‘We thank you, lords, for your help,’ she said, her voice sweet and lilting, almost musical.
‘It was our pleasure,’ Attalus told her. ‘What true men would have acted differently?’
‘You are hurt,’ she said, moving forward and reaching up to touch his face. ‘You must let us tend your wounds. We have herbs and healing powders.’
Ignoring Parmenion the women closed around Attalus, leading him to a fallen tree and sitting beside him. A young girl in a dress of shimmering blue sat upon the swordsman’s lap, lifting a broad green leaf which she placed over the wound on his cheek. When she pulled the leaf clear the gash had vanished, the skin appearing clean and unbroken. Another woman repeated the manoeuvre with the cut on the warrior’s left forearm.
The satyr reappeared from the edge of the trees and skipped forward to Parmenion bearing a goblet of wine. The Spartan thanked him and sat down to drink. Smiling nervously, the satyr moved away.
The attempt to rescue the women was everything that Attalus implied: romantic, stupid and, considering the odds, suicidal, and Parmenion’s spirits were low as he sat apart from the group. Thinking back he remembered the quiet joy he had felt watching the women, and the sudden explosive anger that had raced through him when he heard their screams. Images leapt to his mind, like a window thrown open in a hidden corner of his soul, and he saw again the children of Methone piled carelessly one upon another in a grisly hill of the dead.
The city was being prepared for destruction and Parmenion had ridden through it, overseeing the demolition. He had stopped in the main market square, where wagons were drawn up to remove the bodies.
Nicanor was riding beside him. Turning to the blond warrior, Parmenion had asked a simple question.
‘Why?’
‘Why what, my friend?’ replied Nicanor, mystified.
‘The children. Why were they slain?’
Nicanor had shrugged. ‘The women go to the slave markets of Asia, the men to Pelagonia to build the new fortresses there. There is no price any more for young children.’
‘And that is the answer?’ whispered the general. ‘There is no price?’
‘What other answer is there?’ the warrior responded.
Parmenion rode from the city without a backward glance, determined never again to view the aftermath of such victories. Now, here in this enchanted wood, the realization struck him with sickening force that he was a coward. As a general he set in motion the events that led to horror, and had believed that by not allowing himself to witness the brutality he was somehow freed from the guilt of it.
Sipping his wine, he found the weight of his grief too powerful to bear and tears spilled to his cheeks, all sense of self-worth flowing from him.
He did not know at which point he fell asleep, but he awoke in a soft bed in a room with walls of interlaced vines and a ceiling of leaves.
Feeling rested and free of burdens, his heart light, he pushed back the covers and swung his legs from the bed. The floor was carpeted with moss, soft and springy below his feet as he rose. There was no door in the vines and he approached them, pushing his hands against the hanging wall and moving the leaves aside. Sunlight streamed in, almost blinding him, and he stepped out into a wide glade bordered by oak trees. Standing still for a moment, as his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he heard the sound of rushing water and turned to see a waterfall gushing over white marble, filling a deep pool around which sat a group of women. Others were swimming through the crystal-clear water, laughing and splashing each other, tiny rainbows forming in the spray.
As Parmenion strolled towards the group a looming figure moved from his right and he saw the minotaur, Brontes. The creature bowed clumsily, his great bull’s head dipping and rising.
‘Welcome to my home,’ he said.
‘How did I come here?’
‘I carried you.’
‘Why?’
‘You drank the wine, Human. It made you sleep and gave you dreams. Then more Makedones came and the Lady bade me bring you.’
‘Where is Attalus?’
‘Your companion still sleeps - and will continue so to do. Come, the Lady waits.’ The minotaur strode on, past the waterfall, angling to the right through the trees and coming at last to another wall of vines. Two women stood by them, pulling them apart for the minotaur to enter. Parmenion followed, finding himself in a natural hall columned by tall cypress trees and roofed by flowers. Birds of all kinds were flying here, swooping and diving high among the multi-coloured blooms.
There were many pools within the hall, surrounded by white marble boulders from which grew enormous flowers of salmon-pink and crimson. Yellow-stoned paths had been set around the pools, curving across the moss-covered floor of the hall, all leading to the dais at the far end.
Ignoring the women and satyrs who sat by the water’s edge, Brontes marched on until he stood before the dais. His brothers, Steropes and Arges, were sitting here, but Parmenion barely glanced at them; his eyes were drawn to the naked woman who sat upon a throne carved from a huge block of shining marble. Her hair was white - but not the tired, listless colour of the aged, more the proud, unconquered white of mountain snow. Her eyes were grey, her face ageless, unlined and smooth, but not young. Her body was slim, breasts small, hips boyish.
Parmenion bowed low. The woman rose from the throne and climbed from the dais, taking the Spartan’s arm and leading him deeper into the hall, then out through the vines to a hollow in the hills bathed in sunshine.
‘Who are you, Lady?’ he asked, as she sat beneath a spreading oak.
‘Men have given me many names,’ she answered. ‘More than the stars, I think. But you may continue to call me Lady. I like the sound of it upon your tongue. Now sit beside me, Parmenion, and tell me of your son, Alexander.’ It was a moment before he realized what she had said, and a cold thrill of fear whispered through his soul.
‘He is the son of my King,’ he told her, as he stretched out on the grass beside her. ‘He has been abducted by Philippos. I am here to return him to... his father.’
She smiled, but her knowing eyes held his gaze. ‘He is your child, sired during a night of Mysteries. It is a shame you bear - with many other guilts and despairs. I know you, Man, I know your thoughts and your fears. You may speak openly.’
Parmenion looked away. ‘I am sorry that you have seen so much, Lady. It grieves me to bring my... darkness... to this place of beauty.’
Her fingers touched his face, stroking the skin. ‘Do not concern yourself with such shame - your guilt is all that kept you alive after you drank my wine. For only the good can know guilt and you are not evil, Parmenion. There is kindness in your heart and greatness in your soul - which is more than can be said for your companion. I have let him live only because you need him. But he will sleep on until you leave, and will never see my land.’ Rising smoothly, she walked to the crest of a hill and stood staring at the distant mountains. Parmenion followed her and listened as she pointed out the landmarks. ‘There, far to the west, are the Pindos Mountains, and there, across the plains to the south, is River Peneios. You know these places, for they exist in your own world. But further south there are cities you will not know: Cadmos, Thospae, Leonidae. They fight in a league against Philippos - and will soon fall. Athens was destroyed during the spring. Soon only one city state will stand against the Tyrant: Sparta. When you find Alexander, take him there.’
‘First I must find him,’ said the warrior.
‘He is with the magus, Chiron, and safe for the moment. But Philippos will find him soon, and the Wood of the Centaurs will prove no barrier to the Makedones.’
Turning to him she took his arm, leading him back through the glades to the hall of vines.
‘Once upon a time,’ she said, her voice soft and sorrowful, ‘I could have helped you in this quest. No longer. We are the people of the Enchantment, and we are slowly dying. Our magic is failing, our sorcery faint against the bright swords of the Makedones. I give
you my blessing, Parmenion. There is little else.’
‘It is enough, Lady, and a gift I am unworthy of,’ he told her, taking her hand and kissing it. ‘But why give me even that?’
‘Our interests may yet be mutual. As I said, the Enchantment is fading. Yet there is a legend here that all of us know. It is said that a golden child will come among us, and the land will shine once more. Do you think Alexander is that golden child?’
‘How could I know?’
‘How indeed? Once I could see into the future - not far, but far enough to be able to protect my people. Now I see only the past and lost glories. And perhaps I too cling to foolish legends. Sleep now - and awake refreshed!’
He awoke wrapped in his cloak at the camp-site, the horses grazing by the stream. Across from the dead fire Attalus slept on, no signs of wounds upon his face and arms.
Parmenion stood and walked through the woods to the clearing. There were no bodies here, but dried blood still stained the earth.
Back at the camp-site he woke Attalus.
‘I had the strangest dream,’ said the swordsman. ‘I dreamt we rescued a group of nymphs. There was a minotaur and... and... damn, it’s fading now.’ Attalus rolled to his feet and brushed dirt from his cloak. ‘I hate forgetting dreams,’ he said. ‘But I remember the nymphs - wonderful women, beautiful beyond description. What of you? How did you sleep?’
‘Without dreams,’ answered the Spartan.
Derae watched Parmenion and Attalus ride west, then stepped from the shadows of the trees to the centre of the camp-site. Her hair was no longer flame-red but a deep brown, close-cropped. Her face was more square, her nose long, her eyes, once sea-green, now hazel beneath thick brows.
‘You are certainly no beauty now,’ Aristotle told her, as they stood in the Stone Circle following the departure of the Macedonians.
‘I will not need beauty,’ she answered, her voice deep and almost husky.
She had stepped through the portal in time to see Parmenion and Attalus riding into the woods and had followed them, settling herself down a little way from their camp-site. At first she had intended to introduce herself that same night but, reaching out with her Talent, she touched the souls of both men, learning their fears. They were uneasy with one another. Parmenion did not trust the cold-eyed Macedonian warrior, while Attalus had no love for the man he considered an arrogant Spartan. They needed time, she realized and, wrapping herself in her cloak, she slept.
She was awakened by the sound of laughter and heard the two Macedonians creeping through the undergrowth. Soaring from her body, she viewed the scene from above and was the first to see the dark-cloaked Makedones warriors making their way through the woods towards the women.
When the first screams came, Derae sped to Parmenion. His emotions were surging. Part of him yearned to rescue the maidens, but a stronger desire was to stay safe and think of Alexander. Instinctively Derae used her power, filling him with a new sense of purpose. Even as she did so she knew it was a mistake. One against ten would mean the death of the man she loved. Transferring her spirit to Attalus, she swiftly read his intent. There was no way he would go to Parmenion’s aid. His mind was locked to a single thought: Protect yourself! With nothing else to work on Derae made his fear swell. If Parmenion was to die Attalus would be trapped in this world for ever, all his riches counting for nothing. Never would he see his palaces and his concubines. He would spend his life as a mercenary soldier in a world that was not his own. His anger was colossal as he drew his sword and raced to Parmenion’s aid.
The two warriors fought magnificently, but Derae was sickened by the slaughter and, when it was over, withdrew to her body, carrying with her a sense of shame.
The deaths were on her conscience. She had manipulated the events, and that was contrary to all her beliefs. Long into the night she tried to rationalize her actions. The Makedones were intent on rape and murder. Had she not intervened the women would have been abused and slain. But their deaths would not have been your fault, she told herself. Now the blood of the Makedones was on her hands.
What could I have done, she asked herself? Whatever action or inaction she had chosen would still have resulted in tragedy, for there had been no time to influence all of the Makedones. But you did influence them, she thought. You slowed their reflexes, giving Parmenion and Attalus an edge.
Filled with self-doubt the Healer slept, dreaming of centaurs and a Demon King. In the midst of her dream she was awoken by the touch of a hand and sat up to see a naked white-haired woman sitting on a fallen tree. Behind her stood the minotaur she had seen at the clearing. The moon was high and a shaft of light bathed the woman, making her seem almost ethereal.
‘You did well, seeress,’ the woman said. ‘You saved my children.’
‘It was wrong of me to interfere,’ Derae told her.
‘Nonsense. Your actions saved not only my people but the two men you follow. Had they not acted as they did, then Brontes and his brothers would have slain them while they slept.’
‘Why?’ asked Derae. ‘What harm have they done you?’
‘They are Humans,’ answered the woman. ‘It is enough.’
‘What do you want of me?’
‘Your blood is of the Enchantment. That is why you have the Talent, parmenion also is a man of Power. You are strangers to this world, and I need to know if you come to do good or to work evil.’
‘I will never knowingly help the cause of Chaos,’ answered Derae. ‘But that does not necessarily mean that I will always do good. For many years I fought the Chaos Spirit, seeking to prevent him becoming flesh. But I was responsible for his birth.’
‘I know. Parmenion sired Iskander, and now the Demon King seeks him.’ The woman was silent for a time, her expression distant. Then she turned her gaze once more to the Healer. ‘The Enchantment is dying. Can you help to save it?’
‘No.’
The woman nodded. ‘Neither can I. But, if the child is truly Iskander...’ She sighed. ‘I have no choice.’ Turning to the minotaur she laid a slender hand on his huge shoulder. ‘Go with her, Brontes, and help where you can. If the child is not Iskander, then return to me. If he is, then do what you must to get him to the Gateway.’
‘I will, Mother,’ he answered.
The moonlight faded, and with it the white-haired woman, but the minotaur remained. Derae reached out with her spirit - but was met by an invisible wall.
‘You do not need to read my thoughts,’ he told her, his voice impossibly sweet. ‘I am no danger to you.’
‘How can there be no danger when there is so much hate?’ she countered.
He did not reply.
The Wood of the Centaurs
Alexander sat in the warm sunlight at the mouth of the cave, high on the mountain, staring out over the roof of the forest and the plains beyond. Despite his fear he felt wonderfully free in the Wood of the Centaurs. Here he could touch without killing and sleep without dreams. Yesterday a silver-grey bird had landed on his hand, sitting there warm in the security of his friendship, and not once had the killing power threatened to flow. It was a form of bliss Alexander had never known. He missed his home, and his mother and father, but the longing was eased by this new-found joy.
Chiron wandered out into the open. ‘A fine day, young prince,’ he said.
‘Yes. It is beautiful. Tell me of the centaurs.’
‘What would you wish to know?’ asked the magus.
‘How do they survive? I know something of horses, and the amount they must eat and drink. Their throats and stomachs are made for digesting grass and vast quantities of liquids. And their lungs are huge. I cannot see how the centaurs can function. Do they have two sets of lungs? Do they eat grass? And if so how do they manage it, for they cannot bend like the neck of a horse?’
Chiron chuckled. ‘Good questions, Alexander. Your mind works well. You saw me with Caymal and it is the same with the true centaurs. They live like men and women, but they have formed
special bonds with their mounts. They Merge in the hours of daylight, but at dusk they separate.’
‘What happens if a horse dies? Can the centaur find another?’
‘No. If the horse dies the man - or woman - will fade and pass away within a day, occasionally two.’
‘Would that happen to you if Caymal died?’ Alexander asked.
‘No, for I am not a true centaur. Our Merging is born of external magic. That is why Camiron feels so isolated. Lost, if you will.’
Chiron passed the boy a chunk of sweet bread and, for a while, the companions ate in silence. Then the boy spoke again. ‘Where did it begin?’ he enquired.
‘What an enormous question that is,’ the magus answered. ‘And who am I to attempt an answer? The world once brimmed with natural magic, in every stone and brook, every tree and hill. Many thousands of years ago there was a race of men who harnessed that magic. They strode the earth like gods - indeed they were gods, for they became almost immortal. They were bright, imaginative, inquisitive. And their children were the Titans, giants if they chose to be, poets if they wished to be. Times of wonder followed, but they are difficult to describe - especially to a four-year-old, albeit one as brilliant as Alexander. I would imagine you saw, at your own court, how men and women seek out the new - cloaks in different colours, dresses of different shape and design. Well, in the Old World the Titans sought out different shapes in the cloak of life. Some wished to be birds, having wings to soar into the sky. Others wished to swim in the depths of the sea. All manner of hybrids graced the earth.’ Chiron lapsed into silence, his eyes focused on the past.
‘What happened then?’ whispered Alexander.
‘What always happens, boy. There was a great war, a time of astonishing cruelty and carnage. A vast amount of the world’s magic was used up in that terrible confrontation. Look around you and see the trees. It would seem impossible that they could all be cut down. But if Man sets his mind to a matter he will achieve it, no matter how destructive. What I am saying is that all things are finite - even magic. The war went on for centuries, and now there are only pockets of true power. This wood is one, but out there in the New World of Men the stones are empty, the brooks and hills devoid of magic. So the children of the Titans - those who survive anyway - are drawn to these few areas of Enchantment, held to them by chains stronger than death.’