Free Stones of Power 01 - Ghost King by David Gemmell

its lungs bubbling and its juices swelling the muscles to jaw-breaking toughness.
    His bow was a gift from his clan leader Moret, son of Eldared. It was a Roman weapon of dark horn, and he treasured it. His arrows were straight as shafts of sunlight and he trimmed each goose-feather with careful cuts. In a tourney last Astarte Day, he had brought a gasp from the crowd when he sliced to the bull through the shaft of his last hit. It was a fluke and yet highlighted his awesome eye.
    Now, as he sat hidden in the bushes of the hillside, he needed all his patience. The deer were slowly but steadily making their way towards him. He had been hidden here for two hours and his blood felt like ice even through the sheepskin cloak gathered about his slender frame. He was not a tall man, and his face was thin and angular, blue eyes set close together. His chin was pointed, emphasised by a straggly blond beard. Crouched as he now was, it was impossible to spot the deformity that set him apart from his fellows, which has deprived this finest of hunters from taking a bride.
    The deer was almost within killing range and Prasamaccus chose a fat doe as his target. With infinite lack of speed he drew a long shaft from his doeskin quiver and notched it to the bowstring.
    Just then the lead stag's head came up and the small herd scattered. Prasamaccus sighed and stood.
    He limped forward, his twisted leg causing him to hobble in a sadly comical manner. When he was a toddler he had fallen in the path of a galloping horse that smashed his left leg to shards. Now it was some eight inches shorter than the right, the foot mangled and pointing inward. He waited as the riders galloped towards him. There were two men and their horses were lathered; they ignored him and thundered past. As a hunter himself, he knew they were being pursued and glanced back along the trail. Three giant beasts were loping across the snow and Prasamaccus blinked. Bears? No bear could move that fast. His eyes widened. Lifting his hand to his mouth he let out a piercing whistle and a bay mare came galloping from the trees. He pulled himself into the saddle and slapped her rump. Unused to such treatment from a normally gentle master, the mare broke into a run. Prasamaccus steered her after the riders, swiftly overtaking their tired mounts.
    'Veer left!' he shouted. There is a ring of stones and a high hollow altar.'
    Without checking to see if they followed him, he urged the mare up the snow-covered hill and over the crest, where black stones ringed the crown of the hill like broken teeth. He clambered from the saddle and limped to the centre where a huge altar stone was set atop a crumbling structure some eight feet high. Prasamaccus clawed his way to the top, swung his quiver to the front and notched an arrow to his bow.
    The two riders, their mounts almost dead from exhaustion, reached the circle scant seconds before the beasts. Prasamaccus drew back the bow-string and let fly. The shaft sped to the first beast as it towered over a running tribesman with a braided blond beard. The arrow took the beast in its right eye and it fell back with a piercing scream that was almost human. The two men scrambled up alongside Prasamaccus, drawing their swords.
    A mist sprang up around the circle, swirling between the stones and rising to stand like a grey wall beyond the monoliths. The two remaining Atrols faded back out of sight and the three men were left at the centre in ghostly silence.
    'What are those creatures?' asked Prasamaccus.
    'Atrols,' answered Gwalchmai.
    'I thought they must be, but I expected them to be bigger,' said the bowman. Victorinus smiled grimly. The mist around the stones was now impenetrable, but it had not pervaded the centre.
    Victorinus glanced up. There was no sky, only a thick grey cloud hovering at the height of the stones.
    'Why are they not attacking?' asked the Roman. Gwalchmai shrugged. From beyond the stones came a sibilant, whispering voice.
    'Come