‘You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I know nothing of you.’
‘I am a scholarly man, Parmenion. My life is devoted to study, to the pursuit of knowledge. My wish is to understand all creation. Happily I am not yet close to any real understanding.’
‘Happily?’
‘Of course. No man should ever completely realize his dreams. What else would there then be to live for?’
‘Look!’ shouted Mothac, pointing to a dust-cloud further down the mountain slopes. ‘Riders!’
‘They are coming to take you to Cotys,’ said the man. ‘Either that or to kill you. The Thracian King has no wish to see Parmenion helping the Macedonians.’
‘You know a great deal,’ said Parmenion softly. ‘I take it you also know a way to avoid these riders?’
‘Naturally,’ said the man, rising smoothly to his feet. ‘Follow me.’
Parmenion watched him stride towards a sheer rock-face which shimmered as he reached it. The Spartan blinked. The stranger was gone.
‘He’s a demon or a demi-god,’ whispered Mothac. ‘Let’s take a chance on the riders. At least they are human.’
‘Swords can cut a man faster than spells,’ said Parmenion. ‘I’ll take my chance with the magus.’ Taking the reins of the stallion in his right hand, he led the beast
towards the rock-face. As he approached the temperature dropped, the rocks seeming translucent. He walked on, passing through them, feeling weightless and disoriented.
Mothac emerged from the wall behind him, sweating heavily as he drew alongside his friend. ‘What now?’ the Theban whispered.
They were in a huge, subterranean cavern, enormous stalactites hanging from the domed roof. From around them came the steady, rhythmic dripping of water, and there were many dark pools shining on the cavern floor.
The stranger appeared some fifty paces ahead of them. ‘This way,’ he called. ‘You are only half-way home.’
‘Half-way to Hades more like,’ muttered Mothac, drawing his sword.
The two men led their horses across the cavern floor to a wide natural opening, leading on to a lush green meadow where a small house had been built – the roof red-tiled, the walls smooth and white.
Parmenion walked on into the sunshine and stopped. The countryside was hilly and verdant, but there were no mountains to be seen in any direction and of the great River Nestus there was no sign.
Mounting their horses, the two men rode down to the house where the stranger had set a wide table with cold meats, cheeses and fruits. Pouring his guests goblets of wine, he sat in the shade of a flowering tree. ‘It is not poisoned,’ he said, as his guests stared at the food.
‘Are you not eating?’ Parmenion asked.
‘I am not hungry. But think on this: a man who can make mountains disappear is unlikely to need to poison his guests.’
‘A valid point, agreed Parmenion, reaching for an apple.
Mothac grabbed his hand. ‘I will eat first,’ said the Theban, taking the fruit and biting into it.
‘Such devotion,’ observed the stranger. Slowly Mothac sampled all the meats and cheeses. Finally he belched.
‘Best I ever tasted,’ he said. Parmenion ate sparingly, then moved to sit alongside the stranger.
‘Why were you waiting for me?’
‘You are one of the echoes of the Great Song, Parmenion. There have been many before you and there will be many after. But I am here to offer my help. First, though, how is it you greet my magic with such indifference? Has anyone else ever moved a mountain for you?’
‘I have seen the magi turn staffs into snakes and make men float in the air. And there is a magician in Susa who can make men think they are birds, so that they flap their arms and try to fly. Perhaps the mountains are still there, but you stop us seeing them. I care not. Now what is this Great Song you speak of?’
‘It is a war between dream and nightmare. An eternal war. And you are part of it. Homer sang of it, transferring the battles to Troy. Other nations sing of it in different ways, placing it in different times, through Gilgamesh and Ekodas, Paristur and Sarondel. They are all echoes. Soon we will see the birth of another legend, and the Death of Nations will be at the centre.’