Dark Prince (22 page)

“Yes,” agreed Parmenion. “Achilles, Hercules, Agamemnon, Odysseus. All men of the sword. But surely if evil men choose sword and lance, then good men must do the same to combat them.”

“Would that it were that simple,” snapped Chiron. “But good and evil are not so easily distinguished. Good does not wear golden armor, nor does evil always dress in black. Who is to say where evil lies? You are a general in your own world. Did you ever sack a city? Kill women and children?”

“Yes,” answered Parmenion, uncomfortable now.

“And were you serving the forces of good?”

The Spartan shook his head. “Your point is well made. You are a good man, Chiron. Will you come with us to Sparta?”

“Where else would I go?” answered the
magus
sadly. Rising, he made as if to walk away, then turned. “There is a legend here, a fine legend. It is said that one day the enchantment will return, that it will be brought back to us by a golden-haired child of the gods. He will restore peace and harmony, and the world will shine again. Is that not a beautiful idea?”

“Hold to it,” advised Parmenion, his voice gentle.

“I do. I hoped Alexander was the golden one. But he, too, is cursed by chaos. How many other worlds are there, Parmenion? Does a version of the Dark God stalk them all?”

“Never give in to despair,” the Spartan advised. “Think on this: If you are correct, then perhaps in most of those worlds the golden child has already come.”

“That is a good thought,” agreed Chiron. “And now I must leave you for a while. You are safe here for the moment. But watch the sea. Philippos will be using all his powers to locate Alexander.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the wood. They will need me there.”

Parmenion found the sorcerer’s mood infectious, and his spirits were somber as he strolled along the line of cliffs overlooking the beach. Far below he could see Attalus and Alexander
sitting on the white sand, deep in conversation, and he stopped for a while to watch them.

My son, he thought suddenly, and sadness struck him like a blow. Philotas, Nicci, and Hector were his sons, yet his feelings for them were ambivalent. But this boy—this golden child—was everything to him. There is no profit in regret, he reminded himself, but the words, though true, offered no comfort. For this one regret lived on in his own private hall of shame. On the wedding night in Samothrace, when Philip was awaiting the arrival of his bride, Parmenion had betrayed him. There was no other word to suit the deed. With the king lying in a drunken stupor, it was Parmenion who had donned the ceremonial full-faced helm and cloak of Kadmilos and walked into the torchlit room where Olympias lay waiting, Parmenion who had climbed to the bed and pinned her arms beneath him, Parmenion who had felt her soft thighs slide over his hips.

“Enough!” he said aloud as the memory brought fresh arousal. It was a form of double betrayal, and even now he could not understand it. His pride and powerful sense of honor had led him to believe that he would never betray a friend. Yet he had. But what was worse and continued to torment him was how even now, while his mind reeled sick with the shame of his deed, his body continued to react to the memory with arousal, lust, and delight.

It was why he endured Philip’s anger and his occasional taunts. Guilt tied him to the Macedonian king with bonds stronger than love, as if by serving Philip faithfully he could in some way even the balance, eradicate the shame.

“You never will,” he whispered.

Olympias had been so much like Derae, slim and beautiful, her red-gold hair glinting in the torchlight. She had tried to remove the helm, complaining that the cold metal was hurting her face, but he had held her hands down against the soft sheets, ignoring her pleas. She had spent the first part of the night in the woods of the mysteries, inhaling the sacred smoke. Her pupils were enormously dilated, and she lost consciousness while he lay upon her. It did not stop him.

Guilt came later when he crept back into Philip’s rooms, where the king lay naked on a couch, lost in a drunken sleep. Pulling clear his helm, Parmenion gazed down on the man he had sworn to serve and felt then the sharp pain of regret. He dressed the unconscious monarch in the cloak and helm and carried the king into the bedroom, laying him alongside Olympias.

Back in his own rooms he had tried to justify his actions. The lady Aida, in whose palace they were guests, had told Philip that if he did not consummate the wedding within what she termed the holy hour, then the marriage would be annulled. Philip had laughed at that. Faced with a beautiful woman, he had never been found wanting and felt no concern at the threat. Yet as he waited through the long night, he had continued—despite Parmenion’s warnings—to drain goblet after goblet of the heavy Samothracian wine. Philip’s capacity for alcohol was legendary, and it still surprised Parmenion how swiftly the king had succumbed to its influence on that special night.

At first Parmenion had tried desperately to rouse Philip, but then he had gazed into the bedroom where Olympias lay naked on the broad bed. He tried to convince himself that his first thought had been of Philip and the hurt to his pride in the morning when all Samothrace heard of his failure in the marriage bed. But it was a lie. That excuse came later, as he lay awake watching the dawn.

Now he lived with a constant torment, as double-edged as any dagger. First he feared the truth becoming known, and second he had to endure the sight of his beloved son being raised by another.

“I hope you are thinking of a plan to get us home,” said Attalus, moving silently alongside the Spartan.

“No,” admitted Parmenion, “my thoughts were on other matters. Did you enjoy your swim?”

“It cooled me for a while. Where is the sorcerer?”

“He will be back soon. He has gone to see if the centaurs need his help.”

Alexander climbed into view, the steps on the cliff path almost
too high for him. He waved as he saw Parmenion and moved alongside him, sitting close. Instinctively the Spartan put his arm around the boy. Attalus said nothing, but Parmenion felt his gaze.

“We must make our way down to the Gulf of Corinth,” said Parmenion swiftly, “and then to Sparta. We can only hope that Aristotle will find a way to us there.”

“Hope?” sneered Attalus. “I would like something stronger than that. But why Sparta? Why not return to the circle of stones and wait? That is where he sent us. Surely that is where he will expect us to be.”

Parmenion shook his head. “The enemy are everywhere, and they have used sorcery to locate Alexander. We could not hope to survive alone against them. Sparta holds out. We will be safe there. And Aristotle is a
magus;
he will find us.”

“I am not convinced. Why not wait here?” argued Attalus.

“I wish that we could, but Chiron does not believe we are safe even here. The king’s reach is long, his powers great. Are you beginning to regret your decision to accompany me?”

Attalus chuckled. “I began to regret it the moment we rode from the circle. But I will stay the course, Spartan.”

“I did not doubt it.”

“Look! A ship!” cried Alexander, pointing out to sea where a trireme was sailing gracefully into view, its black sail furled, its three banks of oars rising and dipping into the sparkling blue water. Slowly the prow turned until the craft was pointing to the shore.

Closer it came until the watchers could see clearly the hundred or so armed men gathering on the great deck.

“Friendly, do you think?” asked Attalus as the ship was beached, the warriors clambering to the sand.

“They are Makedones,” said Alexander, “and they are coming for me.”

“Then some of them will die,” said Attalus softly.

“Back into the palace,” ordered Parmenion, sweeping Alexander into his arms and moving away from the cliff edge. Far
below them the Makedones soldiers began the long climb up the steep path, sunlight glinting from spear and sword.

Parmenion ran into the palace kitchens, where he had put aside his breastplate, helm, and sword. Donning the armor, he lifted Alexander and made his way swiftly to the wide stairway, taking the steps two at a time.

“What if those flying creatures are still on the other side?” asked Attalus as they reached the illusory wall.

“We die,” muttered Parmenion, drawing his sword and stepping through to Chiron’s cave. It was empty. Lowering Alexander to the ground, the Spartan moved to the cave mouth, scanning the mountainside. The dead gray stallion lay where it had fallen, black crows squabbling over the carcass. Beyond the stallion lay the corpses of more than thirty Vores, but those the crows avoided. Of Parmenion’s gelding there was no sign.

“We’d be safer in the woods,” said Attalus. Parmenion nodded, and the trio crossed the open mountainside, reaching the sanctuary of the trees without incident.

The woods were unnaturally silent. No birdsong sweetened the air, and not a trace of breeze disturbed the canopied branches above. The silence made both warriors uneasy, but Alexander was happy walking beside his hero, holding Parmenion’s hand. They walked deeper into the woods, keeping to a narrow game trail that twisted, rose, and fell until it reached a shallow stream where cool mountain water rippled over white stones.

“Do we cross it or follow it?” asked Attalus, keeping his voice low. Before Parmenion could answer, they heard sounds of movement from the trail ahead, the snapping of dried wood underfoot. Then came voices muffled by the undergrowth.

Gathering the child, Parmenion backed away toward the bushes, Attalus beside him. But before they could find a place in which to hide, a warrior in a raven-winged helm appeared on the other side of the stream.

“Here!” he bellowed. “The child is here!”

More than a score of dark-cloaked soldiers carrying spears
and swords ran to join him. Attalus’ blade hissed from its scabbard.

Parmenion swung around. Behind them was a narrow track. On either side were thick stands of thornbushes and brambles. From where he stood the Spartan could see no end to the track, but glancing down, he saw cloven hoofprints of deer leading away up the slope.

The Makedones surged forward into the water, the woods echoing with their screams of triumph.

“Run!” shouted Parmenion, holding Alexander tight to his chest as he set off along the track. Thorns cut into his calves and thighs as he ran, and twice he almost stumbled as dry dust shifted beneath his sandaled feet. The slope was steep, the track meandering, but at last he emerged to a wider trail bordered by huge, gnarled oaks. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Attalus some ten paces back, the pursuing Makedones closing on him. A soldier paused in his run to hurl a spear.

“Look out!” shouted Parmenion, and Attalus swerved left, the weapon slashing past him to bury itself in the ground in front of the swordsman. Attalus grabbed the shaft as he ran, pulling it from the earth. Turning suddenly, he launched the spear back at the thrower. The soldier threw himself to the ground, the missile taking the man behind him full in the throat.

Spinning on his heel, Attalus raced after Parmenion. The Spartan ran on, seeking always narrow tracks that would keep the enemy in single file behind them, and as he ran his anger grew. There was no strategy here for victory, no subtle plan to swing a battle. Outnumbered, they were being hunted through an alien wood by a deadly enemy. All that was left was to run. But where? For all Parmenion knew they were heading toward an even greater enemy force or worse perils.

It was galling to the point of rage. All his life the Spartan had survived by outthinking and outplanning his enemies. He was the
strategos
, the general. Yet here he had been reduced to the level of the panic-stricken prey, running for his life.

No, he realized, not panic-stricken. Never that!

In his youth he had been a distance runner, the fastest and
the best in Sparta and Thebes, and now—even burdened by the child—he knew he could outlast the Makedones. But the problem was where to run. Glancing up at the sky, he tried to establish his position in the woods. The cave would be to the left. Yet what purpose would be served by returning there? They could pass the wall and escape their immediate pursuers, only to be caught by the soldiers searching the palace beyond. No, the cave was no answer.

A fallen tree lay across his path, and he hurdled it effortlessly. Ahead the trail forked, one path rising, the other dipping down into a shadow-haunted glen. A spear flashed by him. Cutting right, he made for the glen.

Three soldiers ran into his path some thirty paces ahead. Cursing, he twisted to his left and leapt a low bush, scrambling up a steep rise to emerge in a circular clearing in a hollow ringed by cypress trees. Attalus came alongside, his face red from exertion, sweat glistening on his skin.

“I … can run … no farther,” said the swordsman.

Ignoring him, Parmenion moved to a nearby tree, lifting Alexander to the lowest branch. “Climb into that fork and crouch down,” ordered the Spartan. “You will not be seen from the ground.” The boy pushed his small body through the pine needles and lay hidden from view.

Drawing his sword, Parmenion ran back to the edge of the slope and waited. The first Makedones warrior scrambled up and screamed as Parmenion’s blade smote his neck. The soldier tumbled back among his comrades.

Three more Makedones entered the clearing from the left, and Attalus ran to meet them, blocking a sword thrust and sending a reverse cut that opened one man’s throat in a spray of crimson.

But then the main body of the enemy appeared, spreading out around the Macedonians. Parmenion backed away, Attalus joining him, the spears of the Makedones closing around them in a wall of pointed iron.

“I should have taken your advice,” whispered Attalus.

“Where is the child?” asked a swarthy, dark-eyed warrior with a pockmarked face.

Attalus chuckled. “It is hard to believe anything so ugly could have learned the power of speech.”

“Where is the child?” asked the man again, the spear points moving closer.

A spearman toppled forward, an arrow jutting from his skull. Then another screamed as a shaft pierced his thigh.