Raven pictured Phylasso: the face concealed beneath a wild beard, his knotted muscular body, and the misshapen great-sword strapped to his back. Once the image had formed, he directed a thought. Phylasso? Can you hear me?
A thousand replies sounded: people, animals and voices that belonged to unknown creatures. He pushed the thought harder, trying to be heard over the din. Phylasso. Hear me! Dark spirits have re-emerged to continue the war. We need you now!
The unearthly voices bubbled with excitement and then subsided like stones sinking into the depths of the ocean. Raven waited, listening for anything other than the whisper of sands shifting across the great deserts. Suddenly he felt exposed, as if unseen watchers were gazing upon his naked soul, scrutinising him as an intruder.
Phylasso?
The voices cackled and broke into a babbling discussion. Phylasso’s voice wasn’t amongst them. Raven felt the weight of their gazes as a force pushing and pulling at his soul. He turned his thoughts to his kin.
Brothers, sisters, hear my voice and lend me your strength! We must contact Phylasso!
He felt one Khryseoi spirit manifest in the mist, then another and then all the rest. Some slept in the Valley of the Shadow and some roamed the earth, idling away their eternal existence. Their warmth filled him; old friends and comrades not seen for countless years, but there were absences where vibrant souls belonged. Fewer than half of the Khryseoi who had stood against Eurynomos remained. Raven felt the first swell of grief. He fought to push it aside. It would consume him later, demanding laments and tears, but now he had to remain in the moment. He focused on crossing mountain ranges in a thought, passing over water as wind, seeking a meeting of minds.
Amyntas the Greek was the first to take form from the mist. He had always been strong and comfortable in the role of a golden daemon dressed in mortal skin. As their minds met, Raven felt Amyntas’s spirit as the warmth of the sun breaking through clouds. He pushed a thought to Amyntas. No names. Not here.
I’m dreaming, but this is no dream! Amyntas replied. What’s happening? Where are you?
I’m not sure, said Raven. Somewhere between life and death. It’s wondrous and terrifying. I’m trying to contact Phylasso. The war isn’t over.
Yes, Amyntas responded. I sense the dark spirit. He’s close. You’re in danger! Get out of there now!
Where can I find you?
Macedon. We’ll defeat this dark spirit together.
Amyntas’s confidence filled Raven with hope. He spun in a circle seeking a way out of the astral expanse. Around him the stars pulsed, the moon turned yellow and the sky darkened. He sensed another Khryseoi: Erfinder of the Noricum tribes.
Raven? Why am I dreaming of you?
Speak no names! Some of us are being unbound. Eurynomos’s servants have returned to set their master free.
I’m with you, brother! Erfinder replied. I see a black blade. Bring it to me!
Raven acknowledged him and continued to search for a way to return to his body.
The mist thickened and turned ashen and the Khryseoi voices drifted away. One remained strong: Daiyu, in faraway Kashi.
I see you! she said. I have seen this moment many times. Is it time?
Raven didn’t understand what she meant but her presence brought him comfort.
I’m waiting for you, she said.
Then she was gone and the Khryseoi fell silent. The sky started to bear down on Raven as if to smother him. The constellations winked out. Without hearing a sound, Raven felt thunder.
Raven!
The word struck Raven with the pain of a notched whip and his vision of existence vanished, leaving him alone in the void.
Raven!
Raven was surrounded by swirling black shapes outlined with red fire. They attacked him, tearing at his soul with unseen claws. He felt no pain, just hopelessness. While he listened to relentless gobbling, he could also hear the creatures squabbling as they fought over him. As his consciousness began to slip away, Raven wondered how long the feasting would last. With every bite the creatures took, he tried to hold on to his life. His memories of life faded, and the harder he fought to focus on a moment in time, the more others drifted away. Then a presence cut through, bathing Raven in light and restoring him. The frenzied feeding ceased.
Phylasso?
The presence didn’t speak. Although without form or face, Raven sensed a smile and recognised his saviour: Kaha’i, a Khryseoi from the south-east tropical lands. Kaha’i reached out and touched Raven’s forehead and the bickering creatures retreated fully into the darkness. Thank you, said Raven. He sensed Kaha’i smile again but it contained fear and sorrow.
Pinpricks of light appeared in the void. Raven was lying on the ground under a new moon, staring at the stars. The light grew brighter as Raven saw the sun rise above the horizon. He lay in a field of tall grasses and wild flowers on a summer’s day. The field extended in all directions. He looked about, seeking a landmark but there were no mountains or trees. He flapped his wings and stood erect. Cocking his head and strutting through the grass, he examined a bright blue flower on which a fat bee was busy drinking its fill of nectar. He hopped on, stretching his wings and wondering why he couldn’t fly. Instead of warming, the air remained chill as the sun rose. Raven shivered and the colour drained from his feathers, leaving them ghostly grey. Ahead, a single purple iris raised itself above the grass. Raven extended his beak to take in its scent and the iris withered. In its place thick, leathery ivy leaves sprouted from the earth in two columns. They formed an arch.
Beyond, trees and plants magically sprouted and matured. Now Raven stood at the edge of a vast botanic garden dense with foliage. A path appeared, meandering into the heart of the garden.
As Raven stepped onto the path, thin green stalks emerged along the edge. Delicate pink and white flowers bloomed at their tips. Wherever he hopped, bluebells began to grow. He found their sudden appearance alarming so he fluttered his wings, trying to lift himself off the ground. Flowers continued to appear between his claws. He pecked a stalk and watched a bluebell topple but it was soon replaced by another. He hopped onto a thick root at the base of an oak tree. The flowers followed, bunching at the root. The fresh flowery scent was replaced by the odour of hot metal. He felt the epiphaneia as a dark spirit appeared. He reared up, his feathers glistening as they turned black once more. “Acabar!” he squawked.
At the centre of the glade, small purple monkshood sprouted, followed by white oleander shrubs and glorious red and yellow begonias. Ivy snaked above them, twisting into the shape of a man. As it grew, it flexed cord-like muscles. When the figure was fully formed, a wreath of red flame enveloped the body. The ivy blackened and withered and the figure broke free from its bonds. The flowers wilted at its feet until everything was brown and dead.
“Raven!” Acabar’s voice gurgled as though his chest were filled with water.
Raven raised his wings in a high arc. Ivy grew once more at Acabar’s feet, wrapping itself around his ankles, shackling him to the earth. Acabar closed his hands into tight fists. The plant litter surrounding Raven began to move, becoming a carpet teeming with insects and spiders. Scorpions followed, with beetles, centipedes and giant ants. They swarmed up Raven’s legs and over his body, stinging and biting. He willed them away and they fell on their backs, legs twitching. As if snuffed out by a momentary gust of wind, the flames emanating from Acabar ceased.
Acabar stepped forward and seized Raven with strong wiry fingers. “See me, Raven! I am Acabar! Return to this place, and I will be your end!” He tightened his hold, crushing Raven’s feathers to dust, flesh to ash, and bones to shards.
* * *
Raven woke in the dead of night, his head pounding and his stomach cramping so tightly he could breathe only in short gasps. Shivering, he reached for his blanket and curled into a ball. Sleep eluded him, so he tried to swallow some water, but it came back up. As his breathing settled, he gave thanks that at least he had returned to his b
ody with his mind intact. Finally, he managed to sleep but the vision of Acabar veiled with fire haunted his dreams.
Morning came. He drank a sip at a time. The pain in his head slowly subsided, replaced by worry and doubt. Where was Phylasso?
He pondered the possibilities while he sucked honey from a spoon. When he felt some energy return, he ventured to the river and sat waist deep in the water with his back to the current. The vision of Acabar in the garden replayed in his mind. He struggled to understand its meanings. Phylasso would understand.
Raven stared at his hands under the flowing water and closed one to a fist. Acabar had to be stopped, but now Raven understood he couldn’t do it alone. His thoughts turned to the four Khryseoi who had answered his call: Amyntas, Erfinder, Daiyu and Kaha’i. He was the fifth. He unfurled his fingers. Five Khryseoi, one for each digit of the hand which must vanquish Acabar with or without Phylasso.
~ Chapter 7 ~
Macedonia (Northern Ancient Greece)
271 BC
Amyntas rubbed his hands with powdered chalk, took a second scoop from the bowl and dusted himself liberally under the arms. He rolled his shoulders and measured his opponent Tycho, who was undefeated in competitive wrestling and favoured to win an olive leaf crown at the next Olympic Games.
Amyntas had come to the new city of Thessaloniki for the sole purpose of wrestling Tycho. It was also agreeable to live there. There was abundant building work to be found, but he didn’t care for the coins he was given at the end of each day. As a builder, he was lifting stone blocks, climbing ladders and working long hours with a hammer and chisel. His body was hard, muscular and lean.
The city was prosperous. Trading ships frequented the harbour, bringing exotic wares to the vibrant marketplace. The arts and philosophy were flourishing. Amyntas had no interest in symposiums or sculpture. He was simply grateful that people with money needed to be entertained. Thessaloniki’s wealth had attracted a large pool of elite athletes to the local games. He wanted to test himself against them all, but none more than Tycho. Tycho had one distinct advantage over his competitors. He was more than two hands taller than any rival. Amyntas was of average height and build, and if he stood on his toes, reached Tycho’s shoulder.
The tournament champion would have the opportunity to compete at the Olympic Games. Amyntas wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm, careful to keep his hands dry and able to grip. He decided he wouldn’t claim the right to compete if he won. The Olympic Games, trophies, even winning this tournament, felt meaningless after fighting the war against Eurynomos. However, he wasn’t content to become soft as other Khryseoi had done. The war haunted his dreams most nights, forcing him to relive the horror, savagery and death. It had lasted three hundred and seventy-nine years and he had acquired many painful memories. If Eurynomos found a way to return to the world, Amyntas was determined to be fit to fight. At present, proving to himself that he was still a capable warrior required pinning Tycho’s shoulders to the earth three times.
Amyntas had heard rumours that the odds on his winning the bout had been inflated to attract losing bets. Looking up, he saw the auditorium had few empty seats. The sunlight glared from the freshly-cut limestone blocks, not yet yellowed with age. The audience settled to a tense murmur. Sweat continued to run down his forehead, collecting in drops that fell from the tip of his nose. He’d hoped to meet Tycho later in the tournament than the opening rounds, as he’d wanted to warm up and find his rhythm, but as in war, he wasn’t given the opportunity to choose the time and place.
The referee beckoned the competitors and the chattering crowd broke into applause. Tycho untied his loincloth and tossed it aside. The applause halted with a collective gathering of breath and some murmurs of appreciation. He limbered his arms, stepped over the plethron’s boundary line and thrust his finger at Amyntas. “Your clothes!”
Amyntas removed his loincloth and as he looked down was grateful for summer’s warmth. He had prepared one or two comments about Tycho’s parentage but decided against taunting his opponent given their respective differences in size.
The referee recited the rules, demanding an acknowledgement he had been heard and understood. With a sharp clap, he signalled the start of the bout.
The war with Eurynomos had been a strict and merciless teacher on the subject of rules. Raised and educated as a Greek warrior, Amyntas had been taught to strategize, to evaluate his enemy’s strengths and weaknesses before striking. The Forsaken had been twisted echoes of men immune to clever tactics. They had come in relentless waves, battling until they had achieved victory or total defeat.
Tycho crouched and held his arms out wide. Amyntas charged, vaulting over Tycho before he could stand and gripped him around the waist in a strong hold. Surprised by the display of acrobatics, Tycho twisted to face his slippery opponent and lost his balance. Amyntas lifted Tycho into the air. Feeling every muscle in his body protest with the strain, he threw Tycho down, pinning his rival’s shoulders against the earth.
The referee clapped. “Point!” There was a mixed response from the spectators: applause, gasps of disbelief and a smattering of boos. Amyntas retreated to his corner and stretched his cramping arms and shoulders. Tycho brushed the dust from his body, kept his gaze locked on Amyntas and mimed breaking a stick in his hands.
The referee raised his arm and let it fall. “Begin!” Both men charged, meeting in the middle of the wrestling square. Amyntas ducked under Tycho’s swinging arms and buried his shoulder in Tycho’s midriff. As the air left the big man’s lungs, he thrust his heels into the dirt and lifting, drove Tycho backwards. Pushing with his legs, Amyntas forced Tycho’s shoulders flat against the ground.
“Point!”
Amyntas released Tycho from the hold. They went back to their corners. As Amyntas caught Tycho’s eye, he raised his hands and shrugged. The audience watched in silence.
“Begin!”
Tycho stepped into bounds and dropped to all fours. Amyntas sped towards his opponent, positioning himself to make a grab for the neck. He felt Tycho’s thick arms circling his waist. He wrapped his forearm around Tycho’s neck, braced it with the other and squeezed with all his strength. As his feet came away from the ground, he fought to maintain the hold. Tycho was too strong, the arena turned upside-down and he plummeted to the ground shoulder first.
“Point!”
As Amyntas opened his eyes he saw Tycho standing over him dusting off his hands. As he recovered his breath he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. He knew himself to be impulsive and admitted it was a weakness. However, as he had learnt in the war, there were advantages in being unpredictable also.
* * *
Illyria (Ancient Balkan Peninsula)
2285 BC
It seldom rained during the war. Illyria was a desert of ash and dust. Charred tree stumps were the only evidence it had once been a forest. Thick grey clouds blanketed the sky.
Amyntas shivered and leaned on his spear as he trudged through the wasteland. He was tired, his legs ached and the pervasive stench of decay made his stomach queasy. Phylasso had assured him he would learn to cope with the smell but Amyntas was yet to find any relief. He suspected the fume that belched from Eurynomos’s fortress was to remind the Khryseoi who was stronger.
Recently, the war had gone badly for the Khryseoi. The Forsaken had gathered in large numbers and buried themselves in the clefts of the hills just beyond the range of a longbow. The Khryseoi were stretched to their limit and couldn’t leave any part of the wall undefended. Mortals feared the corrupted land and wouldn’t enter it, cutting off Khryseoi supply lines. The Khryseoi needed sustenance. Starvation had killed more Khryseoi than the bone blades of The Forsaken. Flies were ever-present, buzzing in their ears, stealing water from their eyes and scraping meals from their skins.
As well as being nauseated, Amyntas was hungry. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten or slept. He thought it had been at least a week. Now, his most pressing challenge w
as staying alert.
“Take a rest!” said Mael, the company leader. Mael was haggard, his hair had fallen out in handfuls, sores showed beneath his patchy beard and there was no fat on his chest to disguise his ribs. The sight of him should have filled Amyntas with pity but he knew he looked the same. They all did.
The company stopped, dropping their swords, spears and shields in a clatter of metal. Many slumped. Others keeled over. Some didn’t get up. In the distance, Amyntas heard a soft roll of thunder. He raised his face to the heavens wondering if he had imagined the sound or if it were incessant pounding in his ears. There was a second peal of thunder and a third. He felt spots of rain on his face. They were cool and cleansing and he laughed. The drops became heavier and fell faster. He opened his mouth to drink, not caring the water was tainted with bitter ash. In that moment, it tasted better than a mountain stream fresh from melted snow. The Khryseoi upturned their shields to catch the rain. They filled their skins and held them to the mouths of the weak. The water filled them all with life. Amyntas drank until his stomach was full and he could hear it slosh.
Mael grinned. His face was skin stretched over his skull but he appeared more human than he had in a long time. He shouted to be heard above the rain. “I hope our brothers and sisters are sharing in this good fortune.” Amyntas nodded. “Smile, by the Gods! We’ve had too little to celebrate of late.”
“Wait...” said Amyntas, peering over Mael’s shoulder. The ground was moving in the valley ahead, rippling where the water pooled.
Mael shielded his eyes. “Surface flooding.” He continued to drink from his shield, slopping water down his front. Amyntas continued to watch the distant pool. It began to bubble and roll as if it were boiling. Many sets of arms appeared from under its surface, clawing at the mud to pull their owners free.
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