'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.'