Poris followed her mistress out into the cold stone corridors of the palace and down to the torch-lit tunnels below. Aida opened a leaf-shaped door and entered a small room; it was empty of furniture, save for a raised stone slab
at the centre. Aida traced her fingers on the carved lettering there. ‘Do you know what this says?’ she asked Poris.
‘No, my lady.’
‘It is Accadian, carved before the dawn of our history. It is an incantation. Tell me,’ she asked, laying her hand on the girl’s shoulder, ‘do you love me?’
‘More than life,’ the girl assured her.
‘Good,’ answered Aida, pulling her into a tight embrace, ‘and I love you, child. You are more than a daughter to me. But Kadmilos must be served, and his well-being is all that concerns me.’ The slender dagger plunged into Poris’ back, through the ribs and into the heart. The girl stiffened, then sagged into Aida’s arms.
The woman in black eased the corpse on to the slab and began to speak the words of power. Smoke rose from the letters engraved on the stone, covering the dead girl. A foul smell filled the room, the stench of decay. Aida waved her hand and the smoke drew back into the rock. All that now lay upon the slab was a tracing of white-grey ashes.
Shadows danced on the dark walls, grotesque shapes which once had been men.
Moving to each of them, she touched her hand to their misshapen brows. ‘The temple is unprotected,’ she told them. ‘Find the body of the woman Derae and devour her flesh – and all with her.’
The shadows faded.
Aida walked to the slab, dipping her fingers into the ashes.
‘I shall miss you, Poris,’ she murmured.
*
Cresting the mountain, the hunted trio ran down the scree-covered slopes. Tamis fell and slid towards a precipice, but Aristotle hurled himself in her path, seizing her white robes and hauling her to safety.
On they sped, the cries of their pursuers coming ever closer. From above them came the sound of leather wings and Parmenion glanced up to see huge shapes hovering
around them – their skins scaled, their forms barely human. But they did not attack and the Spartan ignored them as he ran on.
To the left!’ shouted Aristotle, pointing to a pass between rearing black peaks.
Behind them the ghostly riders were closing fast. Parmenion risked a glance back over his shoulder, then returned his gaze to the pass ahead.
They were not going to succeed. With a muttered curse he halted and spun, sword in hand, to meet the enemy. There were more than twenty riders, faces hidden by the winged helms they wore. In their hands swords of red name glittered like torches.
Tamis came alongside Parmenion. ‘Go on, I will hold them,’ she cried.
‘I cannot leave you to face them alone.’
‘GO!’ she shouted. ‘The soul-flame is everything.’
For a moment only he hesitated, then turned and ran on. The riders swept towards the seeress and her hands came up, white fire blazing across the Void to hurl four demons from their mounts. The rest charged on, sweeping out to pass Tamis by. Once more the lightning flared, scything through the first rank, the long-dead horses collapsing with bones cracking and splitting.
Two riders bore down on the seeress. The first she slew with a spear of light, but the sword of the second pierced her breast, jutting from her back and setting light to her robes. Tamis staggered – but she did not fall. Blasting the rider from his mount, she half turned and saw that Parmenion and Aristotle had reached the pass.
Ignoring the dying woman, the riders galloped on after the running men. Tamis sank to the dust, her mind swimming. She saw again her first passing, remembering the pain and the bitterness. Her soul had fled to the furthest corners of the Void, lost and alone. It was there that the servants of Kadmilos had found her, binding her with chains of fire, sending the Death Crows to rip at her spirit flesh. In her despair, she had been unable to find the strength to fight them.