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.'