'Well, at least the enemy have been thwarted,' said Helm.
'That is great consolation to me,' hissed Attalus.
'Are you always this disagreeable?' the warrior responded.
'Only when I am about to die.'
'I see. You don't think we can win, then?'
Attalus swung to face the man, his fury close to madness. Then he saw the wide smile on the metallic face, the mocking look in the bronze eyes. All tension fled from the Macedonian and he smiled with genuine humour. 'How about a wager?' he offered.
'On what?' asked Helm.
'That I slay the most.'
'With what shall we wager? I have no coin.'
'Neither have I. So let's say a thousand gold pieces?'
'You have already killed three to my two,' Helm pointed out. 'I think we should start even, and count them only from the next attack.'
'It is agreed, then?'
'Absolutely,' said Helm.
'They are coming!' yelled Ektalis.
The priestess rode into the shadows of the trees and halted her mount. Alexander was silent, stiff-backed, his body rigid with tension. Gently her Talent reached out to him.
'Leave me!' came the command, with a burst of spiritual energy so powerful that the priestess swayed in the saddle and cried out. The sound of hoofbeats came from all around them as centaurs moved clear of the undergrowth with bows in their hands, arrows notched to the strings.
'Welcome, Iskander,' said one who was tall, white-bearded and maned, his golden skin merged into palomino flanks, his tail long and whiter than fleece clouds. 'My name is Estipan. Follow me and I will take you to the Giant's Gateway.'
'No,' answered Alexander. 'You think I will restore the Enchantment while my friends and those who serve me are dying within my sight? You have watched the battle on the hill. I know this, for my power is great. You, Estipan, were asked whether it was proper to intervene. You told your brother, Orases, that if I were Iskander I would ride clear. Well, I have. Now it is for you to do my bidding.'
Estipan reared up, his front hooves drumming back into the earth, his face crimson. 'You give no orders here!' he shouted. 'You are here to fulfil your destiny.'
'Not so!' responded Alexander. 'I am here to fulfil your destiny. But first you must earn my friendship. You understand that? Deeds, not words. Now order your followers to attack the Messenians. If you do not I shall ride back to die with my friends. And I shall not come again, Estipan, though the Enchantment dies and all her creatures wither away.'
The palomino centaur hesitated, while the others looked to him for guidance. 'If your power is so great,' he said at last, 'why have you not rescued your friends?'
'Because I am testing you,' hissed Alexander. 'Enough of this! Thena, take me back. My quest is at an end.'
'No! If necessary I will take you by force,' roared Estipan.
'Think you so? Come then, coward, and feel the touch of Death!'
'I am no coward!'
'Deeds, not words, Estipan. Do not tell me — show me!'
Estipan reared again. 'Follow me!' he bellowed, and galloped out onto the plain. More than sixty centaurs armed with bows and knives rode after him. Alexander relaxed and sagged back into Thena's arms.
'I am so tired,' he whispered, and she dismounted, lifting him to the ground. There the boy lay down, his head resting on his arm. Within seconds he was asleep. Thena gazed back to the hill. Warriors were swarming up it, looking like ants at this distance. But the centaurs were closing fast.
Reaching out, she linked with Attalus. But she did not speak for he was fighting desperately against several attackers, and she could not risk distracting him. Sitting down on the grass, she allowed her spirit to fly free and sped to the hillside. Only three men were still alive — Helm, Ektalis and the Macedonian — and they had been pushed back to the western wall of boulders.
She saw Helm block a thrust, then send a reverse cut through a warrior's throat. 'Seven!' he shouted. 'You'll never catch me now. Swordsman!'
The words mystified Thena, but she noticed Attalus smile.
Floating higher she watched as the centaurs reached the foot of the hill, their arrows hissing into the Messenians as they scaled the boulders. Panic-stricken, the enemy on the hillside fled to their mounts. But inside the circle of boulders the fight went on. Helm was cut on both arms, and blood was also seeping from a gash in his right thigh.
Attalus had suffered no new wounds, the cut to his forehead having sealed in a jagged red line. Ektalis was unhurt, but tiring fast. Attalus blocked a wild slashing cut and shoulder-charged the attacker. The man went down, but Attalus slipped on the blood-smeared rocks and fell with him. Two warriors ran in to make the kill. Ektalis hurled himself into their path, despatching the first with a powerful thrust through the belly, but the second man's sword hacked down through the back of Ektalis' neck, killing him instantly.
Attalus rolled to his feet and, back to back with Helm, fought on.
A warrior rushed at Attalus, but an arrow-point punched through his temple and he staggered and fell. More shafts hissed through the air and the surviving Messenians scrambled back, hurling aside their swords and retreating. Helm staggered, but Attalus caught his arm, hauling him upright.
'How many?' Attalus asked.
'Nine. You?'
'Six. I owe you a thousand gold pieces.'
'I'd settle for a drink of rich red wine and a soft, soft woman.'
A white-maned centaur trotted across the clearing, stepping carefully over the bodies. 'Iskander sent us,' he said.
Attalus gazed down at the dead Ektalis. 'You were a little late,' he answered sombrely.
The City of Sparta
Parmenion awoke just before dawn. The room was dark save for a silver shaft of moonlight from the balcony window. He was alone. . and cold. Sitting up, he rubbed the skin of his shoulders. It was like winter and he cast his eyes around the room, seeking a blanket or a cloak. The only warmth he could feel was from the necklet at his throat.
Beyond the shaft of moonlight something stirred and Parmenion rolled from the bed, snatching his sword from its scabbard.
'Show yourself!' he commanded.
A spectral figure moved through the moonlight. The shock was immense. Apart from the golden eye the man was Philip — hair and beard shining like a panther's pelt, movements sure and confident. But it was not Philip, and Parmenion recoiled from the spirit of the Demon King.
'You fear me? That is wise,' the man said. 'But you stand against me, and that is foolish. I know all your actions, I know your thoughts. Your plans lie before me. Why then do you persist in this meaningless struggle?'
'What do you want here?' countered Parmenion.
'There is a child with golden hair. Have him brought to me and I will spare you and your city. He means nothing to you; he is not even of this world. He is a demon, and carries within him a seed of evil that must be destroyed.'
'A demon, you say? Then surely he should be a friend to you, Philippos?'
'I am a man, Parmenion,' answered Philippos, his voice smooth and friendly, his golden eye gleaming in the pale light. 'My deeds are my own. You should understand that. You are a warrior, and a fine general; you came the closest to defeating me. But that is all I am, Parmenion, a warrior king building an empire. Thus has it been since the dawn of time. Great men will always seek power. Look at me! Do you see a demon?'
'I see a man who butchered his own children to try to become a god. I see a man possessed. Do not seek to sway me, Philippos. I am not to be bought.'
'One child for a whole city? And that child not even Spartan! Are you insane or merely stupid?'
'Your insults mean nothing to me,' said Parmenion. 'And you are wrong, I do not fear you. I learnt much during the battle at Man tinea. I learnt that you are a poor general, with no strategic skills. You rely always on your sorcerous eye to feed you victory, but without it you would be nothing. Within a few days you will face the might of Sparta.