From what? Leucion had enquired.
Aristotle had shrugged. ‘From the unpredictable,’ he replied.
Leucion turned towards the door . . . and froze.
It was no longer there. The wall too had disappeared, to be replaced by a long narrow corridor of pale, glistening stone. The silver-haired warrior drew his short sword and dagger, eyes straining to pierce the gloom. Two shadows detached themselves from the corridor walls, and Leucion stepped back as their huge misshapen forms moved slowly towards him. Their heads and shoulders were scaled, their arms and torsos the grey of decaying corpses; their taloned feet scraped on the stone and, as they came closer, Leucion saw with sick dread that their mouths were rimmed with pointed fangs.
Backing away once more, his legs touched the bed on which Derae lay.
The first demon hurled itself at the warrior. Leucion sprang to meet the charge, ramming his short sword into the beast’s belly and ripping it up towards the heart. Talons tore at his shoulder, slicing through flesh and muscle and snapping his collar-bone. As the demon fell the second creature lunged for the wounded warrior, talons closing on
his right side, shattering the hip beneath. Leucion plunged his dagger into the beast’s neck, just below the ear. Grey slime pumped from the wound, drenching the warrior’s hand and burning the skin. In its death throes the demon hurled Leucion from him and the warrior fell to the floor, dropping both dagger and sword.
Blood was pouring from the wound in his shoulder, and the agony of his broken hip was almost unbearable. Yet still Leucion struggled to rise.
Gathering up his short sword, he pushed himself to his feet, taking the weight of his body on his left leg. The two demons were gone, but the corridor remained.
‘I did it,’ he whispered. ‘I saved her.’
Five talons the length of swords hammered through his back, bursting from his chest before closing in on themselves and dragging him back.
Blood bubbled from his ruptured lungs and his head fell forward.
The demon hauled the body across the bed, where Leucion’s limp arm fell upon the golden stone on Aristotle’s chest. The stone blazed into light. New strength poured into the dying warrior. Reversing his sword, he plunged it back into the belly of the demon behind him.
The talons slashed into his body once more, ripping clear his head.
Dropping the body the demon staggered, then its slitted opal eyes focused on the still form of Derae. Saliva dripping from its fangs, it advanced.
*
The demon horde filled the mouth of the pass, standing motionless, their eyes on the 300 crimson-cloaked warriors who barred their path to the light.
‘Why are they waiting, do you think?’ Parmenion asked the Sword King.
‘They are waiting for Him,’ whispered the King, pointing his sword at a dark, rolling storm-cloud in the distance.
‘I see no one.’
The King was silent and the cloud came closer, moving across the land, blotting out the slate-grey sky. As it neared Parmenion saw that it was no cloud, merely a darkness deeper than any he could have imagined. The beasts cowered from it, running to hide behind boulders or into nearby caves.
The Darkness slowed as it reached the pass, and then a breeze blew across the waiting soldiers, carrying with it the touch of terror. All the fears known to man were borne on that dread breeze, all the primal horrors of the Dark. The line wavered. Parmenion felt his hands begin to tremble, his sword dropping to the ground.
‘Spartans, stand firm!’ the King shouted – his voice thin, reedy and full of fear. Yet still it was the voice of the Spartan King, and the warriors’ shields clashed together in a wall of bronze.
Parmenion knelt, gathering his sword. His mouth was dry and he knew with grim and terrifying certainty that nothing could withstand the power of the Dark.
‘All is lost,’ said Aristotle, pushing through the line and tugging at Parmenion’s arm. ‘Nothing can stand against Hun in his own kingdom. Come away, man! I can return you to the flesh!’
Parmenion shook him loose. ‘Go, then!’ he commanded.