And I will, he promised himself. Once we find the boy - and a way home.
Chiron strolled beside the stream, his thoughts sombre. The world’s Enchantment was fading fast. Now there were fewer than a hundred areas across the globe where primal magic oozed from rock and tree. Only seven remained in Achaea.
Kneeling by the water, he cupped his hands and drank. Philippos had been a bright, intelligent child, swift to learn, swifter to laugh. But the evil within him, the Spirit of Chaos, had finally won him, destroying all that was human, all that had knowledge of kindness and beauty.
Sorrow descended on Chiron like a terrible weight. His shoulders sagged and he lifted his eyes to the heavens. ‘Perhaps it is time to die,’ he said softly. ‘Perhaps I have lived too long.’ Rising, he walked from the trees to the slopes of his mountain and began the long climb to the cave.
He saw Caymal grazing nearby and waved, but the horse did not see him. Chiron’s legs ached by the time he reached the cave and he stopped to rest for a moment, drawing the healing stone from the pouch at his side and holding it in his hand.
Strength flowed in his limbs and once more the desire came to let the magic stream into his blood, bringing him the full power of youth. But the once golden stone was almost drained of Enchantment and he dared not exhaust it. Dropping it back in the pouch, he strode through the cave and on into the palace, seeking Alexander.
The boy was nowhere in sight. At first Chiron was unworried. The palace was large, with a score of rooms; all children loved to explore and many of the rooms here contained artefacts that would fascinate a child like Alexander. But as time passed Chiron’s concern grew. Surely the boy would have more sense than to wander away into the forest, he thought.
Then he came to the room of the mirror table and saw the severed hand on the cold marble floor, the talons stained with blood.
‘No!’ he whispered. ‘No!’ Moving to the table, he saw that the cloth had been hastily thrown over it. With trembling hands Chiron eased it clear and found himself staring down into the tent of Philippos. The King was sitting upon an ebony throne. He looked up, his golden eye gleaming in the firelight.
‘Ah, you are back, my friend,’ said the King. ‘How are you faring?’
‘Better than you, I fear,’ answered Chiron.
‘How can that be? I am Makedon, and my armies conquer all who stand in my way. Better than that, I am invulnerable.’
‘You are inhuman, Philippos. There is nothing left of the boy I knew.’
The King’s laughter filled the room. ‘Nonsense, Chiron! I am he. But, as a man, it is necessary to put aside childish ways. Where am I different from the kings who ruled before me?’
‘I will not debate with you. You are no longer human. Your soul is long dead; you fought a brave battle against the Dark, and it defeated you. I pity you.’
‘Save your pity, Chiron,’ said the King, no trace of anger in his tone. ‘It is misplaced. I did not suffer defeat - I overcame the Chaos Spirit and now he serves me. But you have something that I desire. Will you give it to me - or must I take it?’
Chiron shook his head. ‘You must take it... if you can. But it will serve no purpose. The child will not bring you immortality. He is not Iskander; he is the son of a King in another land.’
Philippos stood. ‘If he is not the One, then I will keep searching. I will have what I desire, Chiron. It is my destiny.’
‘There is no more to say,’ said Chiron. ‘Begone!’ His hand swept across the surface of the table and, for a moment only, the mirror shimmered into darkness. Then the face of Philippos returned.
‘You see,’ hissed the King, ‘you no longer even have the power to dismiss my image. Send me the boy - or I will see your blood flow upon my altar. You know that I can do it, Chiron. All your centuries of life will be gone. You will be no more. That frightens you, doesn’t it? I can see it in your eyes. Bring me the child and you will live. Defy me and I will make your death last as long as your life.’
The mirror darkened. Chiron covered it and backed from the room, running up the stairs and out through the cave.
Then he saw Kytin’s bow and quiver lying where the centaur had left them, and heard the beating of wings from the sky above him.
Kytin galloped across the sunlit clearing, reared, and sent an arrow flashing into the heart of a hovering Vore whose wings collapsed, its pale form crashing to the grass. A black dart narrowly missed Kytin’s head and the centaur swung to send a second arrow winging its way into his assailant’s belly.
Eleven centaurs were down and more than thirty Vores, but still they came - their great wings flapping, their deadly missiles slashing through the air.
‘Back under the trees!’ shouted Kytin. ‘They cannot fly there!’ Several centaurs made a dash for the forest, but amid the stamping hooves, the beating of wings and the screams of the dying many others could not hear him and fought on. A Vore dropped from the sky to Kytin’s back, sharp talons cutting into the centaur’s shoulder. The old man bellowed in rage and pain, bucking and flinging the creature into the air. Its wings spread wide, halting its fall. Kytin leapt forward, his huge hands grabbing the scrawny neck and twisting savagely, snapping the hollow bones of the Vore’s throat.
A dart sliced into Kytin’s back, the poison streaming into his blood like acid. The imminence of death galvanized the centaur. Twisting and rearing he galloped to Gaea’s hut, ducking inside the doorway and stepping over the dart-pierced body of the old healer to gather up the still-sleeping child. Kytin’s legs almost buckled, but with a supreme effort of will he raced back out into the daylight with the boy held safe in his arms, and thundered towards the trees. Two more darts struck him, one piercing the flesh beside his long spine, the other glancing from his hind-quarters. Then he was past his attackers and on to the mountain path.
Vores soared up above the trees, but they could not easily follow him, for the branches were interlaced like a canopy over the trail. Several of the creatures flew low, but the undergrowth was thick, overhanging limbs hampering their flight.
Kytin galloped on, the poison spreading through his limbs. Twice he stumbled and almost fell, but drew on his reserves of strength and courage, holding himself alive by the power of his dream.
Iskander! He had to rescue the boy. The Enchantment had to be saved.
He ran on deeper into the forest, seeking a cave, a hollow tree - anywhere he could hide the boy. But his eyes were veiled by a grey mist that swirled across his mind, and so many thoughts flitted by him, old memories, scenes of triumph and tragedy. He saw again the fight with Boas, the great ride to Cadmos, his marriage to Elena, the birth of his first child...
The boy awoke and struggled in his arms.
‘It is all right, Iskander,’ he told him, his voice slurred now. ‘I will save you.’
‘There is blood on your chin, staining your beard,’ said the boy. ‘You are hurt.’
‘All... will... be well.’
The centaur slowed, his front legs buckling, Alexander tumbling from his arms and landing on his back with the breath knocked out of him.
A Vore swooped down between the high branches with arms outstretched, a rope dangling from his hands. The boy tried to run, but he was still winded and the loop dropped over his shoulders, pulling tight. Alexander screamed as he was pulled into the air.
An arrow plunged into the Vore’s side. Letting go the rope the creature tried to escape, but his wings crashed against a branch and he somersaulted through the air before falling to his death.
Two horsemen galloped into sight and Alexander looked up.
‘Parmenion!’ he cried. The Spartan leapt to the ground and drew his sword. A black dart flashed towards him but his sword-blade batted it aside. Another arrow lanced through the air, bringing a screech of pain from a hovering Vore. Parmenion picked up the boy and ran back to the gelding.
‘No!’ shouted Alexander. ‘We mustn’t leave! My friend is hurt!’
‘Your friend is
dead, boy,’ Attalus told him, notching another arrow to his bow. ‘Where to now, strategos? I can hear more of them coming.’
The cave,‘ Alexander told them.
‘Which way?’ asked Parmenion, lifting the boy to the gelding and vaulting to sit behind him.
There on the mountainside!‘ shouted Alexander, pointing to a break in the trees.
‘Can we outrun them?’ Attalus asked.
‘I would doubt it,’ answered Parmenion. ‘But we must try.’
Urging their mounts to a run, the Macedonians raced along the narrow trail and out onto the mountainside.
‘Up there!’ yelled Alexander. Parmenion glanced up. The black mouth of the cave was less than two hundred paces from them. Looking back, he saw the Vores closing fast. They would not reach it in time.
Attalus was ahead; the powerful grey, with less of a load, was surging on towards the sanctuary of the cave. A black dart lanced into the stallion’s back. For a few moments the beast ran on, then its front legs gave way, pitching Attalus to the earth. The swordsman hit hard, but rolled to his knees. He still held the bow - but it was snapped at the tip. Flinging it aside, he drew his sword.
Parmenion leapt down beside him, slapping the gelding’s rump and urging the beast towards the cave. With less to carry the gelding sped on, Alexander clinging to his mane.
Suddenly a flash of lightning exploded into the hovering ranks of the Vores, scattering them and killing more than twenty. In the momentary confusion Parmenion saw their chance to escape. ‘Run!’ he yelled, turning to sprint up the mountainside.
A grey-haired man stepped into their path, but he did not look at them. Instead his hands were raised, pointing at the skies. Blinding white light leapt from his fingers, and the air was filled with the smell of burning flesh and the echoing death-cries of the Vores.
Without looking back, the Macedonians scrambled into the cave where Alexander waited. ‘Follow me!’ ordered the boy, leading them through the illusory wall and into the palace.
‘Can the beasts follow us here?’ asked Parmenion.
‘Chiron says no enemies can pass through the wall,’ the boy answered.
‘We’ll see,’ said Parmenion, hefting his sword and waiting, Attalus beside him.
Chiron appeared. ‘I must offer you my thanks,’ said the magus, smiling.
‘That’s why you sent us here,’ replied Parmenion. ‘It is good to see you again, Aristotle.’
‘I fear there is some mistake,’ the magus told them. ‘I do not know you.’
‘What game is this?’ hissed Attalus, moving forward to lay his sword on Chiron’s shoulder, the blade resting against his throat. ‘You send us into a world of madness and now claim we are strangers? No jests, magusl I am not in the mood for them.’
‘Wait!’ said Parmenion, stepping in and lifting Attalus’ blade clear. ‘What is your name, friend?’
‘I am Chiron,’ the magus told him. ‘The name Aristotle is not known to me. But this is truly fascinating. I exist - in another form - in your world. And in how many others, I wonder?’
‘Are you believing this?’ stormed Attalus. ‘We can see who he is!’
‘No,’ said Parmenion. ‘Look closely. He is more thick-set, and Aristotle has a small scar on his right temple. Other than that they could be twins. But, before we enter into a debate, let us first ascertain how safe we are here. Can the creatures enter?’
‘Not immediately,’ replied the magus. ‘But the Enemy has many allies, and my power is not what it was.’
Parmenion strolled to the window, staring out at the sparkling ocean. ‘Are we still in your world, magus, or is this yet another?’
‘It is the same - merely in a different place. There are seven centres of Power in Achaea. I can travel between them. This palace is on the Gulf of Malin.’
‘Malin? Malia, perhaps,’ whispered Parmenion. ‘Is there a pass close by, with a name similar to Thermopylae?’
‘Exactly that. Two days’ ride to the south.’
‘Then Thebes will be the closest major city.’
‘There is no city of that name,’ the magus told him.
‘The White Lady spoke of Cadmos.’
‘What White Lady?’ put in Attalus, but the other two men ignored him.
‘Yes, there is Cadmos, the strongest city of central Achaea,’ agreed Chiron, ‘but the Makedones have it besieged. They will not hold out against Philippos. What is it you plan?’
‘We must get to Sparta,’ said Parmenion.
‘Why there?’ asked Attalus. ‘And who is this Lady? Will someone tell me what is going on?’
‘A good question, my friend,’ said Chiron, laying his hand on the swordsman’s shoulder. ‘Let us go to the kitchens, where I will prepare food and we can sit and talk. There is much here I also do not understand.’
Later, as they sat in the open air, Parmenion told Attalus of the meeting with the lady of the glade, and of her advice. ‘It was no dream. We fought the Makedones, and were then drugged. I do not know who the Lady was, but she treated me well and I believe her advice to be sound.’
‘I would not know about that,’ snapped Attalus, ‘since she did not have the good manners to wake me. Why you, Spartan? Am I seen as some lackey running in your footsteps?’
‘I cannot answer your questions. The glade was a place of magic and beauty. I do not think they desired the presence of men. But we rescued the nymphs and therefore, I suppose, earned their gratitude.’
‘They showed it well, leaving me asleep on the cold earth. Well, a curse on them! I care nothing for them, nor any of the deformed monsters of this place. I have only one question: How do we get home?’ he asked, turning to the magus.
Chiron spread his arms. ‘I do not know.’
‘Does anyone know anything here?’ stormed Attalus, rising and stalking out into the gardens and down the steps to the wide beach.
‘Your friend is frightened,’ said Chiron. ‘I cannot say that I blame him.’
Parmenion nodded. ‘He is a powerful man back in Macedonia and he needs to feel in control of his surroundings. Here, he is like a leaf in a storm.’
‘I sense you are not friends. Why did he accompany you on this quest?’
‘He has his own reasons,’ said Parmenion. ‘The first among them is to see that I do not rescue Alexander alone. He wishes to share in that glory, and will risk his life to that end.’
‘And what of you, Parmenion? Are you frightened?’
‘Of course. This world is strange to me; I have no place in it. But I am a hopeful man. I have found Alexander and, for the moment, we are safe. That is enough.’
Alexander walked out into the sunshine and clambered on to Parmenion’s lap. ‘I knew you’d come, Parmenion. I told you, didn’t I, Chiron?’
‘Yes you did, young prince. You are a good judge of men.’
‘Why is Attalus here? I don’t like him.’
‘He is here to help you,’ said Parmenion. ‘Now, why don’t you go down to the beach and make friends with him?’
‘Must I?’
‘He is your father’s most trusted warrior, and Philip does not give such trust lightly. Go. Speak to him. Then make your judgements.’
‘You are just trying to get rid of me so that you can talk to Chiron.’
‘Exactly right,’ Parmenion admitted, with a broad smile.
‘Very well then,’ said the boy, easing himself to the ground and walking away.
‘He’s a fine child,’ said Chiron, ‘and he loves you dearly.’
Ignoring the comment, Parmenion stood and stretched his back. ‘Tell me something of this world, magus. Make me feel less of a stranger.’
‘What do you wish to know?’
‘The balance of power. Begin with Philippos. When did he come to the throne - and how?’
Chiron poured a goblet of wine, sipping it before answering. ‘He murdered his brother Perdikkas ten years ago and seized the crown. Then he led his troops into Illyria and th
e north, conquering their cities and stealing their mines. Athens declared war, as did the cities of the Trident
The Trident?‘
‘The lands of the Halkidike?’
‘Ah yes. The Chalcidice. Go on.’
Thilippos crushed the armies of the Trident three years ago, then conquered Thrace.‘
‘What about the Persian empire?’
‘What empire?’ asked Chiron, chuckling. ‘How could such uncouth barbarians have an empire?’
Parmenion leaned back. ‘Then who rules the lands of Asia?’
‘No one. It is a wilderness populated by nomadic tribes who slaughter and kill each other in scores of meaningless wars. There are Greek cities on the coastline, once ruled by Athens or Sparta, but no... empire. Is there such where you come from?’
‘Yes,’ Parmenion told him. ‘The greatest the world has ever seen. The Great King rules from the borders of Thrace to the edge of the world. Even Greece... Achaea as you call it... pays homage to Persia. But you were telling me about the conquest of Thrace.’
Chiron nodded. ‘The army of Makedon moved through the country like a forest fire, destroying everything, every city, every town. The entire population was sold into slavery, or slain. Then, last year, Philippos marched south into Thessalonika. The battle was fought near here against the combined forces of Cadmos and Athens. They were crushed utterly. Then the King skirted Cadmos and struck at Athens, burning the acropolis and killing all the citizens save those who escaped to sea. Now Cadmos faces his wrath. It will not stand long. After that it will be Sparta.’
‘Why is he so invincible?’ asked Parmenion. ‘Surely it is possible to defeat him?’
Chiron shook his head. ‘When he was a child he was... like Achilles before him... dipped into the River Styx. He is invulnerable to wounds. Unlike Achilles his mother did not neglect to cover his heel. No arrow can mark him, nor sword cut him. Then when he was twenty, and newly crowned, he asked a sorcerer of great power to create for him an eye of gold, an all-seeing eye that would allow him to read the hearts of men. The sorceror did as he was bid. Philippos took the eye and then tore his own right eye from its socket, replacing it with the magical orb.