Dark Prince (23 page)

“Down!” shouted Parmenion, seizing Attalus’ arm and dropping to the earth.

From all sides arrows hissed across the open ground. A dead Makedones fell across Parmenion with two shafts in his back, a third through his eye. Everywhere the soldiers were dying. Several men tried to run back to the trail, but the huge form of the Minotaur Brontes appeared, his double-headed ax slicing through their breastplates and helms.

Two warriors managed to pass him and disappeared down the slope, but their screams echoed back and Parmenion watched as the Minotaur’s brothers—Steropes the lion-headed and Arges the cyclops—emerged from the trees.

A terrible silence descended on the clearing. Parmenion eased himself clear of the corpse that had fallen across him and rose, sheathing his sword. Bodies lay everywhere. From the trees came centaurs carrying bows and quivers, their faces grim, their eyes fierce.

“It is good to see you again,” Parmenion told Brontes as the Minotaur approached. The great bull’s head nodded.

“You run well,” said the Minotaur, moving past him to the cypress tree where Alexander was hidden. Dropping his ax, the creature raised his arms. “Come to me, Iskander!” he called.

Alexander wriggled clear of the branches, dropping into the Minotaur’s arms. “Are you truly Iskander?” the beast whispered.

“That is what I was called,” answered the boy.

“And you can open the giant’s gateway?”

“We shall see,” said Alexander, choosing his words with care. With the boy in his arms, Brontes walked back to where Parmenion and Attalus waited.

“The centaurs brought word that Iskander had come. The
lady bade us protect him. This we will do, with our lives if necessary. Yet it may not be enough. The Makedones are many, and we are few.”

“We must get to Sparta,” said Parmenion. “There the boy will be safe.”

“The Spartan king is said to be a great man,” said Brontes. “He does not hunt down the people of the enchantment. And the giant’s gateway is close by. Yes, we will come with you to Sparta.”

Parmenion nodded, then swung his gaze over the centaurs. “How many are with us?” he asked.

“These twenty are all that survive.”

“Then who is scouting the woods to watch for the enemy?”

“No one,” admitted Brontes.

The Spartan walked across the clearing, stepping over the corpses, until he stood before a young centaur, a deep-chested creature with chestnut hair and beard. “Who commands here?” he asked.

“I am Kheops, the son of Kytin-Kyaris. No one commands.”

“Well, Kheops, I am the guardian of Iskander, and I will command and be obeyed.”

“We will not suffer the orders of a human,” replied Kheops, his face reddening.

“Then leave us,” said Parmenion softly, “and we will try to save Iskander alone.”

The centaur’s front hooves stamped the earth, a low growl rumbling in his throat. Parmenion waited, holding to the creature’s gaze. “We must see that Iskander lives,” said Kheops. “We cannot go.”

“Then you will obey me,” Parmenion told him. “Send five of your … fellows to watch for the Makedones. We must not be surprised by them again.”

“It will be as you say,” answered Kheops, as if the words were torn from him.

Parmenion swung away from the centaur to see Chiron moving carefully across the clearing, avoiding the bloodstains
on the earth. The sorcerer took Parmenion’s arm, leading him away from the others.

“This is wrong,” whispered Chiron. “The child is not Iskander. I know it; you know it.”

Parmenion sighed. “What I know,
magus
, is that we must reach Sparta to save Alexander. I will take all the aid I can find.”

“But these creatures … what of their hopes? Don’t you see that Iskander is everything to them? He is the promise that keeps them alive, the one who will return magic to the world and end the reign of man.”

“What is this giant’s gateway?” the Spartan asked.

“There is a wood a day’s ride south of Sparta. There, on a hill, stand two colossal pillars linked by a great lintel stone. That is the gateway.”

“To where?”

“To nowhere,” replied Chiron. “But the legend says that Iskander will open it, that he will grow to the height of the tallest tree and rest his hands on each pillar. Only then will the enchantment return, bathing the world. But Alexander cannot do it; he is not the golden child.”

“What would you have me do,
magus?
Lose the only allies we have in this strange world of yours? Condemn Alexander to death? No, I will not do it. They have made their choice. I did not force it on them.”

“That is not an argument you can use,” said Chiron. “You know they are wrong, but you allow them to continue in their error because it suits your purpose. What you are doing will in all likelihood condemn them all to death.”

“Is there a problem here, Chiron?” asked Brontes, ambling forward to join them.

“Is there a problem?” the
magus
inquired of Parmenion.

The Spartan’s cold blue eyes met his gaze. “No,” he answered. “Tomorrow we will take Iskander to his destiny.” Then he turned and saw the woman.

Derae took a deep breath as the Spartan turned. Her legs felt weak and boneless, and her hands trembled. So close, she
thought. They had talked on Samothrace, but then Derae had been hooded and veiled, her mind locked to the task ahead. But now, as he walked slowly toward her, she felt sixteen again, remembering the softness of his touch, the sweetness of his breath.

“Do you know me, lady?” he asked. It was not the voice of the youth she had loved, but still the sound sent a shiver through her. Her spirit flickered out, touching his mind, sensing the emotions surging through him: curiosity, empathy, and—though her body was now plain and unmemorable—arousal. Swiftly she withdrew from him.

“I know you,” she answered, her voice steady, her hazel eyes meeting his gaze.

He stood for a moment, silent, indecisive. Brontes strolled across to them. “She is a friend to the goddess, my mother,” said Brontes. “She is of the enchantment.”

Parmenion nodded, but his gaze remained on the dark-haired woman. “We must get away from this place,” he said, turning to Brontes. “You know these woods. Where can we go?”

“Do not answer,” said Derae swiftly. “We are being observed.”

Brontes’ huge hand closed around the haft of the ax hanging from his belt, and Parmenion swung to scan the clearing. “There is no one here,” Derae told them. “We are being watched from afar.”

“By whom?” the Minotaur asked.

“By a priest of Philippos.”

“Can you shield us? My mother says you are a mystic.”

“Perhaps.” Derae sat down on the grass and closed her eyes, her spirit flying free. A lance of light swept toward her. Her hand flashed up, the lance splitting into a thousand sparks that floated around her like fireflies.

“You will die,” shouted the shaven-headed priest as he floated before her.

“We will all die one day,” she answered. Her hands came up, and the fireflies streamed back to the priest, linking to form a golden ribbon that wound about his head and face to
blind him. “Go back to your master,” said Derae. The priest disappeared.

She opened her eyes and stood. “He is gone,” she told Brontes. “Now you may speak freely.”

“There are only two ways we can travel to Sparta: southeast to the Peloponnese and through Korinthos or northwest to the sea and take a ship around the coast to Gytheum.”

“What about west?” asked Parmenion. “Surely we can cross the Pindos mountains and make our way to the gulf?”

“No, that way lies death,” said Brontes. “You cannot pass through the forest of Gorgon. The Vores dwell there, and Gorgon himself. He is the most vile beast, and his heart is corruption. I could speak of his evil, but I swear my tongue would blacken and your soul would be shriveled by what you hear. We might just as well drink poison now as consider that route.”

“Tell me of it anyway,” ordered the Spartan.

“Why? It is out of the question.”

“Because he is the
strategos,”
said Derae, “and he needs to know.”

Brontes sighed. “The forest stretches south to the Gulf of Korinthos. It is vast and deep and unexplored by man. But every hill and hollow, every dark glen, teems with the creatures of chaos.”

Derae watched the Spartan. His expression was set and unreadable, and this time she did not reach out to read his thoughts. “What can you tell us, lady?” he asked suddenly.

“The forces of Makedon are all around you,” she told him. “They are coming from north, south, and east. They have creatures … Vores?… in the sky and men, and beasts that walk like men, upon the ground.”

“Can we skirt them?”

Derae shrugged. “Not with twenty centaurs. They are seeking the child. Philippos is linked to him. Whichever route we take will draw peril to us. I have the power to shield us from the demon king for a little while. But not long, Parmenion; he is too strong for me.”

“So we are being herded toward the west whether we wish it or not?”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“I will think on it. But first let us find a place to spend the night.”

THE PINDOS MOUNTAINS

Brontes led the way to a cluster of shallow caves, leaving Parmenion, Alexander, Chiron, and Attalus in one while he and his brothers took shelter nearby, the dark-haired woman remaining with them. The centaurs drifted away at dusk, returning as men when night fell. They also chose to stay in a separate cave a little to the north of the others.

Chiron was silent as Attalus prepared a fire by the far wall and Parmenion walked out into the night to satisfy himself that the glow did not reflect any light past the cave entrance. Wrapped in Parmenion’s cloak, Alexander slept peacefully by the small blaze, and the Spartan sat alone in the cave mouth, watching the stars.

“Are you making plans?” asked Attalus, moving alongside him and sitting with his back to the wall.

“No, I was thinking about my youth.”

“I hope it was misspent.”

“Indeed it was,” answered Parmenion, sighing. The night sky was clear, the moon bright, bathing the trees in silver light. A badger shuffled out into the open, then loped away into the undergrowth.

“It is said you were a champion in Sparta,” said Attalus. “With all the rewards, why did you leave?”

Parmenion shook his head. “Where do these stories start? A champion? I was a hated half-breed, a mix-blood, derided, beaten. All I carried from Sparta was my bruises and a hatred
that was all-consuming and ultimately self-defeating. Have you ever been in love, Attalus?”

“No,” admitted the Macedonian, suddenly uncomfortable.

“I was … once. And for that love I broke the law. I slept with an unmarried girl of good family. Because of it she was killed, and I slew a fine man. Worse, I brought about the downfall of my own city and with it the death of the only friend I had ever had. His name was Hermias, and he was killed at Leuctra, fighting alongside the king he adored.”

“All men die,” said Attalus softly. “But you surprise me, Spartan. I thought you were the ice-cold general, the fighting man who had never lost a battle. I thought your life was charmed—blessed, if you like.”

Parmenion smiled. “The other man’s life often looks that way. There was a rich merchant in Thebes. Men would look at him with envy, cursing his luck, jealous of the gold rings he wore and the huge house he built upon a hill high above the stench of the city. But then they didn’t know he was once a slave, working in a Thracian mine, that he had toiled for ten years before purchasing his freedom and then had worked for another five to build a small amount of coin that he gambled on a risky venture that made him rich. Do not envy me, Attalus.”

“I did not say I envied you,” said the swordsman. Suddenly he grinned. “But I suppose that I do. I could never like you, Parmenion, but I respect you. Now, that is enough of compliments. How are we going to get to Sparta?”

Parmenion rose, stretching his back. “We’ll travel west, crossing the Pindos mountains, then move down to the coast, keeping to the high ground and forests.”

“You are talking of a journey of some weeks. I do not wish to sound defeatist, but do you think that a party including three monsters and twenty centaurs can travel the length of Greece—even this Greece—without being noticed?”

“Centaurs are not uncommon here,” said Parmenion, “but we will travel mostly by night, when they appear as men. As to Brontes and his brothers, I agree with you. But their
strength is prodigious, and they may prove invaluable if there is trouble on the road.”

“And you are expecting trouble, no doubt.”

“Yes. We have one great problem that no amount of thinking will overcome. Philippos used sorcery to locate Alexander in another world; therefore, it seems likely he will be able to find him in this one. Wherever we go—however well we hide—the enemy will always be close.”

“Drawn to the boy like flies to a cowpat?” offered Attalus.

“A disgusting observation, though one that is close to the truth,” agreed the Spartan. “But the priestess claims she can protect us for a while.”

“So then your plan—such as it is—entails leading a small force of half-human beasts across a war-torn land and arriving at a destination where we may—or may not—be welcome, in the hope that Aristotle will have the necessary power to find us and bring us home?”