‘What is wrong with you?’ asked Mothac.
Argonas did not reply at first, and his dark eyes narrowed as he looked down on the dying man. ‘If he lives, he will change the world,’ whispered the physician. ‘I see the ruins of empire, the fall of nations. It might be better to leave him.’
‘What’s that? Speak up, man, I can’t hear you!’ said Mothac, moving to stand beside the physician.
‘It was nothing. Now be silent while I examine him.’ For several minutes the fat man stood in silence, his hands gently moving over Parmenion’s skull. Then he walked from the room. Mothac followed him to the courtyard.
‘He has a cancer,’ said Argonas, ‘at the centre of his brain.’
‘How can you tell, if it is within the skull?’
‘That is my skill,’ responded Argonas, sitting at the table and refilling his goblet. ‘I travelled inside his head and found the growth.’
Then he will die?’ asked Mothac.
‘That is by no means certain – but it does look likely. I have a herb with me that will prevent the cancer from growing; it is from the plant sylphium, and he must take an infusion from the herb every day of his life from now on, for the growth will not disappear. But there is something else -and that I cannot supply.’
‘What?’ asked Mothac, as the fat man lapsed into silence.
‘When you . . . travel . . . inside a man’s head, you see many things – you feel his hopes, his dreams, you suffer his torments. He had a love – a woman called Derae – but she was taken from him. He blames himself for her loss and he is empty inside, living only by clinging to thoughts of revenge. That kind of hope can sustain a man for a while, but revenge is a child of darkness and in darkness there is no sustenance.’
‘Can you say it simply, physician?’ asked Mothac. ‘Just tell me what I can do?’
‘I do not believe you can do anything. He needs Derae . . . and he cannot have her. However, on the slender chance that it may prove useful – and to earn my fee from Epaminondas – I will prepare the first infusion. You will watch, and observe me closely. Too much sylphium can kill – too little, and the cancer will spread. It may help – but without Derae, I do not think he will survive.’
‘If you are the mystic you claim,’ sneered Mothac, ‘how is it you cannot speak to him, call him back?’
The fat man shook his head. ‘I tried,’ he said softly, ‘but he is in a world he has created for himself, a place of darkness and terror. In it he battles demons and creatures of horror. He could not hear me – or would not.’
‘These creatures you speak of- could they kill him?’
‘I believe that they could. You see, my red-bearded friend, they are demons he has created. He is fighting the dark side of his own soul.’
* The abyss was swirling around him as he slashed the Sword of
Leonidas through the throat of a man-sized scaled bat with wings of black leather. The creature spouted blood which drenched Parmenion like lantern oil, making the sword difficult to hold. He backed further up the low hill. The creatures flew around him, keeping away from the shining sword, but the abyss lapped at his feet, swallowing the land. He glanced down to see distant fares within the pit far below, and he felt he could hear the screams of tormented souls.
Parmenion was mortally tired, his head ablaze with pain.
Wings flapped behind him and he swivelled and thrust out his sword, plunging it deep into a furred belly. But the creature was upon him, its serrated teeth tearing at the flesh of his shoulder. He threw himself back, wrenching his sword clear and hacking the head from the demon’s neck. Emptiness swallowed the land beneath his legs and Parmenion slithered to the edge of the abyss. Rolling to his stomach, he scrambled clear and ran to the brow of the hill.