Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [56]
“They live in secret,” Abaris told Simon, “but we will tell you how to find them. Also we will furnish you with weapons.”
“I’d be grateful for that,” Simon smiled.
“We’ll give you a day for resting and allowing the herbs we’ll give you to drink to do their work—then you can start off. You should have little trouble here, for our magic will protect you and we know a secret way out of the city.”
Simon lay back on the bench. “Healing herbs will be very welcome,” he said, “and something to help me take a dreamless sleep…”
CHAPTER THREE
Outside, the courtiers glanced at one another, not daring to enter the room where a man groaned.
A short, clever-looking man in ornate war-gear turned to a calm-faced, sensitive man.
“Why was he so anxious to apprehend the Thracian, I wonder, Anaxarchus?”
The sensitive man shook his head. “I have no idea. I hear he was from my home city, Abdera, before he went to Byzantium. For all my people say that the folk of Abdera are stupid, some very clever men were born there.”
“And you, of course, are one,” the soldier smiled ironically.
“I must be—I am a philosopher attached to Alexander’s train,” Anaxarchus said.
The warrior took several nervous paces up the corridor, wheeled around, cursing. “By the Salamander’s breath, are we never to finish our conquests? What is wrong with Alexander, Anaxarchus? How long has he been like this? Rumours came to Egypt, but I discounted them.”
“He is ill, Ptolemy, that is all,” Anaxarchus said, but he did not believe his own words.
“That is all! Even if I had not heard the Oracle of Libya speak of terrible strifings in this world and the others I would be troubled. Things are happening. Anaxarchus—doom-clouds are covering the world.”
“Gloomy, Ptolemy—he is only sick. He has a fever.”
Another awful groan came from behind the doors, a terrified and terrible groan of awful agony. Neither did it seem to represent physical pain but some deeper agony of spirit.
“An unusual fever,” Ptolemy said savagely. He strode towards the doors, but Anaxarchus blocked his passage.
“No, Ptolemy—you would not emerge with your sanity intact, I warn you.”
Ptolemy looked at the scholar for a moment, then turned and almost ran down the corridor.
Inside the locked room, the man—or god—groaned terribly. It was as if the bones of his face were breaking apart to form individual beings. What was he? Even he could not be sure. For years he had been certain of his own power, confident that his greatness was his own. But now, it was obvious to him, poor, tormented Alexander, that he was nothing—nothing but a vessel, an agent through which many forces worked—and even those forces were united under a common name. He knew then, also, that they had entered many others in the past, that, if his strength broke, they would enter many more until their work was done.
Part of him begged for death.
Part of him attempted to fight that which was in him.
Part of him planned—crime.
Simon, cloaked and armed, clamped his knees against his steed’s back and galloped over the sparsely covered plains of Babylon, the folds of his cloak flying behind him like the wings of a stooping hawk.
The horse snorted, its sturdy legs flashing, its eyes big and its heart pounding.
For two hours, Simon had ridden in safety.
But now the cold night air above him was alive with dreadful sounds.
He drew his sword from its scabbard and rode on, telling himself that the noises were the flapping wings of vultures.
Then a shape came swooping in front of him. He caught a glimpse of a pale, human face. But it was not entirely human. Snakes twined on its head, blood dripped from its eyes. The horse came to a sudden halt, reared whinnying.
Simon closed his eyes against the sight.
“The herbs the Magi gave me have induced visions,” he told himself aloud in shaking tones.
But he could not believe it. He had seen them.
The Eumenides—the Furies of legend!
For the face had been that of a woman.
Now the sounds came closer, ominous. Simon urged the frightened horse