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.
‘There is no time,’ Aristotle shouted.
Ignoring him, Parmenion edged to the right.
At the centre of the boulders lay a young woman, chains of fire holding her arms pinned to the rocks. Several skeletal birds were pecking at her flesh, peeling it back in bloody strips which healed instantly. Parmenion ran at the birds, shouting and waving his arms; they rose from the body, wings clicking. His sword smashed one to shards, the rest flying clear. Kneeling down he gently touched the woman’s face, lifting her head.
‘I know you, do I not?’ he said, as her eyes focused on him.