Dark Prince (20 page)

“Where do we go,
strategos?”

“Across the plain and into those woods,” answered the Spartan, pointing to the western hills on which the treeline curved like the crest of a giant helmet.

The first drops of rain began to fall, then a crack of thunder sounded. Attalus’ stallion reared, almost dislodging the Macedonian. Lightning forked across the sky, and the deluge began. The horses walked now, heads bowed, the riders drenched and conversation impossible.

Glancing to his left, Attalus saw a body lying on the grass, the legs stripped of flesh. Beyond it was another, then another. Attalus leaned to his right, tapping Parmenion’s arm and pointing to the corpses. The Spartan nodded but said nothing. For most of the morning they rode on through the deserted battlefield, and at last the rain died away, the sun. streaming through the broken clouds.

“There were thousands of them,” said Attalus, swinging to stare back over the plain. “They weren’t even stripped of weapons.”

Parmenion reined in the gelding. “I would guess the main battle was fought there,” he said, indicating a low range of hills. “But judging by the way the corpses are grouped, the left broke and the defeated army ran west. They were cut down by cavalry and tried to make a stand. No prisoners were taken, and they were massacred to a man.”

“A world not unlike our own,” said Attalus, forcing a smile. But it faded swiftly.

“You are wrong. This is a war unlike any I have seen,” muttered the Spartan, his pale eyes scanning the battlefield. “This is not just conquest; this is butchery. I would not wish to be part of such a conflict.”

Attalus dismounted and walked to a nearby corpse, kneeling to lift the dead warrior’s shield. It was fashioned of wood, reinforced by bronze, and painted blue. At the center two snakes were depicted, held in a man’s fist. “Have you ever
seen anything like it?” he asked, passing the shield up to Parmenion.

“No. It is obviously meant to be Heracles killing the snakes in his crib. It could be Theban; their shields carry the club of Heracles.”

“I see nothing I recognize,” said Attalus, nudging his foot under the corpse and flicking the body to its back. Picking up a dented helm, he turned it in his hands. It was of leather, covered by thin sheets of what appeared to be bright bronze. There was no crest or plume, no cheek flaps to protect the face, merely two badly cast raven’s wings, loosely riveted to the temples, and a slender metal bar that dropped vertically from the brow. “Badly made,” said Attalus, “and these wings serve no purpose,” he added. “Look at the nasal guard. It is too thin to protect the face. The entire piece is useless—as I think he found.”

Tossing the helm to the ground, Attalus remounted. “These bodies have been here for weeks, maybe months. Why have they not been stripped?”

“Perhaps there is no one left alive to strip them,” said Parmenion.

Dark shadows flowed along the grass. Parmenion gazed up to see a score of pale shapes soaring high in the sky, moving westward, their great wings beating slowly. Despite the height at which they flew and the brightness of the sun, there was no doubt as to their semihuman shape.

“What in the name of Hecate …?” whispered Attalus.

The creatures were joined by a second group coming from the north. Shading his eyes, Parmenion saw more of the beasts flying in from the south and west. “They are coming from all sides,” he said.

“They seem to be heading for the woods. I tell you, Parmenion, I do not like this world.”

“Nor I,” agreed the Spartan, kneeing the gelding into a canter. Attalus was about to follow when he spotted another corpse, a bowman lying on his back, his face torn away by crows. Dismounting, the Macedonian removed the man’s leather quiver, hefting his short, curved bow of horn. Looping
the quiver over his shoulder, Attalus vaulted to the gray and rode after the Spartan.

It felt good to have a bow in his hands again. Such a fine weapon. Silent death, with little risk to the killer. The Spartan’s back was to him, and Attalus pictured a shaft lancing into Parmenion’s brain. No, he thought. There is no way I will kill him like that. I want to see the expression on his face. I want to watch the arrogance and pride drain away.

And I will, he promised himself. Once we find the boy—and a way home.

Chiron strolled beside the stream, his thoughts somber. The world’s enchantment was fading fast. Now there were fewer than a hundred areas across the globe where primal magic oozed from rock and tree. Only seven remained in Achaea.

Kneeling by the water, he cupped his hands and drank. Philippos had been a bright, intelligent child, swift to learn, swifter to laugh. But the evil within him, the spirit of chaos, had finally won him, destroying all that was human, all that had knowledge of kindness and beauty.

Sorrow descended on Chiron like a terrible weight. His shoulders sagged, and he lifted his eyes to the heavens. “Perhaps it is time to die,” he said softly. “Perhaps I have lived too long.” Rising, he walked from the trees to the slopes of his mountain and began the long climb to the cave.

He saw Caymal grazing nearby and waved, but the horse did not see him. Chiron’s legs ached by the time he reached the cave, and he stopped to rest for a moment, drawing the healing stone from the pouch at his side and holding it in his hand.

Strength flowed in his limbs, and once more the desire came to let the magic stream into his blood, bringing him the full power of youth. But the once-golden stone was almost drained of enchantment, and he dared not exhaust it. Dropping it back to the pouch, he strode through the cave and on into the palace, seeking Alexander.

The boy was nowhere in sight. At first Chiron was unworried. The palace was large, with a score of rooms; all children
loved to explore, and many of the rooms here contained artifacts that would fascinate a child like Alexander. But as time passed Chiron’s concern grew. Surely the boy would have more sense than to wander away into the forest, he thought.

Then he came to the room of the mirror table and saw the severed hand on the cold marble floor, the talons stained with blood.

“No!” he whispered. “No!” Moving to the table, he saw that the cloth had been hastily thrown over it. With trembling hands Chiron eased it clear and found himself staring down into the tent of Philippos. The king was sitting on an ebony throne. He looked up, his golden eye gleaming in the firelight.

“Ah, you are back, my friend,” said the king. “How are you faring?”

“Better than you, I fear,” answered Chiron.

“How can that be? I am Makedon, and my armies conquer all who stand in my way. Better than that, I am invulnerable.”

“You are inhuman, Philippos. There is nothing left of the boy I knew.”

The king’s laughter filled the room. “Nonsense, Chiron! I am he. But as a man, it is necessary to put aside childish ways. Where am I different from the kings who ruled before me?”

“I will not debate with you. You are no longer human. Your soul is long dead; you fought a brave battle against the dark, and it defeated you. I pity you.”

“Save your pity, Chiron,” said the king, no trace of anger in his tone. “It is misplaced. I did not suffer defeat—I overcame the chaos spirit, and now he serves me. But you have something that I desire. Will you give it to me—or must I take it?”

Chiron shook his head. “You must take it … if you can. But it will serve no purpose. The child will not bring you immortality. He is not Iskander; he is the son of a king in another land.”

Philippos stood. “If he is not the one, then I will keep searching. I will have what I desire, Chiron. It is my destiny.”

“There is no more to say,” said Chiron. “Begone!” His
hand swept across the surface of the table, and for a moment only the mirror shimmered into darkness. Then the face of Philippos returned.

“You see,” hissed the king, “you no longer even have the power to dismiss my image. Send me the boy or I will see your blood flow upon my altar. You know that I can do it, Chiron. All your centuries of life will be gone. You will be no more. That frightens you, doesn’t it? I can see it in your eyes. Bring me the child and you will live. Defy me and I will make your death last as long as your life.”

The mirror darkened. Chiron covered it and backed from the room, running up the stairs and out through the cave.

Then he saw Kytin’s bow and quiver lying where the centaur had left them and heard the beating of wings from the sky above him.

Kytin galloped across the sunlit clearing, reared, and sent an arrow flashing into the heart of a hovering Vore, whose wings collapsed, its pale form crashing to the grass. A black dart narrowly missed Kytin’s head, and the centaur swung to send a second arrow winging its way into his assailant’s belly.

Eleven centaurs were down, along with more than thirty Vores, but still they came, their great wings flapping, their deadly missiles slashing through the air.

“Back under the trees!” shouted Kytin. “They cannot fly there!” Several centaurs made a dash for the forest, but amid the stamping hooves, the beating of wings, and the screams of the dying many others could not hear him and fought on. A Vore dropped from the sky to Kytin’s back, sharp talons cutting into the centaur’s shoulder. The old man bellowed in rage and pain, bucking and flinging the creature into the air. Its wings spread wide, halting its fall. Kytin leapt forward, his huge hands grabbing the scrawny neck and twisting savagely, snapping the hollow bones of the Vore’s throat.

A dart sliced into Kytin’s back, the poison streaming into his blood like acid. The imminence of death galvanized the centaur. Twisting and rearing, he galloped to Gaea’s hut, ducking inside the doorway and stepping over the dart-pierced
body of the old healer to gather up the still-sleeping child. Kytin’s legs almost buckled, but with a supreme effort of will he raced back out into the daylight with the boy held safe in his arms and thundered toward the trees. Two more darts struck him, one piercing the flesh beside his long spine, the other glancing from his hindquarters. Then he was past his attackers and onto the mountain path.

Vores soared up above the trees, but they could not easily follow him, for the branches were interlaced like a canopy over the trail. Several of the creatures flew low, but the undergrowth was thick, overhanging limbs hampering their flight.

Kytin galloped on, the poison spreading through his limbs. Twice he stumbled and almost fell, but he drew on his reserves of strength and courage, holding himself alive by the power of his dream.

Iskander! He had to rescue the boy. The enchantment had to be saved.

He ran on deeper into the forest, seeking a cave, a hollow tree—anywhere he could hide the boy. But his eyes were veiled by a gray mist that swirled across his mind, and so many thoughts flitted by him, old memories, scenes of triumph and tragedy. He saw again the fight with Boas, the great ride to Cadmos, his marriage to Elena, the birth of his first child.

The boy awoke and struggled in his arms.

“It is all right, Iskander,” he told him, his voice slurred now. “I will save you.”

“There is blood on your chin, staining your beard,” said the boy. “You are hurt.”

“All … will … be well.”

The centaur slowed, his front legs buckling, Alexander tumbling from his arms and landing on his back with the breath knocked out of him.

A Vore swooped down between the high branches with arms outstretched, a rope dangling from his hands. The boy tried to run, but he was still winded and the loop dropped over his shoulders, pulling tight. Alexander screamed as he was pulled into the air.

An arrow plunged into the Vore’s side. Letting go of the rope, the creature tried to escape, but his wings crashed against a branch and he somersaulted through the air before falling to his death.

Two horsemen galloped into sight, and Alexander looked up.

“Parmenion!” he cried. The Spartan leapt to the ground and drew his sword. A black dart flashed toward him, but his sword blade batted it aside. Another arrow lanced through the air, bringing a screech of pain from a hovering Vore. Parmenion picked up the boy and ran back to the gelding.

“No!” shouted Alexander. “We mustn’t leave! My friend is hurt!”

“Your friend is dead, boy,” Attalus told him, notching another arrow to his bow. “Where to now,
strategos?
I can hear more of them coming.”

“The cave,” Alexander told them.

“Which way?” asked Parmenion, lifting the boy to the gelding and vaulting to sit behind him.

“There on the mountainside!” shouted Alexander, pointing to a break in the trees.

“Can we outrun them?” Attalus asked.

“I would doubt it,” answered Parmenion. “But we must try.”

Urging their mounts to a run, the Macedonians raced along the narrow trail and out onto the mountainside.

“Up there!” yelled Alexander. Parmenion glanced up. The black mouth of the cave was less than two hundred paces from them. Looking back, he saw the Vores closing fast. They would not reach it in time.

Attalus was ahead; the powerful gray, with less of a load, was surging on toward the sanctuary of the cave. A black dart lanced into the stallion’s back. For a few moments the beast ran on, then its front legs gave way, pitching Attalus to the earth. The swordsman hit hard but rolled to his knees. He still held the bow, but it was snapped at the tip. Flinging it aside, he drew his sword.

Parmenion leapt down beside him, slapping the gelding’s
rump and urging the beast toward the cave. With less to carry, the gelding sped on, Alexander clinging to his mane.

Suddenly a flash of lightning exploded into the hovering ranks of the Vores, scattering them and killing more than twenty. In the momentary confusion Parmenion saw their chance to escape. “Run!” he yelled, turning to sprint up the mountainside.

A gray-haired man stepped into their path, but he did not look at them. Instead his hands were raised, pointing at the skies. Blinding white light leapt from his fingers, and the air was filled with the smell of burning flesh and the echoing death cries of the Vores.

Without looking back, the Macedonians scrambled into the cave where Alexander waited. “Follow me!” ordered the boy, leading them through the illusory wall and into the palace.