Dark Prince (24 page)

“Succinctly put. Do you have a better plan?”

“I must admit that nothing of brilliance springs to mind,” said Attalus, “but there is something else that concerns me. The question of Alexander. Is he the Iskander these … creatures … have been waiting for?”

“No.”

“Then what happens when the beasts find out? They are likely to be just a little angry.”

“Perhaps,” said Parmenion. “But that is a problem for another day.”

“Something else to look forward to,” grunted Attalus. “I’ll say this for you, Spartan—life in your company is seldom dull.”

Toward dawn, as he sat lost in thought, Parmenion saw the monstrous figure of Brontes emerging from the trees at the foot of the mountainside. The creature walked forward, then dropped to his knees. Light, ghostly and pale, shimmered around him, and Parmenion watched awestruck as the huge bull’s head disappeared, leaving the features of a young man, pale-skinned, with hair the color of polished bronze.

Looking up, the young man saw Parmenion and froze, holding his position for some moments before sitting back and turning away from the Spartan’s gaze.

Parmenion strolled out into the moonlight, walking down the slope to sit beside the former Minotaur.

“It is not considered polite to view the change,” said Brontes. “But then, you are not of this world and cannot be expected to understand our customs.”

“Why do you need to assume another form?”

“Why do you humans need to eat or breathe? I do not know the answer. I only know what is and what is necessary. Without the change I would die. And as the enchantment lessens day by day, the change becomes more difficult, more fraught with pain. That is what Iskander will rectify; he will bring back the enchantment.”

“Unless Philippos captures him,” pointed out Parmenion.

“Exactly so. How do you propose escaping him?”

“By traveling the forest of Gorgon.”

“Then we are all dead.”

“Now it is for you to trust me, Brontes. I am not a man who understands your mysteries or the power of the enchantment, but I know the ways of war and the nature of enmity.”

“Gorgon will kill you, Parmenion. He hates humans even more than I.”

“I am counting on that,” answered the
strategos
. “We have a saying, Brontes: The enemy of my enemy must be my friend.”

“Gorgon has no friends. Not now … not ever.”

“You know him?” asked Parmenion softly.

“I do not wish to speak of it.”

Derae lay awake, her spirit floating in the night sky, seeking signs of hidden watchers. But there were none, and this worried her. Did it mean that they feared her powers or that they had somehow found a way to neutralize them and were even now spying on the caves? The thoughts were not comforting.

You need sleep, she told herself, settling down and covering herself with the rust-colored cloak Aristotle had supplied.
It was thick wool, warm at night, cool in the heat of the day, and she snuggled under it. But sleep would not come.

She had not known what to expect in this strange new world and had prepared herself for surprises. But Chiron had astonished her. He was almost a twin of Aristotle. Derae had gently reached out, touching the man’s memories, and in the same moment he became aware of her. He did not close off his thoughts but greeted her with a mind-smile.

He was not Aristotle, having no memories of Macedonia or the Greece she knew. Yet the halls of his memory were vast, full of vanished nations, changed worlds. He had walked in Akkady and Atlantis, in many forms—warrior and mystic, demigod and demon—made immortal by the magic of the same golden stones possessed by Aristotle.

“Are you satisfied?” he had asked, jerking her back to the present.

“Yes,” she told him. That had been earlier in the day, when Brontes and his hideous brothers had met with the centaurs and planned the ambush that saved the two Macedonians. Brontes had been scouting ahead and had seen the chase, judging quite rightly where it must end. Even so it was closely run and had left Derae trembling.

“Where are you from, my dear?” Chiron asked her as they walked from the battle site to the caves.

“I am a priestess, a healer,” she answered. “A friend urged me to come here to aid Parmenion.”

“This friend … does he look like me?”

“Indeed he does.”

“Curious. I wonder how much of our history is shared. I would like to meet him. Will he be following you through?”

“I do not think so. There is something here which frightens him greatly.”

Chiron chuckled. “There are things here which frighten
me
greatly. Have you known Parmenion for long?”

“We have met—but briefly,” she answered with honesty.

“Now, that is a surprise. I notice your gaze is never far from him. Is it merely that he is a handsome warrior?”

“There are some subjects we should avoid, sir,” she told him primly.

“As you wish.” He had left her then and walked back to join Brontes at the rear.

As the night wore on Derae slept fitfully, waking with the dawn. The child Alexander peeked in at the cave mouth, smiling as he saw her. “Good day,” he said, moving into the cave and squatting down beside her.

“And to you, young prince. You are awake early.”

“Yes, I don’t need much sleep. What is your name?”

“You may call me Thena.”

“Ah, but it isn’t your name, is it?”

“I did not say that it was. I said that is what you may call me.”

“Then you must call me Iskander.”

“I shall … Iskander. Are you frightened?”

“No,” he replied with a wide grin. “Parmenion is here. There is no greater warrior in all of Greece, and he’s the best general, too.”

“You have much faith in him, Iskander. You must admire him greatly.”

“After my father he is the man I love best. Where are you from?”

“I am a healer. I dwell in a temple across the sea, near the ruins of Troy.”

“Have you always been a healer?”

“No. Once I was just a girl who dreamed of marrying the man she loved. But it was not to be.”

“Why?” The question was asked so simply that Derae laughed and reached out to ruffle his hair. As her hand was about to touch him, she felt a burning pain in her palm and jerked back. His face crumpled. “I’m sorry. It hasn’t done that for a long time; I thought I was free.”

Steeling herself, she reached out again, her fingers pushing back the golden fringe above his green eyes. The pain touched her once more, but she showed nothing. “It was just a cramp,” she assured him. But he shook his head.

“You are very kind, but please do not touch me. I do not wish to see you in pain.”

A dark shadow fell across the cave mouth, and Parmenion entered. “There you are,” he said, kneeling down beside the prince. “Come, we must prepare for the march.”

“Her name is Thena,” said Alexander. “She’s very nice.” Then he scampered from the cave, and Derae looked into Parmenion’s eyes.

“You have chosen your route,
strategos?”

“Yes.” He settled down beside her. “Are you sure we have not met, lady?”

“What makes you think so?” she countered.

“I cannot say. Your face is not familiar to me, but I feel I know you.”

“We have met,” she admitted, “on the isle of Samothrace.”

“You!” he whispered. “You were hooded and veiled; I thought you were in mourning.”

“I was. And I am. Now,” she said, rising smoothly to her feet, “you said we must prepare for the march.”

“Yes, of course. You know where I plan to go?” he asked, pushing himself upright.

“To the forest of Gorgon.”

He smiled then, his face becoming remarkably boyish. Derae was forced to look away. “There is no other way,” he said. “I know. What is your plan?”

“We will walk to the edge of the forest. Brontes says it will take three days. I will leave the others there and make my way to Gorgon.”

“Why must you risk this? What can you gain?”

Parmenion’s smile faded. “We can go no other way. In the open we will be hunted down: nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. The forest offers sanctuary and a chance to reach the gulf.”

“Brontes says the evil there is worse than the Makedones.”

“Yes, and I believe him.”

“Then how can you bargain with them? What can you offer?”

“The dream of Iskander: to open the giant’s gateway and
bring back the magic. Evil or not, they are still creatures of enchantment.”

“I will go with you,” she said.

“There is no need to risk yourself. I am capable of negotiating with the forest lord.”

“Even so, I will accompany you. I have many talents, Parmenion. They will prove useful.”

“I do not doubt it.”

For two days the group moved on, heading west, higher into the mountains, seeking the long pass that snaked down into the forest of Gorgon spreading out below them in an ocean of trees. On the morning of the third day, as they sheltered from a sudden storm under a wide overhang of rock, they heard the sound of hoofbeats on the path. Attalus and Parmenion drew their swords and walked out into the storm, followed by Brontes and Chiron.

A stallion came trotting along the path, lifting its great head and whinnying as it saw the
magus
. “Caymal!” shouted Chiron, running forward and stroking the horse’s neck. “It is good to see you, boy.”

Taking the beast’s mane, Chiron vaulted to the stallion’s back. The rain eased, and the
magus
rode Caymal alongside Parmenion. “I shall scout on ahead,” said Chiron. “I will find you before nightfall.”

“Be careful,
magus;
we will need you and your magic if the Vores return,” Parmenion warned him.

The storm passed overhead, the clouds breaking up behind it, allowing sunshine to bathe the mountains as the group moved on, the centaurs riding ahead. Parmenion ran back up the slope, shading his eyes and studying their back trail.

Attalus joined him. “You see anything?” the Macedonian asked.

“I’m not sure. Look over there, beyond the pines. There is a cleft in the rocks. I thought I saw a man moving between them.”

“I see nothing. Let’s move on.”

“Wait!” urged Parmenion, grabbing Attalus’ arm and hauling him down. “Look now!”

A line of men was moving down the slope several miles to the east, sunlight glinting from helms and spear points. Above them a Vore circled. “How many?” Attalus whispered.

“More than fifty. Happily they are afoot, and that means they could not come up to us before dark. Even so we must hurry.”

“Why? They’ll have a difficult task trying to track us in the forest.”

“First we need permission to enter the forest,” said Parmenion.

“From whom?”

“The monsters who dwell there,” answered the Spartan, moving back from the rim and loping down the pass.

“Monsters? You said nothing of monsters,” shouted Attalus, running after him.

Parmenion slowed and grinned. “I like to surprise you, Attalus.” The smile faded, and he gripped the other man’s shoulder. “I may not come back. If that be the case, do whatever you can to bring Alexander to Sparta.”

“I’ll come with you. I’m getting used to your company.”

“No. If we both die, what hope is there for the boy? You stay with him.”

It was dusk when the travelers came to the foot of the mountains. The centaurs rode off to find their own private places while Brontes, Steropes, and Arges prepared a fire in the center of a cluster of white boulders. Attalus and Alexander settled down beside the blaze to rest, while the woman Thena strolled from the camp to stand alongside the Spartan as he studied the forest.

“When will you go in?” she asked.

“I would prefer it to be dawn,” he told her. “But the Makedones are close behind, and we may not have that long. Where in Hecate’s name is Chiron?”

“It would be best if we entered the forest before nightfall,” advised Thena.

Parmenion nodded. “Then let us be about it.” Striding to the boulders, he outlined his plan to the others.

“You are a madman,” stormed Brontes. “I thought you would realize your folly. Don’t you understand? Gorgon will kill you, and if he doesn’t, he will betray you to Philippos.”

“You may be correct, my friend, but our choices are limited. If I am not back by the dawn, you must make your own way to the gulf as best you can.”

Without another word he swung on his heel and walked across the open ground toward the dark wall of trees.

Thena came alongside him. “Are we being observed?” he asked, his voice low.

“Yes. There are several beasts in the trees watching us. They are thinking of murder,” she said.

She felt Parmenion stiffen, his stride faltering, his hand easing toward his sword. “We could go back,” she whispered.

“These creatures,” he said softly, “you can read their thoughts?”

“Yes, such as they are.”

“Can you talk to them?”

“No, but I can influence them. What do you wish them to do?”

“Take me to the lord Gorgon.”

“Very well. Count up to twenty and then shout his name. That will give me time to work on them.”

Derae took several deep breaths, calming herself, then sent her spirit into the trees. The first creature she touched—part reptile, part cat—made her recoil. His thoughts were of blood and rending flesh. There was little intelligence there, and she moved on, coming at last to a Vore who sat in the highest branches of an oak, his pale eyes staring at the two humans. He also relished thoughts of murder, but Derae sensed curiosity, too.

“Gorgon!” yelled Parmenion. “I wish to speak to the lord Gorgon!”

The Vore tensed, unsure what to do. Derae’s voice whispered deep within his mind, sending up thoughts from his subconscious. “I must take them to the lord. He will be angry
if I do not. He will kill me if I do not. One of these others will tell him the man called for him. He will blame me.”

Spreading his wings, the Vore launched himself into the air, gliding down to land some twenty paces from the humans.

Derae opened her eyes and instinctively reached out to take Parmenion’s hand.

The Vore moved closer, its taloned feet uncomfortable on flat ground. “You wish to see the lord?”