Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [68]
“You are swift, my friend.”
Simon disliked this. It was harder to fight such a light-hearted and likable warrior than the thing which Alexander had earlier been. It was almost unjust—yet the action had to be made.
In and out of the network of light and shadow the two men danced, skipping away, coming in close, swords flashing and the music of their meeting echoing about the Temple of Baal.
Then Alexander’s soldiers came running into the place but Alexander cried:
“Stand back—I do not know why this man attacked me, but I have never fought such a swordsman before and would not miss the privilege. If he wins—free him.”
Bewildered, the guards retreated.
For hours the fight continued, the men evenly matched. Dusk came, sunset flooding the temple with blood-red rays. Like two archetypal gods they fought on, thrusting, parrying, employing every tactic at their command.
Then Alexander, whose earlier sickness had wearied him, stumbled and Simon saw his opportunity, paused, deliberating the act, then rushed upon his opponent and struck him a terrible thrust in the lung.
“Go—be Charon’s guest!” he cried.
Alexander went hurtling back to land with a crash, sprawled on the steps of the dais. Again the watching warriors rushed forward, but Alexander waved them back.
“Do not tell the people how I met my end,” he gasped. “I have united the world—let it stay united in the confidence that a—a—god created that unity. Perhaps that will serve to ensure peace…”
Dismissed, the guards returned, wondering, down the steps of the temple and Simon and the dying Alexander were left alone in the half-light while a wind blew up and sent a cold chill through the silent columns.
“I remember you now,” Alexander said, blood beginning to trickle from his mouth. “You are the Thracian. What happened—I remember interviewing you and then the rest is hazed in blackness and chaos—what happened then?”
Simon shook his head.
“Call it madness,” he said. “A madness which came upon you.”
In the shadows behind the throne he saw a black mist begin to form. Hurriedly he shouted: “Abaris—quickly!”
The priest appeared then. He had slipped up the steps and had been standing behind a column. Others followed him. He motioned them in. They began a weird and beautiful chanting, advancing towards the hazy form behind the throne, making peculiar passes in the air.
After them, Camilla appeared and stood framed in a gap between two columns, the wind ruffling her hair.
Alexander grasped Simon’s arm. “I remember a prophecy—one made by the Oracle of Memphis. How did it go?”
Simon quoted it.
“Yes,” Alexander gasped. “So you are the sword which the City of Fools, Abdera, bore…”
“What shall we remember of you, Alexander?” Simon asked quietly as there came a commotion behind the throne which was now surrounded by chanting Magi. He looked up. The priests seemed to be straining to hold back some horrible force which whimpered and moaned at them, yet was still very strong.
“Remember? Will not the world always remember me? My dream was to unite the world and bring peace. But a nightmare interrupted that dream, I think…”
“Your father’s dream and yours,” Simon said.
“My father—I hated him—yet he was a good and wise king, and moulded me for a purpose. Aristotle was my teacher, you know. But I had other indoctrination. My mother Olympias, taught me peculiar things which I cannot remember now.”
“Let us hope no-one shall ever know them again,” Simon breathed.
“What has happened?” Alexander asked again. Then his eyes closed. “What did I do?”
“You did nothing that was not for the good of the world,” Simon told him. Alexander was dead. “But,” the Thracian added quietly as the emperor’s grip loosened and the limp hand fell to the marble of the step, “that which possessed you wrought harm. You could not help it. You were born to perish…”
He rose and called: “Abaris. Abaris—he is dead.”
The chanting ceased. The black shape still hovered there, veins of orange-gold, black and scarlet throbbing in it like blood-vessels. Simon and the priests