Dark Prince (25 page)

“I do,” answered Parmenion.

“You are from Philippos?”

“I will speak only to the lord Gorgon,” Parmenion said.

“I will lead you, human.”

The Vore swung round and began to walk clumsily toward the trees, its triple-jointed feet making it stoop as it moved. Several times it slipped, but its wings flashed out to steady its balance.

Still holding Derae’s hand, Parmenion followed the creature. “What are the others thinking?” he whispered.

“One of them plans to leap upon you the moment you reach the shadows of the trees. Beware! But do not kill it. Leave it to me!”

Letting go of her hand, Parmenion walked on, gripping the hilt of his sword. Sweat bathed his face, and his heart was beating wildly. Yet not all his thoughts were of fear. The touch of the woman’s hand had been like fire moving through his blood, lifting him. The trees came closer, dark and forbidding, no sound emerging from the forest, no birdsong, not even the chitter of bats.

A reptilian creature sprang from an overhead branch, and Parmenion leapt aside, but the beast plummeted to the ground and lay without moving. The Vore hissed out a warning to the other beasts nearby, then walked stiff-legged to the unconscious creature. “Is it dead?” he asked.

“Sleeping,” Derae answered.

The Vore knelt over the body, ramming its talons through the creature’s neck and wrenching clear the head. “Now it is dead,” he hissed, licking the blood from his claws.

Slowly they walked on through the gathering gloom. Derae could hear the sounds of beasts moving on either side of them and in the branches above, but no further violence threatened them.

“Sweet Hera!” whispered Derae.

“What is it?”

“The lord of the forest … the Gorgon. I touched him. Such hatred.”

“Against whom is it directed?”

“Everyone.”

The track widened, and the Vore led them down into a huge hollow where a score of fires were lit and a monstrous figure waited, seated upon a throne of skulls. His skin was dark green mottled with brown, his head enormous, his mouth cavernous and rimmed with fangs. But upon his head, in place of hair, writhed a score of snakes. Parmenion walked forward and bowed.

“Death to your enemies, sire,” he said.

THE HILLS OF ARCADIA

Far to the south, across the Gulf of Korinthos in the low hills of Arcadia, a bright light blazed briefly across the marble tombs of the heroes. It shone like a second moon, flickered, and then died.

A shepherd boy saw the light and wondered if it presaged a storm, but his sheep and goats were undisturbed and there were no clouds in the night sky—the stars bright, the moon shining clear.

For a moment or two the boy thought about the light, then pushed it from his mind and huddled into his cloak, switching his gaze to his flock, eyes scanning the perimeters of the pasture to seek signs of wolf or lion.

But there was only one wolf close by, and the boy did not see him, for he was nestled down behind a marble gravestone in the nearby hills and he, too, saw the light. As it flared up all around him, dazzling, terrifying, his thoughts of hunger fled before it.

The wolf was old, banished from the pack. Yet once he had been mighty, a leader to be feared, cunning and deadly. But never in his long life had such a light blazed around him, and it left him confused, uncertain. He lay still, lifting his grizzled head to sniff the air. Here was something he knew and feared. The scent of man.

And close by.

The wolf did not move. The scent was from his left, and he slowly turned his head, yellow eyes watching for movement.

A man was lying on a slab of marble, his naked skin pale in the moonlight. He groaned and moved. Only moments before the wolf had leapt to that same slab to look out over the flock, selecting his victim. There had been no scent of man then. Yet there he was, stretched out.

The wolf had survived his many years by knowing when to be cautious and when to be brave. Men who appeared from the air, amid bright unnatural light, did not inspire courage in the old beast. And though he was hungry, he slunk away toward the northern woods, far from the scent of man.

Helm stirred. The stone was cold and uncomfortable on his back, and he groaned as he woke, rolling to his side and swinging his powerful legs over the side of the slab. Sitting up, he yawned and stretched. The night was cool but not unpleasant, and he saw a wolf loping away down the hillside toward the trees. Helm’s hand reached for his sword, and it was then he realized he was naked and unarmed. “Where is this place?” he said aloud. “How did I come here?”

In those first few moments Helm was not concerned. He was a warrior—strong, tested in the heat of many battles, confident in his power. But as he searched his memories, fear akin to panic flared within him. He did not know how he had come to this strange place, but worse than this—so much worse—he realized with a shock that sent his heart hammering wildly that the corridors of his memory were silent and deserted.

“Who am I?” he whispered.

Helm. I am Helm
.

“Who is Helm?” The name was small comfort, for with it came no memories of times past. Looking down at his hands, he saw they were broad and callused, the fingers short and powerful. His forearms showed many scars, some jagged, others straight cuts. Yet how he had come by them was a mystery.

Be calm, he warned himself. Look around this place. It was then that he realized he lay within a graveyard, full of
silent statues and marble tombs. Quelling his panic, he leapt lightly from the slab and explored. Some of the tombstones had cracked and fallen; others were overgrown with weeds. No one tends this place, then, he thought. A cool wind hissed over the stones, and he shivered. Where are my clothes? he wondered. Surely I have not walked across the land naked like a field slave. A gleam of light came from his left. For a moment only he thought a warrior stood there, moonlight gleaming from a full-faced helm of bronze and a gilded breastplate. He tensed, his hands curling into fists; then he saw that there was no silent soldier, only a suit of armor placed on a wooden frame.

He approached it warily, eyes scanning the graveyard around it.

The helm was beautifully crafted save that it had no plume or crest. The skull was clear, showing no sign of the armorer’s hammer or a single rivet. The face guard had been shaped into the features of a man, bearded and stern of eye, with high curved brows and a mouth set in a terrible smile. The breastplate was also of superb design, the shoulders padded with bronze-reinforced leather, the chest fashioned in the shape of a strong man’s musculature, curving pectorals and well-developed muscles at the solar plexus. Beneath it was a kilt of leather strips edged with bronze, and below that a pair of doeskin riding boots.

Beside them lay a scabbarded sword. Helm reached down and drew the weapon. His heartbeat slowed, confidence returning. The blade was of polished iron, double-edged and keen, the balance perfect.

The armor is mine, he realized. It has to be.

Swiftly he dressed. The breastplate was a perfect fit, as were the boots. The kilt sat well on his waist, the sword scabbard sliding easily into a loop of bronze at his left hip. Lastly he lifted the helm, easing it down over his short-cropped hair. As it settled into place, a searing pain flowed over his features, burning like fire. He screamed and tried to pull the helm loose, but molten metal ate into his skin, pouring into
his nostrils and mouth and anchoring itself to the bones of his face.

The pain passed.

Opening his eyes, he saw that he had fallen to his knees. He rose and tried once more to remove the helm, but it would not budge. The breeze whispered across the graveyard, and he felt it upon his face, even as he had felt his hands when they had tried to remove the helm. Lifting his right hand, he touched the metal mouth. It was cold yet yielding. His finger probed further, touching his tongue; this, too, was metallic and yet still soft.

His face was now bronze; the helm was more than joined to his skin, it had become part of him.

“What is happening to me?” he bellowed, his own voice strange in his ears.

“Nothing is happening,” replied a soft voice. “You are merely preparing yourself for the task ahead.”

Helm swung, his sword flashing into his hand. But there was no one in sight. “Where are you?”

“Close by,” came the voice. “Do not be alarmed; I am a friend.”

“Show yourself,
friend.
”

“That is not necessary. You are in the hills of Arcadia. Your quest lies to the north, at the Gulf of Korinthos.”

“I am not your slave!” stormed the warrior.

“You do not know what you are or who you are,” the voice pointed out, the tone equable, even friendly. “But all your answers lie ahead. You must seek out the golden child.”

“And if I don’t?”

There was no reply. “Are you still there? Speak to me, curse you!” But the graveyard was silent.

Attalus sat back, resting his shoulders against a boulder and surveying his companions. Brontes was sitting opposite, his great brown eyes staring into the fire. Beside him the lionheaded Arges was stretched out, his maned head resting on his hugely muscled arm, his tawny eyes watching Attalus.
The cyclops, Steropes, was asleep, breath hissing through his fangs. Attalus transferred his gaze to the cliff path, where a single centaur watched for signs of the Makedones. Beside him Alexander stirred, moaning in his sleep. Attalus glanced back at Arges; still the creature watched him.

“Do you have to lie there and stare?” Attalus asked. The lion’s mouth opened, a low growl issuing forth.

Brontes looked up from the fire. “He does not like you,” he said.

“I’ll lose no sleep over that,” retorted Attalus.

“From where does your anger come, human?” queried Brontes. “I feel it in you, a bitterness, a frustration perhaps.”

“Leave me in peace,” snapped Attalus. “And make sure your hairy brother keeps his distance or he’s likely to wake up with a length of Macedonian steel in his heart.” And he stretched out on the ground, turning his back on the brothers.

Bitterness? Oh, yes, Attalus knew where the seeds had been planted for that. It had been on the day when his father had killed his mother. The death had not been easy, and the boy had listened to her screams for hours. He had been young then, merely twelve, but after that day he had never been young again. At fourteen he had crept into his father’s bedchamber with a razor-sharp skinning knife, running the blade expertly across the man’s throat and standing back to watch the sleeping man wake with blood bubbling into his lungs. Oh, he had thrashed his arms, struggling to rise, his fingers scrabbling at his throat as if to bind the slashed arteries. Bitterness? What could these creatures know of his bitterness?

Unable to sleep, Attalus rose and walked from the camp. The moon was high, the night breeze chill. He shivered and glanced up at the cliff path. The centaur was nowhere in sight. Uneasy now, the swordsman scanned the high rocks, seeking any sign of movement.

There was nothing save the breeze rustling the dry grass on the sides of the cliff. Swiftly he returned to the circle of boulders where the three brothers were asleep. Lightly he tapped Brontes on the shoulder. The Minotaur groaned and raised his massive head. “What is it?”

“The sentry is gone. Wake your brothers!” whispered Attalus. Moving to Alexander, he lifted the boy to his shoulder and set off for the forest. As he reached open ground, there came the sound of screams from the north. Several ponies ran from the rocks, but spears and arrows sliced into them. A young man riding a pale pony almost got clear, but a Vore swooped down from the night sky, a dart thudding into the pony’s neck. The beast went down, throwing the boy clear. He rose, staggered, and fell as a second dart lanced his body.

Attalus started to run. Alexander woke, but he did not scream or shout. His arms moved around Attalus’ neck, and he held on tightly.

From behind came the sound of a galloping horse, and Attalus swung, dragging his sword clear. A huge centaur carrying a curved bow ran toward them.

“Camiron!” shouted Alexander. The centaur slowed.

“Many Makedones,” he said. “Too many to kill. The centaurs are dead.”

Sheathing his sword, Attalus took hold of Camiron’s mane and leapt to his back. “Make for the trees!” he commanded. Camiron surged forward, almost unseating the Macedonian, but then they were away. Dark-cloaked warriors were closing in from the south, north, and east. But the way west, to the forest, was still clear. Camiron thundered across the open ground as arrows slashed the air around him.

A Vore swooped down from the sky, and Camiron swerved and reared as a dart sliced into the ground beside him. Notching an arrow to his bow, the centaur sent a shaft winging through the air, taking the Vore in the right side and piercing its lung. The creature’s wings folded, and it crashed to the earth.

Camiron broke into a gallop and headed for the trees, leaving the Makedones far behind. The forest closed around them, but still Camiron ran, leaping fallen trees and boulders, splashing across streams, until he crested a hill that led onto a small hollow circled by tall pines. Here he slowed.