Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [55]
Briefly, Abaris looked impatiently away, frowning. Then his features resumed their earlier look.
“It is a bold thing to be an unbeliever in these times.”
“Bold or not—it is what I am.” Simon swung his legs off the bench. He felt incredibly weak.
Abaris said: “We Magi worship Ormuzd. Simply—Alexander represents Ahriman.”
“These are the twin facets of your single deity are they not?” Simon said. He nodded. “I know a little about your cult—it’s cleaner than most. You worship Fire, Sun and Light—with a minimum of ritual.”
“True. A man who is confident in his soul needs little ritual.”
Simon was satisfied by this.
“We would be grateful if you would ally yourself with us, the Magi,” Abaris said quietly. “In return we will protect you from Alexander’s minions as best we can.”
“I told you—and I do not wish to seem ungrateful—my wits will keep me safe from the Macedonian’s warriors.”
“We refer to his supernatural minions.”
Simon shook his head. “I respect your beliefs—but I cannot accept them personally.”
Abaris leaned forward and said urgently, softly:
“Simon, you must aid us. Alexander and his mother are both possessed. For years we have been aware of this. For years we have attempted to fight the forces possessing them—and we are losing. You have seen how Ahriman controls Alexander. You must aid us!”
Simon said: “You have cloaked the simple fact of Alexander’s madness in a shroud of supernatural speculation.”
Abaris shook his head, saying nothing. Simon continued:
“I have seen many men go mad with riches and power—Alexander is another. When he dies his good works will survive but the evil will be eliminated by time.”
“You are naïve, young man. Why, Achilles believed that…” Abaris bit his lip and lapsed into silence.
“Achilles? He died a thousand years ago. How do you know what he believed?”
Abaris turned away. “Of course, I could not know,” he said. His eyes were hooded.
“You give me cause to think you really are the Abaris of legend,” Simon smiled. He was joking. But even to his ears the joke rang true.
Abaris said: “Can a man live for more than a thousand years?”
“No,” Simon said, “no.” He said it almost savagely, for it was what he wished to believe.
Out there, in a palace of Babylon, there was evil, he thought. But it was not, could not be—must not be supernatural.
Abaris now said:
“Alexander has reigned almost thirteen years—a mystic number. Our oracles prophesied that the turning point would come after thirteen years of rule. Now, as we fear, Alexander and the forces which act through him will bring an unchecked reign of evil to the world—or else, and the chance is small, he will be stopped.”
“You wish me to aid you in this. I must dissent. To help you I would have to believe you—that I cannot do.”
Abaris seemed to accept this. When he next spoke it was in a detached, trancelike voice.
“Ahriman—the multiplicity of Ahrimans whom we designate by the one name—selected Olympias many years ago. He needed a vessel through which to work and, at that time, no mortal had been born who would serve Ahriman’s purpose. So he took possession of poor Olympias. Philip, that great and wronged man, went regularly to the Isle of Samothrace on pilgrimage and, one year, Olympias made it her business to be there also. A love potion was all she needed. Philip was enamoured of her. They had a son—Alexander…”
Simon said wearily: “This is mere gossip such as old women make in the markets.”
“Ormuzd protect you if you ever learn the truth,” was all Abaris said.
Simon rose shakily. “If there is anything I can do to repay you—some material act, perhaps—I am very willing.”
Abaris thought for a moment. Then he took a scroll from his robe. He unrolled it and glanced over the weird script. It was not Persian, Simon knew, but what it was he could not tell.
Abaris handed the scroll to Simon. “We’ll furnish you with a horse and a disguise. Will you go to Pela for us? Will you deliver a message to our brothers?”
“Willingly,” Simon said, though he was aware that to journey to the