Dark Prince (31 page)

Derae hid behind the trunk of a huge oak as the soldiers came into sight. The sea was so close, yet the way was barred. She scanned the cliff tops, looking for a way to slip past the Makedones, but the warriors had spread out, seeking other paths to the beach.

It was galling to have come so far and be thwarted. She had managed to evade the many patrols searching the forest and had emerged from the trees just as Parmenion and the others had reached the shore.

Ducking back into the forest, Derae ran toward the west until the soldiers were far behind. Then she moved out along the line of the cliffs, looking for a way down. But sometime in the recent past the sea had finally clawed away at the last foundations of the cliff edge until great sections had sheared into the water. No paths were left. Derae slowed to a walk, then peered over the edge, seeking handholds that would enable her to climb down. But there were none that looked safe.

“There is the witch!” came a shout.

Derae spun to see more soldiers running from the treeline, fanning out to cut off her escape. Turning to the cliff face, she looked down at the breakers far below as they swept over partially submerged rocks. Taking a deep breath, she loosed her cloak and stood naked on the clifftop.

Then she launched herself out over the dizzying drop. Her body arched, then began to fall. Throwing her arms out to steady herself, she felt herself spinning out of control and fought to stay calm, angling her body into a dive. The sea and the rocks rushed toward her, and she fell for what seemed an age. At the last moment she brought her hands together, cleaving an opening into the water. The force of the impact drove all the air from her lungs, but she missed the rocks and plunged deep below the waves, striking the sandy seabed with bone-crushing force. Pushing her legs beneath her, she kicked for the surface, her lungs close to bursting. Up, up she moved toward the sunlight sparkling on the water above her.

I’m going to die!
The thought gave her the strength of panic, and she clawed her way upward. As she came clear, she had time for only one swift breath before a breaker hammered her down, hitting her body against a rock. This time she was calmer and swam underwater, surfacing in the swell and allowing her bruised body to float gently for a while safe from the crashing waves. A spear splashed into the water alongside her, followed by a score of arrows. Ducking below the surface, she swam out to sea toward a thick white mist that seemed to seep up from beneath the waves.

The she saw the ship of the dead gliding across the water.

“Parmenion!” she yelled. “Parmenion!”

The Spartan saw her, and—incredibly—the ghost ship slowed, its broken prow swinging toward her. As it neared, she reached up to grasp an oar blade, but it snapped, pushing her below the waves. She surfaced to see Parmenion climbing down over the side of the ship, holding to an oar port and stretching his arm toward her. Grasping his wrist, she felt herself lifted from the sea. Scrabbling for a foothold, her heel came down on a rotting skull, which cracked and rolled into the water, but then she was up beside Parmenion. His arm
went around her, pulling her into a hug as he kissed her brow tenderly.

“It is good to see you,” he said.

“And now you are seeing too much of me,” she answered, pulling away and climbing to the deck.

Attalus removed his cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders. “Welcome back, lady,” said the swordsman. “You are a most welcome sight.”

“Thank you, Attalus.” The warmth of his greeting surprised her, and she returned his smile. Parmenion clambered over the deck rail and was about to speak, when Gorgon’s voice rang out.

“There is a ship to the west! A trireme!”

The companions moved to the deck rail and stared at the oncoming vessel. It was almost forty lengths back, but all three banks of oars were dipping smoothly into the water, the ship moving at ramming speed toward them.

“Fascinating craft,” observed Attalus to Derae. “See the bronze ram just ahead of the prow? That can rip a ship’s hull worse than a reef.”

“Can we outrun them?” Parmenion asked Gorgon.

The forest king chuckled and pointed to the corpses all around them. “My crew has seen better days,” he said, “but we shall see.”

From below decks came a terrible groaning, and the oars lifted and dipped into the swell. Attalus looked over the side to see skeletal hands gripping the rotted wood. The ship picked up speed but not enough to escape the chasing trireme.

“Swing her left!” bellowed Parmenion.

The corpse at the tiller rolled to the right, the death ship veering left. The attacking trireme slid past them, her rowers desperately dragging in their oars. Most were saved, but the death ship cleaved into twenty or more, snapping them like sticks.

Arrows flashed from the decks of the trireme. Parmenion threw himself at Derae, pulling her to the deck. A shaft glanced from Attalus’ helm. Then the ships drew apart once more.
The mist thickened around them as the death ship glided into the ghostly cloud.

For an hour or more they sailed on in silence, listening to the calls of the enemy as they searched the mist-shrouded sea. The clouds above them darkened, lightning forking across the sky as the sound of thunder boomed across the gulf.

Rain lashed down. The death ship was faltering, slowing. “My magic is almost gone,” confided Gorgon. “Soon she will break up and sink—for the second time.”

They were less than a mile from land, but the storm was against them.

The mist fled against the force of the storm winds. As Parmenion glanced back, the trireme hove into view.

Lightning flashed once more, glinting from the bronze ram at the prow as it cleared the water toward the death ship’s hull.

Alexander crouched down on the windswept deck, holding hard to a wooden post as the death ship rose and fell in the surging storm-tossed sea. From there he could see the chasing trireme only when the huge swell lifted the prow. A massive wave hit the death ship, a section of the upper deck collapsing under the weight of the water. Camiron lost his grip on the broken mast and was swept toward the raging sea. Alexander screamed, but no one heard him above the roar of the storm. Seeing Camiron in peril, Brontes threw himself across the rain-lashed deck, grabbing the centaur’s hand. For a moment it seemed as if the former Minotaur had succeeded, but the ship rolled and a second wave broke over them, plucking both from the deck.

Alexander tried to stand, hoping to reach Parmenion at the stern, but he slipped and almost lost his grip on the post. Thena made her way to him, holding him tightly.

“Camiron is gone!” wailed the prince. Thena nodded but said nothing. Another section of deck, close to the prow, sheared away into the sea.

Alexander reached out with his spirit, trying to locate Camiron.

At first there was nothing, but then his mind was filled with
the sweetest music he had ever heard. High-pitched and joyous, it forced all thoughts of the centaur from his mind. The ship shuddered, the rotten wood groaning under the onslaught of the storm, but Alexander heard nothing save the ethereal song from below the sea. He let the music drift across his thoughts, waiting for his talent to translate it. But it was almost beyond his powers. There were no words, merely emotions, rich and satisfying. Reaching out farther, he sought the source, but the sound came from all around him in a harmony beyond imagining. When he had heard birds singing in the trees, he had been able to fasten to each, for they were individual. But this music was different. The singers were empathically linked.

The death ship foundered, water gushing in through the open oarports. The deck split in half, the sea roaring around the child and the priestess. Alexander’s hands were torn from their grip on the post.

Thena tried to hold on to him, but the ship rolled, spilling them both into the water. Alexander felt the sea close over him, but still the music filled his soul.

As he sank beneath the waves, he felt a soft, curiously warm body alongside him, bearing him up. His head broke clear of the surface, and he sucked in a deep breath, his hands thrashing out at the water as he struggled to stay afloat. A dark gray form surfaced alongside him, a curved fin on its back. He grabbed for the fin, holding to it with all his strength. The dolphin flicked its tail and swam toward the distant shore, the music of its song washing over the child and soothing all his fears.

The trireme’s ram smashed through the timbers of the death ship’s stern, the force of impact hurling Parmenion from his feet. Sliding across the rain-lashed deck, he caught hold of a section of rail and struggled to rise. He saw Gorgon hurl the tree root high into the air, watched it caught by the storm winds and carried to the trireme’s deck.

Locked together now, the two ships wallowed in the swell. The rowers on the trireme tried to back oars in an attempt to
pull away from the doomed vessel. But the magic that kept the death ship afloat was gone, and the full weight of the saturated timbers dragged down on the enemy trireme, pulling the prow down, the stern rising up from the water.

The death ship rolled, pitching Parmenion toward the sea. But he clung on grimly with his left hand while his right scrabbled at the fastenings of his breastplate. He would never be able to swim with its weight on his torso. A massive wave crashed over the decks, pulling the Spartan loose and carrying him over the side.

His helm was ripped from his head, and still the breastplate was in place. Staying calm, Parmenion drew his dagger, cutting away the last throngs holding the armor in place. Shrugging free of the breastplate, he surfaced in time to see the doomed ships vanish beneath the waves.

To his right, for a moment, he saw Attalus desperately trying to keep his head above water. Dropping his dagger, Parmenion struck out toward the Macedonian. Still in full armor, Attalus sank beneath the waves. Parmenion dived deep, his powerful legs propelling him toward the drowning swordsman.

It was pitch-dark, but a flash of lightning speared the sky, and for a heartbeat only, Parmenion saw the still-struggling Macedonian. Grabbing hold of Attalus’ shoulder guard, Parmenion swam for the surface. His lungs were close to bursting as his head came clear. Attalus came up alongside him but sank almost immediately under the weight of his breastplate. Parmenion dived once more, feeling for the dagger Attalus wore on his left hip. It was still in place. The Spartan drew it and sawed at the breastplate thongs. The blade was razor-sharp, and the wet leather parted. Attalus ducked his head, pushing the breastplate up and away from him. Free of its weight, he rose to the surface.

A wave lifted the warriors high, and Parmenion saw the distant shoreline. Keeping his movements slow and preserving his strength, the Spartan angled his body toward the beach, allowing the currents to carry him to safety.

He did not look back for Attalus or allow his mind to dwell on the fate of Alexander and the others. Alone against the might of sea and storm, he anchored his thoughts to a single objective.

Survival.

BOOK THREE, 352
B.C.

THE CLIFFS OF ARKADIA

Ektalis sat apart from his men under a small overhang of rock, watching the rain on the gray stone cascading down before him. He was drier here, but the wind occasionally blew the curtain of water against his bare legs, where it trickled behind the bronze greaves he wore. Staring gloomily out over the storm-lashed gulf, Ektalis wished he were back in Korinthos with his wife and sons.

He glanced to his left, where the remaining ten men of his detachment were sheltered in a shallow cave, then looked to his right where the five Makedones sat in the open, watching the sea.

Ektalis felt his hatred rise like bile in his throat. Loathsome barbarians! How such a cultured city as Korinthos could form an alliance with the demon king was beyond him. But form it they had, and now he rode with the devil’s army.

If you were a man, he told himself, you would have stood against the decision in the agora when the councillors put the question to the public vote. But you did not … and stayed alive. The debate had been heated. Leman, Parsidan, and Ardanas—good friends all—had spoken heroically, denouncing the alliance. All had been murdered within a day of the meeting. Now Philippos ruled.