Dark Prince (16 page)

But the sounds of battle faded as they rode deeper into the forest.

Camiron was silent as they moved on, but Alexander could feel the deep well of his anguish. The boy could think of nothing to say and settled down once more against the broad back. At last they came to a clearing and an open cave mouth. Camiron trotted inside and lifted Alexander to the ground.

“There is no sign of Chiron,” said the centaur, his eyes brooding and angry.

“May I thank you?” asked Alexander, moving close to the beast. “You saved my life, and you were very courageous.”

“I am the bravest of them all,” said Camiron. “And the
strongest,” he added, lifting his arms and tensing the huge muscles of his biceps.

“You are indeed,” the boy agreed. “I have never seen anyone stronger.”

The centaur swung his head. “Where is Chiron, boy? You said he would be here.”

“No,” said Alexander slowly. “I said he asked you to come here—to bring me to safety. He told me you could be trusted; he talked of your courage.”

“I hurt,” said Camiron suddenly, touching his hand to the shallow gash in his flanks. The blood had already begun to congeal around the wound, but it had flowed down the right foreleg, matting the hair.

“If there is water, I will clean it for you,” offered the boy.

“Why is Chiron not here? Why is he never here? I need him.” The tone was suddenly plaintive, with an edge of panic. “Chiron!” he bellowed, the sound echoing in the cave. “Chiron!”

“He will come,” promised Alexander. “But you must rest. Even one as strong as you must be tired after such a ride.”

“I am not tired. But I am hungry,” he said, his dark eyes fixing on the child.

“Tell me about yourself,” urged Alexander. “I have never met a centaur, though I have heard tales of them.”

“I don’t want to speak. I want to eat,” snapped Camiron, turning and trotting from the cave. Alexander sat down on a rock. He, too, was hungry and tired, but he dared not sleep while the unpredictable Camiron was close by. After a while he decided to explore the cave. It was not deep, but there were small alcoves that appeared man-made. Entering the first, Alexander noticed that the right-hand wall was a slightly different shade of gray from the stone around it. Reaching out, he tried to touch the rock—only to see his hand pass through it. Edging forward, he passed through the wall to find himself inside a beautifully furnished room, hung with silks, the walls painted with delicate scenes from Homer, the wooden horse at the gates of Troy, the ship of Odysseus by the island of Sirens, the seeress Circe turning men into swine.

Walking to a window, Alexander gazed out over a sparkling ocean. From here he could see that the building was of white marble, supported by many columns. It was larger than his father’s palace at Susa and infinitely more beautiful. Slowly the boy wandered from room to room. There were many libraries, hundreds of scrolls on scores of shelves, and rooms full of paintings or statues. In yet another room he found sketches of animals, birds, lions, and creatures of impossible shapes, some with necks twice as long as their bodies, others with noses that hung to the ground. At last he found the kitchens. Here honey-roasted hams hung from hooks, and there were barrels of apples, sacks of dried apricots, pears and peaches and other fruits Alexander had never seen. Sitting down at a wide table, he tried them all, then remembered the centaur. Finding a silver tray, he loaded it with fruits and meats of all kinds, carrying it back to the first room and through the insubstantial wall into the cave.

“Where were you?” shouted Camiron. “I looked for you everywhere.”

“I was fetching you some food,” answered Alexander, approaching the centaur and offering the tray. Without a word Camiron took it and began stuffing the food into his cavernous mouth, meats and fruits together. Finally he belched and threw the tray aside.

“Better,” he said. “Now I want Chiron.”

“Why do the other centaurs not like you?” asked Alexander, changing the subject swiftly.

Camiron folded his legs and settled down on the cave floor, his dark eyes fixed on the golden-haired boy. “Who says that they don’t? Who told you that?”

“No one told me. I saw it when they rode from the forest.”

“I am stronger than they are,” the centaur said. “I don’t need them. I need no one.”

“I am your friend,” Alexander told him.

“I need no friends,” thundered Camiron. “None!”

“But are you not lonely?”

“No … yes. Sometimes,” admitted the centaur. “But I would not be if only I could remember things. Why was I in
the wood where I found you? I don’t remember going there. I am so confused sometimes. It used not to be like this, I know it didn’t. Well, I think it didn’t. I am so tired.”

“Sleep for a while,” said Alexander. “You will feel better after some rest.”

“Yes. Sleep,” whispered the centaur. Suddenly he looked up. “If Chiron is not here in the morning, I will kill you.”

“We will talk about that in the morning,” said Alexander.

Camiron nodded, his head sinking to his chest. Within moments his breathing deepened. Alexander sat quietly watching the creature, feeling his loneliness slowly subside. Once more the haze began around the beast, shimmering, changing, until the human form of Chiron could be seen asleep on the floor beside the horse, Caymal.

Alexander moved to the
magus
, lightly touching his shoulder. Chiron awoke and yawned.

“You did well, boy,” he said. “I knew it was a risk leaving you with … him, but you handled the situation with skill.”

“Who is he?” asked the prince.

“Like all centaurs, he is a blend of horse and man: partly me, partly Caymal. It used to be that I could control him. Now he grows stronger, and I rarely allow him life. But I had to take the risk, for Caymal alone could not have carried us both free of the Makedones.”

“The other centaurs called him an outcast. They hate him.”

“Ah, well, that is a longer story. When first I tried the spell of merging, I lost control of Camiron and he rode into their village.” Chiron smiled and shook his head. “I had not considered the timing of the change. Some young mares were in season and Caymal was hot for their company. Camiron, full of almost childish enthusiasm, tried to force his attention on several of the village females. The males did not take kindly to such advances and chased him from the forest.”

“I see,” said the boy.

“You do? You are a surprising four-year-old.”

“But tell me why Camiron seeks you. You can never have … met. Why should he even know of you?”

“A good question, Alexander. You have a fine mind. Caymal
knows me and, after his own fashion, has regard for me. When the merge takes place, the end result is a creature—Camiron—who is both of us and yet neither of us. The part—the greater part—that is Caymal longs to be reunited with his master. It was a sad experiment and one that I will not repeat. And yet Camiron is an interesting beast. Just like a horse, he is both easily frightened and yet capable of great courage.”

Pushing himself to his feet, Chiron led the boy back through the alcove wall into the palace beyond. “Here we will be safe for a while. But even my powers cannot stand for long against Philippos.”

“Why does he want me, Chiron?”

“He has the powers of a god, yet he is mortal. He desires to live forever. So far he has sired six children and has sacrificed each of them to Ahriman, the god of darkness. But he is not yet immortal. I would imagine his priests sought you out, and you are to be the seventh victim. I can see why. You are a brilliant child, Alexander, and I feel the dark power within you. Philippos wishes to feed on that power.”

“He can have it,” said the youngster. “It is nothing but a curse to me. Tell me, how is it that I can touch you and yet you feel no pain?”

“That is not easy to answer, young prince. The power you possess—or that possesses you—is similar to that which dominates Philippos. Yet they are different. Individual. Your demon—if you will—desires you, but he needs you to live. Therefore, he lies dormant when I am close, for he knows I am your hope for survival.”

“You speak about my power as if it is not of me.”

“Nor is it,” said the
magus
. “It is a demon, a powerful demon. It has a name. Kadmilos. And he seeks to control you.”

Alexander found his mouth suddenly dry, and his hands began to tremble. “What will happen to me if he wins?”

“You will become like Philippos. But that is a mountain you must climb on another day. You have great courage, Alexander, and an indomitable spirit. You may be able to hold him at bay. I will help you in any way that I can.”

“Why?”

“A good question, my boy, and I will answer it.” The
magus
sighed. “A long time ago, by your reckoning—twenty years or more—I was instructed to teach another child. He, too, was possessed. I taught him all that I could, but it was not enough. He became the demon king. Now there is you.”

“But you failed with Philippos,” Alexander pointed out.

“You are stronger,” Chiron told him. “Now tell me this: Is there anyone from your world with the wit to seek you out?”

Alexander nodded. “Parmenion. He will come for me. He is the greatest general and the finest warrior in Macedonia.”

“I will watch for him,” said Chiron.

THE STONE CIRCLE, TIME UNKNOWN

Aristotle led the Macedonian warriors to an ancient wood in a valley so deep as to seem subterranean. Massive trees grew there with trunks ten times thicker than the oaks of Macedonia, their branches interlaced and completely blocking the sky. The ground was ankle-deep with rotted vegetation, and the warriors led their mounts for fear that a horse might catch his hoof in a hidden pothole or leaf-covered root, snapping the leg.

No birds sang in the forest, and the air was cold, without hint of breeze. The trio moved silently on, Aristotle in the lead, coming at last to an open section of land. Attalus sucked in a deep breath as sunlight touched his skin, then stared around at the huge columns of stone. They were not round or made of blocks but single wedges of granite, roughly hewn and three times the height of a tall man. Some had fallen, and others had cracked and split. Parmenion moved to the center of the stone circle, where an altar was raised on blocks of marble. Running his fingers down the blood channels, he turned to Aristotle.

“Who built this … temple?”

“The people of Akkady. They are lost to history … gone. Their deeds are like dust on the winds of time.”

Attalus shivered. “I do not like this place,
magus
. Why are we here?”

“This is the gateway to that other Greece. The two of you remain here, by the altar. I will prepare the spell of opening.”

Aristotle strode to the outer circle and sat cross-legged on the grass, hands clasped to his breast and eyes closed.

“What excuse do you think he will give when no gateway opens?” asked Attalus, forcing a smile. Parmenion looked into the swordsman’s cold blue eyes, reading the fear there.

“Now would be a good time for you to lead your horse from this circle,” he said softly.

“You think I am frightened?”

“Why should you not be?” countered Parmenion. “I am.”

Attalus relaxed. “A Spartan afraid? You hide it well, Parmenion. How long—” Light blazed around the circle, and the horses reared, whinnying in terror. The warriors tightened their grip on the reins, calming the frightened animals. The light faded into a darkness so absolute that both men were blind. Parmenion blinked and gazed up at the sky. Gradually, as his eyes became accustomed to the night, he saw stars shining high in the heavens.

“I think,” he said, keeping his voice low, “that we have arrived.”

Attalus hobbled the dappled gray and walked to the edge of the circle, staring out over the mountains and valleys to the south. “I know this place,” he said. “Look there! Is that not Olympus?” Swinging to the north, he pointed to the silver ribbon of a great river. “And there, the River Haliakmon. This is no other world, Parmenion!”

“He said it was like Greece,” the Spartan pointed out.

“I still do not believe it.”

“What does it take to convince you?” asked Parmenion, shaking his head. “You have passed through the solid stone of a mountain and moved within a heartbeat from noon to midnight. Yet still you cling to the belief that it is all trickery.”

“We will see,” muttered Attalus, returning to the gray and removing the hobble. “Let us find somewhere to camp. It is too open here for a fire.” The swordsman vaulted to the gray, riding from the circle toward a wood to the south.

As the Spartan was about to follow Attalus, the voice of Aristotle whispered into his mind, echoing and distant. “There is much I wish I could tell you, my friend,” said the
magus
, “but I cannot. Your presence in this world is of vital importance—not only for the rescue of the prince. I can safely give you only two pieces of advice: first, you should remember that the enemies of your enemy can be your friends, and second, make your way to Sparta. Treat it like a beacon of light to a ship in jeopardy. Sparta is the key!”

The voice faded, and Parmenion mounted his horse and rode after Attalus. The two riders made their camp by a small stream that meandered through the wood. Hobbling the horses, the warriors sat in silence, enjoying the warmth of the blaze. Parmenion stretched out on the ground, closing his eyes, his mind working at the problem facing him: how to find a single child in a strange land.