Dark Prince (14 page)

Three times he returned to the heart of the wood, gathering fuel, building up a store that he hoped would last the night. On his fourth journey he thought he heard a sound in the darkness and paused. At first there was silence, then came a stealthy padding that filled him with terror. Dropping the wood, he ran for his fire, sprinting across the clearing and crouching beside the blaze, seizing a burning branch and hoisting it above his head.

From the woods came a hunting pack of gray wolves, padding out to circle him—yellow eyes gleaming, fangs bared. They were huge beasts, taller even than the war hounds of his father, and he had no weapon save the burning branch.

He could feel their hunger beating upon his mind, coming at him in waves. They feared the fire, but their empty bellies were fueling their courage.

Alexander stood very still and closed his eyes, reaching out with his talent, sliding through the haze of hunger and fury, seeking the pack leader, touching his soul fire and merging with his memories. The child saw a birth in a dark cave, tumbling tussles with brothers and sisters, more bitter fights and battles as he grew—scars and pain, long hunts, victories.

At last the boy opened his eyes. “You and I are one,” he told the great gray wolf. The beast cocked its head and advanced on him. Alexander returned the branch to the fire and waited while the wolf came closer, his jaws level with the boy’s face. Reaching out slowly, Alexander stroked the grizzled head and the matted fur of its neck.

Puzzled, the other wolves moved uneasily around the clearing.

The boy let his mind wander farther, scouring the mountainside and the woods beyond until at last he felt the beating of another heart—a doe sleeping. Alexander shared the image with the wolf leader and pointed to the south.

The wolf padded silently away, the pack following. Alexander sank to his knees by the fire—tired, frightened, yet exultant.

“I am the son of a king,” he said aloud, “and I conquered my fear.”

“A fine job you made of it,” said a voice from behind him. Alexander did not move. “Do not fear me, lad,” said the man, moving out into the boy’s range of vision and squatting by the fire. “I am not your enemy.” The newcomer was not tall, his hair short-cropped and gray, his beard tightly curled. He was wearing a kilt of leather, and a bow was slung across his broad shoulders. A horse moved out into the clearing; it wore no chabraque or bridle but came close to the man, nuzzling his back. “Be at ease, Caymal,” he whispered, stroking the stallion’s nose. “The wolves are gone. The young prince dismissed them in search of a doe.”

“Why did I not sense your presence?” asked Alexander. “And why did the wolves not pick up your scent?”

“The two answers are one: I did not wish to be found.”

“You are a
magus
, then?”

“I am many things,” the man told him. “But despite all my virtues I have one irritating vice: I am by nature curious, and I find this current situation irresistibly intriguing. How old are you, boy?”

“Four.”

The man nodded. “Are you hungry?”

“I am,” admitted Alexander. “But I see you have no food.”

The newcomer laughed and dipped his hand into a leather pouch by his side. The pouch was small, yet—impossibly—the man drew from it a woolen tunic, which he tossed to the boy. “What we see is not always the complete truth,” he said. “Put on the tunic.” Alexander stood, lifting the garment over his head and settling it into place. It was a perfect fit, the material soft and warm, edged with leather. When he sat down again, the man was turning an iron spit on which meat was sizzling over the flames.

“I am Chiron,” said the man. “Welcome to my woods.”

“I am Alexander,” responded the boy, the smell of the roasting meat filling his senses.

“And the son of a king. Which king would that be, Alexander?”

“My father is Philip, king of Macedonia.”

“Wonderful!” said Chiron. “And how did you come here?”

The prince told him of the dream and the night of stars followed by the long fall into darkness. Chiron sat silently as the boy talked, then questioned him about Macedonia and Pella.

“But surely you know of my father,” said Alexander, surprised. “He is the greatest king in all of Greece.”

“Greece? How interesting. Let us eat.” Chiron lifted the meat from the spit, pulling it apart and handing a section to the boy. Alexander took it gingerly, expecting the hot fat to burn his fingers. But although it was well cooked, the food was only warm, and he devoured it swiftly.

“Will you take me to my father?” he asked when the meal was finished. “He will reward you well.”

“I am afraid, my boy, that what you ask is beyond even my powers.”

“Why? You have a horse. I cannot be far from home.”

“You could not be farther. This is not Greece but a land called Achaea. And here the great power is Philippos, lord of the Makedones—the demon king. It was he who stood on this hillside, his priests calling you from your home. It is he who hunts you even now. And though my power temporarily blocked the magic of his golden eye, no, Alexander, I cannot take you home.”

“I am lost, then?” whispered the boy. “I will never see my father again?”

“Let us not leap to conclusions,” advised Chiron, but his gray eyes avoided Alexander’s gaze.

“Why would this … Philippos want me?”

“I … am not sure,” replied Chiron.

Alexander looked at him sharply. “I think you are … not telling me the truth.”

“You are quite right, young prince. And let us leave it that way for the moment. We will sleep now, and tomorrow I will take you to my home. There we can think and plan.”

The child looked into the gray eyes of the man, not knowing whether to trust him or how to arrive at a decision concerning him. Chiron had fed him and clothed him, offering him no harm, but this in itself gave no indication of his longer-term plans. The fire was warm, and Alexander lay down beside it to think …

And slept.

He was awakened by the man’s hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him, and it was some moments before he realized that the killing power he had come to dread had not touched the gray-haired
magus
.

“We must leave—and swiftly,” said Chiron. “The Makedones are back!”

“How do you know?” asked Alexander sleepily.

“Caymal kept watch for us,” the
magus
answered. “Now listen to me, this is most important. You are about to meet another friend. He will surprise you, but you will trust him. You must. Tell him that Chiron wants him to go home. Tell him the Makedones are upon us and he must run—not fight. You understand?”

“Where are you going?” asked the boy fearfully.

“Nowhere,” answered Chiron, handing his bow and quiver to the prince. “Watch and learn.” Rising swiftly, he ran to the stallion and turned to face the boy. The stallion’s great head rested on the man’s shoulder, and the two stood as still as statues. Alexander blinked, and it seemed that a heat haze danced over man and horse. Chiron’s chest swelled, his head thickening, beard darkening. Great bands of muscle writhed over his chest, while his legs stretched and twisted, his feet shriveling into hooves.

Alexander sat transfixed as horse and
magus
became one. Gone was the stallion’s head. Now the torso of a man reared up from the shoulders of the stallion. The centaur stamped his front hoof and reared, then, seeing the boy, trotted forward.

“Who are you?” boomed a voice deep as distant thunder. Alexander stood looking into the distorted face. Nothing of Chiron remained. The eyes were wide-set and brown, the mouth full, the beard chestnut-colored and straight.

“I am Alexander, and I have a message from Chiron,” he said.

“You are very small. And I am hungry.”

“Chiron told me to warn you that the Makedones are near.”

Leaning back his head, the centaur gave a great cry, a mixture of rage and anger. He saw the bow in the boy’s hand and reached out.

“Give to me. I will kill Makedones.”

“Chiron also said that you are to go home. He needs you. You must not fight the Makedones.”

The centaur moved closer, dipping his torso until he looked over the prince. “You are friend to Chiron?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will not kill you. Now give me the bow, and I will go home.”

“Chiron said for you to take me with you,” lied the boy swiftly, handing him the bow and quiver.

The centaur nodded. “You may ride me, human, but if you fall, Camiron shall not stop for you.”

Reaching out, he swung Alexander to his back and cantered
from the clearing. The boy slipped and almost fell. “Hold to my mane,” called Camiron. Alexander looked up. Long hair grew from the centaur’s spine, and he took hold of it with both hands. The centaur broke into a run and then a gallop, coming clear of the treeline and thundering into the open.

Directly ahead of them were some fifty cavalrymen. Camiron dug in his front hooves, skidding to a stop that almost dislodged the prince. The riders saw them and fanned out in a wide circle to trap them. Camiron notched an arrow to his bow. “I kill Makedones,” he said.

“No!” shouted Alexander. “Home. Go home. Chiron needs you!”

The centaur grunted and leapt to the gallop. An arrow sliced the air by his head. At full run Camiron loosed his own shaft; it hammered into a warrior’s chest, toppling him from his mount. More arrows flew at them, and one slashed through the muscles of Camiron’s hip. He shouted in pain and rage but continued to run.

They were almost encircled now, and Alexander felt a growing sense of despair. Just as it seemed they would be run down, the centaur swerved and cut to the right, loosing an arrow into a second rider. The man fell, and for a brief moment a gap appeared in the Makedones’ line. Swift as a storm wind Camiron leapt through it, his hooves thundering on the plain as he swept clear of the riders, who streamed after them.

The centaur increased his speed, his laughter carrying back to the warriors, who screamed curses after him.

“I fool them!” shouted Camiron. “The greatest am I.”

“Yes,” agreed Alexander, clinging to the mane. “You are great. How far is home?”

“Long way for you to walk,” said the centaur. “Not far for Camiron to run. Are you truly friend to Chiron?”

“Yes, I told you.”

“It better be truth,” the centaur told him. “If Chiron is not there, I will kill you, human, and dine on your marrow.”

THE THRACIAN BORDER, MACEDONIA

Parmenion reined in the gelding and swung to look back over the hills toward the distant River Axios. He could no longer see the rider, but he knew without a shred of doubt that he was still being followed. The Spartan found this irksome but not as yet worrying.

He had spotted him on his second day from Pella, a distant dot on the horizon, and had changed his course, veering northeast before cutting back to the main trail. From a heavily wooded hilltop Parmenion had then watched the rider also change direction.

The distance was too great for identification. All Parmenion could see was that the man wore a burnished helm and breastplate and was riding a tall, dappled gray. The Spartan rode on, wary now, for Thrace was close and he wished no confrontation with the border guards.

The land stretched ahead in a series of folds, gullies, and hollows, thinly wooded and undulating. There were shallow streams here, sparkling in the sunlight, offspring of the great River Nestus that flowed through the land to merge with the sea above the island of Thasos.

Parmenion guided the chestnut gelding into a small wood and dismounted by a stream. The gelding stood quietly with ears pricked, nostrils quivering with the sweet smell of mountain water. Parmenion removed the lionskin chabraque from the horse’s back and rubbed him down with a handful of dry grass. Mothac had urged him to take the stallion Bessus, but
instead the Spartan had chosen the chestnut. The beast was surefooted and sound of temperament, having no great speed but enormous levels of stamina. Parmenion stroked the gelding’s face and led him to water. There was no need to hobble the chestnut, and the Spartan strolled to a nearby boulder and sat listening to the rushing water and the birdsong from the trees.

Six years before, he had traveled this route heading west into Macedonia and had met the
magus
Aristotle.

“Seek me out when you have need,” Aristotle had told him. Well, thought Parmenion, the need could not be greater. Untying the chin straps of his baked leather helm, Parmenion pulled it clear, running his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. Despite the imminence of winter the weather remained hot and dry, and he could feel sweat trickling down his back under the leather breastplate.

Phaedra could not understand why he had clothed himself like a poor mercenary. Worse still, she had asked openly why he should embark on such a quest at all.

“You are the real power in Macedonia,” she whispered. “You could seize the throne. The army would follow you—and then Philo would have the future the gods ordained for him. Why should you care what happens to the demon child?”

He had not answered her. Settling his chabraque over the gelding, he had ridden from the great house without a backward glance.