Dark Prince (27 page)

“Now we await Gorgon’s pleasure,” whispered Brontes. “It would be a kind act were you to kill the woman now.”

“No,” said Parmenion softly. “We’ll play out the game to the end.”

“As you wish.”

The trio walked forward between the waiting lines and halted before the throne. Gorgon’s huge head lifted, his pale eyes glaring balefully at Parmenion.

“I have given thought to your words, warrior. I find them unconvincing.”

“Naturally,” said Parmenion. “When one is cursed for so long, a dream is hard to hold. So many disappointments, so much bitterness and hatred. Why should you find it easy to believe?”

“I mean to kill you,” continued the king, as if he had not heard. “I will ensure your death is long in coming.”

“Does this mean that you will accept the offer of Philippos?” asked Parmenion calmly.

“Yes. I will find the child and deliver him to the Makedones king.”

“In return for what? A few women? Sovereignty over the
forest? Do you sell yourself so cheaply? Philippos grants you what you already have, and you take it as a gift. What of your people here? What do they get? You turn down their chance of removing the curse upon them. What is there for them?”

“They serve me!” bellowed Gorgon, rising from his throne. “They will do as I command. You think your sweet words have swayed them? Yes, we are cursed, but there is no Iskander to rescue us. He is a dream, an invention, created by those without the courage to live without hope. But you can serve a purpose, human. Your screams can amuse us for a little while.”

The lines of monsters began to move, curling around the trio. Brontes gave a low growl, and Parmenion drew his sword. Derae stood still, her gaze resting on the forest king, her spirit reaching out.

“To live without hope,” she said, her voice high and clear and unafraid, “is not courageous. It is the worst form of cowardice. It means you have given up the struggle. Have you always been such a man, Dionius? Or was there a time when your dreams were golden and the joy of love filled your soul?” Through the waves of bitterness surging from the forest king she saw, suddenly, the briefest vision—a young woman and a man, hand in hand before the ocean. Then the image was savagely cut off.

“I never knew love!” he roared.

“You lie! There was Persephone!”

Gorgon reeled as if struck, then cried out, his scream high-pitched and chilling. Derae saw it all then, as the gates of Gorgon’s memory fell away. The beautiful young woman and the handsome child of the Titans—walking together, laughing, touching, loving. She saw them in many shapes: sea-birds, dolphins, and other exquisite creatures she could not name. But Persephone was human, and not all the Titans’ magic could hold back her final hours when the dark plague swept in from the north.

Gorgon fell to the ground, beating at the earth with his fists. The monsters of the forest stood back, silent and uncertain. Slowly Gorgon rose, the snakes hanging lank and lifeless
from his scalp. From his belt he drew a long dagger, its edge serrated, and advanced on Derae.

“Would Persephone enjoy this scene?” she asked.

Gorgon sighed and dropped the knife. “I will see the child,” he whispered. “If he is Iskander, I will help you. If he is not, then your screams will last an eternity.”

For a moment Parmenion stood still, his gaze moving from the tall woman to the snake-headed monster before her. Then he sheathed his sword. Thena’s voice whispered in his mind. “Do nothing and say nothing,” she urged.

Gorgon turned away from the scene, returning to his throne and slumping on it with his head in his hands.

Thena touched Parmenion’s arm and walked back to the shade of the tree where they had spent the night. The Spartan followed her. “What is wrong?” he asked. “Is he lying? Will he truly help us?”

“Gorgon is not the concern,” she whispered. “The demon prince has gathered an army. He is moving toward us, intent on destroying the forest king.”

“What demon prince?” asked Parmenion. “What are you saying?”

“The chaos spirit has taken control of Alexander. He has become a horned creature with fangs and talons. It is these woods, Parmenion, so full of dark enchantment. They swelled his power. Attalus is with him, and a centaur called Camiron. But the spirit now controls hundreds of Gorgon’s followers.”

“I don’t understand. How do you know this? You said you could not release your spirit here.”

“I can still reach out, touching those I know if they are not too far distant. I can feel the thoughts and fears of Attalus. They will be here very soon.”

“From which direction do they come?”

“The north,” she answered, pointing to a break in the trees.

“Is the demon in full control of the boy?”

“Yes.”

Parmenion sighed, then cursed softly. “I will go to them,” he said.

“The demon prince will kill you!”

“I have no choice,” he replied wearily. A Vore swooped down over the trees, landing before the forest king. Parmenion strode back to the throne. Gorgon listened as the Vore spoke, then came to his feet, eyes angry, fists clenched.

“This child of yours comes to me for war!” he thundered.

“As you would expect, my lord,” answered Parmenion. “He does not know whether we are prisoners or guests. I shall go to him and bring him to you alone.”

“This Iskander,” said the king, “is horned and cat-eyed. The legends do not speak of this.”

“He is a shape changer, as you once were, sire. His powers, as you now know, are very great. Let me go to him.”

Gorgon nodded, then his hand stabbed out, pointing to Thena and Brontes. “They stay,” he hissed, “and if you lie, they will suffer.”

Parmenion bowed. “As you wish, lord,” he said, holding his voice even. Bowing once more, the Spartan swung to the north and walked from the clearing. Once in the cover of the trees, he ran—long, loping effortless strides along the narrow trail, his mind concentrating on the problem ahead. How could he deal with a god? What arguments could he use?

Thena’s voice whispered once more into his brain. “I can feel Alexander now. He is not wholly overcome. And there is something else … the demon and the boy are linked. The chaos spirit is not yet whole. He is still … I don’t know … childlike?”

The words faded, and the Spartan ran on up a hillside and onto a wider track. “More to your left!” came the voice of Thena. “No more than two hundred paces.”

The undergrowth was too thick to change direction, and Parmenion ran back along the way he had come before turning to a new trail. He could hear them now, just ahead. Slowing to a walk, the Spartan stepped out before them and waited, keeping his face emotionless despite the shock of seeing the demon prince sitting upon the giant centaur. Alexander’s face was now a pallid gray, mottled black ram’s horns sprouting from the temples. His hair was white, the golden
eyes slitted beneath heavy brows; his mouth was twisted and wide with teeth long and protruding. There was nothing left of the beautiful child.

“Ah, my general approaches!” came a deep voice. “Welcome, Parmenion!”

Beyond the prince the monstrous army waited, and beside him stood Attalus, his face a mask, his expression unreadable.

“This is neither your time nor your world,” said Parmenion softly. “Give us back the boy.”

“Serve me or die!” answered the chaos spirit.

“No, you will die,” Parmenion told him. “You think this display of … power … can win you a world? Gorgon will fight you, and even if you defeat him, what will you have? A pitiful forest in a world where another spirit rules. And that spirit controls an army of countless thousands. You are playing a child’s game in a man’s world. Now give us back the boy!”

The demon swung to Attalus. “Kill him!” he ordered. Attalus said nothing but drew his sword and walked to where Parmenion stood waiting. Once there, the Macedonian turned and faced the demon. “You betray me!” shouted the prince. “Then you will both die.”

“Wait!” called Parmenion. “Your world is a long way from here. Only I can return you to it. Without me you will be trapped here in the body of a child. How will you survive?”

“I have my army,” answered the demon, but his voice wavered as he looked upon the beasts around him.

“You will conquer nothing with those,” said Parmenion. “You might not even best the forest king.”

“And if I give you the boy?”

“I will return him to his own world.”

“How so?” sneered the demon. “By trusting Gorgon? He will kill him … me.”

“Then you must decide—and swiftly. You may have this forest … or a world. Decide, damn you!”

For a moment the demon sat very still, his slitted eyes fixed on Parmenion, then he seemed to relax. “One day I will kill
you both,” he said, his voice echoing as if from a great distance. The horns began to shrink, and Alexander cried out and fell from the centaur. Parmenion ran forward, lifting the boy and pushing back the golden hair. There was no sign now of the demon save in the fading brown patches of skin at the temples. Once more his hair was golden, his face beautiful.

“I couldn’t … stop him … Parmenion,” wailed the child. “I tried!”

“You did enough. Believe me! You did not allow him his full strength. That confused him.”

“Look out, Parmenion!” shouted Attalus. All around the man and the boy the beasts were rising, their eyes baleful. Without the demon to control them, they saw only three humans and a centaur, four enemies for the slaughter.

Parmenion surged upright, holding Alexander tightly to his shoulder. “Back!” he shouted, but the beasts ignored him. His sword snaked out as a creature with the head of a lizard sprang forward. His blade slashed across its throat, hurling it back.

Suddenly an eerie wailing filled the air, and the creatures fell to their knees. Parmenion swung to see Gorgon striding from the forest, Thena and Brontes behind him.

A horned beast of prodigious size lifted a huge club and ran at the forest king. Gorgon’s eyes glowed. The beast staggered and began to shrink, its muscles wasting away. Thinner and thinner it became until at last it fell to the earth, breaking into many pieces. A slight wind blew, raising a cloud of dust where the beast had fallen. Not even bones were left.

Gorgon turned toward Parmenion. “Bring the child to me!” he commanded. The Spartan’s legs were unsteady as he walked to the king, but his sword was still in his hand and he was ready to plunge it into the king’s belly at the first sign of treachery.

“Be brave!” he whispered to the boy. Alexander nodded. Parmenion lowered the prince to the ground, and the boy approached the forest king, staring up into the green snake-shrouded face.

“Show me your power,” said Gorgon.

“I will show you,” Alexander told him. “But at the giant’s gateway.”

“Then you are truly Iskander.”

“I am,” Alexander answered.

The prince stood silently with head cocked to one side, his green eyes watching the writhing snakes. “Are they real snakes?” he asked suddenly.

“Reality depends on your perspective,” answered Gorgon, kneeling down and dipping his head. The snakes rose up, hissing, their forked tongues darting forward under sharp fangs.

The boy did not flinch. “They are not alive,” he said.

“If they bite you, you will die,” Gorgon pointed out.

“That does not make them real. Their eyes are blind. They cannot see, they cannot feel. They move because you order it.”

“So does my arm, and that is real.”

“Indeed,” agreed the boy, “and that is precisely what the snakes are—an extension of your body, like arms or legs. They merely look like snakes.”

“Are you not frightened of me?”

“I fear nothing,” lied Alexander, straightening his back and lifting his chin defiantly.

“But you find me monstrous and ugly.”

“I find you fascinating. Why did you choose such a countenance?”

A sound resembling laughter roared from the forest king. “I chose it to instill fear in my enemies. It did so. It still does so. But then the war was lost, and the losers were … punished? A spell was cast upon us, forcing us to hold our forms. You, Iskander, will wash away this spell.”

“Are you evil?” asked the boy.

“Of course. We lost. The losers are always evil, for it is the victors who sing the songs that become history. And in these forms they have left us what choices do we have? Look at the Vores! Their touch is death, their breath the plague. How many good works can they accomplish? The victors left us
with hate and bitterness in our hearts. They called us evil and made us evil. Now we live up to their expectations. You believe me?”

“It would be discourteous to admit that I did not,” answered the boy.

“True,” agreed the king, “but I will allow you one discourtesy.”

“Then I must say that I do disagree. Parmenion says that every man has choices. If what you say is true, then all ugly men would be evil and all handsome men good.”

“Well said, child,” commented the Minotaur Brontes. “My brother omits to mention that he—and his allies—began the war, bringing death and slaughter to thousands.”

Gorgon rose and shook his head, the snakes hissing and writhing. “Just when it seemed I could have an intelligent conversation … Ah well, let us not rake over the ashes of history, Brontes. As I recall, there were many thousands on both sides who died, brother killing brother. Let it end with the coming of Iskander.”

“I do not believe you will ever let it end, Dionius,” said Brontes sadly. “It is not in your nature.”

“We shall see, Brother. How is our mother? Does she still pine for me?”

A low growl came from Brontes, his fists clenching, the muscles of his shoulders bunching into tight ridges. “Do not even think of it,” whispered Gorgon, his pale eyes glowing like lanterns.

“Please do not fight,” pleaded Alexander.

“No one is going to fight,” said Parmenion, moving between Brontes and the forest king. “We are allies now against a common enemy. Is that not correct, Brontes?”

“Allies?” hissed the Minotaur, shaking his head. “I cannot bring myself to believe so.”

“You can,” argued Parmenion, “because you must. This war you speak of was fought eons ago. There must come a time when it can be put aside. Let that time be now. Let it be here in this forest.”