Dark Prince

The Forests of Olympus

The pursuing Makedones were not far behind as Camiron climbed the slopes of the mountains. Alexander looked up at the snow-crested peaks and shivered.

'How high will we go?' he called out.

'To Chiron's caves,' replied the centaur, 'on the roof of the world.'

Alexander glanced back. The Makedones were close enough now for him to see the bright sunburst emblems on their black breastplates, and their lance-points glittering in the sunlight. Camiron galloped on, seemingly tireless, while the boy held fast to the chestnut mane. 'How much further?' shouted Alexander.

Camiron paused in his climb and pointed to a forest that clung to the mountain-sides like green mist. There! The Makedones will not follow. If they do, they will die.' Bunching the muscles of his hind legs the centaur leapt forward, almost dislodging the boy as he galloped at great speed towards the trees.

As they neared the forest four centaurs rode out to meet them. All were smaller than Camiron, and only two were bearded. Armed with bows, they formed a line and waited. Camiron halted before them.

'What do you want here, outcast?' asked the leading centaur, his beard white, his flanks golden.

'I am riding to Chiron's cave,' Camiron answered diffidently. 'We are pursued by Makedones.'

'You are not welcome here,' said another. 'You will bring us trouble.'

'It is the order of Chiron,' protested Camiron. 'I must obey.'

'Lickspittle!' snorted a third centaur. 'What is the Human to you? Are you a slave to his bidding?'

'I am no man's slave,' said Camiron, his voice deepening. Alexander could feel the centaur's muscles tensing.

Leaning back, the boy lifted his hand, catching the attention of the newcomers.

'Would you surrender one of your own to his enemies?' he asked.

'Speak when you are spoken to, Human!' snapped the white-bearded leader.

'No,' replied Alexander. 'Answer my question — or does your cowardice shame you to silence?'

'Let me kill him, Father!' shouted a youngster, notching an arrow to his bow.

'No!' thundered White-beard. 'Let them pass!'

'But, Father

'Let them pass, I say.' The centaurs moved aside and Camiron galloped into the trees. There were more horse people here, all armed with bows. Alexander swung to see the Makedones toiling up the slope, and he heard their screams as the first volley of arrows tore into them.

But the sounds of battle faded as they rode deeper into the forest.

Camiron was silent as they moved on, but Alexander could feel the deep well of his anguish. The boy could think of nothing to say and settled down once more against the.broad back. At last they came to a clearing and an open cave-mouth. Camiron trotted inside and lifted Alexander to the ground.

'There is no sign of Chiron,' said the centaur, his eyes brooding and angry.

'May I thank you?' asked Alexander, moving close to the beast. 'You saved my life, and you were very courageous.'

'I am the bravest of them all,' said Camiron. 'And the strongest,' he added, lifting his arms and tensing the huge muscles of his biceps.

'You are indeed,' the boy agreed. 'I have never seen anyone stronger.'

The centaur swung his head. 'Where is Chiron, boy? You said he would be here.'

'No,' said Alexander slowly. 'I said he asked you to come here — to bring me to safety. He told me you could be trusted; he talked of your courage.'

'I hurt,' said Camiron suddenly, touching his hand to the shallow gash in his flanks. The blood had already begun to congeal around the wound, but it had flowed down the right foreleg, matting the hair.

'If there is water, I will clean it for you,' offered the boy.

'Why is Chiron not here? Why is he never here? I need him.' The tone was suddenly plaintive, with an edge of panic.

'Chiron!' he bellowed, the sound echoing in the cave. 'Chiron!'

'He will come,' promised Alexander. 'But you must rest. Even one as strong as you must be tired after such a ride.'

'I am not tired. But I am hungry,' he said, his dark eyes fixing on the child.

Tell me about yourself,' urged Alexander. 'I have never met a centaur, though I have heard tales of them.'

'I don't want to speak. I want to eat,' snapped Camiron, turning and trotting from the cave. Alexander sat down on a rock. He too was hungry and tired, but he dared not sleep while the unpredictable Camiron was close by. After a while he decided to explore the cave. It was not deep, but there were small alcoves that appeared man-made.

Entering the first, Alexander noticed that the right-hand wall was a slightly different shade of grey from the stone around it. Reaching out he tried to touch the rock — only to see his hand pass through it. Edging forward he passed through the wall to find himself inside a beautifully furnished room, hung with silks, the walls painted with delicate scenes from Homer, the wooden horse at the gates of Troy, the ship of Odysseus by the island of Sirens, the seeress Circe turning men into swine.

Walking to a window, Alexander gazed out over a sparkling ocean. From here he could see that the building was of white marble, supported by many columns. It was larger than his father's palace at Pella, and infinitely more beautiful. Slowly the boy wandered from room to room. There were many libraries, hundreds of scrolls on scores of shelves, and rooms full of paintings or statues* In yet another room he found sketches of animals, birds, lions and creatures of impossible shapes, some with necks twice as long as their bodies, others with noses that hung to the ground. At last he found the kitchens. Here honey-roasted hams hung from hooks and there were barrels of apples, sacks of dried apricots, pear and peach and other fruits Alexander had never seen. Sitting down at a wide table he tried them all, then remembered the centaur. Finding a silver tray, he loaded it with fruit and meats of all kinds, carrying it back to the first room and through the insubstantial wall into the cave.

'Where were you?' shouted Camiron. 'I looked for you everywhere.'

'I was fetching you some food,' answered Alexander, approaching the centaur and offering the tray. Without a word Camiron took it and began stuffing the food into his cavernous mouth, meats and fruits together. Finally he belched and threw the tray aside.

'Better,' he said. 'Now I want Chiron.'

'Why do the other centaurs not like you?' asked Alexander, changing the subject swiftly.

Camiron folded his legs and settled down on the cave-floor, his dark eyes fixed on the golden-haired boy. 'Who says that they don't? Who told you that?'

'No one told me. I saw it when they rode from the forest.'

'I am stronger than they are,' the centaur said. 'I don't need them. I need no one.'

'I am your friend,' Alexander told him.

'I need no friends,' thundered Camiron. 'None!'

'But are you not lonely?'

'No. . Yes. Sometimes,' admitted the centaur. 'But I would not be if only I could remember things. Why was I in the wood where I found you? I don't remember going there. I am so confused sometimes. It used not to be like this, I know it didn't. Well, I think it didn't. I am so tired.'

'Sleep for a while,' said Alexander. 'You will feel better for some rest.'

'Yes. Sleep,' whispered the centaur. Suddenly he looked up. 'If Chiron is not here in the morning, I will kill you.'

'We will talk about that in the morning,' said Alexander.

Camiron nodded, his head sinking to his chest. Within moments his breathing deepened. Alexander sat quietly watching the creature, feeling his loneliness slowly subside. Once more the haze began around the beast, shimmering, changing, until the human form of Chiron could be seen asleep on the floor beside the horse, Caymal.

Alexander moved to the magus, lightly touching his shoulder. Chiron awoke and yawned.

'You did well, boy,' he said. 'I knew it was a risk leaving you with. . him, but you handled the situation with skill.'

'Who is he?' asked the prince.

'Like all centaurs, he is a blend of horse and man: partly me, partly Caymal. It used to be that I could control him.

Now he grows stronger and I rarely allow him life. But I had to take the risk, for Caymal alone could not have carried us both free of the Makedones.'

'The other centaurs called him an outcast. They hate him.'

'Ah, well, that is a longer story. When first I tried the spell of Merging, I lost control of Camiron and he rode in to their village.' Chiron smiled and shook his head. 'I had not considered the timing of the Change. Caymal was in season, and hot for the company of a young mare. Camiron, full of almost childish enthusiasm, tried to force his attention on several of the village females. The males did not take kindly to such advances and chased him from the forest.'

'I see,' said the boy.

'You do? You are a surprising four-year-old.'

'But tell me why Camiron seeks you. You can never have. . met. should he even know of you?'

'A good question, Alexander. You have a fine mind. Caymal knows me and, after his own fashion, has regard for me.

When the Merge takes place the end result is a creature — Camiron — who is both of us, and yet neither of us. The part — the greater part — that is Caymal longs to be reunited with his master. It was a sad experiment, and one that I will not repeat. And yet Camiron is an interesting beast. Just like a horse, he is both easily frightened and yet capable of great courage.'

Pushing himself to his feet, Chiron led the boy back through the alcove wall into the palace beyond. 'Here we will be safe for a while. But even my powers cannot stand for long against Philippos.'

'Why does he want me, Chiron?'

'He has the powers of a god, yet he is mortal. He desires to live for ever. So far he has sired six children and has sacrificed each of them to Ahriman, the God of Darkness. But he is not yet immortal. I would imagine his priests sought you out, and you are to be the seventh victim. I can see why. You are a brilliant child, Alexander, and I feel the dark power within you. Philippos wishes to feed on that power.'

'He can have it,' said the youngster. 'It is nothing but a curse to me. Tell me, how is it that I can touch you and yet you feel no pain?'

'That is not easy to answer, young prince. The power you possess — or that possesses you — is similar to that which dominates Philippos. Yet they are different. Individual. Your demon — if you will — desires you, but he needs you to live. Therefore he lies dormant when I am close, for* he knows I am your hope for survival.'

'You speak about my power as if it is not of me.'

'Nor is it,' said the magus. 'It is a demon, a powerful demon. It has a name. Kadmilos. And he seeks to control you.'

Alexander found his mouth suddenly dry, and his hands began to tremble. 'What will happen to me if he wins?'

'You will become like Philippos. But that is a mountain you must climb on another day. You have great courage, Alexander, and an indomitable spirit. You may be able to hold him at bay. I will help you in any way that I can.'

'Why?'

'A good question, my boy, and I will answer it.' The magus sighed. 'A |°ng time ago, by your reckoning — twenty years or more — I was instructed to teach another child. He too was possessed. I taught him all that I could, but it was not enough. He became the Demon King. Now there is you.'

'But you failed with Philippos,' Alexander pointed out.

'You are stronger,' Chiron told him. 'Now tell me this, is there anyone from your world with the wit to seek you out?'

Alexander nodded. Parmenion. He will come for me. He is the greatest general and the finest warrior in Macedonia.'

'I will watch for him,' said Chiron.

The Stone Circle, Time Unknown

Aristotle led the Macedonian warriors to an ancient wood in a valley so deep as to seem subterranean. Massive trees grew here, with trunks ten times thicker than the oaks of Macedonia, their branches interlaced and completely blocking the sky. The ground was ankle-deep with rotted vegetation and the warriors led their mounts for fear that a horse might catch his hoof in a hidden pothole or leaf-covered root, snapping the leg.

No birds sang in the forest and the air was cold, without hint of breeze. The trio moved silently on, Aristotle in the lead, coming at last to an open section of land. Attalus sucked in a deep breath as sunlight touched his skin, then stared around at the huge columns of stone. They were not round, nor made of blocks, but single wedges of granite, roughly hewn and three times the height of a tall man. Some had fallen, others had cracked and split. Parmenion moved to the centre of the stone circle where an altar was raised on blocks of marble. Running his fingers down the blood channels, he turned to Aristotle.

'Who built this. . temple?'

The people of Akkady. They are lost to history. . gone. Their deeds like dust on the winds of time.'

Attalus shivered. 'I do not like this place, magus. Why are we here?'

'This is the Gateway to that other Greece. The two of you remain here, by the altar. I will prepare the Spell of Opening.'

Aristotle strode to the outer circle and sat cross-legged on the grass, hands clasped to his breast and eyes closed.

'What excuse do you think he will give when no Gateway opens?' asked Attalus, forcing a smile. Parmenion looked into the swordsman's cold blue eyes, reading the fear there.

'Now would be a good time for you to lead your horse from this circle,' he said softly.

'You think I am frightened?'

'Why should you not be?' countered Parmenion. 'I am.'

Attalus relaxed. 'A Spartan afraid? You hide it well, Parmenion. How long. .' Light blazed around the circle and the horses reared, whinnying in terror. The warriors tightened their grip on the reins, calming the frightened animals. The light faded into a darkness so absolute both men were blind. Parmenion blinked and gazed up at the sky. Gradually, as his eyes became accustomed to the night, he saw stars shining high in the heavens.

'I think,' he said, keeping his voice low, 'that we have arrived.'

Attalus hobbled the dappled grey and walked to the edge of the circle, staring out over the mountains and valleys to the south. 'I know this place,' he said. 'Look there! Is that not Olympus?' Swinging to the north, he pointed to the silver ribbon of a great river. 'And there, the River Haliakmon. This is no other world, Parmenion!'

'He said it was like Greece,' the Spartan pointed out.

'I still do not believe it.'

'What does it take to convince you?' asked Parmenion, shaking his head. 'You have passed through the solid stone of a mountain, and moved within a heartbeat from noon to midnight. Yet still you cling to the belief that it is all trickery.'

'We will see,' muttered Attalus, returning to the grey and removing the hobble. 'Let us find somewhere to camp. It is too open here for a fire.' The swordsman vaulted to the grey, riding from the circle towards a wood to the south.

As the Spartan was about to follow Attalus the voice of Aristotle whispered into his mind, echoing and distant.

'There is much I wish I could tell you, my friend,' said the magus, 'but I cannot. Your presence in this world is of vital importance — not only for the rescue of the prince. I can safely give you only two pieces of advice: first, you should remember that the enemies of your enemy can be your friends; and second, make your way to Sparta. Treat it like a beacon of light to a ship in jeopardy. Sparta is the key!'

The voice faded and Parmenion mounted his horse and rode after Attalus. The two riders made their camp by a small stream that meandered through the wood. Hobbling the horses the warriors sat in silence, enjoying the warmth of the blaze. Parmenion stretched out on the ground, closing his eyes, his mind working at the problem facing him: how to find a single child in a strange land.

Aristotle had known only that the boy was not held by the Makedones. Somehow he had escaped. Yet despite his skills the magus could not locate him. All he knew was that the child had appeared close to Olympus and the Makedones still searched for him.

Wrapping himself in his cloak, Parmenion slept.

He awoke in the night to hear a whispering laughter echoing in the woods. Sitting up he looked towards Attalus, but the swordsman was asleep beside the dead fire. Easing himself to his feet, Parmenion tried to locate the source of the laughter. Some distance away he saw twinkling lights, but the trees and undergrowth prevented him from identifying their nature and source. Moving to Attalus, he tapped the man's arm. The swordsman awoke instantly, rolling to his feet with sword in hand. Gesturing him to silence, Parmenion pointed to the flickering lights and began to edge his way towards them. Attalus followed him, sword still drawn.

They came at last to a circular clearing where torches had been set in iron brackets on the trees. A group of young women, dressed in shimmering chitons, were sitting in a circle drinking wine from golden goblets.

One of the women rose from the circle, calling out a name. Instantly a small creature ran forward, bearing a pitcher of wine and refilling her goblet. Parmenion felt Attalus tense beside him, for the creature was a satyr, no taller than a child — ears pointed, upper body bare of hair, his legs those of a goat, his hooves cloven.

Touching Attalus' arm, Parmenion backed away and the men returned to their camp.

'Were they nymphs, do you think?' asked Attalus.

Parmenion shrugged. 'I don't know,' he admitted. ‘I took little note of myths and legends when a child. Now I wish I had studied them more carefully.'

Suddenly the distant laughter faded, to be replaced by screams, high-pitched and chilling. Drawing their swords, the two men ran back through the trees. Parmenion was the first to burst into the clearing.

Armed men were everywhere. Some of the women had escaped, but at least four had been borne to the ground, black-cloaked warriors kneeling around them. A girl ran clear, pursued by two soldiers. Parmenion leapt forward, slashing his sword through the neck of the first man, then blocking a savage cut from the second. Hurling himself forward he crashed his shoulder into his assailant, spinning him from his feet.

Hearing the sound of clashing blades, the other warriors left the women and ran to the attack. There were at least ten of them and Parmenion backed away.

'Who in Hades are you?' demanded a black-bearded soldier, advancing on Parmenion with sword extended.

'I am the name of your death,' the Spartan answered.

The man laughed grimly. 'A demi-god, are you? Heracles reborn, perhaps? You think to kill ten Makedones?'

'Perhaps not,' agreed Parmenion, as the soldiers formed a semi-circle around him, 'but I'll begin with you.'

'Kill him!' the man ordered.

At that moment Attalus emerged behind the circle, stabbing one man through the back with his dagger and sending a slicing cut across the face of a second. Parmenion leapt forward as the men swung to face this new threat. The black-bearded leader parried his first lunge, but the second plunged through his leather kilt to slice open the artery in his groin.

Attalus was in trouble, desperately fending off four attackers, the remaining three turning on Parmenion. The Spartan backed away once more, then sprang forward and left, engaging a warrior and slashing his sword towards the man's neck; he swayed back and Parmenion almost lost his balance. A soldier ran at him. Dropping to one knee Parmenion thrust his sword into the man's belly, ripping the blade clear as the other two closed on him.

'Help me, Parmenion!' yelled Attalus. Diving to his left, Parmenion rolled to his feet and ran across the clearing.

Attalus had killed one man and wounded another, but now he was fighting with his back to an oak tree, and there was blood on his face and arm.

'I am with you!' shouted Parmenion, seeking to distract the attackers. When one turned towards him, Attalus' blade licked out, plunging into the man's throat. Attalus shoulder-charged the warriors before him, ducking as a slashing sword tore the helm from his head.

Parmenion reached his side and the two Macedonians stood back to back against the remaining four warriors.

A deafening roar sounded from the trees and the Makedones, terror in their eyes, fled from the clearing.

'By Zeus, that was close,' said Attalus.

'It's not over yet,' Parmenion whispered.

Emerging from the tree-line came three colossal men, each over seven feet tall. One had the head of a bull and was carrying a huge double-headed axe. The second had a face that was almost human, save that it boasted a huge double-pupilled single eye in the centre of the forehead; this one carried a club into which iron nails had been half hammered. The third had the head of a lion; he carried no weapon, but his hands ended in talons the length of daggers. Behind them the women gathered together, fear still showing in their eyes.

'Sheathe your sword,' ordered Parmenion.

'You must be insane!'

'Do it — and swiftly! They are here to protect the women. It may be we can reason with them.'

'Dream on, Spartan,' whispered Attalus as the demonic beasts shuffled forward, but he returned the stabbing sword to its scabbard and the two men stood before the advancing monsters. The cyclops moved closer, raising his pitted club.

'You. . kill. . Makedones. Why?' he asked, his voice deep, the words coming like drum-beats from his cavernous mouth.

'They were attacking the women,' Parmenion answered. 'We came to their aid.'

'Why?' asked the monster again, and Parmenion looked up at the club hovering above his head.

'The Makedones are our enemies,' he said, tearing his eyes from the grisly weapon.

'All. . Humans… are… our. . enemies,' replied the cyclops. To the right the lion-headed monster squatted down over a dead soldier, ripping loose an arm at which he began to gnaw. But all the while his tawny eyes remained fixed on Parmenion. The minotaur moved closer on the left, dipping his horned head to look into the Spartan's face. His voice whispered out, surprising Parmenion, for it was gentle, the tone perfect. 'Tell me, warrior, why we should not kill you.'

'Tell me first why you should?' Parmenion responded.

The minotaur sat down, beckoning the Spartan to join him. 'Everywhere your race destroys us. There is no land -

save one — where our lives are safe from Humans. Once this land was ours; now we hide in woods and forests. Soon there will be no more of the Elder races; the sons and daughters of the Titans will be gone for ever. Why should I kill you? Because even if you are good and heroic your sons, and the sons of your sons, will hunt down my sons, and the sons of my sons. Is that an answer?'

'It is a good one,' agreed Parmenion, 'yet it is flawed. Should you kill me, then my sons would have reason to hate you, and that alone will make your vision true. But should we become friends, then my sons would come to know you and look upon you with kindly eyes.'

'When has that ever been true?' the minotaur asked.

'I do not know. I can only speak for myself. But it seems to me that if an act of rescue can result in summary execution then you are little different from the Makedones. Surely a son of the Titans will show more gratitude than that?'

'You speak well. And I like the lack of fear in your eyes. And you fight well too. My name is Brontes. These are my brothers, Steropes and Arges.'

'I am Parmenion. This is my… comrade Attalus.'

'We will not kill you,' said Brontes. 'Not this time. Our gift is your lives. But if ever you walk in our woods again your lives will be forfeit.' The minotaur pushed himself to his feet and turned to walk away.

'Wait!' called Parmenion. 'We are seeking a child from our land who was abducted by the King of the Makedones.

Can you help us?'

The minotaur swung his great bull's head. 'The Makedones gave chase to a centaur two days ago. It is said that the centaur carried a child with golden hair. They travelled south to the Woods of the Centaurs. That is all I know. The woods are forbidden to Humans, save Chiron. The horse people will not allow you to pass. Nor will they speak with you. Your greeting will be an arrow through the heart or eye. Be warned!'

Attalus' fist slammed into Parmenion's chin, spinning him from his feet. The Spartan hit the ground hard, then rolled to his back, staring up at the enraged Macedonian who loomed above him with fists clenched, blood still seeping from the shallow gash in his cheek.

'You miserable whoreson!' hissed Attalus. 'What in Hades were you thinking of? Ten men! By Heracles, we should be dead.'

Parmenion sat up and rubbed his chin, then pushed himself to his feet. 'I was not thinking,' he admitted.

'Excellent!' sneered Attalus. 'But I do not want that engraved on the walls of my tomb: "Attalus died because the strategos wasn't thinking." '

'It will not happen again,' promised the Spartan, but the swordsman would not be mollified.

'I want to know why it happened this time. I want to know why the First General of Macedonia rushed to the aid of women he did not know. You were at Methone, Amphipolis and a dozen other cities when the army sacked them. I did not see you racing through the streets protecting the women and children. What is so different here?'

'Nothing,' replied the Spartan. 'But you are wrong. I was never in those cities when the rapes and murders took place.

I organized the attacks, but when the walls were breached my work was done. I do not seek to avoid responsibility for the barbarism that followed, but it was never perpetrated in my name, nor have I ever taken part in it. As for my actions today, I accept they were inexcusable. We are here to rescue Alexander- and I put that in jeopardy. But I have said it will not happen again. I can say no more.'

'Well, I can — if you ever decide to act the romantic fool do not expect me to be standing beside you.'

'I did not expect it in the first place,' said Parmenion, his expression hardening, his eyes holding to the swordsman's gaze. 'And know this, Attalus — if you ever strike me again I shall kill you.'

'Enjoy your dreams,' replied the swordsman. 'The day will never dawn when you can best me with blade or spear.'

Parmenion was about to speak when he saw several of the women moving across the clearing towards them. The first to arrive bowed low before the warriors, then looked up with a shy smile. She was slim and golden-haired, with violet eyes and a face of surpassing beauty.

'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.'

'You make it sound so sad,' said Alexander. 'Will the magic not come back?'

'Perhaps. One day, like a perfect flower, it might seed itself and grow again. But I doubt it.' Chiron sighed. 'And even if it does, Man will corrupt it. It is the way of all things. No, better for it to fade away.'

'But if it does, will not the centaurs die with it?'

'Indeed they will, and the nymphs and satyrs, the dryads and cyclopses. But so also will the Vores and the gorgons, the hydras and the birds of death. For not all the creatures of Enchantment are benign. However,' he said, rising, 'that is enough of my world for one day. Tell me of yours.'

They talked on for some time, but Alexander could tell him little of interest and became aware of a growing irritation within the magus. 'What is wrong?' the boy enquired at last. 'Does my lack of knowledge displease you?'

'Pah! It is not you, child,' replied Chiron, rising and walking away down the mountainside. Alexander ran after him, taking his hand.

'Tell me!' pleaded the prince. Chiron stopped and knelt before the boy, his expression softening.

'I have a dream, Alexander. I hoped you could help me in my pursuit of it. But you are very young and you know so little. It is not your fault. Indeed, I cannot imagine any other four-year-old who would know so much.'

'What are you seeking?'

'A world without evil,' answered Chiron sadly, 'and other impossibilities. Now wait for me at the cave. I need to walk for a while, to think and to plan.'

Alexander watched him walk away down the mountain to vanish into the trees, then the boy climbed up to the cave-mouth and sat for a while enjoying the sunshine.

Hunger at last forced him to move and he walked through the wall of illusion, entering the palace beyond and making his way to the kitchens where he ate honey-cakes and dried fruit. He had seen no servants here, yet the food was replenished every day. His interest aroused, Alexander strolled out into the palace grounds, seeking signs of life.

But there were no tracks in the soft earth, save those that he made himself, and he returned to the palace where he wandered aimlessly from room to room, bored and lonely.

For a time he looked at the scrolls and books in one of the many library rooms. But these were of little interest, inscribed as they were with symbols he could not read. At last he came to a small room, western-facing, where he found a circular table covered with a velvet cloth. At first he thought the table was cast from solid gold, but as he examined the six ornate legs he realized they were carved from wood and overlaid with thick gold-leaf. Climbing on a chair he pulled aside the velvet and gazed down on a jet-black surface, so dark it reflected no light, and it seemed he was staring down into an enormous well. Reaching out he tentatively touched the table — and recoiled, as dark ripples spread across the surface, lapping at the raised perimeter.

Fascinated, he touched it again. It was colder than snow and yet curiously comforting.

The surface lightened, becoming blue. Then a cloud moved across it. Alexander laughed aloud. 'There should be birds,' he shouted. Obedient to his wishes the scene rolled on and he saw swans flying in formation across the sky.

'Wonderful!' he cried. 'Now where is the land?' The image rolled once more, making the boy dizzy so that he gripped the edges of the table to steady himself. But now he saw the forest as if from a great height, the trees clinging to the mountains like green smoke. 'Show me Chiron!' he commanded.

A figure loomed into life. It was the magus sitting beside a stream, flipping stones into the water. His expression was sorrowful and Alexander felt a sudden stab of guilt for intruding on Chiron's solitude.

'Show me Philippos!' he said.

The mirror table darkened and he saw an army camped before a burning city, dark tents highlighted by the distant flames. The image settled on a huge tent at the centre of the camp, moving inside to where the King was seated on a black throne of carved ebony.

Around him, kneeling at his feet, were dark-robed priests. One of them was speaking, but the boy could hear nothing.

Pale shapes moved at the edge of the mirror, and Alexander felt an icy touch of dread as creatures of nightmare crept forward to surround the King. Their skin was fish-white, their eyes dark and hooded, their heads bald, the crown of the scalp raised in ridges of sharp bone. Scaled wings grew from their shoulder-blades and their hands were hooked into talons.

'Closer!' ordered the boy.

A ghastly face, in silhouette, filled the mirror and Alexander could see that the teeth inside the lipless mouth were pointed and sharp, rotting and green at the purple gums. Suddenly the creature's head turned — the dark shining eyes, with their slitted pupils, staring up at the child.

'He cannot see me,' Alexander whispered.

The mirror exploded outwards as a taloned hand flashed up, sinking into the boy's tunic and scoring the flesh beneath. The prince found himself dragged forward into the mirror and screamed, his hands scrabbling at the scaled arm.

The killing power surged from his fingers with such power that the arm holding him was turned instantly to dust.

Throwing himself back Alexander toppled to the floor, the taloned hand still clinging to his tunic. Ripping it loose, he flung it across the floor and then swiftly gathered the velvet covering, hurling it over the mirror table.

As he did so there came a sound like a low groan, which formed into a terrible sentence.

'I know where you are, child,' came the voice of Philippos, 'and there is no escape.'

Alexander sped from the room. His foot caught the edge of a flagstone and he tumbled to the floor, grazing his knees. Tears fell now as this fresh pain unleashed his fears. They are coming for me, his mind screamed at him. Up the long stairs he ran, heart beating wildly, until at last he emerged from the cave-mouth into the sunshine.

Scanning the skies for signs of the scaled creatures he sank to a rock in the sunshine, shivering uncontrollably.

A centaur carrying a bow and quiver trotted from the tree-line, saw him and cantered up the mountainside. It was the white-bearded leader with the palomino flanks. He halted before the child.

'Why do you cry?' he asked, leaning forward to touch his thumb to Alexander's cheek, brushing away a tear.

'My enemies are coming for me,' said Alexander, struggling to halt the surging panic.

'Where is the outcast who carried you here?'

'He is gone. I am with Chiron now.'

The centaur nodded, his dark eyes thoughtful. 'These enemies you speak of, child — are they men, or of the Enchantment?'

'They have wings and scales. They are not men.'

'Vores,' hissed the centaur. 'Their touch is disease, their breath is the plague. Why does the Demon King seek you?'

'He wants to kill me,' the child answered. 'He wants to live for ever.' The shivering was worse now and sweat bathed his face. He felt dizzy and nauseous.

'Are you Iskander then?' asked the centaur, his voice echoing from a great distance as if whispering across the vaults of Time.

'That is… what they. . called me,' answered Alexander. The world spun and he toppled from the rock to the soft grass. It felt cool against his face, but his chest was burning and a dark mist rolled across his mind. .

Dropping his bow and arrows Kytin bent his front forelegs and leaned down, lifting the child in his arms. The small boy was burning with fever. The centaur pulled aside the boy's torn tunic, cursing as he saw the marks of talons on the slender torso. Already pus was seeping from the wounds, the flesh around them puckered and unhealthy. Leaving his weapons where they lay Kytin galloped down the mountainside, cutting along a narrow path through the trees and splashing across a shallow stream.

Two other centaurs rode alongside him.

'Why do you have the child?' asked one.

'He is Iskander,' replied Kytin, 'and he is dying!' Without waiting for a response he galloped on, lungs burning with the effort of the sustained pace, breath coming in ragged gasps. On he ran, deep into the heart of the woods. It was almost dusk when he arrived at a village on the banks of a broad river. The homes here, perfectly round and windowless, with huge, gaping doorways, were built of wood and straw. Beyond the scores of buildings were wide pastures and treeless hills, and already there were horses grazing, their bondsmen sitting around fires. Kytin felt the Need upon him. Not yet, he cautioned himself. Hold to the Form. Iskander needs you!

Halting before a roundhouse set apart from the rest, he called out a name. But there was no reply and he stood waiting, knowing she was inside. Yet he would not — indeed could not — disturb her at this time, and felt with sick dread the life of the child ebbing away like water passing through sand.

Finally an ancient pony stepped from the large doorway, tossed its head and trotted towards the hills.

'Gaea,' called the centaur. 'Come forth. I need you.'

An old woman, supporting herself with a staff, hobbled into the doorway. 'I am tired,' she said.

'This is Iskander,' Kytin told her, extending his arms. 'He has been touched by a Vore.'

The old woman's head sank down to rest on the tip of the staff. 'Why now,' she whispered, 'when I am so weak?' For a moment she was silent, then she drew in a deep breath and raised herself to her full height 'Bring him in, Kytin. I will do what I can.'

The centaur eased past her, laying the unconscious boy on a narrow pallet bed. Alexander's lips and eyelids were blue now, and he scarcely seemed to breathe. 'You must save him,' urged Kytin. 'You must!'

'Hush, fool,' she told him, 'and go to your privacy. Your flanks are trembling and the Need is upon you. Go now, before you shame yourself in public.'

Kytin backed away, leaving the old woman sitting on the bed beside the dying child. Taking his hand, she felt the fever raging. 'You should have come to us twenty years ago,' she whispered, 'when my powers were at their height.

Now I am old and near useless. My pony is dying and will not see out the winter. What would you have me do, Iskander — if you are truly Iskander?'

The boy stirred, moaning in delirium. 'Par. . menion!'

'Hush, child,' said Gaea, her voice soothing. Pulling open the tunic she laid a wrinkled, bony hand upon the festering scars. The heat scalded her skin and her mouth tightened. 'That the Enchantment should have sired such creatures.

.' she said, her voice acid and bitter. Her hand began to glow, the bones standing out like dark shadows below the skin as if a lantern was hidden under her palm. Smoke writhed from the boy's chest, flowing through her outstretched fingers, and the wounds sealed, pus oozing to the skin of his chest. The smoke hung in a tight sphere above him, dark and swirling. 'Begone!' hissed the old woman. The sphere exploded and a terrible stench filled the roundhouse.

Alexander groaned, but the colour flowed back to his pale cheeks and he sighed.

Gaea stood, staggered and reached for her staff. An elderly man, stooped and bent, edged his way into the room.

'Does he live?' he asked, his voice thin, whispering through rotted teeth.

'He lives, Kyaris. You brought him in time. How can you be sure he is Iskander?'

The old man moved slowly to a chair by a burning brazier, sitting and holding his hands to the blaze. 'He told me.

And the Tyrant seeks him, Gaea, to kill him and become immortal. Who else can he be?'

'He could be a human child — and that is all. The Tyrant is not infallible; he has been wrong before.'

'Not this time. I can feel it.'

'In your bones, I suppose,' she snapped. 'I swear your horse has more sense than you. The Vores marked him; that means they know where he is. How long before their wings are beating the wind above this wood? Eh? How long?'

'But if he is Iskander we must protect him. He is our hope, Gaea!'

'Hopes! Dreams!' snorted the old woman. 'They are like smoke in the breeze. I once dreamt of Iskander. But no more.

Now I wait for my pony to die, and to leave this world of blood and pain. Look at him! How old is he? Four, five?

You think he will lead us from peril? His mouth still yearns for his mother's tits!'

Kyaris shook his head, his wispy white hair floating like mist against his face. 'Once you had belief. But you are old, and your faith has gone. Well, I too am old, but I still have hopes. Iskander will save us. He will restore the Enchantment. He will!'

'Cling to your nonsense if you will, old man — but tomorrow be ready with bow and spear. For the Vores will come, and after them the Makedones. Your stupidity will see us all destroyed.'

Kyaris struggled to his feet. 'Better to die than to live without hope, Gaea. I have sons, and sons of my sons. I want them to see the return of the Enchantment. I will fight the Vores; they will not take the child.'

'Find a mirror, you old fool,' she taunted him. 'Once the words of Kyaris-Kytin echoed like thunder across the world.

Now you can scarce stand without support. Even Merged you cannot run far.'

'I am sorry for you,' he told her. Moving to the bedside, he laid his hand on the sleeping child's brow. 'Sleep well, Iskander,' he whispered.

'Sell him to Philippos,' she advised. 'That would be true wisdom.'

'There is no wisdom in despair, woman,' he answered.

Parmenion and Attalus rode from the woods, angling down towards the plain and the distant, shimmering River Peneios. Clouds were bunching in the sky, huge and rolling, promising a storm, but the wind was still warm, the rain holding off. Attalus eased his grey alongside Parmenion.

'Where do we go, strategos?'

'Across the plain and into those woods,' answered the Spartan, pointing to the western hills on which the tree-line curved like the crest of a giant helmet.

The first drops of rain began to fall, then a crack of thunder sounded. Attalus' stallion reared, almost dislodging the Macedonian. Lightning forked across the sky and the deluge began. The horses walked now, heads bowed, the riders drenched and conversation impossible.

Glancing to his left, Attalus saw a body lying on the grass, the legs stripped of flesh. Beyond it was another, then another. Attalus leaned to his right, tapping Parmenion's arm and pointing to the corpses. The Spartan nodded, but said nothing. For most of the morning they rode on through the deserted battlefield and at last the rain died away, the sun streaming through the broken clouds.

'There were thousands of them,' said Attalus, swinging to stare back over the plain. 'They weren't even stripped of weapons.'

Parmenion reined in the gelding. 'I would guess the main battle was fought there,' he said, indicating a low range of hills. 'But — judging by the way the corpses are grouped — the left broke and the defeated army ran west. They were cut down by cavalry and tried to make a stand. No prisoners were taken and they were massacred to a man.'

'A world not unlike our own,' said Attalus, forcing a smile. But it faded swiftly.

'You are wrong. This is a war unlike any I have seen,' muttered the Spartan, his pale eyes scanning the battlefield.

'This is not just conquest; this is butchery. I would not wish to be part of such a conflict.'

Attalus dismounted and walked to a nearby corpse, kneeling to lift the dead warrior's shield. It was fashioned of wood, reinforced by bronze, and painted blue. At the centre two snakes were depicted, held in a man's fist. 'Have you ever seen anything like it?' he asked, passing the shield up to Parmenion.

'No. It is obviously meant to be Heracles killing the snakes in his crib. It could be Theban; their shields carry the club of Heracles.'

'I see nothing I recognize,' said Attalus, nudging his foot under the corpse and flicking the body to its back. Picking up a dented helm, he turned it in his hands. It was of leather, covered by thin sheets of what appeared to be bright bronze. There was no crest or plume, no cheeks-flaps to protect the face, merely two badly-cast raven's wings, loosely riveted to the temples, and a slender metal bar that dropped vertically from the brow. 'Badly made,' said Attalus, 'and these wings serve no purpose,' he added. 'Look at the nasal guard. It is too thin to protect the face. The entire piece is useless — as I think he found.'

Tossing the helm to the ground, Attalus remounted. 'These bodies have been here for weeks, maybe months. Why have they not been stripped?'

'Perhaps there is no one left alive to strip them,' said Parmenion.

Dark shadows flowed along the grass. Parmenion gazed up to see a score of pale shapes soaring high in the sky, moving westward, their great wings beating slowly. Despite the height at which they flew, and the brightness of the sun, there was no doubt as to their semi-human shape.

'What in the name of Hecate. .?' whispered Attalus.

The creatures were joined by a second group coming from the north. Shading his eyes, Parmenion saw more of the beasts flying in from south and west. 'They are coming from all sides,' he said.

'They seem to be heading for the woods. I tell you, Parmenion, I do not like this world.'

'Nor I,' agreed the Spartan, kneeing the gelding into a canter. Attalus was about to follow when he spotted another corpse, a bowman lying on his back, his face torn away by crows. Dismounting, the Macedonian removed the man's leather quiver, hefting his short, curved bow of horn. Looping the quiver over his shoulder, Attalus vaulted to the grey and rode after the Spartan.

It felt good to have a bow in his hands again. Such a fine weapon. Silent death, with little risk to the killer. The Spartan's back was to him and Attalus pictured a shaft lancing into Parmenion's brain. No, he thought. There is no way I will kill him like that. I want to see the expression on his face. I want to watch the arrogance and pride drain away.

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 -1

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, magus l 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 the 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.

So you see, Parmenion, no one can either outfight him or outthink him. He knows in advance all the plans of his enemies.'

'What happened to this sorcerer of great power? Perhaps he will know of a way to destroy his creation.'

'No, my friend. I am that sorcerer, and I can help you not at all.'

Attalus sat on the beach, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, yet even this was not as hot as his anger. To be forced to travel with the loathsome Spartan was bad enough, but he had expected a ride into Thrace or the Chalcidice in order to rescue the prince. Not this appalling place of deformity and madness.

Picturing the flying creatures, he shivered. How could a warrior hope to combat such beasts?

Unbuckling his breastplate, he put aside his clothes and waded out into the sea, enjoying the sudden cool on his body. Hurling himself forward he ducked under the water, swimming with long easy strokes to surface some way from the shore. Small translucent fishes swam by him in glittering shoals and he splashed his hand in the water, laughing as they scattered in all directions.

This at least was a reality he knew, and he revelled in the feeling.

At last he began to tire of the sea and headed back for the shore, pushing himself upright in the soft sand and flicking the water from his long hair.

Alexander was waiting beside his armour. 'You swim well,' said the boy.

Attalus swallowed a curse. He did not like the child. A demon, they said, barely human, who could kill at a touch.

The swordsman nodded a greeting and sat down on a rock, waiting for the sun to dry his skin.

'Are you frightened?' asked the prince, his expression disarmingly innocent, head cocked to one side.

'I fear nothing, my prince,' Attalus answered. 'And any man who says differently will answer to me with a blade.'

The child nodded solemnly. 'You are very brave to come so far to find me. I know my father will reward you.'

Attalus laughed. 'I have three estates and more wealth than I can spend in a lifetime. I need no rewards, Prince Alexander. But I would give a king's ransom to see Macedonia again.'

'We will. Parmenion will find a way.'

Attalus bit back an angry retort. 'It is good to have faith in one's heroes,' he said at last.

'You do not like him, do you?'

'I like no man — save Philip. And you see too much. Beware, Alexander, such gifts can be double-edged.'

'Do not ever go against him,' warned the prince. 'He would kill you, Attalus.'

The swordsman made no reply, but he smiled with genuine humour. Alexander stood silently for a moment, then looked up into the Macedonian's eyes. 'I know you are said to be the best swordsman in the land, and also my father's most trusted. . assassin. But know this, if ever Parmenion dies in mysterious circumstances it is to you I will come.

And your death will follow soon after.'

Attalus sighed. 'I did not enter this world of the bizarre to hear your threats, boy. I came to rescue you. You do not have to like me — why should you, after all? I am not a likeable man. But — should I ever have cause to fight Parmenion — your threats will not sway me. I am my own man and I walk my own path. Remember that.'

'We will both remember,' said Alexander.

'There's truth in that,' the swordsman agreed.

'Do not try to think of a way to defeat Philippos,' said Chiron. 'It is not possible.'

'Nothing is impossible,' Parmenion assured him, as the two men strolled through the palace grounds in the last lingering light of the fading sun.

'You misunderstand me,' continued Chiron. 'There are greater issues here. Why do you think such a being of enormous power would wish to house himself in the frail human shell of a man — even a king?'

Parmenion halted by a stream and sat on a wooden bench. 'Tell me,' he said.

Chiron stretched himself out on the grass and sighed. 'It is not a simple matter. The Chaos Spirit has no natural form.

He is. . IT is… of spirit, apparently both immortal and eternal. So then, the real question is how he exists. Do you follow me?'

'Not yet, magus, but I am ever the willing learner.'

'Then let us take it slowly. What is the single greatest moment of your life?'

'What has this to do with anything?' asked Parmenion, suddenly uncomfortable.

'Bear with me, warrior,' urged Chiron.

Parmenion took a deep breath. 'Many years ago- a lifetime, it seems — I loved a young woman. She made the sun shine more brightly. She made me live.'

'What happened to her?'

The Spartan's expression hardened, his blue eyes gleaming with a cold light. 'She was taken from me and slain. Now make your point, magus, for I am losing patience.'

'Exactly my point!' said Chiron, pushing himself to his feet and sitting beside the Spartan. 'I want you to think back to how you felt at the moment you pictured your love and your days together, and then how those thoughts changed when touched with bitterness. The Chaos Spirit may seem to be immortal and eternal, but it is not entirely the truth.

He needs to feed. I do not know if pain, anguish and hatred sired him, or whether he is the father and mother of all bitterness. In a way it does not matter. But he needs Chaos to keep him alive. In the body of Philippos he strides the world, birthing oceans of hatred. Every slave, every widow, every orphaned child will know hate; they will lust for revenge. Long after Philippos is dust the Makedones will be despised. Do you see? He cannot be beaten, for even in destroying Philippos you only continue to feed the spirit that possesses him.'

'What then do you suggest, that we meekly lie down before the Tyrant, offering our lives with a smile and a blessing?'

'Yes,' answered Chiron simply, 'for then we would be countering Chaos with a greater force — love. But that will never be. It would take a greater man than any I have met who could answer violence with forgiveness, evil with love. At best all we can do is to fight him without hatred.'

'Why did you make the eye for Philippos?' asked Parmenion suddenly.

'I had a vain hope that he would use it to see himself, the true soul within. He did not. It has always been a problem for me, Parmenion, for I seek to see the good in every man, hoping it will conquer. Yet it happens so rarely. A strong man will seek to rule; it is his nature. And to rule he will need to conquer others.' Chiron sighed. 'All our heroes are men of violence, are they not? I do not know the names of such heroes in your world. But it will be the same story.'

'Yes,' agreed Parmenion. 'Achilles, Heracles, Agamemnon, Odysseus. All men of the sword. But surely if evil men choose sword and lance, then good men must do the same to combat them?'

'Would that it were that simple,' snapped Chiron. 'But good and evil are not so easily distinguished. Good does not wear golden armour, nor does evil always dress in black. Who is to say where evil lies? You are a general in your own world. Did you ever sack a city? Kill women and children?'

'Yes,' answered Parmenion, uncomfortable now.

'And were you serving the forces of good?'

The Spartan shook his head. 'Your point is well made. You are a good man, Chiron. Will you come with us to Sparta?'

'Where else would I go?' answered the magus sadly. Rising, he made as if to walk away, then turned. 'There is a legend here — a fine legend. It is said that one day the Enchantment will return, that it will be brought back to us by a golden-haired child of the gods. He will restore peace and harmony, and the world will shine again. Is that not a beautiful idea?'

'Hold to it,' advised Parmenion, his voice gentle.

'I do. I hoped Alexander was the Golden One. But he too is cursed by Chaos. How many other worlds are there, Parmenion? Does a version of the Dark God stalk them all?'

'Never give in to despair,' the Spartan advised. 'Think on this: If you are correct, then perhaps in most of those worlds the Golden Child has already come.'

'That is a good thought,' agreed Chiron. 'And now I must leave you for a while. You are safe here — for the moment.

But watch the sea. Philippos will be using all his powers to locate Alexander.'

'Where are you going?'

'Back to the wood. They will need me there.'

Parmenion found the sorcerer's mood infectious and his spirits were sombre as he strolled along the line of cliffs overlooking the beach. Far below he could see Attalus and Alexander sitting on the white sand, deep in conversation, and he stopped for a while to watch them.

My son, he thought suddenly, and sadness struck him like a blow. Philotas, Nicci and Hector were his sons, yet his feelings for them were ambivalent. But this boy — this golden child — was everything to him. There is no profit in regret, he reminded himself, but the words, though true, offered no comfort. For this one regret lived on in his own private Hall of Shame. On the wedding night in Samothrace, when Philip was awaiting the arrival of his bride, Parmenion had betrayed him. There was no other word to suit the occasion. With the King lying in a drunken stupor, it was Parmenion who had donned the ceremonial full-faced helm and cloak of Kadmilos and walked into the torchlit room where Olympias lay waiting; Parmenion who had climbed to the bed, pinning her arms beneath him; Parmenion who had felt her soft thighs slide over his hips. .

'Enough!' he said aloud, as the memory brought fresh arousal. It was a form of double betrayal, and even now he could not understand it. His pride and powerful sense of honour had led him to believe that he would never betray a friend. Yet he had. But what was worse, and continued to torment him, was how even now, while his mind reeled sick with the shame of his deed, his body continued to react to the memory with arousal, lust and delight.

It was why he endured Philip's anger, and his occasional taunts. Guilt tied him to the Macedonian King with bonds stronger than love, as if by serving Philip faithfully he could in some way even the balance, eradicate the shame.

'You never will,' he whispered.

Olympias had been so much like Deraes, slim and beautiful, her red-gold hair glinting in the torchlight. She had tried to remove the helm, complaining that the cold metal was hurting her face, but he held her hands down against the soft sheets, ignoring her pleas. She had spent the first part of the night in the Woods of the Mysteries, inhaling the Sacred Smoke. Her pupils were enormously dilated and she lost consciousness while he lay upon her. It did not stop him.

Guilt came later when he crept back into Philip's rooms, where the King lay naked on a couch, lost in a drunken sleep. Pulling clear his helm, Parmenion gazed down on the man he had sworn to serve and felt then the sharp pain of regret. He dressed the unconscious monarch in the cloak and helm and carried the King into the bedroom, laying him alongside Olympias.

Back in his own rooms he had tried to justify his actions. The Lady Aida, in whose palace they were guests, had told Philip that if he did not consummate the wedding within what she termed the Holy Hour, then the marriage would be annulled. Philip had laughed at that. Faced with a beautiful woman, he had never been found wanting, and felt no concern at the threat. Yet, as he waited through the long night, he had continued — despite Parmenion's warnings — to drain goblet after goblet of the heavy Samothracian wine. Philip's capacity for alcohol was legendary, and it still surprised Parmenion how swiftly the King had succumbed to its influence on this special night.

At first Parmenion tried desperately to rouse Philip, but then he had gazed into the bedroom where Olympias lay naked on the broad bed. He tried to convince himself that his first thought had been of Philip, and the hurt to his pride in the morning when all of Samothrace heard of his failure in the marriage bed. But it was a lie. That excuse came later, as he lay awake watching the dawn.

Now he lived with a constant torment, as double-edged as any dagger. Firstly he feared the truth becoming known, and secondly he had to endure the sight of his beloved son being raised by another.

'I hope you are thinking of a plan to get us home,' said Attalus, moving silently alongside the Spartan.

'No,' admitted Parmenion, 'my thoughts were on other matters. Did you enjoy your swim?'

'It cooled me for a while. Where is the sorcerer?'

'He will be back soon. He has gone to see if the centaurs need his help.'

Alexander climbed into view, the steps on the cliff path almost too high for him. He waved as he saw Parmenion and moved alongside him, sitting close. Instinctively the Spartan put his arm around the boy. Attalus said nothing, but Parmenion felt his gaze.

'We must make our way down to the Gulf of Corinth,' said Parmenion swiftly, 'and then to Sparta. We can only hope that Aristotle will find a way to us there.'

'Hope?' sneered Attalus. 'I would like something stronger than that. But why Sparta? Why not return to the Circle of Stones and wait? That is where he sent us. Surely that is where he will expect us to be?'

Parmenion shook his head. 'The enemy are everywhere — and they have used sorcery to locate Alexander. We could not hope to survive alone against them. Sparta holds out. We will be safe there. And Aristotle is a magus; he will find us.'

'I am not convinced. Why not wait here?' argued Attalus.

'I wish that we could, but Chiron does not believe we are safe even here. The King's reach is long, his powers great.

Are you beginning to regret your decision to accompany me?'

Attalus chuckled. 'I began to regret it the moment we rode from the Circle. But I will stay the course, Spartan.'

'I did not doubt it.'

'Look! A ship!' cried Alexander, pointing out to sea where a trireme was sailing gracefully into view, its black sail furled, its three banks of oars rising and dipping into the sparkling blue water. Slowly the prow turned until the craft was pointing to the shore.

Closer it came until the watchers could see clearly the hundred or so armed men gathering on the great deck.

'Friendly, do you think?' asked Attalus as the ship was beached, the warriors clambering to the sand.

'They are Makedones,' said Alexander, 'and they are coming for me.’

‘Then some of them will die,' said Attalus softly.

'Back into the palace,' ordered Parmenion, sweeping Alexander into his arms and moving away from the cliff-edge.

Far below them the Makedones soldiers began the long climb up the steep path, sunlight glinting from spear and sword.

Parmenion ran into the palace kitchens where he had put aside his breastplate, helm and sword. Donning the armour, he lifted Alexander and made his way swiftly to the wide stairway, taking the steps two at a time.

'What if those flying creatures are still on the other side?' asked Attalus as they reached the illusory wall.

'We die,' muttered Parmenion, drawing his sword and stepping through to Chiron's cave. It was empty. Lowering Alexander to the ground the Spartan moved to the cave-mouth, scanning the mountainside. The dead grey stallion lay where it had fallen, black crows squabbling over the carcass. Beyond the stallion lay the corpses of more than thirty Vores, but these the crows avoided. Of Parmenion's gelding there was no sign.

'We'd be safer in the woods,' said Attalus. Parmenion nodded and the trio crossed the open mountainside, reaching the sanctuary of the trees without incident.

The woods were unnaturally silent. No bird-song sweetened the air, and not a trace of breeze disturbed the canopied branches above. The silence made both warriors uneasy, but Alexander was happy walking beside his hero, holding Parmenion's hand. They walked deeper into the woods, keeping to a narrow game trail that twisted, rose and fell until it reached a shallow stream where cool mountain water rippled over white stones.

'Do we cross it — or follow it?' asked Attalus, keeping his voice low. Before Parmenion could answer they heard sound of movement from the trail ahead, the snapping of dried wood underfoot. Then came voices, muffled by the undergrowth.

Gathering the child, Parmenion backed away towards the bushes, Attalus beside him. But before they could find a place in which to hide, a warrior in a raven-winged helm appeared on the other side of the stream.

'Here!' he bellowed. The child is here!'

More than a score of dark-cloaked soldiers carrying spears and swords ran to join him. Attalus' blade hissed from its scabbard.

Parmenion swung round. Behind them was a narrow track. On either side were thick stands of thorn bushes and brambles. From where he stood the Spartan could see no end to the track, but glancing down he saw cloven hoofprints of deer leading away up the slope.

The Makedones surged forward into the water, the woods echoing with their screams of triumph.

'Run!' shouted Parmenion, holding Alexander tight to his chest as he set off along the track. Thorns cut into his calves and thighs as he ran, and twice he almost stumbled as dry dust shifted beneath his sandalled feet. The slope was steep, the track meandering, but at last he emerged to a wider trail bordered by huge, gnarled oaks. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Attalus some ten paces back, the pursuing Makedones closing on him. A soldier paused in his run to hurl a spear.

'Look out!' shouted Parmenion and Attalus swerved left, the weapon slashing past him to bury itself in the ground in front of the swordsman. Attalus grabbed the shaft as he ran, pulling it from the earth. Turning suddenly, he launched the spear back at the thrower. The soldier threw himself to the ground, the missile taking the man behind him full in the throat.

Spinning on his heel, Attalus raced after Parmenion. The Spartan ran on, seeking always narrow tracks that would keep the enemy in single file behind them, and as he ran his anger grew. There was no strategy here for victory, no subtle plan to swing a battle. Outnumbered, they were being hunted through an alien wood by a deadly enemy. All that was left was to run. But where? For all Parmenion knew they were heading towards an even greater enemy force, or worse perils.

It was galling to the point of rage. All his life the Spartan had survived by outthinking and outplanning his enemies.

He was the strategos, the general. Yet here he had been reduced to the level of the panic-stricken prey, running for his life.

No, he realized, not panic-stricken. Never that!

In his youth he had been a distance runner, the fastest and the best in Sparta and Thebes, and now — even burdened by the child — he knew he could outlast the Makedones. But the problem was where to run. Glancing up at the sky, he tried to establish his position in the woods. The cave would be to the left. Yet what purpose would be served by returning there? They could pass the wall and escape their immediate pursuers, only to be caught by the soldiers searching the palace beyond. No, the cave was no answer.

A fallen tree lay across his path and he hurdled it effortlessly. Ahead the trail forked, one path rising, the other dipping down into a shadow-haunted glen. A spear flashed by him. Cutting right, he made for the glen.

Three soldiers ran into his path some thirty paces ahead. Cursing, he twisted to his left and leapt a low bush, scrambling up a steep rise to emerge in a circular clearing in a hollow ringed by cypress trees. Attalus came alongside, his face red from exertion, sweat glistening on his skin.

'I… can run… no further,' said the swordsman.

Ignoring him, Parmenion moved to a nearby tree, lifting Alexander to the lowest branch. 'Climb into that fork and crouch down,' ordered the Spartan. 'You will not be seen from the ground.' The boy pushed his small body through the pine needles and lay, hidden from view.

Drawing his sword, Parmenion ran back to the edge of the slope and waited. The first Makedones warrior scrambled up — and screamed as Parmenion's blade smote his neck. The soldier tumbled back amongst his comrades.

Three more Makedones entered the clearing from the left and Attalus ran to meet them, blocking a sword-thrust and sending a reverse cut that opened one man's throat in a spray of crimson.

But then the main body of the enemy appeared, spreading out around the Macedonians. Parmenion backed away, Attalus joining him, the spears of the Makedones closing around them in a wall of pointed iron.

'I should have taken your advice,' whispered Attalus.

'Where is the child?' asked a swarthy, dark-eyed warrior with a pockmarked face.

Attalus chuckled. 'It is hard to believe anything so ugly could have learned the power of speech.'

'Where is the child?' asked the man again, the spear-points moving closer.

A spearman toppled forward, an arrow jutting from his skull. Then another screamed as a shaft pierced his thigh.

'Down!' shouted Parmenion, seizing Attalus' arm and dropping to the earth.

From all sides arrows hissed across the open ground. A dead Makedones fell across Parmenion with two shafts in his back, a third through his eye. Everywhere the soldiers were dying. Several men tried to run back to the trail, but the huge form of the minotaur Brontes appeared, his double-headed axe slicing through their breastplates and helms.

Two warriors managed to pass him and disappeared down the slope, but their screams echoed back and Parmenion watched as the minotaur's brothers — Steropes the lion-headed, and Arges the Cyclops — emerged from the trees.

A terrible silence descended on the clearing. Parmenion eased himself clear of the corpse that had fallen across him and rose, sheathing his sword. Bodies lay everywhere. From the trees came centaurs carrying bows and quivers, their faces grim, their eyes fierce.

'It is good to see you again,' Parmenion told Brontes as the minotaur approached. The great bull's head nodded.

'You run well,' said the minotaur, moving past him to the cypress tree where Alexander was hidden. Dropping his axe, the creature raised his arms. 'Come to me, Iskander!' he called.

Alexander wriggled clear of the branches, dropping into the minotaur's arms. 'Are you truly Iskander?' the beast whispered.

'That is what I was called,' answered the boy.

'And you can open the Giant's Gateway?'

'We shall see,' said Alexander, choosing his words with care. With the boy in his arms, Brontes walked back to where Parmenion and Attalus waited.

'The centaurs brought word that Iskander had come. The Lady bade us protect him. This we will do, with our lives if necessary. Yet it may not be enough. The Makedones are many, and we are few.'

'We must get to Sparta,' said Parmenion. 'There the boy will be safe.'

'The Spartan King is said to be a great man,' said Brontes. 'He does not hunt down the people of the Enchantment.

And the Giant's Gateway is close by. Yes, we will come with you to Sparta.'

Parmenion nodded, then swung his gaze over the centaurs. 'How many are with us?' he asked.

'These twenty are all that survive.'

'Then who is scouting the woods to watch for the enemy?'

'No one,' admitted Brontes.

The Spartan walked across the clearing, stepping over the corpses, until he stood before a young centaur, a deep-chested creature with chestnut hair and beard. 'Who commands here?' he asked.

'I am Kheops, the son of Kytin-Kyaris. No one commands.'

'Well, Kheops, I am the guardian of Iskander, and I will command and be obeyed.'

'We will not suffer the orders of a Human,' replied Kheops, his face reddening.

'Then leave us,' said Parmenion softly, 'and we will try to save Iskander alone.'

The centaur's front hooves stamped the earth, a low growl rumbling in his throat. Parmenion waited, holding to the creature's gaze. 'We must see that Iskander lives,' said Kheops. 'We cannot go.'

'Then you will obey me,' Parmenion told him. 'Send five of your. . fellows to watch for the Makedones. We must not be surprised by them again.'

'It will be as you say,' answered Kheops, as if the words were torn from him.

Parmenion swung away from the centaur to see Chiron moving carefully across the clearing, avoiding the bloodstains on the earth. The sorcerer took Parmenion's arm, leading him away from the others.

'This is wrong,' whispered Chiron. 'The child is not Iskander. I know it; you know it.'

Parmenion sighed. 'What I know, magus, is that we must reach Sparta to save Alexander. I will take all the aid I can find.'

'But these creatures. . what of their hopes? Don't you see, Iskander is everything to them? He is the promise that keeps them alive, the one who will return magic to the world and end the reign of Man.'

'What is this Giant's Gateway?' the Spartan asked.

'There is a wood a day's ride south of Sparta. There, on a hill, stand two colossal pillars linked by a great lintel stone.

That is the Gateway.'

‘To where?'

'To nowhere,' replied Chiron. 'But the legend says that Iskander will open it, that he will grow to the height of the tallest tree and rest his hands on each pillar. Only then will the Enchantment return, bathing the world. But Alexander cannot do it; he is not the Golden Child.'

'What would you have me do, magus? Lose the only allies we have in this strange world of yours? Condemn Alexander to death? No, I will not do it. They have made their choice. I did not force it upon them.'

'That is not an argument you can use,' said Chiron. 'You know they are wrong, but you allow them to continue in their error because it suits your purpose. What you are doing will, in all likelihood, condemn them all to death.'

'Is there a problem here, Chiron?' asked Brontes, ambling forward to join them.

'Is there a problem?' the magus enquired of Parmenion.

The Spartan's cold blue eyes met his gaze. 'No,' he answered. 'Tomorrow we will take Iskander to his destiny.'

Then he turned and saw the woman.

Derae took a deep breath as the Spartan turned. Her legs felt weak and boneless and her hands trembled. So close, she thought. They had talked on Samothrace, but then Derae had been hooded and veiled, her mind locked to the task ahead. But now, as he walked slowly towards her, she felt sixteen again — remembering the softness of his touch, the sweetness of his breath.

'Do you know me, lady?' he asked. It was not the voice of the youth she had loved, but still the sound sent a shiver through her. Her spirit flickered out, touching his mind, sensing the emotions surging through him: curiosity, empathy, and — though her body was now plain and unmemorable — arousal. Swiftly she withdrew from him.

'I know you,' she answered, her voice steady, her hazel eyes meeting his gaze.

He stood for a moment, silent, indecisive. Brontes strolled across to them. 'She is a friend to the Goddess, my mother,' said Brontes. 'She is of the Enchantment.'

Parmenion nodded, but his gaze remained on the dark-haired woman. 'We must get away from this place,' he said, turning to Brontes. 'You know these woods. Where can we go?'

'Do not answer,' said Derae swiftly. 'We are being observed.'

Brontes' huge hand closed around the haft of the axe hanging from his belt and Parmenion swung to scan the clearing. 'There is no one here,' Derae told them. 'We are being watched from afar.'

'By whom?' the minotaur asked.

'By a priest of Philippos.'

'Can you shield us? My mother says you are a mystic.'

'Perhaps.' Derae sat down on the grass and closed her eyes, her spirit flying free. A lance of light swept towards her.

Her hand flashed up, the lance splitting into a thousand sparks which floated around her like fireflies.

'You will die,' shouted the shaven-headed priest as he floated before her.

'We will all die one day,' she answered. Her hands came up and the fireflies streamed back to the priest, linking to form a golden ribbon that wound about his head and face to blind him. 'Go back to your master,' said Derae. The priest disappeared.

She opened her eyes and stood. 'He is gone,' she told Brontes. 'Now you may speak freely.'

'There are only two ways we can travel to Sparta, south-east to the Peleponnese and through Korinthos, or north-west to the sea and take a ship around the coast to Gytheum.'

'What about west?' asked Parmenion. 'Surely we can cross the Pindos Mountains and make our way to the gulf?'

'No- that way lies death,' said Brontes. 'You cannot pass through the Forest of Gorgon. The Vores dwell there, and Gorgon himself. He is the most vile beast and his heart is corruption. I could speak of his evil, but I swear my tongue would blacken and your soul be shrivelled by what you hear. We might just as well drink poison now as consider that route.'

'Tell me of it anyway,' ordered the Spartan.

'Why? It is out of the question.'

'Because he is the strategos,' said Derae, 'and he needs to know.'

Brontes sighed. 'The forest stretches south to the Gulf of Korinthos. It is vast and deep, and unexplored by Man. But every hill and hollow, every dark glen, teems with the creatures of Chaos.'

Derae watched the Spartan. His expression was set and unreadable, and this time she did not reach out to read his thoughts. 'What can you tell us, lady?' he asked suddenly.

'The forces of Makedon are all around you,' she told him. 'They are coming from north, south and east. They have creatures. . Vores?… in the sky and men, and beasts that walk like men, upon the ground.'

'Can we skirt them?'

Derae shrugged. 'Not with twenty centaurs. They are seeking the child. Philippos is linked to him. Whichever route we take will draw peril to us. I have the power to shield us from the Demon King for a little while. But not long, Parmenion; he is too strong for me.'

'So, we are being herded towards the west whether we wish it or no?'

'Yes,' she agreed.

'I will think on it. But first let us find a place to spend the night.'

The Pindos Mountains

Brontes led the way to a cluster of shallow caves, leaving Parmenion, Alexander, Chiron and Attalus in one while he and his brothers took shelter nearby, the dark-haired woman remaining with them. The centaurs drifted away at dusk, returning as men when night fell. They also chose to stay in a separate cave a little to the north of the others.

Chiron was silent as Attalus prepared a fire by the far wall and Parmenion walked out into the night to satisfy himself that the glow did not reflect any light past the cave entrance. Wrapped in Parmenion's cloak, Alexander slept peacefully by the small blaze and the Spartan sat alone in the cave-mouth, watching the stars.

'Are you making plans?' asked Attalus, moving alongside him and sitting with his back to the wall.

'No, I was thinking about my youth.'

'I hope it was misspent.'

'Indeed it was,' answered Parmenion, sighing. The night sky was clear, the moon bright, bathing the trees in silver light. A badger shuffled out into the open, then loped away into the undergrowth.

'It is said you were a champion in Sparta,' said Attalus. 'With all the rewards, why did you leave?'

Parmenion shook his head. 'Where do these stories start? A champion? I was a hated half-breed, a mix-blood, derided, beaten. All I carried from Sparta was my bruises, and a hatred that was all-consuming and ultimately self-defeating. Have you ever been in love, Attalus?'

'No,' admitted the Macedonian, suddenly uncomfortable.

'I was. . once. And for that love I broke the law. I slept with an unmarried girl of good family. Because of it she was killed, and I slew a fine man. Worse, I brought about the downfall of my own city and with it the death of the only friend I had ever had. His name was Hermias, and he was killed at Leuctra, fighting alongside the King he adored.'

'All men die,' said Attalus softly. 'But you surprise me, Spartan. I thought you were the ice-cold general, the fighting man who had never lost a battle. I thought your life was charmed — blessed, if you like.'

Parmenion smiled. 'The other man's life often looks that way. There was a rich merchant in Thebes. Men would look at him with envy, cursing his luck, jealous of the gold rings he wore and the huge house he built upon a hill high above the stench of the city. But then they didn't know he was once a slave, working in a Thracian mine; that he had toiled for ten years before purchasing his freedom, and then had worked for another five to build a small amount of coin which he gambled on a risky venture that made him rich. Do not envy me, Attalus.'

'I did not say I envied you,' said the swordsman. Suddenly he grinned. 'But I suppose that I do. I could never like you, Parmenion, but I respect you. Now that is enough of compliments. How are we going to get to Sparta?'

Parmenion rose, stretching his back. 'We'll travel west, crossing the Pindos Mountains, then move down to the coast, keeping to the high ground and forests.'

'You are talking of a journey of some weeks. I do not wish to sound defeatist, but do you think that a party including three monsters and twenty centaurs can travel the length of Greece — even this Greece — without being noticed?'

'Centaurs are not uncommon here,' said Parmenion, 'but we will travel mostly by night when they appear as men. As to Brontes and his brothers, I agree with you. But their strength is prodigious and they may prove invaluable if there is trouble on the road.'

'And you are expecting trouble, no doubt?'

'Yes. We have one great problem that no amount of thinking will overcome. Philippos used sorcery to locate Alexander in another world, therefore it seems likely he will be able to find him in this one. Wherever we go -

however well we hide — the enemy will always be close.'

'Drawn to the boy like flies to a cowpat?' offered Attalus.

'A disgusting observation, though one that is close to the truth,' agreed the Spartan. 'But the priestess claims she can protect us for a while.'

'So then your plan — such as it is — entails leading a small force of half-human beasts across a war-torn land and arriving at a destination where we may — or may not — be welcome, in the hope that Aristotle will have the necessary power to find us and bring us home?'

'Succinctly put. Do you have a better plan?'

'I must admit that nothing of brilliance springs to mind,' said Attalus, 'but there is something else that concerns me.

The question of Alexander. Is he the Iskander these. . creatures. . have been waiting for?'

'No.'

'Then what happens when the beasts find out? They are likely to be just a little angry.'

'Perhaps,' said Parmenion. 'But that is a problem for another day.'

'Something else to look forward to,' grunted Attalus. 'I'll say this for you, Spartan — life in your company is seldom dull.'

Towards dawn, as he sat lost in thought, Parmenion saw the monstrous figure of Brontes emerging from the trees at the foot of the mountainside. The creature walked forward, then dropped to his knees. Light, ghostly and pale, shimmered around him, and Parmenion watched, awestruck, as the huge bull's head disappeared, leaving the features of a young man, pale-skinned, with hair the colour of polished bronze.

Looking up, the young man saw Parmenion and froze, holding his position for some moments before sitting back and turning away from the Spartan's gaze.

Parmenion strolled out into the moonlight, walking down the slope to sit beside the former minotaur.

'It is not considered polite to view the Change,' said Brontes. 'But then you are not of this world and cannot be expected to understand our customs.'

'Why do you need to assume another form?'

'Why do you Humans need to eat, or breathe? I do not know the answer. I only know what is, and what is necessary.

Without the Change I would die. And, as the Enchantment lessens day by day, the Change becomes more difficult, more fraught with pain. That is what Iskander will rectify; he will bring back the Enchantment.'

'Unless Philippos captures him,' pointed out Parmenion.

'Exactly so. How do you propose escaping him?'

'By travelling through the Forest of Gorgon.'

'Then we are all dead.'

'Now it is for you to trust me, Brontes. I am not a man who understands your mysteries, or the power of the Enchantment, but I know the ways of war and the nature of enmity.'

'Gorgon will kill you, Parmenion. He hates Humans even more than I.'

'I am counting on that,' answered the strategos. 'We have a saying, Brontes: The enemy of my enemy must be my friend.'

'Gorgon has no friends. Not now. . not ever.’

‘You know him?' asked Parmenion softly. 'I do not wish to speak of it.'

Derae lay awake, her spirit floating in the night sky, seeking signs of hidden watchers. But there were none, and this worried her. Did it mean that they feared her powers, or that they had somehow found a way to neutralize them and were even now spying on the caves? The thoughts were not comforting.

You need sleep, she told herself, settling down and covering herself with the rust-coloured cloak Aristotle had supplied. It was thick wool, warm at night, cool in the heat of the day, and she snuggled under it. But sleep would not come.

She had not known what to expect in this strange new world and had prepared herself for surprises. But Chiron had astonished her. He was almost a twin of Aristotle. Derae had gently reached out, touching the man's memories, and in the same moment he became aware of her. He did not close off his thoughts but greeted her with a mind-smile.

He was not Aristotle, having no memories of Macedonia or the Greece she knew. Yet the halls of his memory were vast, full of vanished nations, changed worlds. He had walked in Akkady and Atlantis, in many forms — warrior and mystic, demi-god and demon, made immortal by the magic of the same golden stones possessed by Aristotle.

'Are you satisfied?' he had asked, jerking her back to the present.

'Yes,' she told him. That had been earlier in the day when Brontes and his hideous brothers had met with the centaurs and planned the ambush that saved the two Macedonians. Brontes had been scouting ahead and had seen the chase, judging quite rightly where it must end. Even so it was close-run and had left Derae trembling.

'Where are you from, my dear?' Chiron asked her as they walked from the battle site to the caves.

'I am a priestess — a Healer,' she answered. 'A friend urged me to come here to aid Parmenion.'

'This friend. . does he look like me?'

'Indeed he does.'

'Curious. I wonder how much of our history is shared? I would like to meet him. Will he be following you through?'

'I do not think so. There is something here which frightens him greatly.'

Chiron chuckled. 'There are things here which frighten me greatly. Have you known Parmenion for long?'

'We have met — but briefly,' she answered, with honesty.

'Now that is a surprise. I notice your gaze is never far from him. Is it merely that he is a handsome warrior?'

'There are some subjects we should avoid, sir,' she told him primly.

'As you wish.' He had left her then and walked back to join Brontes at the rear.

As the night wore on Derae slept fitfully, waking with the dawn. The child Alexander peeked in at the cave-mouth, smiling as he saw her. 'Good day,' he said, moving into the cave and squatting down beside her.

'And to you, young prince. You are awake early.'

'Yes, I don't need much sleep. What is your name?'

'You may call me Thena.'

'Ah, but it isn't your name, is it?'

'I did not say that it was. I said that is what you may call me.'

'Then you must call me Iskander.'

'I shall. . Iskander. Are you frightened?'

'No,' he replied with a wide grin. 'Parmenion is here. There is no greater warrior in all of Greece — and he's the best general too.'

'You have much faith in him, Iskander. You must admire him greatly.'

'After my father he is the man I love best. Where are you from?'

'I am a Healer. I dwell in a Temple across the sea, near the ruins of Troy.'

'Have you always been a Healer?'

'No. Once I was just a girl, who dreamt of marrying the man she loved. But it was not to be.'

'Why?' The question was asked so simply that Derae laughed and reached out to ruffle his hair. As her hand was about to touch him she felt a burning pain in her palm and jerked back. His face crumpled. 'I'm sorry. It hasn't done that for a long time; I thought I was free.'

Steeling herself she reached out again, her fingers pushing back the golden fringe above his green eyes. The pain touched her once more, but she showed nothing. 'It was just a cramp,' she assured him. But he shook his head.

'You are very kind, but please do not touch me. I do not wish to see you in pain.'

A dark shadow fell across the cave-mouth and Parmenion entered. 'There you are,' he said, kneeling down beside the prince. 'Come, we must prepare for the march.'

'Her name is Thena,' said Alexander. 'She's very nice.' Then he scampered from the cave and Derae looked into Parmenion's eyes.

'You have chosen your route, strategos?

'Yes.' He settled down beside her. 'Are you sure we have not met, lady?'

'What makes you think so?' she countered.

'I cannot say. Your face is not familiar to me, but I feel I know you.'

'We have met,' she admitted, 'on the isle of Samothrace.'

'You!' he whispered. 'You were hooded and veiled; I thought you were in mourning.'

'I was. And I am. Now,' she said, rising smoothly to her feet, 'you said we must prepare for the march.'

'Yes, of course. You know where I plan to go?' he asked, pushing himself upright.

'To the Forest of Gorgon.'

He smiled then, his face becoming remarkably boyish. Derae was forced to look away. 'There is no other way,' he said.

'I know. What is your plan?'

'We will walk to the edge of the forest. Brontes says it will take three days. I will leave the others there and make my way to Gorgon.'

'Why must you risk this? What can you gain?'

Parmenion's smile faded. 'We can go no other way. In the open we will be hunted down: nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. The forest offers sanctuary and a chance to reach the Gulf.'

'Brontes says the evil there is worse than the Makedones.'

'Yes, and I believe him.'

'Then how can you bargain with them? What can you offer?'

'The dream of Iskander: to open the Giant's Gateway and bring back the magic. Evil or not, they are still creatures of Enchantment.'

'I will go with you,' she said.

'There is no need to risk yourself. I am capable of negotiating with the Forest Lord.'

'Even so, I will accompany you. I have many talents, Parmenion. They will prove useful.'

'I do not doubt it.'

For two days the group moved on, heading west, higher into the mountains, seeking the long pass that snaked down into the Forest of Gorgon spreading out below them in an ocean of trees. On the morning of the third day, as they sheltered from a sudden storm under a wide overhang of rock, they heard the sound of hoofbeats on the path. Attalus and Parmenion drew their swords and walked out into the storm, followed by Brontes and Chiron.

A stallion came trotting along the path, lifting its great head and whinnying as it saw the magus. 'Caymal!' shouted Chiron, running forward and stroking the horse's neck. 'It is good to see you, boy.'

Taking the beast's mane, Chiron vaulted to the stallion's back. The rain eased and the magus rode Caymal alongside Parmenion. 'I shall scout on ahead,' said Chiron. 'I will find you before nightfall.'

'Be careful, magus, we will need you and your magic if the Vores return,' Parmenion warned him.

The storm passed overhead, the clouds breaking up behind it, allowing sunshine to bathe the mountains as the group moved on, the centaurs riding ahead. Parmenion ran back up the slope, shading his eyes and studying their back-trail.

Attalus joined him. 'You see anything?' the Macedonian asked.

'I'm not sure. Look over there, beyond the pines. There is a cleft in the rocks. I thought I saw a man moving between them.'

'I see nothing. Let's move on.'

'Wait!' urged Parmenion, grabbing Attalus' arm and hauling him down. 'Look now!'

A line of men was moving down the slope several miles to the east, sunlight glinting from helms and spear-points.

Above them a Vore circled. 'How many?' Attalus whispered.

'More than fifty. Happily they are afoot and that means they could not come up to us before dark. Even so we must hurry.'

'Why? They'll have a difficult task trying to track us in the forest.'

'First we need permission to enter the forest,' said Parmenion.

'From whom?'

'The monsters who dwell there,' answered the Spartan, moving back from the rim and loping down the pass.

'Monsters? You said nothing of monsters,' shouted Attalus, running after him.

Parmenion slowed and grinned. 'I like to surprise you, Attalus.' The smile faded and he gripped the other man's shoulder. 'I may not come back. If that be the case, do whatever you can to bring Alexander to Sparta.'

‘I’ll come with you. I'm getting used to your company.'

'No. If we both die, what hope is there for the boy? You stay with him.'

It was dusk when the travellers came to the foot of the mountains. The centaurs rode off to find their own private places while Brontes, Steropes and Arges prepared a fire in the centre of a cluster of white boulders. Attalus and Alexander settled down beside the blaze to rest, while the woman Thena strolled from the camp to stand alongside the Spartan as he studied the forest.

'When will you go in?' she asked.

'I would prefer it to be dawn,' he told her. 'But the Makedones are close behind and we may not have that long.

Where in Hecate's name is Chiron?'

'It would be best if we entered the forest before nightfall,' advised Thena.

Parmenion nodded. 'Then let us be about it.' Striding to the boulders, he outlined his plan to the others.

'You are a madman,' stormed Brontes. 'I thought you would realize your folly. Don't you understand? Gorgon will kill you — and if he doesn't, he will betray you to Philippos.'

'You may be correct, my friend, but our choices are limited. If I am not back by the dawn, you must make your own way to the Gulf as best you can.'

Without another word he swung on his heel and walked across the open ground towards the dark wall of trees.

Thena came alongside him. 'Are we being observed?' he asked, his voice low.

'Yes. There are several beasts in the trees watching us. They are thinking of murder,' she said.

She felt Parmenion stiffen, his stride faltering, his hand easing towards his sword. 'We could go back,' she whispered.

'These creatures,' he said softly, 'you can read their thoughts?'

'Yes — such as they are.'

'Can you talk to them?'

'No, but I can influence them. What do you wish them to do?'

'Take me to the Lord Gorgon.'

'Very well. Count up to twenty and then shout his name. That will give me time to work on them.'

Derae took several deep breaths, calming herself, then sent her spirit into the trees. The first creature she touched -

part reptile, part cat — her recoil. His thoughts were of blood, and rending flesh. There was little intelligence here and she moved on, coming at last to a Vore who sat in the highest branches of an oak, his pale eyes staring at the two humans. He also relished thoughts of murder, but Derae sensed curiosity too.

'Gorgon!' yelled Parmenion. 'I wish to speak to the Lord Gorgon!'

The Vore tensed, unsure what to do. Derae's voice whispered deep within his mind, sending up thoughts from his subconscious. 'I must take them to the Lord. He will be angry if I do not. He will kill me if I do not. One of these others will tell him the man called for him. He will blame me.'

Spreading his wings, the Vore launched himself into the air, gliding down to land some twenty paces from the Humans.

Derae opened her eyes and instinctively reached out to take Parmenion's hand.

The Vore moved closer, its taloned feet uncomfortable on flat ground. 'You wish to see the Lord?'

'I do,' answered Parmenion.

'You are from Philippos?'

'I will speak only to the Lord Gorgon,' Parmenion said.

'I will lead you, Human.'

The Vore swung round and began to walk clumsily towards the trees, its treble-jointed feet making it stoop as it moved. Several times it slipped, but its wings flashed out to steady its balance.

Still holding Derae's hand, Parmenion followed the creature. 'What are the others thinking?' he whispered.

'One of them plans to leap upon you the moment you reach the shadows of the trees. Beware! But do not kill it.

Leave it to me!'

Letting go of her hand Parmenion walked on, gripping the hilt of his sword. Sweat bathed his face and his heart was beating wildly. Yet not all his thoughts were of fear. The touch of the woman's hand had been like fire moving through his blood, lifting him. The trees came closer, dark and forbidding, no sound emerging from the forest, no bird-song, not even the chitter of bats.

A reptilean creature sprang from an overhead branch and Parmenion leapt aside, but the beast plummeted to the ground and lay without moving. The Vore hissed out a warning to the other beasts nearby, then walked stiff-legged to the unconscious creature. 'Is it dead?' he asked.

'Sleeping,' Derae answered.

The Vore knelt over the body, ramming its talons through the creature's neck and wrenching clear the head. 'Now it is dead,' he hissed, licking the blood from his claws.

Slowly they walked on through the gathering gloom. Derae could hear the sounds of beasts moving on either side of them and in the branches above, but no further violence threatened them.

'Sweet Hera!' whispered Derae.

'What is it?'

'The Lord of the Forest. . the Gorgon. I touched him. Such hatred.'

'Against whom is it directed?'

'Everyone.'

The track widened and the Vore led them down into a huge hollow where a score of fires were lit and a monstrous figure waited, seated upon a throne of skulls. His skin was dark green, mottled with brown, his head enormous, his mouth cavernous and rimmed with fangs. But upon his head, in place of hair, writhed a score of snakes. Parmenion walked forward and bowed.

'Death to your enemies, sire,' he said.

The Hills of Arcadia

Far to the south, across the Gulf of Korinthos in the low hills of Arcadia, a bright light blazed briefly across the marble Tombs of the Heroes. It shone like a second moon, flickered and then died.

A shepherd boy saw the light and wondered if it presaged a storm, but his sheep and goats were undisturbed and there were no clouds in the night sky — the stars bright, the moon shining clear.

For a moment or two the boy thought about the light, then pushed it from his mind and huddled into his cloak, switching his gaze to his flock, eyes scanning the perimeters of the pasture to seek signs of wolf or lion.

But there was only one wolf close by, and the boy did not see him, for he was nestled down behind a marble gravestone in the nearby hills; and he too saw the light. As it flared up all around him, dazzling, terrifying, his thoughts of hunger fled before it.

The wolf was old, banished from the pack. Yet once he had been mighty, a leader to be feared, cunning and deadly.

But never in his long life had such a light blazed around him and it left him confused, uncertain. He lay still, lifting his grizzled head to sniff the air. Here was something he knew — and feared. The scent of Man.

And close by.

The wolf did not move. The scent was from his left and he slowly turned his head, yellow eyes watching for movement.

A man was lying on a slab of marble, his naked skin pale in the moonlight. He groaned and moved. Only moments before, the wolf had leapt to that same slab to look out over the flock, selecting his victim. There had been no scent of Man then. Yet there he was, stretched out.

The wolf had survived his many years by knowing when to be cautious and when to be brave. Men who appeared from the air, amid bright unnatural light, did not inspire courage in the old beast. And though he was hungry he slunk away towards the northern woods, far from the scent of Man.

Helm stirred. The stone was cold and uncomfortable on his back and he groaned as he woke, rolling to his side and swinging his powerful legs over the side of the slab. Sitting up, he yawned and stretched. The night was cool, but not unpleasant, and he saw a wolf loping away down the hillside towards the trees. Helm's hand reached for his sword, and it was then he realized he was naked and unarmed.

'Where is this place?' he said aloud. 'How did I come here?'

In those first few moments Helm was not concerned. He was a warrior — strong, tested in the heat of many battles, confident in his power. But as he searched his memories, fear akin to panic flared within him. He did not know how he had come to this strange place, but worse than this — so much worse — he realized with a shock which sent his heart hammering wildly that the corridors of his memory were silent and deserted.

'Who am I?' he whispered.

Helm. I am Helm.

'Who is Helm?' The name was small comfort, for with it came no memories of times past. Looking down at his hands, he saw they were broad and calloused, the fingers short and powerful. His forearms showed many scars, some jagged, others straight cuts. Yet how he had come by them was a mystery.

Be calm, he warned himself. Look around this place. It was then that he realized he lay within a graveyard, full of silent statues and marble tombs. Quelling his panic, he leapt lightly from the slab and explored. Some of the tombstones had cracked and fallen, others were overgrown with weeds. No one tended this place then, he thought. A cool wind hissed over the stones and he shivered. Where are my clothes, he wondered? Surely I have not walked across the land naked like a field slave? A gleam of light came from his left. For a moment only he thought a warrior stood there, moonlight gleaming from a full-faced helm of bronze and a gilded breastplate. He tensed, his hands curling into fists; then he saw that there was no silent soldier, only a suit of armour placed on a wooden frame.

He approached it warily, eyes scanning the graveyard around it.

The helm was beautifully crafted, save that it had no plume or crest. The skull was clear, showing no sign of the armourer's hammer, nor a single rivet. The face-guard had been shaped into the features of a man, bearded and stern of eye, with high curved brows and a mouth set in a terrible smile. The breastplate was also of superb design, the shoulders padded with bronze-reinforced leather, the chest fashioned in the shape of a strong man's musculature, curving pectorals and well-developed muscles at the solar plexus. Beneath it was a kilt of leather strips edged with bronze, and below that a pair of doeskin riding boots.

Beside them lay a scabbarded sword. Helm reached down and drew the weapon. His heartbeat slowed, confidence returning. The blade was of polished iron, double-edged and keen, the balance perfect.

The armour is mine, he realized. It has to be.

Swiftly he dressed. The breastplate was a perfect fit, as were the boots. The kilt sat well on his waist, the sword scabbard sliding easily into a loop of bronze at his left hip. Lastly he lifted the helm, easing it down over his short-cropped hair. As it settled into place a searing pain flowed over his features, burning like fire. He screamed and tried to pull the helm loose, but molten metal ate into his skin, pouring into his nostrils and mouth and anchoring itself to the bones of his face.

The pain passed.

Opening his eyes he saw that he had fallen to his knees. He rose and tried once more to remove the helm, but it would not budge. The breeze whispered across the graveyard — and he felt it upon his face, even as he had felt his hands when they tried to remove the helm. Lifting his right hand, he touched the metal mouth. It was cold, yet yielding. His finger probed further, touching his tongue; this too was metallic and yet still soft.

His face was now bronze; the helm was more than joined to his skin, it had become part of him.

'What is happening to me?' he bellowed, his own voice strange in his ears.

'Nothing is happening,' replied a soft voice. 'You are merely preparing yourself for the task ahead.'

Helm swung, his sword flashing into his hand. But there was no one in sight. 'Where are you?'

'Close by,' came the voice. 'Do not be alarmed, I am a friend.'

'Show yourself, friend.'

'That is not necessary. You are in the hills of Arcadia. Your quest lies to the north, at the Gulf of Korinthos.'

'I am not your slave!' stormed the warrior.

'You do not know what you are, all you know is the name I gave you.' The voice pointed out, the tone equable, even friendly. 'But all your answers lie ahead. You must seek out the Golden Child.'

'And if I don't?'

There was no reply. 'Are you still there? Speak to me, curse you!'

But the graveyard was silent.

Attalus sat back, resting his shoulders against a boulder and surveying his companions. Brontes was sitting opposite, his great brown eyes staring into the fire. Beside him the lion-headed Arges was stretched out, his maned head resting on his hugely muscled arm, his tawny eyes watching Attalus. The cyclops, Steropes, was asleep, breath hissing through his fangs. Attalus transferred his gaze to the cliff path where a single centaur watched for signs of the Makedones. Beside him Alexander stirred, moaning in his sleep. Attalus glanced back at Arges; still the creature watched him.

'Do you have to lie there and stare?' Attalus asked. The lion's mouth opened, a low growl issuing forth.

Brontes looked up from the fire. 'He does not like you,' he said.

‘I’ll lose no sleep over that,' retorted Attalus.

'From where does your anger come, Human?' queried Brontes. 'I feel it in you — a bitterness, a frustration perhaps?'

'Leave me in peace,' snapped Attalus. 'And make sure your hairy brother keeps his distance, or he's likely to wake up with a length of Macedonian steel in his heart.' And he stretched out on the ground, turning his back on the brothers.

Bitterness? Oh yes, Attalus knew where the seeds had been planted for that. It had been on the day when his father killed his mother. The death had not been easy and the boy had listened to her screams for hours. He had been young then, merely twelve, but after that day he had never been young again. At fourteen he had crept into his father's bedchamber with a razor-sharp skinning knife, running the blade expertly across the man's throat and standing back to watch the sleeping man wake with blood bubbling into his lungs. Oh, he had thrashed his arms, struggling to rise, his fingers scrabbling at his throat as if to bind the slashed arteries. Bitterness? What could these creatures know of his bitterness?

Unable to sleep, Attalus rose and walked from the camp. The moon was high, the night breeze chill. He shivered and glanced up at the cliff path. The centaur was nowhere in sight. Uneasy now the swordsman scanned the high rocks, seeking any sign of movement.

There was nothing, save the breeze rustling the dry grass on the sides of the cliff. Swiftly he returned to the circle of boulders where the three brothers were asleep. Lightly he tapped Brontes on the shoulder. The minotaur groaned and raised his massive head. 'What is it?'

'The sentry is gone. Wake your brothers!' whispered Attalus. Moving to Alexander he lifted the boy to his shoulder and set off for the forest. As he reached open ground there came the sound of screams from the north. Several ponies ran from the rocks, but spears and arrows sliced into them. A young man riding a pale pony almost got clear, but a Vore swooped down from the night sky, a dart thudding into the pony's neck. The beast went down, throwing the boy clear. He rose, staggered, and fell as a second dart lanced his body.

Attalus started to run. Alexander woke, but he did not scream or shout. His arms moved around Attalus' neck and he held on tightly.

From behind came the sound of a galloping horse and Attalus swung, dragging his sword clear. A huge centaur carrying a curved bow ran towards them.

'Camiron!' shouted Alexander. The centaur slowed.

'Many Makedones,' he said. 'Too many to kill. The centaurs are dead.'

Sheathing his sword, Attalus took hold of Camiron's mane and leapt to his back. 'Make for the trees!' he commanded.

Camiron surged forward, almost unseating the Macedonian, but then they were away. Dark-cloaked warriors were closing in from the south, north and east. But the way west, to the forest, was still clear. Camiron thundered across the open ground as arrows slashed the air around him.

A Vore swooped down from the sky and Camiron swerved and reared as a dart sliced in to the ground beside him.

Notching an arrow to his bow the centaur sent a shaft winging through the air, taking the Vore in the right side and piercing its lung. The creature's wings folded and it crashed to the earth.

Camiron broke into a gallop and headed for the trees, leaving the Makedones far behind. The forest closed around them but still Camiron ran, leaping fallen trees and boulders, splashing across streams, until he crested a hill that led on to a small hollow circled by tall pines. Here he slowed.

'This place no good. This is Gorgon's Forest.'

Attalus lifted his leg and slid to the ground. 'It's safer than where we were,' he said, releasing Alexander. The boy sank to the earth, his hands clasped to his temples.

'Are you ill?' Attalus asked, dropping to his knees beside the boy. Alexander looked up and the swordsman found himself staring into yellow eyes, the pupils slitted.

'I am well,' came a deep voice. Attalus recoiled and Alexander laughed, the sound hollow and cruel.

'Do not fear me, assassin. You have always served me well.'

Attalus said nothing. At Alexander's temples dark skin erupted, flowing, swelling, curling back over his ears and down to his neck, forming into twin ram's horns, ebony-dark and gleaming in the moonlight.

'I like this place,' said the Chaos Spirit. 'It suits me.'

'Death to your enemies, sire,' said Parmenion, bowing low.

'You are an enemy,' hissed Gorgon. The Spartan straightened and smiled, looking into the pale eyes of the monstrosity before him.

'Indeed I am — for I am Human. But I have the capacity to give you all that you desire.'

'You can have no understanding of what I desire. But speak on, for you amuse me — as your imminent death will amuse me.'

'Long ago you were a warrior,' said Parmenion softly, 'a child of the Titans. You had the ability to change your shape, to fly, or to swim below the sea. But when the Great War ended you were banished here, trapped in the last form you chose. Now the Enchantment is dying, all over the world. But you will survive, Gorgon; you know that.

You will live for a thousand years, here in this place of dark magic. But one day even this forest will fall to the axes of men.'

Gorgon surged to his feet, the snakes of his hair hissing and thrashing. 'You came here to tell me what I already know? You are no longer amusing, Human.'

'I came to offer the answer to your dreams,' Parmenion told him.

'And what is my dream?'

'Be careful, Parmenion,' came the voice of Thena in his mind. 'I cannot read him.'

'You have many dreams,' said Parmenion. 'You dream of revenge, you nurse your hatreds. But the one dream, the one great dream, is to see the Enchantment restored, to be free of Man.'

Gorgon sank back on to the throne of skulls. 'And this you can give me?' he asked, his cavernous mouth stretching into an obscene smile.

'Iskander can bring the dream to life.'

For a moment the King was silent, then he leaned forward, his pale eyes glittering. 'You speak of the child Philippos seeks. He has offered much for this child — many women, not plain like the one with you, but beautiful, soft and sweet. He promises to accept my sovereignty over the forest. I think his is the offer I will accept.'

'Why does he want the child so desperately?' countered Parmenion.

'For immortality.'

'An immortal Human? Is that to be desired? And what else?'

'What else is there?'

The death of Enchantment. Without Iskander you have no hope. You will all wither and die. That is the ultimate aim of Philippos — it has to be.'

'And the child is Iskander?'

'He is,' Parmenion replied.

'And he can lift the curse from me and my people?'

'He can.'

'I do not believe it. Now it is time to die, Human.'

'Is this all that you want?' asked Parmenion, his arm sweeping out to encompass the clearing, 'or have you lived so long as a monstrosity that you can no longer remember what it was like to live as a god? I pity you.'

'Save your pity!' thundered the King. 'Save it for yourself and the bony woman beside you!'

'What was your name?' asked Thena suddenly, her voice clear and sweet.

'My name? I am Gorgon.'

'What was your name before, in the bright golden days?'

'I… I… what has this to do with anything?'

'Can you not remember?' she asked, moving forward to stand before him.

'I remember,' he answered. 'I was Dionius.' The King sagged back on the throne, the taut muscles of his shoulders relaxing. 'I will think more on what you say. You and your man may stay with us tonight; you will be safe while I consider your words.'

Thena bowed and walked to Parmenion, leading him away to the edge of the clearing.

'What was that about his name?' asked the Spartan.

'His mind was too powerful to read, but one image kept flickering in his thoughts when you spoke of the return of the Enchantment. It was of a handsome man with clear blue eyes. I guessed it must be him.'

'You are a good companion to have,' he told her, taking her hand and kissing it. 'Wise and intuitive.'

'And bony and plain,' she replied, with a smile.

'Not at all,' he whispered. 'You are beautiful.'

Snatching her hand from his, she pulled back. 'Do not mock me, Spartan.'

'I spoke only the truth. Beauty is more than skin, flesh and bone. You have courage and spirit. And, if you doubt my words, then read my mind.'

'No. I know what is there.'

'Then why are you angry?'

'I had a lover long ago,' she said, turning away from him. 'He was young, as was I. We did not have long together, and I have missed him for many years.'

'What happened?'

'I was taken from him, across the sea, and held captive in a temple until I agreed to become a priestess.'

'And he made no attempt to find you? His love could not have been as great as yours.'

'He thought me dead.'

'I am sorry,' said Parmenion, taking her hand once more. 'I know the scars you carry; I have them too.'

'But you are married now, with three children. Surely you have forgotten your first love?'

'Never,' he replied, his voice so soft the word was barely a sigh.

The Forest of Gorgon

For much of the night the creatures of the forest sat around the campfires. There was no laughter or song and they huddled together in grim silence as Gorgon sat upon the throne of skulls. Thena was asleep, her head resting on Parmenion's shoulder, but the Spartan stayed awake. The silence was unnatural; he sensed the creatures were waiting for something and he remained tense and watchful as the hours passed.

Towards dawn the creatures climbed to their feet, moving to left and right of the throne in two lines. Easing Thena to the ground, Parmenion rose. His limbs were stiff and he stretched the muscles of his back. Tension hung in the air as Gorgon rose from the throne and stared to the east.

A dozen weird beasts emerged from the trees, dragging a prisoner, roped and tied. There was blood upon the prisoner's body and the marks of many wounds. Parmenion cursed softly.

The prisoner was Brontes.

His captors — part-reptile, part-cat, their limbs covered in fur, their faces scaled — pulled Brontes between the waiting lines. Jagged knives and swords hissed into the air.

'Wait!' called Parmenion, striding out to stand above the bound minotaur. Brontes looked up at him, his expression unreadable. Swiftly Parmenion drew his dagger, slicing the razor-sharp blade through the thongs binding him. 'Stay down,' ordered the Spartan, then rose to face the Forest King.

'This is my friend — and my ally,' he said. 'He is under my protection.'

'Your protection? And who protects you, Human?'

'You do, sire — until you have reached a decision.'

'So,' hissed Gorgon, pacing forward to stand over the minotaur, 'you have a human friend now, Brontes. Do you remember the last one? You don't learn, do you?'

The minotaur said nothing but he lowered his head, avoiding Gorgon's gaze. Then a sound came from the Forest King that could have been laughter. 'He was a prisoner on Greta,' he told Parmenion. 'The King penned him in a labyrinth below his city, feeding him on the entrails of pigs and other vile meats. One day the King threw a hero into the labyrinth. But Brontes did not kill him, did you, brother? No, he befriended him and together they escaped.

Imagine Brontes' surprise when the hero returned home to brag of his battle with the deadly, man-eating minotaur.

Did he become King, Brontes? Yes, I believe that he did. And spent his days — as all kings do — hunting down the people of the Enchantment. Thus do they build their legends.'

'Kill me,' said Brontes, 'but pray do not bore me to death.'

'Ah, but how can I kill you, Brontes? You are under the protection of the Human. How fortunate for you.' Suddenly Gorgon's foot lashed out, cracking against Brontes' jaw and hurling him to the ground.

'How many enemies do you need, sire?' asked Parmenion.

'Do not try my patience, Human! This is my realm.'

'I do not question that, sire. But when the Enchantment is restored, it will be restored for all the children of the Titans. All… including my friend Brontes.'

'And if I kill him?'

'Then you will need to kill me. For I will surely strike you down.'

Gorgon shook his head, the snakes convulsively rising, then he knelt by Brontes. 'What are we to make of this, brother?' he asked. 'A Human is prepared to die for you. How far have we fallen that we should earn their pity?'

Glancing up at Parmenion he shook his head once more. 'You will have my answer come the dawn. Enjoy the moments before then.'

Parmenion moved to Brontes, helping the minotaur to his feet. His chest and back showed a score of shallow cuts and he was bleeding freely.

'What happened?' asked Parmenion as he led the minotaur back to where Thena slept.

'The Makedones surprised us. The centaurs are dead — as are my brothers. I managed to reach the forest, but there I was captured. All is lost, Parmenion.'

'What of the boy!'

'Your friend carried him clear — but I don't know if they escaped.'

'I am sorry for your brothers, my friend. I should have led us all into the forest and taken the chance.'

'Do not blame yourself, strategos. And I thank you for speaking for me. Sadly it will delay our deaths only a little while. Gorgon is playing with us, allowing hope to build. At dawn we will see his true evil.'

'He called you brother.'

'I do not wish to speak of it. I will sleep these last hours. It will annoy him dreadfully.' The minotaur sank back to the grass, lowering his huge head to the ground.

'I will tend your wounds,' Parmenion offered.

'No need. They will be healed by the time we face our doom.' Brontes closed his eyes.

Parmenion touched Thena's shoulder and she woke instantly. 'Alexander is lost somewhere. Can you find him?'

'I cannot soar here. The Dark Enchantment is too strong. What will you do?'

Parmenion shrugged. 'I will use my wits to the last and, if that fails, I'll stab the snake-headed bastard through the heart and order his men to surrender.'

'I believe that you would,' she said, smiling.

'Spartan training. Never admit defeat.'

'I too am Spartan,' she said. 'We are a very stupid people.' They both laughed and he put his arm around her.

'Go back to sleep,' he advised, his smile fading. 'I will wake you for the dawn.'

'If you do not object, I would like to sit with you. You can tell me of your life.'

'There is nothing in my life to interest a priestess.'

'Tell me of your first love, how you met. I would like to hear that.'

The horned child moved to the centre of the clearing and gazed through slitted eyes into the darkness of the forest.

'Come to me!' he called, his voice echoing into the trees. Slowly, one by one, the beasts came forth until they formed a huge circle around him. Attalus stayed close to the centaur, Camiron, who stamped his feet nervously, his brown eyes wide, almost panic-stricken.

'Stay calm,' advised Attalus.

'I am not frightened,' the centaur lied.

'Then stand still, damn you!'

'I want to leave. I will run to the open ground. I cannot breathe here. I need Chiron; I must find him.'

'Wait!' commanded Attalus. 'Do nothing rash. If you run they will drag you down. And, more importantly, me with you.'

More and more creatures filed slowly forward, silently kneeling before Alexander. The stench was appalling and Attains almost gagged. A scaled beast pushed past him, its rough skin grazing the swordsman's arm. But the beasts showed little interest in man or centaur; their eyes were fixed on the Golden Child.

Alexander walked back to Attalus. 'Lift me to the centaur's back,' he said. The swordsman did so and Camiron shifted uneasily. Alexander patted Camiron's shoulder and Attalus saw that his fingernails were now black and pointed. 'Such a puny body,' said the Chaos Spirit, staring at his hands. 'But it will grow. Come, let us find Parmenion. Head south, Camiron.'

'I do not wish to carry you. You are hurting me,' said the centaur.

'Your wishes do not concern me. But you may die here if you desire it.'

Camiron cried out as fresh agony lanced through his frame. 'That is true pain,' said the Chaos Spirit. 'Now move- and slowly. Attalus, you will walk beside me. My servants can smell your blood. It makes them hungry. Stay close to me.'

'Yes, my prince. But where are we going?'

'To war and slaughter. There cannot be two kings in the forest.'

The sun rose slowly over the trees, but no birds sang. The creatures of Gorgon had remained in two lines before the throne, unmoving, unspeaking, waiting for the dawn. Parmenion stood and stretched. Thena rose with him. Brontes groaned and stirred as the first rays of sunshine touched him. His wounds had healed in the night; now only dried blood remained on his massive torso.

'Now we await Gorgon's pleasure,' whispered Brontes. 'It would be a kind act were you to kill the woman now.'

'No,' said Parmenion softly. 'We'll play out the game to the end.'

'As you wish.'

The trio walked forward between the waiting lines and halted before the throne. Gorgon's huge head lifted, his pale eyes glaring balefully at Parmenion.

'I have given thought to your words, warrior. I find them unconvincing.'

'Naturally,' said Parmenion. 'When one is cursed for so long, a dream is hard to hold. So many disappointments, so much bitterness and hatred. Why should you find it easy to believe?'

'I mean to kill you,' continued the King, as if he hadn't heard. 'I will ensure your death is long in coming.'

'Does this mean that you will accept the offer of Philippos?' asked Parmenion calmly.

'Yes. I will find the child and deliver him to the Makedones King.'

'In return for what? A few women? Sovereignty over the forest? Do you sell yourself so cheaply? Philippos grants you what you already have, and you take it as a gift. What of your people here? What do they get? You turn down their chance of removing the curse upon them. What is there for them?'

'They serve me!' bellowed Gorgon, rising from his throne. 'They will do as I opmmand. You think your sweet words have swayed them? Yes, we are cursed, but there is no Iskander to rescue us. He is a dream, an invention, created by those without the courage to live without hope. But you can serve a purpose, Human. Your screams can amuse us for a little while.'

The lines of monsters began to move, curling around the trio. Brontes gave a low growl and Parmenion drew his sword. Derae stood still, her gaze resting on the Forest King, her spirit reaching out.

'To live without hope,' she said, her voice high and clear and unafraid, 'is not courageous. It is the worst form of cowardice. It means you have given up the struggle. Have you always been such a man, Dionius? Or was there a time when your dreams were golden and the joy of love filled your soul?' Through the waves of bitterness surging from the Forest King she saw, suddenly, the briefest vision — a young woman and a man, hand in hand before the ocean. Then the image was savagely cut off.

'I never knew love!' he roared.

'You lie! There was Persephone!'

Gorgon reeled as if struck, then cried out, his scream high-pitched and chilling. Derae saw it all then, as the gates of Gorgon's memory fell away. The beautiful young woman and the handsome child of the Titans — walking together, laughing, touching, loving. She saw them in many shapes, sea birds, dolphins and other exquisite creatures she could not name. But Persephone was human, and not all the Titan's magic could hold back her final hours when the dark plague swept in from the north.

Gorgon fell to the ground, beating at the earth with his fists. The monsters of the forest stood back, silent and uncertain. Slowly Gorgon rose, the snakes hanging lank and lifeless from his scalp. From his belt he drew a long dagger, its edge serrated, and advanced on Derae.

'Would Persephone enjoy this scene?' she asked.

Gorgon sighed and dropped the knife. 'I will see the child,' he whispered. 'If he is Iskander, I will help you. If he is not, then your screams will last an eternity.'

For a moment Parmenion stood still, his gaze moving from the tall woman to the snake-headed monster before her.

Then he sheathed his sword. Thena's voice whispered in his mind. 'Do nothing and say nothing,' she urged.

Gorgon turned away from the scene, returning to his throne and slumping upon it with his head in his hands.

Thena touched Parmenion's arm and walked back to the shade of the tree where they had spent the night. The Spartan followed her. 'What is wrong?' he asked. 'Is he lying? Will he truly help us?'

'Gorgon is not the concern,' she whispered. 'The Demon Prince has gathered an army. He is moving towards us, intent on destroying the Forest King.'

'What Demon Prince?' asked Parmenion. 'What are you saying?'

'The Chaos Spirit has taken control of Alexander. He has become a horned creature, with fangs and talons. It is these woods, Parmenion, so full of Dark Enchantment. They swelled his power. Attalus is with him, and a centaur called Camiron. But the Spirit now controls hundreds of Gorgon's followers.'

'I don't understand. How do you know this? You said you could not release your spirit here.'

'I can still reach out, touching those I know if they are not too far distant. I can feel the thoughts and fears of Attalus.

They will be here very soon.'

'From which direction do they come?'

'The north,' she answered, pointing to a break in the trees.

'Is the demon in full control of the boy?'

'Yes.'

Parmenion sighed, then cursed softly. 'I will go to them,' he said.

'The Demon Prince will kill you!'

'I have no choice,' he replied wearily. A Vore swooped down over the trees, landing before the Forest King.

Parmenion strode back to the throne. Gorgon listened as the Vore spoke, then came to his feet — eyes angry, fists clenched.

'This child of yours comes to me for war!' he thundered.

'As you would expect, my lord,' answered Parmenion. 'He does not know whether we are prisoners or guests. I shall go to him, and bring him to you alone.'

This Iskander,' said the King, 'is horned and cat-eyed. The legends do not speak of this.'

'He is a shape-changer, as you once were, sire. His powers, as you now know, are very great. Let me go to him.'

Gorgon nodded, then his hand stabbed out, pointing to Thena and Brontes. 'They stay,' he hissed, 'and if you lie they will suffer.'

Parmenion bowed. 'As you wish, lord,' he said, holding his voice even. Bowing once more, the Spartan swung to the north and walked from the clearing. Once in the cover of the trees he ran — long, loping, effortless strides along the narrow trail, his mind concentrating on the problem ahead. How could he deal with a god? What arguments could he use?

Thena's voice whispered once more into his brain. 'I can feel Alexander now. He is not wholly overcome. And there is something else. . the demon and the boy are linked. The Chaos Spirit is not yet whole. He is still… I don't know.

. child-like?'

The words faded and the Spartan ran on, up a hillside and on to a wider track. 'More to your left!' came the voice of Thena. 'No more than two hundred paces.'

The undergrowth was too thick to change direction, and Parmenion ran back along the way he had come before turning to a new trail. He could hear them now, just ahead. Slowing to a walk the Spartan stepped out before them and waited, keeping his face emotionless despite the shock of seeing the Demon Prince sitting upon the giant centaur. Alexander's face was now a pallid grey, mottled black ram's horns sprouting from the temples. His hair was white, the golden eyes slitted beneath heavy brows, his mouth was twisted and wide with teeth long and protruding.

There was nothing left of the beautiful child.

'Ah, my general approaches!' came a deep voice. 'Welcome, Parmenion!'

Beyond the Prince the monstrous army waited, and beside him stood Attalus, his face a mask, his expression unreadable.

'This is neither your time nor your world,' said Parmenion softly. 'Give us back the boy.'

'Serve me or die!' answered the Chaos Spirit.

'No, you will die,' Parmenion told him. 'You think this display of. . power. . can win you a world? Gorgon will fight you, and even if you defeat him what will you have? A pitiful forest in a world where another Spirit rules. And that Spirit controls an army of countless thousands. You are playing a child's game in a man's world. Now give us back the boy!'

The Demon swung to Attalus. 'Kill him!' he ordered. Attalus said nothing, but drew his sword and walked to where Parmenion stood waiting. Once there the Macedonian turned and faced the Demon. 'You betray me!' shouted the prince. 'Then you will both die.'

'Wait!' called Parmenion. 'Your world is a long way from here. Only I can return you to it. Without me you will be trapped here, in the body of a child. How will you survive?'

'I have my army,' answered the Demon, but his voice wavered as he looked upon the beasts around him.

'You will conquer nothing with those,' said Parmenion. 'You might not even best the Forest King.'

'And if I give you the boy?'

'I will return him to his own world.'

'How so?' sneered the Demon. 'By trusting Gorgon? He will kill him. . me.'

'Then you must decide — and swiftly. You may have this forest… or a world. Decide, damn you!'

For a moment the Demon sat very still, his slitted eyes fixed on Parmenion, then he seemed to relax. 'One day I will kill you both,' he said, his voice echoing as if from a great distance. The horns began to shrink, Alexander cried out and fell from the centaur. Parmenion ran forward, lifting the boy and pushing back the golden hair. There was no sign now of the Demon, save in the fading brown patches of skin at the temples. Once more his hair was golden, his face beautiful.

'I couldn't. . stop him. . Parmenion,' wailed the child. 'I tried!'

'You did enough. Believe me! You did not allow him his full strength. That confused him.'

'Look out, Parmenion!' shouted Attalus. All around the man and the boy the beasts were rising, their eyes baleful.

Without the Demon to control them they saw only three Humans and a centaur, four enemies for the slaughter.

Parmenion surged upright, holding Alexander tightly to his shoulder. 'Back!' he shouted, but the beasts ignored him.

His sword snaked out as a creature with the head of a lizard sprang forward. His blade slashed across its throat, hurling it back.

Suddenly an eerie wailing filled the air and the creatures fell to their knees. Parmenion swung to see Gorgon striding from the forest, Thena and Brontes behind him.

A horned beast of prodigious size lifted a huge club and ran at the Forest King. Gorgon's eyes glowed. The beast staggered — and began to shrink, its muscles wasting away. Thinner and thinner it became until at last it fell to the earth, breaking into many pieces. A slight wind blew, raising a cloud of dust where the beast had fallen. Not even bones were left.

Gorgon turned towards Parmenion. 'Bring the child to me!' he commanded. The Spartan's legs were unsteady as he walked to the King, but his sword was still in his hand and he was ready to plunge it into the King's belly at the first sign of treachery.

'Be brave!' he whispered to the boy. Alexander nodded. Parmenion lowered the prince to the ground and the boy approached the Forest King, staring up into the green snake-shrouded face.

'Show me your power,' said Gorgon.

'I will show you,' Alexander told him. 'But at the Giant's Gateway.'

'Then you are truly Iskander.'

'I am,' Alexander answered.

The prince stood silently with head cocked to one side, his green eyes watching the writhing snakes. 'Are they real snakes?' he asked suddenly.

'Reality depends upon your perspective,' answered Gorgon, kneeling down and dipping his head. The snakes rose up, hissing, their forked tongues darting forward under sharp fangs.

The boy did not flinch. 'They are not alive,' he said.

'If they bite you, you will die,' Gorgon pointed out.

'That does not make them real. Their eyes are blind. They cannot see, they cannot feel. They move because you order it.'

'So does my arm — and that is real.'

'Indeed,' agreed the boy, 'and that is precisely what the snakes are — an extension of your body, like arms or legs. They merely look like snakes.'

'Are you not frightened of me?'

'I fear nothing,' lied Alexander, straightening his back and lifting his chin defiantly.

'But you find me monstrous and ugly.'

'I find you fascinating. Why did you choose such a countenance?'

A sound resembling laughter roared from the Forest King. 'I chose it to instil fear in my enemies. It did so. It still does so. But then the war was lost and the losers were. . punished? A spell was cast upon us, forcing us to hold our forms. You, Iskander, will wash away this spell.'

'Are you evil?' asked the boy.

'Of course. We lost. The losers are always evil, for it is the victors who sing the songs that become history. And in these forms they have left us what choices do we have? Look at the Vores! Their touch is death, their breath the plague. How many good works can they accomplish? The victors left us with hate and bitterness in our hearts. They called us evil, and made us evil. Now we live up to their expectations. You believe me?'

'It would be discourteous to admit that I did not,' answered the boy.

'True,' agreed the King, 'but I will allow you one discourtesy.'

'Then I must say that I do disagree. Parmenion says that every man has choices. If what you say is true, then all ugly men would be evil and all handsome men good.'

'Well said, child,' commented the minotaur, Brontes. 'My brother omits to mention that he — and his allies — began the war, bringing death and slaughter to thousands.'

Gorgon rose and shook his head, the snakes hissing and writhing. 'Just when it seemed I could have an intelligent conversation… Ah well, let us not rake over the ashes of history, Brontes. As I recall there were many thousands on both sides who died, brother killing brother. Let it end with the coming of Iskander.'

'I do not believe you will ever let it end, Dionius,' said Brontes sadly. 'It is not in your nature.'

'We shall see, brother. How is our mother? Does she still pine for me?'

A low growl came from Brontes, his fists clenching, the muscles of his shoulders bunching into tight ridges. 'Do not even think of it,' whispered Gorgon, his pale eyes glowing like lanterns.

'Please do not fight,' pleaded Alexander.

'No one is going to fight,' said Parmenion, moving between Brontes and the Forest King. 'We are allies now, against a common enemy. Is that not correct, Brontes?'

'Allies?' hissed the minotaur, shaking his head. 'I cannot bring myself to believe so.'

'You can,' argued Parmenion, 'because you must. This war you speak of was fought eons ago. There must come a time when it can be put aside. Let that time be now. Let it be here in this forest.'

'You have no idea what he did!' stormed Brontes.

'No, I have not. Nor do I need to. It is the way of war to bring out both the best and the worst in the combatants. But the war is over.'

'As long as he lives it will never be over,' said Brontes, turning away and stalking back into the forest. Alexander switched his gaze to the Forest King and thought he saw a look of disappointment, almost sadness on the twisted features. Then the grim, sardonic expression returned.

'Your mission has not begun well, Iskander,' said the King.

'Nothing of worth comes easily,' the boy answered.

'You are a wise child. I could almost like you — were I able to remember what such an emotion feels like.'

'You can remember,' said Alexander, with a bright smile. 'And I like you too.'

Alexander moved away from the Forest King and saw Camiron standing apart from the monsters who filled the clearing. The centaur was trembling, his front hooves pawing at the ground. The prince walked towards him but Camiron, seeing him, backed away several steps.

'You hurt me,' said the centaur, his huge eyes blinking rapidly.

'It was not me,' said Alexander soothingly, reaching out his hand. 'Did it look like me?'

'Except for the horns,' said Camiron. 'I don't like this place; I don't want to be here.'

'We will be leaving soon,' the boy told him. 'Will you let me ride you?'

'Where will we go?'

'We will find Chiron.'

‘I’ll never find him,' muttered the centaur. 'He has abandoned me. And I will always be alone.'

'No,' said Alexander, stepping close and taking Camiron's hand. 'You are not alone. We will be friends, you and I.

Until we find Chiron.'

The centaur bent his torso forward and whispered, 'This is an evil place. It has always been so. If you get on my back, I will run from here like the wind. I can carry you to the far mountains. They will not catch us.'

'There is evil everywhere, my friend,' Alexander told him, 'and we are safer here than in the mountains. Trust me.'

Camiron said nothing, but fear still shone in his eyes and his flanks trembled. 'You are mighty Camiron,' said the boy suddenly, 'the strongest of centaurs. You fear nothing. You are the fastest, the bravest, the finest of warriors.'

The centaur nodded. 'Yes, yes, I am all those things. I am! I am a great fighter. I am not frightened.'

'I know. We will journey to the sea and then to Sparta. I will ride you and you will protect me.'

'To the sea, yes. Will Chiron be there? Is he close?'

'He is very close. Tell me, where were you when you. . awoke last?'

'It was in a wood, close to the mountains. I heard shouts and screams. It was the Makedones killing the centaurs.

That's when I saw you.'

'Was anything around you when you woke?'

'Just trees and rocks and… a stream, I think. I don't remember going there. I don't remember things very well.'

'The first time I saw you, you had a pouch of leather on a belt. In it there was a golden stone. But you do not have it now.'

'A pouch? Yes. . there was. But I left it behind. The screams startled me. Is it important?'

'No, I just wondered where it was. We will leave soon, but first I must speak with Parmenion.'

The Spartan was deep in conversation with the priestess Thena and Attalus, but when Alexander joined them the group fell silent. 'I need to speak with you,' said the boy.

'Of course,' Parmenion answered, kneeling to face the prince.

'It is about Chiron.'

'I think he is lost to us.'

'No. He is the centaur, Camiron.' Swiftly he told Parmenion of his first meeting with the magus, and how he had become a centaur. 'But now Camiron has lost the magic stone. I don't think he can change back.'

'There is little we can do for him,' said Parmenion, 'save keep him with us. But, more importantly, how are you faring?'

Alexander looked into the Spartan's eyes, reading the concern there. 'I am well. He took me by surprise. The Enchantment in these woods is very strong — and very dark.'

'Do you recall any of it?'

'All of it. In a strange way it was very peaceful. I could see everything and yet I was not in command. I needed to make no decisions. He is very strong, Parmenion. I felt it when his mind reached out and touched the beasts. He brought them to his will instantly.'

'Can you still feel his presence?'

'No. It is as if he is sleeping.'

'Do you have the strength to stop him, should he try to. . control you once more?'

'I think so. But how can I know?'

'Do the best that you can,' advised the Spartan, 'and tell me when he returns.'

'I will. What happens now?'

'The King is going to lead us to the sea. Once there we will find a way to cross the Gulf of Korinthos. . Corinth.

From there we will travel south through Arkadia to Sparta. After that… I don't know.'

'I can open the Giant's Gateway,' said Alexander softly.

'Do not think of it,' whispered the Spartan. 'You are not who they think you are.'

'Oh, but I am,' answered the boy. 'Believe me, Parmenion, I am Iskander.'

For three days the small group moved south through the forest, led by Gorgon and guided by three Vores who swooped and dived in the sky above the trees, watching for signs of pursuit. Alexander rode Camiron, whose spirits had soared on the second morning.

'I can remember,' Camiron told the prince. 'It is wonderful. I went to sleep and woke up in the same place.'

'That is good,' replied the boy distantly.

Parmenion walked often beside the Forest King, Derae and'Attalus bringing up the rear behind the centaur and his rider.

For the first two days the priestess said little to the swordsman, walking in silence and spending her evenings in deep conversation with Parmenion. But on the morning of the third day Attalus hung back from the group, allowing some thirty paces to grow between them.

'You are walking very slowly,' said Derae.

'I want to talk to you,' he told her.

'Why? What am I to you?'

'I need… I want. . advice.'

Derae looked at him closely, reaching out to touch his spirit, feeling the surging, complex emotions raging within him. Swiftly she withdrew. 'How may I help you?'

'You are a seeress, are you not?'

'I am.'

'And you can see the future?'

'There are many futures, Attalus; they change day by day. Tell me what troubles you.'

'The Demon said that he would see Parmenion and me both slain. Did he speak the truth?'

Derae looked into the swordsman's troubled face. 'What would you do if I told you that he did?'

'I don't know. All my known enemies are dead; there is safety in that. But he is the son of the only friend I have ever had. I could not. .' His voice trailed away. 'Will you tell me my future?'

'No, it would not be wise. You carry great hatred and bitterness, Attalus. And the events of your past have twisted your soul. Your love for Philip is the only redeeming quality you have.'

'Will you tell me whether the boy is a danger to me?'

For a moment only she hesitated. 'Give me your hand,' she commanded. He obeyed her, offering his left, his right resting on his sword-hilt. Emotions flooded her — strong, harsh and almost overpowering. She saw his mother slain by his father, saw the father murdered by the young Attalus. Then, in the years that followed, she saw the bitter young man send scores of people to their deaths, using knife or bow, sword or poison. At last she sighed and released his hand.

'Well?' he demanded.

'You have many enemies,' she told him, her voice low and sorrowful. 'You are hated by almost all who know you.

Believe me, assassin, at this time the prince is the least of your foes.'

'But he will be an enemy, will he not?'

'If he lives,' she replied, holding to his gaze. 'If any of us live.'

'Thank you,' he said, moving past her and walking on.

That night, as the others slept, Derae sat with Parmenion on the brow of a hill and told the Spartan what had occurred with Attalus. 'You think he will try to kill the boy?' he asked.

'Not immediately. But he is a sad, twisted man. There is little good in him.'

'I will watch him with care. But tell me, lady, why did Aristotle send you?'

'He thought I could help you. Have I not done so?'

'Of course — but that is not what I meant. Why did he send.you? Why not another?'

'Is my company so painful to you?' she countered, her unease growing.

'Not at all. You are like a cool breeze on a summer's day. You make my soul rest. I am not good with women, Thena.

I am clumsy and short of temper.' He chuckled. 'The ways of your race are alien to me.'

'You make us sound like another species.'

'Sometimes I think that you are,' he admitted. 'When I was very young I used to watch Derae run. I would hide on a hilltop and observe the girls in their races. Their grace made me feel ungainly and awkward — and yet the memories have a certain glow.'

'It is good to talk of fine memories,' she told him. 'They are all that makes life a joy. Tell me of your family.'

'I thought you wanted good memories,' he snapped, looking away.

'You do not love your wife?'

'Love Phaedra?' he answered, shaking his head. 'She married me for one purpose. . and I do not wish to talk of it.'

'Then we will not.'

Suddenly he gave a wry smile. 'Why did you ask me that question? You are a seeress, Thena; you know the answer already.' The smile faded, his expression hardening. 'Do you know all my secrets?'

The thought of lying flitted across her mind, but she dismissed it. 'Yes,' she told him softly.

He nodded. 'I thought so. Then you know why she married me.'

'To rid herself of the unwanted gift of prophecy.'

'And?' he pressed — his eyes, cold now, holding to her gaze.

'Because her gift told her you would sire a god-king to rule the world. She wanted that boy to be her son.'

'And now,' said Parmenion sorrowfully, 'she raises poor Philotas, filling his mind with thoughts of future glories. It is a terrible illusion — and I can do nothing to stop it. Is this the price I must pay for my. . betrayal?'

'You are not an evil man,' she told him, taking his hand. 'Do not allow one mistake to poison your feelings of self-worth.'

'It could all have been so different, Thena, if Derae and I had been allowed to wed. Maybe there would have been no riches — but we would have had a home and children.' Pushing himself to his feet, he stared out over the moonlit treetops. 'But then there is little advantage in trying to reshape the past. We didn't marry. They killed her. And I became Parmenion, the Death of Nations. I can live with it. Come, let us get back to the camp. Perhaps tonight I can sleep without dreams.'

By the fifth day of their journey the trek south had slowed. The Vores had flown away the night before and not returned, and Gorgon seemed to Parmenion to have grown more cautious, constantly scouting ahead, leaving the others behind. Brontes had been unusually silent for the past two days, wandering away from his companions and sitting alone, his huge bull's head in his hands. And Attalus was growing surly, his pale eyes constantly flickering towards Alexander.

Parmenion felt a growing unease. The forest was thicker here, little light breaking through the thick canopy of intertwined branches high above, the air filled with the stench of rotting vegetation. But it was not just the sickening smell or the lack of light that left the Spartan on edge; in this place there was an aura of evil that entered the mind, touching the soul with dread.

That night, for the first time, Parmenion built a fire. Attalus and Thena sat down beside it, the swordsman staring gloomily into the dancing flames. Brontes moved away and sat with his back to a broad oak and Parmenion followed him.

'Are you in pain?' asked the Spartan.

Brontes' head came up. A thin trickle of blood was dripping from his right nostril.

'I need. . the Change,' whispered Brontes. 'But it cannot be… accomplished… in this place. If we do not move clear of this forest in the next two days I shall die.'

'You knew this would happen?'

'Yes.'

'And yet you came with us? I don't know what to say, Brontes.'

The minotaur shrugged. 'Iskander is all-important; he must arrive at the Giant's Gateway. Leave me, my friend. It is hard to speak through the pain.'

At that moment Gorgon returned, easing his giant bulk through the undergrowth. He ran across the small clearing and kicked earth upon the fire, scattering sparks that swept across Thena's robes.

'What in Hades are you doing?' stormed Attalus.

'No fires!' hissed Gorgon.

'Why? Is this not your forest?' responded the swordsman. 'What should we fear?'

'Everything,' answered Gorgon, stalking towards Parmenion. 'The Makedones have entered the forest,' he said, his eyes glittering. 'There are more than a thousand warriors, split into five groups. Two are behind us, two to the east and one ahead.'

'Do they know where we are?'

'I believe that they do. Many of the Vores have deserted me and joined the Makedones. There is little loyalty in this forest, Human. I rule because I am the strongest, and my crown is secure only so long as I am feared. But the Vores fear Philippos more. So they should, for his power is greater than mine.'

'When will we reach the sea?'

'Two days — if we travel fast. Three if we are careful.'

Parmenion shook his head. 'Brontes will not survive three days.'

Gorgon's mouth stretched into the parody of a smile, the snakes on his head rising with fangs bared.

'What does that matter? All that is important is that Iskander reaches the Gateway. And that is now doubtful. This forest is my domain and my strength — yet it is taxing my powers to the limit to keep Philippos from finding us. The bony woman with you is also nearing exhaustion, shielding us. But we are tiring, Human. And when our magic is drained there will not be a place in this forest to hide. Do you understand? At this moment the priestess and I have covered the forest with a spirit mist, and we are hidden within it. But every hour that passes sees the Demon King cutting away at our defences. Soon it will be like a storm wind dispersing our mist, and we will stand in the full view of the golden eye. I cannot concern myself with the small problem of Brontes' life.' Gorgon lay down, closing his eyes. 'We will rest for two hours,' he said softly, 'then push on through the night.'

Parmenion walked back to the dead fire where Alexander was sleeping peacefully beside the centaur, Camiron.

Removing his cloak Parmenion covered the child, pausing to stroke the boy's head.

Attalus saw him, his eyes narrowing, but he masked his feelings as Parmenion joined him. 'Why is the beast so nervous?' asked the Macedonian, flicking his hand towards the sleeping Gorgon.

'A thousand Makedones have entered the forest.'

'Only a thousand? Surely they will prove no problem for the strategos? What will you do this time? Summon the birds from the trees to our aid? Or perhaps the trees themselves will uproot and march to your orders?'

'Your anger is misdirected,' Parmenion pointed out. 'I am not your enemy.'

'Ah! A friend, I suppose? That is an amusing thought.'

Parmenion turned away to see the tall priestess watching them both. Her voice whispered into his mind:

'We are being watched by a priest of Philippos. They have broken through our defences and he is listening to your words, relaying them to the Demon King.'

Parmenion gave no sign that he had heard her and swung back to Attalus. 'I know you find this hard to believe, Attalus, but, I say again, I am not your enemy. And here, in this dread place, I am indeed your friend. We will stay here for two more days, then strike east — back across the mountains. Once clear of this forest you will feel more easy in your mind. It is the evil that gnaws at you. Believe me.'

'What gnaws at me is none of your concern,' hissed Attalus.

'He is gone!' pulsed Thena. 'Gorgon drove him back.'

Parmenion leaned in close to the Macedonian. 'Now you listen to me, there are enemies all around us and — if we are to survive — we must be together in spirit and strength. You think me your foe? Perhaps I am. But here I must depend on you. And you must trust me. Without that our hopes — slender as they are — will prove to be for nothing. We were both threatened by the Chaos Spirit. But I choose to ignore his words. He does not know the future — and I will always be the master of my fate. As will you-for we are men of strength. Now. . can I trust you?'

'Why ask the question? You would not believe me if I told you what you wanted to hear.'

'You are wrong, Attalus. Say the words and I will believe them.'

The swordsman smiled. 'Then you can trust me,' he said. 'Does that satisfy you?'

'Yes. Now we will rest for two hours — and then find a path west and south.'

'But you said. .'

'I changed my mind.'

'You cannot trust him,' Thena pulsed, but Parmenion ignored her.

Stretching out on the cold ground, he closed his eyes. All around them, as he had said, there were deadly enemies, moving in from three sides and guided by the malevolent power of the Makedones King. The Spartan considered his allies: a dying minotaur, a priestess, a twisted assassin and a Forest King steeped in evil.

His thoughts were not hopeful, his dreams full of torment.

Attalus lay awake, his thoughts confused. The threat from the demon nagged at him, burning in his mind with fingers of fire. It would be so easy to creep across the camp-site and draw his dagger across the boy's throat. Then the threat would be neutralized. And yet the child was the son of Philip — the only man whose friendship Attalus had ever desired.

I need no friends, he told himself. But the words echoed in his mind, flat and unconvincing. Life without Philip was worth nothing. He was the sun, the only warmth the swordsman had known since childhood.

He need not know you slew his child. Now this thought was tempting. At some point he could lure Alexander away from the others and kill him silently. Breaking Philip's heart in the process.

As Attalus rolled to his side the darkness was lifting, thin beams of moonlight piercing the overhanging trees. There came a sound, a soft swishing, like a stick cutting the air, and Attalus looked up to see a Vore gliding down from the upper branches of a tall pine. The creature landed lightly, moving silently towards the sleeping Alexander.

The swordsman did not move. Wings folded, the Vore leaned over the child, reaching out. .

Here, thought Attalus exultantly, was deliverance!

The creature's taloned hands dropped towards Alexander. Attalus' dagger flashed through the air, glittering in the moonlight to plunge into the Vore's back. The beast let out a high-pitched shriek. One wing flared out, but the second was pinned to its back by the jutting dagger. Gorgon surged to his feet and ran towards the Vore. The dying creature stumbled, pitching face-first to the ground. Parmenion and the others, awakened by the Vore's screams, gathered around the still twitching corpse.

Attalus stepped past them, ripping clear his dagger.

'Be careful,' snapped Gorgon, 'the blood is poisonous. One touch and you will die.' Attalus plunged the blade into the earth at his feet cleaning the dagger on the moss before returning it to its sheath.

Gorgon flipped the Vore to its back. 'He was one of mine,' he said. 'It is time to leave.'

'You saved me,' said Alexander, moving alongside Attalus and gazing up into the swordsman's face.

'Are you surprised, my prince?'

'Yes,' answered the boy.

'Are you?' Attalus asked Parmenion.

The Spartan shook his head. 'Why should I be? Did you not give me your word?'

'Spoken words are small noises that vanish in the air,' said Attalus softly. 'Do not put your faith in words.'

'If that were true, you would not have intervened,' countered Parmenion.

Attalus had no answer and swung away, his thoughts full of guilt and self-loathing. How could you be so stupid, he railed at himself? Moving back to his bed he gathered the cloak he had used for a blanket, brushing the dirt from it and fastening it once more to his shoulders with the brooch of turkis given to him by Philip.

The others were all preparing to leave — save the priestess, who was sitting quietly beneath a spreading oak.

Gorgon's voice broke the silence. 'Stay close to me, for where we travel it is very dark and the dangers are many.' But still Thena sat beneath the tree. Attalus walked across to her.

'We are ready,' he said.

'I will not be travelling with you,' she whispered.

'You cannot stay here.'

'I must.'

Parmenion joined them and the seeress looked up at the Spartan. 'You go on,' she said, forcing a smile. 'I will join you when I can.'

'Why are you doing this?' asked Parmenion, kneeling down beside her.

'I must delay the Makedones — and fool the Demon King.'

'How?' Attalus asked.

'Like that!' she said, pointing back across the camp. Attalus and Parmenion turned… to see themselves apparently still sleeping by a fire that now burned brightly. Across the clearing the form of Gorgon could be seen, lying beside the minotaur Brontes, while Alexander snuggled against the sleeping centaur. 'You must go swiftly- before the spirit of Philippos returns.'

'I will not see you in danger,' said Parmenion.

'We are all in danger,' she insisted. 'Go now!'

Attalus could see Parmenion had more to say and seized his arm. 'No more foolishness, remember? The boy must be saved. Now come on!' Parmenion pulled clear of his grip, but moved away to stand alongside Gorgon.

'She has great power,' said the Forest King, gazing at his own sleeping form several paces away.

The Spartan did not answer and Gorgon led the way into the depths of the forest; Parmenion and Brontes followed, Attalus bringing up the rear just behind the centaur and the boy.

As Gorgon had said, the trail was dark, and they made slow progress for the first two hours. Then the dawn light began to seep through the intertwined branches, though no bird-song greeted the morning and all was silent.

But towards mid-morning Gorgon, at the front of the small column, suddenly waved his hand and darted into the undergrowth, moving with surprising speed for all his bulk. Swiftly the others followed him, Parmenion grabbing Camiron and pulling the centaur to his side. For a moment the beast's hooves flailed in the air. 'Quiet!' hissed the Spartan. From the north came the sounds of many men trampling through the undergrowth. Dropping to his belly, Attalus eased back the bush before him and saw a troop of soldiers emerging from the trees some thirty paces away.

They were marching in single file, their spears held carelessly to their shoulders.

After they were gone Gorgon rose from his hiding place and the group set off once more, this time angling to the north.

Parmenion dropped back alongside Attalus. 'How many did you count?' asked the Spartan.

'Eighty-five. You?'

'The same. That means there are more ahead of us.' Parmenion glanced back. 'I hope she escapes them.'

Attalus nodded, but said nothing.

Derae sat in the moonlight, her thoughts sorrowful. This, she knew with calm certainty, would be her last night alive.

In order to keep the Makedones away from Parmenion she needed to hold the spell, but in so doing was forced to remain in the clearing, drawing the warriors of the Demon King towards her.

The night was cool, the trunks of the nearby trees bathed in silver. A fox moved out into the clearing, drawn to the carcass of the Vore. Carefully it moved around the body and then, catching the putrid scent of the dead beast, it slunk away into the undergrowth.

Derae took a deep breath. The golden stone was warm in her hand and she gazed down at it, marvelling at its beauty and its power. Aristotle had given it to her as they stood in the Stone Circle.

'Whatever you wish — within reason — the stone will supply,' he had told her. 'It will turn stones to bread, or bread to stone. Use it with care.' The stone was but a fragment of gold, veined with slender lines of jet. But as she held the spell in place the black lines thickened, the power in the fragment fading.

'Where did you come by it?' she had asked the magus.

'In another age,' he answered, 'before the oceans drank Atlantis and the world changed.'

Closing her fist around the stone, she looked across the clearing at the sleeping image of Parmenion. It was a surprising thought that these five days in Achaea had doubled their time together.

Her thoughts sped back over the years, her mind's eye picturing the gardens of Xenophon's home near Olympia where she and Parmenion, uncaring of danger, had kissed and touched and loved. Five days: the longest and shortest five days of her life. The longest because her memories dwelt in them, seizing on every passionate moment, the shortest because of the weight of the barren years that followed.

The seeress Tamis was the source of all the pain Derae had endured, yet in truth it was impossible to hate her for it.

The old woman had been obsessed by a dream, her mind dominated by one ambition — to prevent the birth of the Dark God. Walking the paths of the many futures, Tamis had discovered all the identities of the men who could be used by Chaos to sire the demon. What she needed was a man to use as a weapon against them — a Sword of the Source.

In order to achieve her desire she caused Derae to be taken from Sparta and hurled into the sea off the coast of Troy, her hands bound behind her. When Parmenion discovered her fate it unleashed within him a terrible hatred, changing his destiny and setting him on the path of revenge. All this had been planned by Tamis, in order that Parmenion would become the man of destiny she longed for.

It would have been better, thought Derae, had I died in that sea. But Tamis had rescued her, keeping her prisoner in the Temple, filling her head with lies and half-truths.

And for what?

Parmenion did kill all the possible fathers save one. Himself.

'I will not miss this life,' she said aloud.

She shivered as fear touched her soul. Gazing up with her spirit eyes she saw the image of Philippos hovering in the air above the camp-site, his golden eye staring at her and probing her thoughts. Filling her head with memories of the past she obscured all her fears of the present, while the power of the Eye whispered through her mind like a cold, cold breeze.

In the distance she could hear the stealthy sounds of men creeping through the forest and her fear swelled. She licked her lips, but there was no moisture on her tongue. Her heart began to hammer.

Just then she felt the elation of Philippos as he gazed down on the sleeping child. Anger flared in Derae and she let fall the spell, revelling in the King's shock and disappointment as the bodies disappeared.

Rising from her body, she faced Philippos. They have escaped you,' she said.

For a moment he did not reply, then a smile appeared on his handsome, bearded face. 'You have been clever, witch.

But no one escapes me for long. Who are you?'

'The enemy,' she answered.

'A man is judged by the strength of his enemies, Derae. Where is the boy?'

The golden eye glowed, but Derae fled for the sanctuary of her body, her hand closing around the golden stone and shielding her thoughts.

'I do hope you will gain some enjoyment from your last hours alive,' came the voice of the King. 'I know my men will.'

Soldiers burst clear of the bushes surrounding the clearing. Derae stood — and waited for death, her mind suddenly calm.

Two men ran forward to pin her arms, while a third strode out to stand before her. 'Where are they?' he asked, his right hand on her throat, his fingers digging into her cheeks.

'Where you will not find them,' she answered icily. Releasing her chin he struck her savagely with his open hand, splitting her lip.

'I think you would be wise to tell me,' he warned her.

'I have nothing to say to you.'

Slowly he drew his dagger. 'You will tell me all I wish to know,' he assured her, his voice deepening, his face flushing. 'If not now — then later.' His fingers hooked into the neck of her tunic, the dagger slicing through the material, which he ripped clear to expose her breasts and belly. Sheathing the blade he moved in, his hand sliding over her skin, fingers forcing themselves between her legs.

She felt her emotions swamped by the surging lust of the men all around her, then the soldier whispered an obscenity in her ear.

All her adult life Derae had followed the path of the Source, knowing with cold certainty that she would rather die than kill. But in the moment he spoke all her training fled away, taking with it the years of devotion and dedication.

All that was left was the girl from Sparta — and in her ran the blood of a warrior race.

Her head came up, her eyes meeting his. 'Die,' she whispered. His eyes widened. The stone in her hand grew warmer.

Suddenly he gasped and fell back with blood spurting from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth.

'She's a witch!' someone shouted, as the officer's lifeless body slumped to the earth. The men holding her tightened their grip on her upper arms, but she raised her hands — which transformed themselves into cobras, hooded and hissing. The soldiers leapt back from her. Spinning on her heel she pointed the snakes at them. Lightning leapt from the serpents' mouths, smashing the men from their feet.

Derae swung once more, as the remaining soldiers drew their weapons and rushed at her. A flash of brilliant light seared across the clearing, blinding the warriors, causing them to stumble and fall.

In the confusion that followed Derae strode from the camp-site and into the woods.

Derae moved silently towards the south, drawing her cloak tightly around her naked frame. The trees were thinner here, the stars bright above them, and she broke into a loping run, following a path that sloped down to where a dark stream rippled over black stones.

In the distance behind her she could hear the shouts of the soldiers, but she knew they would not catch her now. They were blundering around in the dark, with no idea of the direction she had taken.

Come daylight it would be different, when they could send the Vores soaring above the trees to hunt her in the sunshine. But this was the night — and it was hers! She had waited for the enemy, fooled them and killed at least one.

A savage joy flowed through her, filling her body with strength as she ran.

Suddenly she faltered and slowed.

I killed a man!

The joy vanished, to be replaced by a numbing sense of horror. What have you become? she asked herself.

Her gaze flickered to the silent trees, her spirit recoiling from the malevolence of the forest. This place of evil had touched her, eroding all her beliefs, all the years of her dedication.

Falling to her knees Derae prayed for forgiveness, sending her thoughts up and out into the void and beyond. But she felt them echoing in a vast emptiness, seemingly unheard and certainly unanswered. Wearily she rose and walked on toward the south, making herself one promise that she swore to keep for as long as she lived. Never would she kill again.

Never.

On the morning of the third day since they had left the priestess, Parmenion awoke to see Gorgon kneeling over the sleeping form of Brontes. The minotaur was not moving and Gorgon's hand was resting lightly on the creature's chest. Parmenion's heart sank. For the last two days the minotaur had stumbled on, unspeaking, his eyes weary and bloodshot, his limbs leaden.

'You can make it,' Parmenion had told him the previous afternoon. But Brontes had not replied, his huge bull's head sagging forward, his gaze locked to the ground at his feet. The group had made camp early, for Brontes had been unable to keep up with the pace. Now Parmenion rose and moved alongside Gorgon.

'Is he dead?' he asked.

'Soon,' answered Gorgon. Parmenion knelt by the minotaur. Blood was seeping from both nostrils and he was barely breathing.

'What can we do?' the Spartan asked.

'Nothing,' grunted Gorgon.

'How soon will we be clear of the forest?'

'Not for another day.'

'In any direction?' queried the Spartan.

Gorgon shook his head. 'No. We could move directly east; then we would be at the edge of the forest, but maybe a day's march from the sea. It is the kingdom of Aetolia — close to the town of Calydon. But the King of Aetolia is a vassal of Philippos, and he keeps a force of over three hundred men at Calydon. They will be watching the forest.'

'Can you carry Brontes?'

Gorgon's huge hand snaked out, his fingers curling around Parmenion's cloak and dragging the Spartan forward. 'Are you insane? I have given up a kingdom for this quest of yours. Many of my own people have turned against me. And why? So that I can bring the Golden Child to the Giant's Gateway. Now you would risk it all for this? he demanded, pointing to the dying minotaur.

'No, I will not risk it all. But the men watching the forest cannot be everywhere. And there is something else, Gorgon,' said Parmenion softly. 'There is friendship. There is loyalty. Brontes has risked his life on this quest, saving mine in the process. I owe him a debt — and I always repay.'

'Ha! What if it was me lying there? Would you risk your life for me?'

'Yes.'

Gorgon relaxed his grip and smiled, his pale eyes glowing, his expression unreadable. 'I believe you would. You are a fool… as Brontes is a fool. But then what is one more foolishness? Yes, I will carry him to the sunlight, if that is your wish.' The Forest King pushed his great hands beneath the minotaur, lifting him with ease and draping the body over his shoulder.

Parmenion shook the others awake and they followed Gorgon to the east. Within the hour the trees thinned out and bird-song could be heard in the distance. At last they reached the edge of the forest and emerged on to a hillside overlooking a walled town.

Gorgon laid the minotaur on the grass and backed away. Parmenion knelt beside Brontes, his hand resting on the creature's shoulder. 'Can you hear me, my friend?' he whispered.

A low groan came from Brontes, but his eyes opened. Blood was seeping over the lids in crimson tears.

'Too. . late.'

'No. Use whatever strength you have. Try.'

The minotaur's eyes closed as Gorgon moved alongside Parmenion. 'Come away. He needs privacy. The sun will feed him and there is a little Enchantment left here. I can feel it burning my feet.'

Parmenion stepped back into the shade of the trees, turning his eyes from the body on the grass.

'Will he live?' asked Alexander, taking Parmenion's hand.

'If he has the will,' the Spartan answered.

'I am very hungry,' said Camiron. 'Will we eat soon?'

'We are all hungry,' snapped Attalus. 'My belly thinks my throat has been cut. So stop complaining!"

'I will hunt something,' announced Camiron. Before anyone could speak the centaur, bow in hand, galloped down the hillside, heading south-east.

'Come back!' yelled Parmenion, but Camiron carried on running — in full view of the sentries on the walls of Calydon.

Within minutes the gates opened and a score of riders issued forth, racing in pursuit of the centaur.

'At least they are heading away from us,' observed Attalus. Parmenion said nothing. Glancing back to Brontes he saw the body bathed in dazzling sunlight, the minotaur's skin glowing like gold. The great head began to shrink, the horns disappearing. Brontes' right arm twitched and he groaned. The light faded. Parmenion and Gorgon moved alongside him; once more he was a golden-haired young man, handsome and blue-eyed.

'Thank you,' he said, reaching up and gripping Parmenion's hand.

'Give your thanks to Gorgon,' answered the Spartan, pulling Brontes upright. 'He carried you here.'

'I don't doubt he had his own reasons,' Brontes remarked.

'You overwhelm me with your gratitude, brother,' said Gorgon, the snakes hissing on his skull and baring their fangs.

He turned to Parmenion. 'Now we must move on — unless of course you wish to rescue the centaur. Say the word, general, and I will surround the city.'

Parmenion smiled. 'That will not be necessary. Lead on!'

'But we cannot leave Camiron behind,' wailed Alexander.

'We cannot help him, my prince,' said Parmenion sadly.

A dark shadow flickered across the grass and Gorgon glanced up. High above them a Vore circled, then flew off towards the north.

'We have been seen,' said Gorgon. 'Now it will be a race to the sea.'

The march south-west was slow. For the past few days the companions had lived on sour berries and foul-tasting mushrooms, forced to drink brackish water from dark pools. Parmenion's strength was fading, while Attalus twice vomited beside the trail. Only Gorgon seemed unaffected and tireless, striding on ahead with Alexander perched upon his shoulders.

They made camp at dusk beneath an overhang of stone, Gorgon permitting a fire which lifted the spirits of the Macedonians.

'Once across the Gulf, how long until we reach Sparta?' asked Attalus.

'If we can find horses — three more days,' Parmenion answered.

'Why Sparta?' put in Gorgon. 'Why not straight to the Gateway?'

'We are hoping to meet a friend there,' the Spartan told him. 'A magus of great power.'

'He will need to be — for Sparta will not stand for long against Philippos. Even as you entered the forest my Vores were telling me of the Makedones' march to the south. Korinthos has declared for the Demon King. Cadmos is overthrown and destroyed. Only one army stands now against Philippos. And they cannot defeat him. Sparta may already have fallen before we cross the Gulf.'

'If that proves to be true,' said Parmenion, 'then we will make our way to the Giant's Gateway. But Philippos has not yet faced a Spartan army and he may find it a punishing experience.'

Towards midnight, when the blaze had flickered down to coals, Parmenion awoke from a light sleep to hear the sounds of stealthy movement from the undergrowth to his left. Drawing his sword he woke Attalus, and the two men moved silently away from the fire.

The bushes parted and Camiron trotted towards the camp, carrying a dead doe across his shoulders. The centaur spotted the Macedonians and gave a broad smile. 'I am a great hunter,' he said. 'Look what I have!'

Gorgon strode from the camp-site, moving away to the east. Attalus took the doe, skinning it and hacking away the choicest sections with his sword. Within minutes the air was rich with the smell of meat roasting over the freshly-built fire.

'I swear by Zeus I never smelt anything finer,' whispered Attalus, as the fat oozed into the flames.

'You are magnificent,' Alexander told the centaur. 'I am very proud of you. But what happened to the men chasing you?'

'No one is as fast as Camiron,' replied the centaur. 'I ran them until their horses were bathed in lather, then cut back to the west. Mighty is Camiron. No rider can catch him.'

The meat was tough and stringy, but no one cared. Parmenion felt strength seeping back into his muscles as he devoured his third portion and licked the fat from his fingers.

'You realize,' remarked Attalus, lying back replete, 'that in Macedonia we would have flogged a hunter who tried to sell us meat as tough as that?'

'Yes,' said Parmenion, 'but was it not wonderful?'

'Beyond description,' the swordsman agreed.

'It would need to be,' muttered Gorgon, stepping forward from the darkness. 'The centaur has left a trail a blind man could follow. And the enemy are already close enough to smell the feast.' Lifting Alexander to his shoulders, he set off towards the south.

'Did I do wrong?' asked Camiron nervously. Parmenion patted the centaur's shoulder.

'We needed to eat,' he said. 'You did well.'

'Yes, I did, didn't I?' exclaimed Camiron, his confidence returning.

Refreshed, the companions walked on through the night and by dawn had reached the last line of hills before the Gulf of Korinthos. The pursuers were close behind now and twice, looking back, Parmenion had seen moonlight gleaming from armour or lance-point.

As they cleared the trees Gorgon took hold of a jutting tree-root, ripping it clear and holding it above his head. He stood, statue-still, and began to chant in a language unfamiliar to the Macedonians.

'What is he doing?' Parmenion asked Brontes.

'He is drawing on the evil of the forest,' answered the former minotaur, turning away and walking to the crest of the hill to gaze down on the dawn-lit sea.

Finally Gorgon ceased his chanting and, the root in his hand, strode past Brontes to begin the long descent to the beach below. The others followed him on the sloping path. Camiron found the descent almost impossible, slithering and sliding, cannoning into Brontes and knocking him from his feet. Parmenion and Attalus moved to either side of the centaur, taking his hands and supporting him.

At last they reached the shore. High above them the first of the enemy appeared.

'What now?' demanded Attalus. 'Do we swim?'

'No,' answered Gorgon, lifting the tree-root above his head. Closing his eyes the Forest King began to chant once more. Parmenion glanced back up the cliff path. More than a hundred Makedones warriors were slowly making their way down the treacherous slope.

Smoke poured from the tree-root in Gorgon's hand, floating out over the sea and down into the waves. The water turned black and began to boil, yellow gases erupting from the surface and flaring into flame. Then a dark shape broke clear of the waves and an ancient trireme — its hull rotted, its sails rags — floated once more to the surface of the Gulf. Parmenion swallowed hard as the ship glided in to shore. There were skeletal corpses still seated at the oars, and rotted bodies lay upon the shell-encrusted decks. Glancing back, he saw the Makedones were almost within bowshot.

The ship beached close in, a narrow gangplank sliding from the upper deck to thud against the sand.

'If you want to live, climb aboard!' yelled Gorgon, carrying Alexander up to the deck. Parmenion and Attalus followed, then Camiron cantered up the plank, his hooves slipping on the slimy wood.

The trireme glided back on to the currents of the Gulf, leaving the Makedones standing, horror-struck, on the beach.

Several arrows and spears flew at the vessel, but most of the enemy warriors just stood and stared as the death ship disappeared into a grey mist seeping up from the night-dark sea.

Derae hid behind the trunk of a huge oak as the soldiers came into sight. The sea was so close, yet the way was barred. She scanned the cliff-tops looking for a way to slip past the Makedones, but the warriors had spread out, seeking other paths to the beach.

It was galling to have come so far and be thwarted. She had managed to evade the many patrols searching the forest and had emerged from the trees just as Parmenion and the others reached the shore.

Ducking back into the forest, Derae ran towards the west until the soldiers were far behind. Then she moved out along the line of the cliffs, looking for a way down. But, sometime in the recent past, the sea had finally clawed away at the last foundations of the cliff edge until great sections had sheared into the water. No paths were left. Derae slowed to a walk, then peered over the edge, seeking handholds that would enable her to climb down. But there were none that looked safe.

'There is the witch!' came a shout.

Derae spun, to see more soldiers running from the tree-line, fanning out to cut off her escape. Turning to the cliff-face, she looked down at the breakers far below as they swept over partially submerged rocks. Taking a deep breath, she loosed her cloak and stood naked on the clifftop.

Then she launched herself out over the dizzying drop. Her body arched, then began to fall. Throwing her arms out to steady herself she felt herself spinning out of control and fought to stay calm, angling her body into a dive. The sea and the rocks rushed towards her and she fell for what seemed an age. At the last moment she brought her hands together, cleaving an opening into the water. The force of the impact drove all air from her lungs, but she missed the rocks and plunged deep below the waves, striking the sandy seabed with bone-crushing force. Pushing her legs beneath her she kicked for the surface, her lungs close to bursting. Up, up she moved towards the sunlight sparkling on the water above her.

I'm going to die! The thought gave her the strength of panic and she clawed her way upwards. As she came clear she only had time for one swift breath before a breaker hammered her down, hitting her body against a rock. This time she was calmer and swam under water, surfacing in the swell and allowing her bruised body to float gently for a while safe from the crashing waves. A spear splashed into the water alongside her, followed by a score of arrows.

Ducking below the surface, she swam out to sea towards a thick white mist that seemed to seep up from beneath the waves.

Then she saw the ship of the dead gliding across the water.

'Parmenion!' she yelled. 'Parmenion!'

The Spartan saw her and — incredibly — the ghost ship slowed, its broken prow swinging towards her. As it neared she reached up to grasp an oar-blade, but it snapped, pushing her below the waves. She surfaced to see Parmenion climbing down over the side of the ship, holding to an oar-port and stretching his arm towards her. Grasping his wrist, she felt herself lifted from the sea. Scrabbling for a foothold her heel came down on a rotting skull which cracked and rolled into the water, but then she was up beside Parmenion. His arm went around her, pulling her into a hug as he kissed her brow tenderly.

'It is good to see you,' he said.

'And now you are seeing too much of me,' she answered, pulling away and climbing to the deck.

Attalus removed his cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders. 'Welcome back, lady,' said the swordsman. 'You are a most welcome sight.'

'Thank you, Attalus.' The warmth of his greeting surprised her and she returned his smile. Parmenion clambered over the deck rail and was about to speak when Gorgon's voice rang out.

'There is a ship to the west! A trireme!'

The companions moved to the deck rail and stared at the oncoming vessel. It was almost forty lengths back, but all three banks of oars were dipping smoothly into the water, the ship moving at ramming speed towards them.

'Fasinating craft,' observed Attalus to Derae. 'See the bronze ram just ahead of the prow? That can rip a ship's hull worse than a reef.'

'Can we outrun them?' Parmenion asked Gorgon.

The Forest King chuckled and pointed to the corpses all around them. 'My crew have seen better days,' he said, 'but we shall see.'

From below decks came a terrible groaning and the oars lifted and dipped into the swell. Attalus looked over the side to see skeletal hands gripping the rotted wood. The ship picked up speed — but not enough to escape the chasing trireme.

'Swing her left!' bellowed Parmenion.

The corpse at the tiller rolled to the right, the death ship veering left. The attacking trireme slid past them, her rowers desperately dragging in their oars. Most were saved but the death ship clove into twenty or more, snapping them like sticks.

Arrows flashed from the decks of the trireme. Parmenion threw himself at Derae, pulling her to the deck. A shaft glanced from Attalus' helm. Then the ships drew apart once more. The mist thickened around them as the death ship glided into the ghostly cloud.

For an hour or more they sailed on in silence, listening to the calls of the enemy as they searched the mist-shrouded sea. The clouds above them darkened, lightning forking across the sky as the sound of thunder boomed across the gulf.

Rain lashed down — the death ship was faltering, slowing.

'My magic is almost gone,' confided Gorgon. 'Soon she will break up and sink — for the second time.'

They were less than a mile from land, but the storm was against them.

The mist fled against the force of the storm winds. As Parmenion glanced back, the trireme hove into view.

Lightning flashed once more, glinting from the bronze ram at the prow as it clove the water towards the death ship's hull.

Alexander crouched down on the windswept deck, holding hard to a wooden post as the death ship rose and fell in the surging storm-tossed sea. From here he could only see the chasing trireme when the huge swell lifted the prow. A massive wave hit the death ship, a section of the upper deck collapsing under the weight of the water. Camiron lost his grip on the broken mast and was swept towards the raging sea. Alexander screamed, but no one heard him above the roar of the storm. Seeing Camiron in peril, Brontes threw himself across the rain-lashed deck, grabbing the centaur's hand. For a moment it seemed as if the former minotaur had succeeded, but the ship rolled and a second wave broke over them, plucking both from the deck.

Alexander tried to stand, hoping to reach Parmenion at the stern, but he slipped and almost lost his grip on the post.

Thena made her way to him, holding him tightly.

'Camiron is gone!' wailed the prince. Thena nodded, but said nothing. Another section of deck, close to the prow, sheared away into the sea.

Alexander reached out with his spirit, trying to locate Camiron.

At first there was nothing, but then his mind was filled with the sweetest music he had ever heard. High-pitched and joyous, it forced all thoughts of the centaur from his mind. The ship shuddered, the rotten wood groaning under the onslaught of the storm, but Alexander heard nothing save the ethereal song from below the sea. He let the music drift across his thoughts, waiting for his talent to translate it. But it was almost beyond his powers. There were no words, merely emotions, rich and satisfying. Reaching out further he sought the source, but the sound came from all around him in a harmony beyond imagining. When he had heard birds singing in the trees he had been able to fasten to each, for they were individual. But this music was different. The singers were empathically linked.

The death ship foundered, water gushing in through the open oarports. The deck split in half, the sea roaring around the child and the priestess. Alexander's hands were torn from their grip on the post.

Thena tried to hold on to him but the ship rolled, spilling them both into the water. Alexander felt the sea close over him, but still the music filled his soul.

As he sank beneath the waves he felt a soft, curiously warm body alongside him, bearing him up. His head broke clear of the surface and he sucked in a deep breath, his hands thrashing out at the water as he struggled to stay afloat.

A dark grey form surfaced alongside him, a curved fin on its back. He grabbed for the fin, holding to it with all his strength. The dolphin flicked its tail and swam towards the distant shore, the music of its song washing over the child and soothing all his fears.

The trireme's ram smashed through the timbers of the death ship's stern, the force of impact hurling Parmenion from his feet. Sliding across the rain-lashed deck he caught hold of a section of rail and struggled to rise. He saw Gorgon hurl the tree-root high into the air, watched it caught by the storm winds and carried to the trireme's deck. Locked together now, the two ships wallowed in the swell. The rowers on the trireme tried to back oars, in an attempt to pull away from the doomed vessel. But the magic which kept the death ship afloat was gone and the full weight of the saturated timbers dragged down on the enemy trireme, pulling the prow down, the stern rising up from the water.

The death ship rolled, pitching Parmenion towards the sea. But he clung on grimly with his left hand, while his right scrabbled at the fastenings of his breastplate. He would never be able to swim with its weight upon his torso. A massive wave crashed over the decks, pulling the Spartan loose and carrying him over the side.

His helm was ripped from his head — and still the breastplate was in place. Staying calm Parmenion drew his dagger, cutting away the last thongs holding the armour in place. Shrugging free of the breastplate, he surfaced in time to see the doomed ships vanish beneath the waves.

To his right, for a moment, he saw Attalus desperately trying to keep his head above water. Dropping his dagger Parmenion struck out towards the Macedonian. Still in full armour, Attalus sank beneath the waves. Parmenion dived deep, his powerful legs propelling him towards the drowning swordsman.

It was pitch-dark, but a flash of lightning speared the sky and, for a heartbeat only, Parmenion saw the still struggling Macedonian. Grabbing hold of Attalus' shoulder-guard, Parmenion swam for the surface. His lungs were close to bursting as his head came clear. Attalus came up alongside him, but sank almost immediately under the weight of his breastplate. Parmenion dived once more, feeling for the dagger Attalus wore on his left hip. It was still in place. The Spartan drew it and sawed at the breastplate thongs. The blade was razor-sharp and the wet leather parted. Attalus ducked his head, pushing the breastplate up and away from him. Free of its weight, he rose to the surface.

A wave lifted the warriors high and Parmenion saw the distant shoreline. Keeping his movements slow and preserving his strength, the Spartan angled his body towards the beach, allowing the currents to carry him to safety.

He did not look back for Attalus, nor allow his mind to dwell on the fate of Alexander and the others. Alone against the might of sea and storm he anchored his thoughts to a single objective.

Survival.