Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [64]
Great armies gathered, all metal and leather and disciplined flesh.
323 BC and a sick man, drawing vitality from a supernatural source—a man possessed—ruled the known world, ordered its fighting men, controlled its inhabitants.
Alexander of Macedonia. Alexander the Great. Son of Zeus, Jupiter-Ammon. He had united the world under a single monarch—himself. And, united, it would fall…
In Babylon, oldest city of the ancient world, Alexander gave his orders to his captains. One hundred and forty-four miles square was Babylon, flanking each side of the great River Euphrates, embanked with walls of brick, closed by gates of bronze. Dominating the city was the Temple of Baal, rising upwards and consisting of eight storeys gradually diminishing in width, ascended by a flight of steps winding around the whole building on the outside. Standing on its topmost tower, Alexander surveyed the mighty city which he had chosen as the base for his military operations. From here he could see the fabulous hanging gardens built by Nebuchadnezzar, laid out upon terraces which were raised one above the other on arches. The streets of the city were straight, intersecting one another at right angles.
Babylon, which had brooded for centuries, producing scientists, scholars, artists, great kings and great priests, splendid warriors and powerful conquerors. Babylon, whose rulers, the Chaldaeans, worshipped the heavenly bodies and let them guide their law-making.
Babylon, city of secrets and enlightenment. Babylon, soon to be abased by the most terrible blight of evil the world had known. The forces of Light were scattered, broken by Alexander’s conquerings, and Alexander himself had become the focus for the forces of evil. Soon the world would sink into darkness.
Desperately the adherents of Light strove to find a way to stop him, but they were weakened, outlawed. Little pockets of them, chief of these being the Magi of Persia, strove to stand against him—but it was almost futile. Slowly, surely, implacably, evil Ahriman and his minions were gaining ascendancy.
And Simon of Byzantium had failed to reach Babylon and contact the Magi.
Simon and Camilla had never seen such a vast city. The crumbling walls encompassed a fantastic area…Where they were still intact three chariots might have passed each other on them and they were over 100 feet high. Broken towers rose everywhere, hundreds of them, twice as high as the walls.
But the wind moaned in the towers and great owls with wide, terrible eyes hooted and glided about them, seeming the city’s only occupants.
Camilla reached over and found Simon’s hand. He gripped it to give her a comfort he did not himself feel.
Behind them they still heard the hunters. Wearied, they could go no further and their tired brains told them that here, among ruins, they would find no hiding place.
The slow clopping of their horses’ hoofs echoed in the empty city as they followed a broad, overgrown avenue through jagged shadows thrown by the broken buildings. Now Simon could see that the city had been destroyed by fire. But it was cold, chillingly cold in the light of the huge moon which hung overhead like an omen of despair.
The cries of the huntsmen joined the hoots of the owls, a horrid cacophony of fearful, foreboding sound.
But now they could no longer run before their hunters. Fatalistically they must wait—to be caught.
Then suddenly, ahead of them, Simon saw a dark shape framed against the moonlight. He drew his sword and halted his horse. He was too tired to attack, waited for the figure to approach.
When it came closer it flung back the cowl of its cloak and Simon gasped in relief and astonishment.
“Abaris! I was going to seek you in Babylon. What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you, Simon.” The priest smiled gently and sympathetically. He, also, looked dreadfully worn. His long un-Persian face was