‘Over here,’ said the priest, leading him to a block of stone some 3 feet high. The shape of a bull had been carved on the front of the stone, the image all but weathered away. On each side was a sculpted hand, holding a crescent moon. These too had been eroded by time. Antikas left the priest holding the lantern and returned upstairs.
Gathering the axe dropped by the first of the mob he moved back to the cellar.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked the priest. Antikas swung the axe, bringing it crashing down on the altar. Twice he struck, then a fist-sized section broke away. Dropping the axe he took up the stone.
‘You say that spells are held in the stone. Perhaps this will shield me from the demons.’
2.13
‘I cannot say that for sure,’ said the priest. ‘What you have is a tiny fragment.’
‘I have no choice but to try, priest. The queen is in the mountains, guarded by only four men.’
‘And you think a fifth will make a difference?’
‘I am Antikas Karios, priest. I always make a difference.’
Tucking the rock into his tunic Antikas returned to the upper room. Moving to the upturned table which blocked the window he peered out into the street. All was silent. His mouth was dry, his heart beating fast. Antikas Karios feared no living man, but the thought of the demons waiting threatened to unman him. Placing his hand on the table he prepared to draw it aside.
‘Don’t go out there!’ pleaded Canta, echoing the voice in Antikas’s own heart.
‘I must,’ he said, wrenching the table aside and climbing to the sill.
The night breeze was cool on his skin, and he leapt lightly to the ground. Behind him the others hastily drew back the table. Antikas ran across the street, ducking into an alley. He had gone no more than a hundred paces when the attack came. The temperature around him plummeted, and he heard whispers on the breeze. They grew louder and louder, filling his ears like angry hornets. Pain roared inside his head. Inside his tunic the rock grew warmer. Antikas staggered and almost fell. Anger surged – but as it did he felt the cold seep into his brain. Voices were hissing at him now in a language he had never heard, and yet he knew what they were saying. ‘Give in! Give in! Give in!’
He lurched against the side of a building and fell to his knees. The pain from striking the cobbles cut through the
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discordant shrieking inside his mind. He focused on it -and on the heat from the rock against his skin.
He wanted to rage against the invasion, to scream. But some deeper instinct overrode his emotions, urging him to stay calm, to fight coolly. Yet he felt like he was drowning in this sea of voices – at one with them, sharing their hunger for blood and pain and death.
‘No,’ he said, aloud. ‘I am . . .’ For a moment there was panic. Who am I? Scores of names surged through his mind, shouted by the voices within. He fought for calm. ‘I am . . . Antikas Karios. I am ANTIKAS KARIOS!’ Over and over, like a mantra, he said his name. The voices shrieked louder still, but with less power, until they receded into dim, distant echoes.
Antikas pushed himself to his feet and ran on. The shrieking of human voices could be heard now, some distance to his left. Then to his right. Then ahead.
Unable to possess him the demons were gathering their human forces to cut him off.
Antikas paused and looked around. To his left was a high wall, and, close by, a wrought-iron gate. He ran to it, and climbed the gate, stepping out onto the wall some 15 feet above the ground. Nimbly he moved along it, to where it joined the side of a house. There was an ivy covered trellis here and Antikas began to climb. Below him a mob gathered, shouting curses. A hurled hammer crashed against the wall by his head. He climbed on. A piece of rotten wood gave way beneath his foot, but he clung on, drawing himself towards the flat roof. He heard the creaking of the iron gate below, and glanced back. Several of the mob were climbing the wall.