Guardians of the Dead

By Xlibris US

Guardians Of The Dead is the first novel in a new adventure series introducing Philip The Macedonian, a seasoned officer in the army of Alexander The Great. Philip accompanies his king in the conquest of Persia and ventures into the mountains beyond the palace of Persepolis. High among its desolate peaks, he discovers an ancient fortress and the night creatures that lurk inside. Fighting to save his men, Philip battles timeless evil and is drawn into the lives and passions of two mysterious eternal sisters. Guardians Of The Dead is a fast-paced action story featuring an unstoppable adventurer and exploits to stretch the imagination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499031362

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by John McLeod.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-4990-3138-6

               eBook            978-1-4990-3136-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/29/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Chapter 1: The Eight Pointed Star

Chapter 2: Land Of The Mardi

Chapter 3: Tales Of Gold And Demons

Chapter 4: Ascent To The Fortress

Chapter 5: Carnage In The Night

Chapter 6: Treasury Of The Dead

Chapter 7: Entombed

Chapter 8: The Sisters

Chapter 9: Into The Great Below

Chapter 10: Crypt Of The Queen Of Night

Chapter 11: The Balance Is Undone

Dedication

To Jen: for always believing in me.

Chapter 1

The Eight Pointed Star

They brought the old man out first. His body had been stripped of its rags and he lay on a flimsy wooden bier. As he was carried away, his widow was dragged from the hut. Without his protection, she was a worthless mouth to feed and no longer had any place in a village so poor.

The cortege left the stockade with the old woman bringing up the rear. She was dragged along, kicking and screaming at first, then tiring, becoming more accepting of her fate. She sobbed quietly as they approached the boneyard.

A mudbrick shrine marked the entrance. It contained a clay effigy of the Goddess of the Great Below. A semblance of a garden stood in front of the shrine; withered shrubs sprouted from dusty beds, fed by rainwater and sustained by nutrients gleaned from the human remains that littered the yard.

The cortege laid the old man’s body among a scattering of bones. A vulture approached impatiently and was shooed away; others waited just out of reach. The woman was released and left with the corpse. She moaned, then angrily snarled and threw a leg bone as the vulture again approached.

Their task done, the villagers said a brief prayer at the shrine and left without further ceremony. One began arguing with another over who’d receive the old couple’s chickens. They forded the small stream that separated the boneyard from the village, the dead from the living, and entered the gated stockade. All was quiet bar the whistling of the wind and the old woman’s sobbing.

The vultures shuffled forward to feast on the fresh meat; a hungry flock could reduce a corpse to bare bones within hours.

They devoured the old man while the woman watched helplessly from the other side of the yard. They looked her over also, but she still breathed so they departed for the night. Her turn would come in the morning, after the frosty mountain air had chilled her body and brought eternal sleep. By dawn’s light, they’d fly down from their nests and move in on her frozen corpse.

Darkness fell upon the valley and the woman was alone within the yard. She heard a howling from the surrounding peaks and looked around her nervously. She pulled her ragged dress about her tightly, as though it offered protection. She shivered from cold and fear.

There was movement in the distance; a prowling sound like an animal on the hunt. The old woman heard the rustling of something moving through bushes, then a scratching, the sound of claws scraping on rock.

Who’s there? she called. Her voice cracked in terror.

No answer, but the scratching continued. The old woman’s breathing came in gasps as she peered into the darkness. She clutched the leg bone and raised it as though capable of defending herself.

Across the boneyard, silhouetted even blacker than the night sky, a shape. The old woman blinked, her rheumy eyes unable to focus on something so obscure. Spots and flashes clouded her retina and she was forced to shut her eyelids a moment. Something repellant assailed her nostrils and she choked, almost gagged. She opened her eyes.

She stared into a face. It was large and leathery, ancient and yet timeless. White, matted hair hung limply from a pale, craggy brow. Wide, soulless eyes gazed into hers and, in place of a mouth, a beak, sharp and hooked. The beak opened and rancid breath blasted the old woman, so thick the stench slapped her cheek like an open hand.

She saw wings, scrappy feathers attached to arms. They opened, spreading wide and looming over her. She felt like she was being suffocated. The creature’s beak widened and it bent forward, enveloping the old woman’s head. The sound of neck bones being crushed echoed across the yard and the creature shook like a wolf with its prey, pulling the head loose. It reared up and stepped back. It swallowed, and then gulped.

The decades melted away. Empires flourished and fell; their armies brought terror and were then forgotten. In the mountains, nothing changed. And then, from the west, a new invader.

The battle was won. All across the field, Persians were giving up the fight and following their emperor as he fled toward the river and safety. King Alexander paused to allow his hetaroi cavalry time to rally around him; he was itching to pursue the enemy king and kill him once and for all.

Wait until we have sufficient numbers to protect you, sir, called the captain of his bodyguard. We can’t risk you being cut off and surrounded.

It was true enough. The Plain of Arbela stretched all the way to the River Tigris. What was normally a dry, dusty nothingness of dirt was now covered by a seething mass of brightly colored Persian troops. They may be fleeing, but even someone as impulsive as the king could see the folly of becoming trapped in their midst.

Alexander turned and scanned the faces of his hetaroi cavalry. The name meant companion, and as it implied, these were his entourage. They were the officer corps of the mighty Macedonian army, and from their ranks he chose his commanders.

Philip, son of Galenos. He called the name.

Philip responded, swinging his horse around to face the king and then hurriedly pulling his helmet from his head. Sweat ran from his brow, dripped from his nose, pooled in his ears. Even in October, Mesopotamia was warm, and the fighting had been fierce.

I need to know what’s happening on the left, Philip. This dust is making it impossible to see, and for all I know Parmenion’s Greeks have turned and run. I’m taking the hetaroi and giving chase after Darius, but you must warn me if I need to return. Ride to the left wing and assess the situation. If Parmenion has been defeated, then come and find me. Do you understand?

Yes, sir, Philip immediately turned to his task, leading his horse from the throng of cavalry around the king. He was an experienced officer and served King Alexander as he’d served the young king’s father before that.

Philip was a tall man in his thirties, a native Macedonian like the king. A scar on his neck and another across one forearm told that he was a seasoned warrior, a veteran of Alexander’s campaigns. He came from minor nobility, a tribal chieftain’s family from the mountains of Upper Macedonia; he felt out of place in the desert.

For weapons, Philip wore an iron sword, carried in a leather scabbard slung on a strap around his neck. The hilt sat on his left side, within easy reach just below the chest. He carried a lance of cornel wood with an iron point, and wore a breastplate of burnished bronze, fashioned with an intricate flower pattern; he’d paid extra for the design. His helmet was also bronze, with a plume of yellow horse hair. The cheek pieces were decorated with silver latticework bought from a Celtic trader; Philip was a wealthy warrior.

Despite that, his attire was no different to any other soldier in the army, no different to that worn by the king even. Like all Hellenic males, his tunic was simply a single piece of linen with a hole cut for the head, stitching at the sides, and held in place by a cord around the waist. He wore leather riding boots in battle, but often went barefoot. His only other clothing was a cloak when it was cold and a wide-brimmed, floppy sun hat that he sometimes wore when hunting.

Philip headed for the dust cloud that hung over the left wing. Parmenion, Alexander’s senior general, commanded the forces on the left of the army, the Greek conscripts. Although Greek and Macedonian shared a common Hellenic heritage, the Greeks had little loyalty to King Alexander or the Macedonians and were the weakest link in the army. Parmenion was a good general, but if there’d been a reversal, it would be on the left.

Philip picked his way through the carnage of battle. Corpses lay in piles, limbs entangled, bodies embraced like lovers. Severed hands, arms, legs, feet sat in pools of blood, looking like choice joints laid out for sale by a butcher. A poleaxed soldier called for his mother in a guttural eastern language, while beside him a horse whinnied its fear as its life slipped away.

The stench of sweat, of adrenalin, of human feces, hung like a blanket over the battlefield. Above all, Philip could smell the blood, could smell the iron in the blood.

He encountered a group of Athenian mercenaries. They were looting bodies, stripping anything of value from friend and enemy alike. They eyed Philip with suspicion as he approached. He was an officer, and Macedonian at that.

Who’s your commander? he asked. Where will I find the general?

Parmenion? answered a sergeant. He jerked his head. Last I saw he was with the Thessalians, trying to stop them running. He guffawed and his men laughed with him. They were still nervous from the shock of battle and quick to react to any incitement. Their bloodlust was high and Philip thought it wise to leave them to their looting.

The tangle of bodies increased and Philip dismounted, unable to continue on horseback. He led his horse for a while and then abandoned it altogether. The blood squelched underfoot like he was walking through a marsh; he was climbing over bodies, scaling a mound of corpses. From the top, he could see above the dust and picked out Parmenion in the distance. The general was leading his Greek cavalry in headlong pursuit of the Persian right wing.

Philip turned around and scanned the charnel field for his horse. He could report back to the king; Parmenion had prevailed on the left and the battle was decisively won.

Long before they reached Babylon, the army encountered the crowds. The population lined the road on both sides and there was a carnival atmosphere. Garlands were strewn in front of the marching men and palm fronds were being waved in greeting. Priests chanted hymns of joy and smoke rose from incense burners. The rich watched from canvas tents or stood beneath brightly colored parasols. The poor jostled each other and fought for the best position; it seemed like every inhabitant had come out to greet them.

The nearer the army got to the city, so the greater the throng and excitement. Children ran alongside cadging for treats; girls jumped out from the crowd to thrust flowers in soldiers’ hands; men bowed graciously from under high-brimmed hats; their wives waved demurely. Small boys climbed statues and balanced on ledges to get a better view; they grinned and waved, taking in the spectacle of a marching army.

Do they know we’re invaders? said Kleitos.

Beside him, Philip nodded in agreement. These are Babylonians, he answered. The Persians conquered Babylonia long before we arrived, and so they regard us as liberators. If the King handles this right, they’ll be our staunchest allies.

The two rode among the noblemen of the hetaroi cavalry. The king was at their head, surrounded by his bodyguard. They were preceded by a detachment from the hypaspist spearmen, and the massed ranks of phalanx pikemen marched behind. Even farther back trudged the allied Hellenic troops, Athenians, Thessalians, Thracians, drawn from every part of Greece and even from the conquered territories. The army had swollen in the three years since King Alexander had invaded the mighty Persian Empire. It was no longer the small force that had crossed from Greece and battled its way down the Mediterranean coast to conquer Egypt.

It was nearly a month since the victory at Arbela. Darius, the Persian Great King, had fled eastward and disappeared into the vastness of the empire. He was supposedly raising another army, but King Alexander said it was of no concern; the war was as good as won. To cement his conquest, he now intended occupying the capital of the empire: Babylon.

The army had followed the River Tigris south from Arbela, following the Persian Royal Road. Now they approached the legendary city from the east, and it seemed the king had been correct. There was no sign of resistance, only welcome. If King Darius still had any power, it wasn’t here.

The road entered Babylon through the Ishtar Gate. It loomed ahead of the approaching column, blue and sparkling in the autumn sunshine. A multitude of cheering crowds blocked the way and hypaspist spearmen, Alexander’s elite infantry, were forced to push ahead and clear a path. They were under orders to avoid violence.

From the amount of cheering, guessed Philip, the king must have reached the gate and was entering the city. Philip and his companions craned their necks to watch from their place in the column, but they were too far back; they were only able to make out the multitude of bobbing heads lining the walls. Now they, too, reached the approach to the gate and the mighty, famed walls of Babylon rose either side of them; the fabled Ishtar Gate was immediately ahead.

This would make for a perfect ambush, observed Kleitos. We’d be trapped.

True enough, answered Philip. I suppose the King knows what he’s doing.

The Persian commander of the city rode out and surrendered to the King yesterday, called someone from just ahead, hearing them. It’s safe.

That’s good to hear, Philip called back. He settled back onto the rump of his horse and allowed himself to relax, to take in the view. The walls leading to the gate were of blue tile, glazed and decorated with white and gold motifs depicting bulls, lions, gryphons, dragons. This was an expensive gate, not built for defense but to display the power and status of the Great King.

As they neared its archway, someone behind Philip said, It’s named after Ishtar, one of their goddesses. The speaker was talking to anyone within earshot who cared to listen. Apparently, she’s the patron goddess of sex. The man sniggered. Now that’s the kind of worship I like.

Philip allowed himself a smile. Like all his race, he followed the true gods, the Pantheon of Olympus. But he was open-minded and prepared to tolerate these foreign deities. He’d seen their power during the army’s stay in Egypt the previous year.

The column passed through the arch and Philip stared upward, twisting his neck to marvel at the decoration; they even had it on the underside. When he lowered his head and gazed forward, above the houses he saw the spectacular rising terraces of the fabled Hanging Gardens, and beyond that, the pyramid shape of the Ziggurat of Babel.

For all they’re eastern barbarians, he admitted to Kleitos beside him, these people can build. Kleitos nodded agreement.

In the distance, the cheering increased as King Alexander entered the palace to claim his throne.

By nightfall, the city had been peacefully occupied. Under orders from the king, looting and arson was strictly forbidden and troops were restricted to designated areas. The infantry and all foreign units stayed in camps outside the walls, while King Alexander occupied the palace with his closest entourage and the regiment of hypaspist spearmen to guard him. The palace was perfectly sited to dominate the city, standing alongside the banks of the River Euphrates, which split Babylon in two.

The noblemen of the hetaroi cavalry were distributed among the finer houses and Philip found himself billeted in a townhouse with four others. He kept Agron, his Illyrian body slave, but space was limited so the five officers agreed to assign their other servants to the camp outside the walls.

They shared two rooms at the back of the house. The owner, a portly spice merchant who looked ready to expire from a heart condition, occupied the rest of the house with his wife, a married son, and a small number of slaves. Their host was eager to please and gave the Macedonians free access to his kitchens and servants. He could also recommend a number of establishments should they have other needs.

The house lay in the newer, more modern suburb on the western bank of the Euphrates. Nevertheless, it had been built in the Babylonian style, of mudbrick with numerous arches and domes to circulate air, and with the living quarters set below ground to keep the occupants cool in the blazing heat of summer. Even in autumn, the heat was enough for the family to spend most nights sleeping on the roof.

The merchant had built his home on the west bank to be near his business, a warehouse in Babylon’s market square. The market was a bustling and noisy place where anything and everything could be found, from Carthaginian ivory to Scythian jewelry to Indian cotton. Nubian slaves were traded for Celtic copper, and Bactrian lapis lazuli was exchanged for silk from a fabled land known as China.

Each morning, the merchant walked the short distance to the market, to sit outside his warehouse and conduct business under the shade of a brightly striped awning. His foreman would hover close by and slaves hauled sacks and amphorae in and out. The merchant was a rich man, and hoped the new king would provide as much stability as the old.

For the officers of the hetaroi cavalry, the days were much more leisurely.

King Alexander had stood the army down. He knew more fighting lay ahead, so wanted the men to spend their time in Babylon at rest. The mercenary units stood guard duty (that’s what mercenaries were paid for) while all others had time on their hands.

Although devout, Philip rarely rose early enough to join the army’s dawn sacrifice to Zeus. Breakfast was bread dipped in wine. Then he’d while away the morning in the palace gymnasium; as a nobleman, it never hurt to spend time near the king.

After a light midday meal of fruit and wine, he either napped or joined a few friends in an afternoon hunting expedition; though the lands around Babylon were too cultivated to offer much in the way of game.

After evening prayers, most nights he and his companions made their way to the palace and joined the king’s court in drinking, feasting and entertainment until the early hours. Then they’d stagger back across the river to sleep it off and start again the next morning.

Such was the life of a Macedonian officer in Babylon.

But every man has needs and a soldier on campaign knows where to satisfy them. Rumor was rife that the Temple of Ishtar held particular pleasures, and so Philip and his roommates headed out one evening.

As always, a gaggle of local urchins followed with outstretched hands in the hope of coin or trinkets. They paid off a couple and lost the rest once clear of the market. They’d heard that since the army’s arrival, inflation in the city had rocketed.

But economics was the last thing on their minds.

Supposedly, said Kleitos, as they crossed the bridge over the Euphrates, it’s the duty of every Babylonian woman to perform sacred prostitution in the temple at least once in her life. They cannot refuse any man who chooses them, and are so afraid of being chosen by a neighbor or their husband’s rival, that they continually put it off. But now we’ve arrived, foreigners who they’ll never see again, and so the women of Babylon are flocking to the temple to perform their sacred rite. He guffawed excitedly. We’re doing them a favor.

They all laughed, and continued to grin as they wound their way through the backstreets; they’d been in the field for quite a while.

The Temple of Ishtar stood in the shadow of the mighty Ziggurat of Babel. From its forecourt, an ornamental way led straight to the lower steps of the great staircase. Climb it, so the story went, and you could touch the heavens from its summit.

Another day, perhaps, they’d have been interested. But tonight, Philip and his companions hurried across the forecourt and passed through the temple’s open brass gates, entering an inner enclosure. It was crowded. Greek and Macedonian soldiers thronged the yard and jammed the doors. Officers, troopers, mercenaries alike; the story had spread and nobody wanted to miss the novelty — respectable women acting like whores.

Where are they? said Philip, but his words were drowned in the hubbub of voices and his companions were swallowed up in the crowd. He could no longer see Kleitos, so pushed and jostled his way forward, following the general direction of the mob. He found himself at a doorway and squeezed through. Inside, he was in a narrow corridor with a line of doors either side. The pushing and scuffling continued unabated; Philip could barely breathe in the crush. Voices became increasingly strident and sweat and testosterone hung like a cloud.

Philip caught a glimpse of a woman being escorted through the throng by a bodyguard of burly priests. She was older, quite matronly. Her dress was torn and hair disheveled; she looked distressed. She and her guards disappeared up the corridor, harassed by the leering catcalls of the troopers on every side.

Philip reached one of the doors and peered between the heads of those in front. He could see a small, cell-like room, containing a stone slab with a mattress on top, a wash stand, and nothing else. A woman lay on the mattress; a naked trooper flopped up and down on top of her. Two more women stood in the corner, wearing sacred crowns of cords and waiting their turn. Along both inner walls, priests stood in attendance, some to snatch the woman away once her duty had been performed, the others guarding the two waiting women.

The same ritual was taking place in each of the rooms along the corridor; every woman in Babylon was taking the opportunity to complete the rite before the army left the city.

The trooper was done. A priest dragged him off the woman and propelled him toward the door, while another pulled in the next man and told him to get started. His friends at the door shouted their encouragement. The woman on the mattress looked wild-eyed.

After an hour of jostling, it was Philip’s turn. A priest snatched the coins from his hand and barked something which he assumed was an order to undress. He grinned and glanced at the woman as he removed his sword and pulled his tunic over his head. She wore an expensive necklace and looked old enough to be his mother.

The priest nearest the bed examined him for disease, and then suddenly jumped in surprise. He reached out to Philip, tried to turn him around by the shoulders. In his excited state, Philip reacted angrily, shoving back and pushing the priest against the wall. There were shouts and a couple of the others drew blades. The first priest said something to placate them and pointed at Philip’s chest, turned him around more gently. The other priests all gasped.

What is it? said Philip, looking down. He was erect and ready for the woman; surely it couldn’t be that.

Your tattoo, said one of the priests in Greek. Where did you get it?

Philip looked down at his chest, then up again, puzzled. My tattoo? I got it in Macedonia before we left. It’s the Macedonian Sun.

The exchange was interrupted by the men at the door, who began shouting angrily at the hold up. The priests muttered something to each other and one of them disappeared into the corridor.

Continue, said the Greek-speaker, indicating the bed.

Philip mounted the mattress and then the woman. He could smell her breath; she’d had fish stew for supper. She looked exhausted. The quota seemed to be four or five men to complete the rite, and he guessed he was probably her last. She’d soon be heading home with her sacred duty to Ishtar fulfilled.

He finished and withdrew. Hands pulled him off the bed and thrust his tunic and scabbard at him. He grabbed them and headed for the door. Outside, he