman may live,' said a tall Makedones, 'but the boy is ours.'
'Take him and go,' said the Korinthian who had first spoken in support of Ektalis.
'The boy stays,' said another voice, deep and metallic, and Derae swung to see a warrior walk into sight. His face was masked by a bronze helm, and his armour was bright in the sunlight. He moved smoothly across the sand and, as he came closer, she saw that the bronze covering his features was no mask but living metal; bronze lids above bronze eyes, a bronze beard and mouth.
'Who are you?' asked the new Makedones leader, a hatchet-faced warrior called Plius.
'I am Helm. And the boy is mine.'
'Take him!' yelled Plius. The four warriors sprang at the newcomer, but Helm's sword slashed through the throat of the first man and came up to block a wild cut from the second. Helm spun on his heel, ramming his elbow into Plius'
face, smashing his nose and hurling him back into the path of the fourth attacker. The bloody sword rose and fell -
and a second Makedones died. Helm leapt at Plius, who tried to block the deadly thrust; but the pain from his broken nose had partly blinded him and Helm's sword slid home in his throat. The last Makedones threw himself at Helm, but the newcomer sidestepped, slashing his sword through the back of the man's neck as he stumbled past. The soldier fell face-first into the sand and struggled to rise. Helm struck him again, the blade almost decapitating the man.
'The boy is mine,' said Helm again, turning to face the Korinthians.
At that moment Ektalis woke and stared up into Derae's face. 'Is this death?' he asked.
'No. You are healed.'
'Thank you, goddess.'
Smiling, she helped him to his feet. The Korinthians moved forward, gathering around the captain, mystified and amazed by his recovery.
Derae looked at the newcomer. 'Do you mean harm to the child?' she asked.
'No, lady,' came the metallic voice, 'but I need him.'
'For what purpose?'
'To free me from the curse of this helm.'
'How do you know that he can do this?'
'I was told to seek him.'
'By whom?'
'I do not know,' he answered wearily. 'I know so little.'
Derae reached into the man's mind and saw that he spoke the truth.
There were no memories before waking upon the slab in the graveyard, no hint as to his identity.
The priestess withdrew, then called Alexander forward. 'Can you help him?' she asked.
For a moment the boy was silent. 'This is not the time,' he whispered.
Ektalis wrapped his white cloak around the shoulders of the naked goddess while two of the other Korinthians stripped a dead Makedones of his armour, pulling clear his tunic and offering it to Derae. The men were silent, awestruck. They had seen a goddess rise from the sea, and watched as their dead captain was brought back to life.
And they had stood by as an enchanted warrior had slain the Makedones. Nothing would ever be the same for them again, and they waited for Ektalis to speak to them.
He drew them apart from the warrior, the goddess and the child, leading his men to a cluster of rocks some fifty paces to the west.
'You have all seen the miracle,' he said. 'I felt the sword pierce my belly. Yet there is now no wound. You saw Poseidon's daughter ride the dolphin. But where does that leave us, my brothers?'
No one answered. No one knew. Ektalis nodded, understanding their fears. The Makedones leader, Canus, had said it all. Their treachery was already known, their lives forfeit.
'The Spartans still stand against the Tyrant,' said Ektalis. 'What choice do we have, save to join with them? Either that or ride to the nearest port and seek a ship to Aegyptus, there to sign as mercenary soldiers?'
'What of our families?' a young soldier asked.
'What indeed?' answered Ektalis sadly. 'We have no hope of seeing them unless the Tyrant is overthrown.'
'But the Spartans cannot win,' said the lean, bearded waqaor who had first stood by Ektalis.
'Yesterday I might have agreed with you, Samis. But today? Today I have seen the power of the gods — and they are not with Philippos. I was killed today — yet I live. I am a new man, Samis. I will never bow the knee to evil again.'
'What of the others?' asked Samis. 'They didn't see the miracles. When they arrive, how will we persuade them to follow us? What if they turn against us, or deliver us to the Tyrant?'
Ektalis nodded. 'You are right. We must hide the bodies and send the others back to camp. No one else must know.'
Samis suddenly smiled. 'This is madness,' he said, 'but I'll stand by you. I hate the cursed Makedones — always have.
If I have to die in battle I'd sooner it was while killing those scum.'
'Are we all agreed?' asked Ektalis.
'Aye,' chorused the other seven Korinthians.
'Then let us hide the bodies and return to the cliff-top.'
Parmenion hauled himself clear of the breakers and collapsed on the beach. A wave broke over him, dragging him back, but he dug his fingers into the sand, fighting the undertow. Pushing himself upright he staggered towards the shelter of a shallow cave in the cliff-face. The rain lashed at his tired body and the wind howled around him. The cave was not deep, but the wind was less here and it was dry.
Slumping to the ground he looked back over the storm-lashed sea, but there was no sign of Attalus.
The rain began to ease, the clouds breaking. A thin shaft of sunlight broke through to the east, and a rainbow appeared like a huge bridge across the Gulf. It seemed then that the grey storm-clouds were fleeing from the light, and the sky shone clear blue. Within a few heartbeats the storm was but a memory, the sea clear and calm, the beach and cliffs bathed in sunlight. Parmenion stood and walked out towards the shoreline, his keen eyes scanning the shimmering water. Several bodies lay on the beach and one floated face-down in a shallow pool. They were all sailors from the Makedones trireme.
What now, strategos, he asked himself? What wonderful plan can you conceive?
Hearing a sound behind him he reached for his sword, but the scabbard was empty. Fists clenched he swung round -
to see the giant Gorgon standing with hands on hips, watching him.