Dark Prince (30 page)

She felt her emotions swamped by the surging lust of the men all around her, then the soldier whispered an obscenity in her ear.

All her adult life Derae had followed the path of the source, knowing with cold certainty that she would rather die than kill. But in the moment he spoke all her training fled away, taking with it the years of devotion and dedication. All that was left was the girl from Sparta, and in her ran the blood of a warrior race.

Her head came up, her eyes meeting his. “Die,” she whispered. His eyes widened. The stone in her hand grew warmer. Suddenly he gasped and fell back with blood spurting from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth.

“She’s a witch!” someone shouted as the officer’s lifeless body slumped to the earth. The men holding her tightened their grip on her upper arms, but she raised her hands, which transformed themselves into cobras, hooded and hissing. The soldiers leapt back from her. Spinning on her heel, she pointed the snakes at them. Lightning leapt from the serpents’ mouths, smashing the men from their feet.

Derae swung once more as the remaining soldiers drew their weapons and rushed at her. A flash of brilliant light seared across the clearing, blinding the warriors, causing them to stumble and fall.

In the confusion that followed Derae strode from the campsite and into the woods.

Derae moved silently toward the south, drawing her cloak tightly around her naked frame. The trees were thinner here, the stars bright above them, and she broke into a loping run, following a path that sloped down to where a dark stream rippled over black stones.

In the distance behind her she could hear the shouts of the soldiers, but she knew they would not catch her now. They
were blundering around in the dark with no idea of the direction she had taken.

Come daylight it would be different, when they could send the Vores soaring above the trees to hunt her in the sunshine. But this was the night, and it was hers! She had waited for the enemy, fooled them, and killed at least one. A savage joy flowed through her, filling her body with strength as she ran.

Suddenly she faltered and slowed.

I killed a man!

The joy vanished, to be replaced by a numbing sense of horror.
What have you become?
she asked herself.

Her gaze flickered to the silent trees, her spirit recoiling from the malevolence of the forest. This place of evil had touched her, eroding all her beliefs, all the years of her dedication.

Falling to her knees Derae prayed for forgiveness, sending her thoughts up and out into the void and beyond. But she felt them echoing in a vast emptiness, seemingly unheard and certainly unanswered. Wearily she rose and walked on toward the south, making herself one promise that she swore to keep for as long as she lived. Never would she kill again.

Never
.

On the morning of the third day after they had left the priestess, Parmenion awoke to see Gorgon kneeling over the sleeping form of Brontes. The Minotaur was not moving, and Gorgon’s hand was resting lightly on the creature’s chest. Parmenion’s heart sank. For the last two days the Minotaur had stumbled on, unspeaking, his eyes weary and bloodshot, his limbs leaden.

“You can make it,” Parmenion had told him the previous afternoon. But Brontes had not replied, his huge bull’s head sagging forward, his gaze locked to the ground at his feet. The group had made camp early, for Brontes had been unable to keep up with the pace. Now Parmenion rose and moved alongside Gorgon.

“Is he dead?” he asked.

“Soon,” answered Gorgon. Parmenion knelt by the Minotaur.
Blood was seeping from both nostrils, and he was barely breathing.

“What can we do?” the Spartan asked.

“Nothing,” grunted Gorgon.

“How soon will we be clear of the forest?”

“Not for another day.”

“In any direction?” queried the Spartan.

Gorgon shook his head. “No. We could move directly east; then we would be at the edge of the forest but maybe a day’s march from the sea. It is the kingdom of Aetolia, close to the town of Calydon. But the king of Aetolia is a vassal of Philippos, and he keeps a force of over three hundred men at Calydon. They will be watching the forest.”

“Can you carry Brontes?”

Gorgon’s huge hand snaked out, his fingers curling around Parmenion’s cloak and dragging the Spartan forward. “Are you insane? I have given up a kingdom for this quest of yours. Many of my own people have turned against me. And why? So that I can bring the golden child to the giant’s gateway. Now you would risk it all for
this?”
he demanded, pointing to the dying Minotaur.

“No, I will not risk it all. But the men watching the forest cannot be everywhere. And there is something else, Gorgon,” said Parmenion softly. “There is friendship. There is loyalty. Brontes has risked his life on this quest, saving mine in the process. I owe him a debt, and I always repay.”

“Ha! What if it was me lying there? Would you risk your life for me?”

“Yes.”

Gorgon relaxed his grip and smiled, his pale eyes glowing, his expression unreadable. “I believe you would. You are a fool … as Brontes is a fool. But then, what is one more foolishness? Yes, I will carry him to the sunlight, if that is your wish.” The forest king pushed his great hands beneath the Minotaur, lifting him with ease and draping the body over his shoulder.

Parmenion shook the others awake, and they followed Gorgon to the east. Within the hour, the trees thinned out and
birdsong could be heard in the distance. At last they reached the edge of the forest and emerged onto a hillside overlooking a walled town.

Gorgon laid the Minotaur on the grass and backed away. Parmenion knelt beside Brontes, his hand resting on the creature’s shoulder. “Can you hear me, my friend?” he whispered.

A low groan came from Brontes, but his eyes opened. Blood was seeping over the lids in crimson tears.

“Too … late.”

“No. Use whatever strength you have.
Try
.”

The Minotaur’s eyes closed as Gorgon moved alongside Parmenion. “Come away. He needs privacy. The sun will feed him, and there is a little enchantment left here. I can feel it burning my feet.”

Parmenion stepped back into the shade of the trees, turning his eyes from the body on the grass.

“Will he live?” asked Alexander, taking Parmenion’s hand.

“If he has the will,” the Spartan answered.

“I am very hungry,” said Camiron. “Will we eat soon?”

“We are all hungry,” snapped Attalus. “My belly thinks my throat has been cut. So stop complaining!”

“I will hunt something,” announced Camiron. Before anyone could speak, the centaur, bow in hand, galloped down the hillside, heading southeast.

“Come back!” yelled Parmenion, but Camiron carried on running in full view of the sentries on the walls of Calydon. Within minutes the gates opened and a score of riders issued forth, racing in pursuit of the centaur.

“At least they are heading away from us,” observed Attalus. Parmenion said nothing. Glancing back to Brontes, he saw the body bathed in dazzling sunlight, the Minotaur’s skin glowing like gold. The great head began to shrink, the horns disappearing. Brontes’ right arm twitched, and he groaned. The light faded. Parmenion and Gorgon moved alongside him; once more he was a golden-haired young man, handsome and blue-eyed.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching up and gripping Parmenion’s hand.

“Give your thanks to Gorgon,” answered the Spartan, pulling Brontes upright. “He carried you here.”

“I don’t doubt he had his own reasons,” Brontes remarked.

“You overwhelm me with your gratitude, Brother,” said Gorgon, the snakes hissing on his skull and baring their fangs. He turned to Parmenion. “Now we must move on, unless of course you wish to rescue the centaur. Say the word, General, and I will surround the city.”

Parmenion smiled. “That will not be necessary. Lead on!”

“But we cannot leave Camiron behind,” wailed Alexander.

“We cannot help him, my prince,” said Parmenion sadly.

A dark shadow flickered across the grass, and Gorgon glanced up. High above them a Vore circled, then flew off toward the north.

“We have been seen,” said Gorgon. “Now it will be a race to the sea.”

The march southwest was slow. For the past few days the companions had lived on sour berries and foul-tasting mushrooms, forced to drink brackish water from dark pools. Parmenion’s strength was fading, while Attalus twice vomited beside the trail. Only Gorgon seemed unaffected and tireless, striding on ahead with Alexander perched on his shoulders.

They made camp at dusk beneath an overhang of stone, Gorgon permitting a fire, which lifted the spirits of the Macedonians.

“Once across the gulf, how long until we reach Sparta?” asked Attalus.

“If we can find horses, three more days,” Parmenion answered.

“Why Sparta?” put in Gorgon. “Why not straight to the gateway?”

“We are hoping to meet a friend there,” the Spartan told him. “A
magus
of great power.”

“He will need to be, for Sparta will not stand for long against Philippos. Even as you entered the forest, my Vores were telling me of the Makedones’ march to the south. Korinthos has declared for the demon king. Cadmos is overthrown
and destroyed. Only one army stands now against Philippos. And they cannot defeat him. Sparta may already have fallen before we cross the gulf.”

“If that proves to be true,” said Parmenion, “then we will make our way to the giant’s gateway. But Philippos has not yet faced a Spartan army, and he may find it a punishing experience.”

Toward midnight, when the blaze had flickered down to coals, Parmenion awoke from a light sleep to hear the sounds of stealthy movement from the undergrowth to his left. Drawing his sword, he woke Attalus, and the two men moved silently away from the fire.

The bushes parted, and Camiron trotted toward the camp, carrying a dead doe across his shoulders. The centaur spotted the Macedonians and gave a broad smile. “I am a great hunter,” he said. “Look what I have!”

Gorgon strode from the campsite, moving away to the east. Attalus took the doe, skinning it and hacking away the choicest sections with his sword. Within minutes the air was rich with the smell of meat roasting over the freshly built fire.

“I swear by Zeus I never smelt anything finer,” whispered Attalus as the fat oozed into the flames.

“You are magnificent,” Alexander told the centaur. “I am very proud of you. But what happened to the men chasing you?”

“No one is as fast as Camiron,” replied the centaur. “I ran them until their horses were bathed in lather, then cut back to the west. Mighty is Camiron. No rider can catch him.”

The meat was tough and stringy, but no one cared. Parmenion felt strength seeping back into his muscles as he devoured his third portion and licked the fat from his fingers.

“You realize,” remarked Attalus, lying back replete, “that in Macedonia we would have flogged a hunter who tried to sell us meat as tough as that.”

“Yes,” said Parmenion, “but was it not wonderful?”

“Beyond description,” the swordsman agreed.

“It would need to be,” muttered Gorgon, stepping forward from the darkness. “The centaur has left a trail a blind man
could follow. And the enemy are already close enough to smell the feast.” Lifting Alexander to his shoulders, he set off toward the south.

“Did I do wrong?” asked Camiron nervously. Parmenion patted the centaur’s shoulder.

“We needed to eat,” he said. “You did well.”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” exclaimed Camiron, his confidence returning.

Refreshed, the companions walked on through the night and by dawn had reached the last line of hills before the Gulf of Korinthos. The pursuers were close behind now, and twice, looking back, Parmenion had seen moonlight gleaming from armor or lance point.

As they cleared the trees, Gorgon took hold of a jutting tree root, ripping it clear and holding it above his head. He stood statue-still and began to chant in a language unfamiliar to the Macedonians.

“What is he doing?” Parmenion asked Brontes.

“He is drawing on the evil of the forest,” answered the former Minotaur, turning away and walking to the crest of the hill to gaze down on the dawn-lit sea.

Finally Gorgon ceased his chanting and, the root in his hand, strode past Brontes to begin the long descent to the beach below. The others followed him on the sloping path. Camiron found the descent almost impossible, slithering and sliding, cannoning into Brontes and knocking him from his feet. Parmenion and Attalus moved to either side of the centaur, taking his hands and supporting him.

At last they reached the shore. High above them the first of the enemy appeared.

“What now?” demanded Attalus. “Do we swim?”

“No,” answered Gorgon, lifting the tree root above his head. Closing his eyes, the forest king began to chant once more. Parmenion glanced back up the cliff path. More than a hundred Makedones warriors were slowly making their way down the treacherous slope.

Smoke poured from the tree root in Gorgon’s hand, floating out over the sea and down into the waves. The water
turned black and began to boil, yellow gases erupting from the surface and flaring into flame. Then a dark shape broke clear of the waves, and an ancient trireme—its hull rotted, its sails rags—floated once more to the surface of the gulf. Parmenion swallowed hard as the ship glided into shore. There were skeletal corpses still seated at the oars, and rotted bodies lay upon the shell-encrusted decks. Glancing back, he saw the Makedones were almost within bowshot.

The ship beached close in, a narrow gangplank sliding from the upper deck to thud against the sand.

“If you want to live, climb aboard!” yelled Gorgon, carrying Alexander up to the deck. Parmenion and Attalus followed, then Camiron cantered up the plank, his hooves slipping on the slimy wood.

The trireme glided back onto the currents of the gulf, leaving the Makedones standing, horror-struck, on the beach. Several arrows and spears flew at the vessel, but most of the enemy warriors just stood and stared as the death ship disappeared into a gray mist seeping up from the night-dark sea.