Dark Prince (28 page)

“You have no idea what he did!” stormed Brontes.

“No, I have not. Nor do I need to. It is the way of war to bring out both the best and the worst in the combatants. But the war is over.”

“As long as he lives, it will never be over,” said Brontes, turning away and stalking back into the forest. Alexander switched his gaze to the forest king and thought he saw a look of disappointment, almost sadness on the twisted features. Then the grim, sardonic expression returned.

“Your mission has not begun well, Iskander,” said the king.

“Nothing of worth comes easily,” the boy answered.

“You are a wise child. I could almost like you, were I able to remember what such an emotion feels like.”

“You can remember,” said Alexander with a bright smile. “And I like you, too.”

Alexander moved away from the forest king and saw Camiron standing apart from the monsters who filled the clearing. The centaur was trembling, his front hooves pawing at the ground. The prince walked toward him, but Camiron, seeing him, backed away several steps.

“You hurt me,” said the centaur, his huge eyes blinking rapidly.

“It was not me,” said Alexander soothingly, reaching out his hand. “Did it look like me?”

“Except for the horns,” said Camiron. “I don’t like this place; I don’t want to be here.”

“We will be leaving soon,” the boy told him. “Will you let me ride you?”

“Where will we go?”

“We will find Chiron.”

“I’ll never find him,” muttered the centaur. “He has abandoned me. And I will always be alone.”

“No,” said Alexander, stepping close and taking Camiron’s hand. “You are not alone. We will be friends, you and I. Until we find Chiron.”

The centaur bent his torso forward and whispered. “This is an evil place. It has always been so. If you get on my back, I
will run from here like the wind. I can carry you to the far mountains. They will not catch us.”

“There is evil everywhere, my friend,” Alexander told him, “and we are safer here than in the mountains. Trust me.” Camiron said nothing, but fear still shone in his eyes and his flanks trembled. “You are mighty Camiron,” said the boy suddenly, “the strongest of centaurs. You fear nothing. You are the fastest, the bravest, the finest of warriors.”

The centaur nodded. “Yes, yes, I am all those things. I am! I am a great fighter. I am not frightened.”

“I know. We will journey to the sea and then to Sparta. I will ride you, and you will protect me.”

“To the sea, yes. Will Chiron be there? Is he close?”

“He is very close. Tell me, where were you when you … awoke last?”

“It was in a wood, close to the mountains. I heard shouts and screams. It was the Makedones killing the centaurs. That’s when I saw you.”

“Was anything around you when you woke?”

“Just trees and rocks and … a stream, I think. I don’t remember going there. I don’t remember things very well.”

“The first time I saw you, you had a pouch of leather on a belt. In it there was a golden stone. But you do not have it now.”

“A pouch? Yes … there was. But I left it behind. The screams startled me. Is it important?”

“No, I just wondered where it was. We will leave soon, but first I must speak with Parmenion.”

The Spartan was deep in conversation with the priestess Thena and Attalus, but when Alexander joined them, the group fell silent. “I need to speak with you,” said the boy.

“Of course,” Parmenion answered, kneeling to face the prince.

“It is about Chiron.”

“I think he is lost to us.”

“No. He is the centaur Camiron.” Swiftly he told Parmenion of his first meeting with the
magus
and how he had become
a centaur. “But now Camiron has lost the magic stone. I don’t think he can change back.”

“There is little we can do for him,” said Parmenion, “save keep him with us. But more importantly, how are you faring?”

Alexander looked into the Spartan’s eyes, reading the concern there. “I am well. He took me by surprise. The enchantment in these woods is very strong and very dark.”

“Do you recall any of it?”

“All of it. In a strange way it was very peaceful. I could see everything, and yet I was not in command. I needed to make no decisions. He is very strong, Parmenion. I felt it when his mind reached out and touched the beasts. He brought them to his will instantly.”

“Can you still feel his presence?”

“No. It is as if he is sleeping.”

“Do you have the strength to stop him should he try to … control you once more?”

“I think so. But how can I know?”

“Do the best that you can,” advised the Spartan, “and tell me when he returns.”

“I will. What happens now?”

“The king is going to lead us to the sea. Once there, we will find a way to cross the Gulf of Korinthos … Corinth. From there we will travel south through Arkadia to Sparta. After that … I don’t know.”

“I can open the giant’s gateway,” said Alexander softly.

“Do not think of it,” whispered the Spartan. “You are not who they think you are.”

“Oh, but I am,” answered the boy. “Believe me, Parmenion, I am Iskander.”

For three days the small group moved south through the forest, led by Gorgon and guided by three Vores who swooped and dived in the sky above the trees, watching for signs of pursuit. Alexander rode Camiron, whose spirits had soared on the second morning.

“I can remember,” Camiron told the prince. “It is wonderful. I went to sleep and woke up in the same place.”

“That is good,” replied the boy distantly.

Parmenion walked often beside the forest king, Derae and Attalus bringing up the rear behind the centaur and his rider.

For the first two days the priestess said little to the swordsman, walking in silence and spending her evenings in deep conversation with Parmenion. But on the morning of the third day Attalus hung back from the group, allowing some thirty paces to grow between them.

“You are walking very slowly,” said Derae.

“I want to talk to you,” he told her.

“Why? What am I to you?”

“I need … I want … advice.”

Derae looked at him closely, reaching out to touch his spirit, feeling the surging, complex emotions raging within him. Swiftly she withdrew. “How may I help you?”

“You are a seeress, are you not?”

“I am.”

“And you can see the future?”

“There are many futures, Attalus; they change day by day. Tell me what troubles you.”

“The demon said that he would see Parmenion and me both slain. Did he speak the truth?”

Derae looked into the swordsman’s troubled face. “What would you do if I told you that he did?”

“I don’t know. All my known enemies are dead; there is safety in that. But he is the son of the only friend I have ever had. I could not …” His voice trailed away. “Will you tell me my future?”

“No, it would not be wise. You carry great hatred and bitterness, Attalus. And the events of your past have twisted your soul. Your love for Philip is the only redeeming quality you have.”

“Will you tell me whether the boy is a danger to me?”

For a moment only she hesitated. “Give me your hand,” she commanded. He obeyed her, offering his left, his right resting on his sword hilt. Emotions flooded her, strong, harsh, and almost overpowering. She saw his mother slain by his father, saw the father murdered by the young Attalus. Then, in the
years that followed, she saw the bitter young man send scores of people to their deaths, using knife or bow, sword or poison. At last she sighed and released his hand.

“Well?” he demanded.

“You have many enemies,” she told him, her voice low and sorrowful. “You are hated by almost all who know you. Believe me, assassin, at this time the prince is the least of your foes.”

“But he will be an enemy, will he not?”

“If he lives,” she replied, holding to his gaze. “If any of us live.”

“Thank you,” he said, moving past her and walking on.

That night, as the others slept, Derae sat with Parmenion on the brow of a hill and told the Spartan what had occurred with Attalus. “You think he will try to kill the boy?” he asked.

“Not immediately. But he is a sad, twisted man. There is little good in him.”

“I will watch him with care. But tell me, lady, why did Aristotle send you?”

“He thought I could help you. Have I not done so?”

“Of course, but that is not what I meant. Why did he send
you?
Why not another?”

“Is my company so painful to you?” she countered, her unease growing.

“Not at all. You are like a cool breeze on a summer’s day. You make my soul rest. I am not good with women, Thena. I am clumsy and short of temper.” He chuckled. “The ways of your race are alien to me.”

“You make us sound like another species.”

“Sometimes I think that you are,” he admitted. “When I was very young, I used to watch Derae run. I would hide on a hilltop and observe the girls in their races. Their grace made me feel ungainly and awkward—and yet the memories have a certain glow.”

“It is good to talk of fine memories,” she told him. “They are all that makes life a joy. Tell me of your family.”

“I thought you wanted good memories,” he snapped, looking away.

“You do not love your wife?”

“Love Phaedra?” he answered, shaking his head. “She married me for one purpose … and I do not wish to talk of it.”

“Then we will not.”

Suddenly he gave a wry smile. “Why did you ask me that question? You are a seeress, Thena; you know the answer already.” The smile faded, his expression hardening. “Do you know all my secrets?”

The thought of lying flitted across her mind, but she dismissed it. “Yes,” she told him softly.

He nodded. “I thought so. Then you know why she married me.”

“To rid herself of the unwanted gift of prophecy.”

“And?” he pressed, his eyes, cold now, holding to her gaze.

“Because her gift told her you would sire a god-king to rule the world. She wanted that boy to be her son.”

“And now,” said Parmenion sorrowfully, “she raises poor Philotas, filling his mind with thoughts of future glories. It is a terrible illusion, and I can do nothing to stop it. Is this the price I must pay for my … betrayal?”

“You are not an evil man,” she told him, taking his hand. “Do not allow one mistake to poison your feelings of self-worth.”

“It could all have been so different, Thena, if Derae and I had been allowed to wed. Maybe there would have been no riches, but we would have had a home and children.” Pushing himself to his feet, he stared out over the moonlit treetops. “But then there is little advantage in trying to reshape the past. We didn’t marry. They killed her. And I became Parmenion, the Death of Nations. I can live with it. Come, let us get back to the camp. Perhaps tonight I can sleep without dreams.”

By the fifth day of their journey the trek south had slowed. The Vores had flown away the night before and had not returned, and Gorgon seemed to Parmenion to have grown more cautious, constantly scouting ahead, leaving the others behind. Brontes had been unusually silent for the past two
days, wandering away from his companions and sitting alone, his huge bull’s head in his hands. And Attalus was growing surly, his pale eyes constantly flickering toward Alexander.

Parmenion felt a growing unease. The forest was thicker here, little light breaking through the thick canopy of intertwined branches high above, the air filled with the stench of rotting vegetation. But it was not just the sickening smell or the lack of light that left the Spartan on edge; in this place there was an aura of evil that entered the mind, touching the soul with dread.

That night, for the first time, Parmenion built a fire. Attalus and Thena sat down beside it, the swordsman staring gloomily into the dancing flames. Brontes moved away and sat with his back to a broad oak, and Parmenion followed him.

“Are you in pain?” asked the Spartan.

Brontes’ head came up. A thin trickle of blood was dripping from his right nostril.

“I need … the change,” whispered Brontes. “But it cannot be … accomplished … in this place. If we do not move clear of this forest in the next two days, I shall die.”

“You knew this would happen?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you came with us? I don’t know what to say, Brontes.”

The Minotaur shrugged. “Iskander is all-important; he must arrive at the giant’s gateway. Leave me, my friend. It is hard to speak through the pain.”

At that moment Gorgon returned, easing his giant bulk through the undergrowth. He ran across the small clearing and kicked earth on the fire, scattering sparks that swept across Thena’s robes.

“What in Hades are you doing?” stormed Attalus. “No fires!” hissed Gorgon.

“Why? Is this not your forest?” responded the swordsman. “What should we fear?”

“Everything,” answered Gorgon, stalking toward Parmenion. “The Makedones have entered the forest,” he said, his eyes glittering. “There are more than a thousand warriors,
split into five groups. Two are behind us, two to the east, and one ahead.”

“Do they know where we are?”

“I believe that they do. Many of the Vores have deserted me and joined the Makedones. There is little loyalty in this forest, human. I rule because I am the strongest, and my crown is secure only so long as I am feared. But the Vores fear Philippos more. So they should, for his power is greater than mine.”

“When will we reach the sea?”

“Two days—if we travel fast. Three if we are careful.”

Parmenion shook his head. “Brontes will not survive three days.”

Gorgon’s mouth stretched into the parody of a smile, the snakes on his head rising with fangs bared.

“What does that matter? All that is important is that Iskander reaches the gateway. And that is now doubtful. This forest is my domain and my strength, yet it is taxing my powers to the limit to keep Philippos from finding us. The bony woman with you is also nearing exhaustion, shielding us. But we are tiring, human. And when our magic is drained there will not be a place in this forest to hide. Do you understand? At this moment the priestess and I have covered the forest with a spirit mist, and we are hidden within it. But every hour that passes sees the demon king cutting away at our defenses. Soon it will be like a storm wind dispersing our mist, and we will stand in the full view of the golden eye. I cannot concern myself with the small problem of Brontes’ life.” Gorgon lay down, closing his eyes. “We will rest for two hours,” he said softly, “then push on through the night.”