Dark Prince (33 page)

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Authors: David Gemmell

BOOK: Dark Prince
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He lay down in the cave, allowing himself to drift into a healing sleep, but her face stayed in his mind, and his thoughts were far from battles and enchantments, plans and strategies.

He dreamed he lay in a grove of oak trees back in Arcadia, where the sun was setting behind the mountains. Beside him lay Thena, her head on his shoulder, and he was at peace. He stroked her hair and kissed her, but as he gazed lovingly at her face, it shimmered and changed, becoming Derae.

Guilt touched him then, and the dreams faded.

Unaware of his torment, Derae also experienced the surge of joy when her questing spirit found Parmenion alive, and now her soul flew high above the war-torn land of Achaea, tracing the course of the gulf as it ran east toward the white-walled city of Korinthos.

Far below her she saw the armies of the tyrant, the phalanxes and cavalry of the Makedones, mercenary archers from the islands to the south, warriors from Illyria and Thrace—a host geared for slaughter.

She flew to the south, seeking the Sparta of this strange world. But before she reached it, she saw another army marching to face the Makedones. Though fewer in number, they marched proudly, and her talent reached out to them. They were the warriors of Kadmos, their city destroyed but their courage remaining. With them were soldiers from Argolis and Messenia and rebels from Athens and Euboea. She sought out the Spartan force and found to her surprise that only three hundred were from the city.

Mystified, she moved on, flying farther south until she hovered over the twin of the city of her birth. So much was the same: The Cattle Price Palace was still there, and the statue of Zeus at the top of the acropolis, but many of the streets were subtly different. The Avenue of Leaving did not boast a statue of Athena, the temple of Aphrodite was nowhere in sight; instead a barracks was built near the sacred lake. Yet though it was not her home, still it was close enough to bring a touch of sorrow to her soul.

Sensing a presence close by, she garbed her spirit in armor of white light, a blazing shield upon her arm. A figure hooded and robed in white appeared, the face in shadow.

“Who are you?” came a familiar voice.

“Tamis?” whispered Derae. “Is it you?”

“Who else would it be to guard Sparta in this hour?” responded the woman. “But I asked for your name?”

“I am called Thena. I am not an enemy.”

“I know that, child. Come to my home.”

The hooded figure became a glowing sphere that sank toward the city. Derae followed to a small house nestling in a grove of cypress trees close to the sacred lake. There were only two rooms there, with little furniture and no rugs. The floors were baked earth, the chairs simply made and unadorned. In the tiny bedroom upon a pallet bed lay an old woman, her blind eyes open, her wasted frame covered by a single thin blanket.

“I can feel your presence,” she said aloud, her voice faint like a breeze whispering through dead leaves. “I have been waiting for you.”

Derae could find no words. This was not the Tamis she had known, the woman whose meddling had caused the birth of the Dark God, yet even so the sight of this twin caused a mixture of emotions Derae found hard to contain.

“Speak to me, child,” said Tamis. “I have waited so long for you that I often wondered if the visions had been false.”

“Why have you waited? What can I do for you?”

The old woman smiled. “Only the source could answer that, and I am but the least of his followers. But I have seen the chaos spirit abroad in the land, listened to the screams of the dying, heard the cries of the dispossessed and widowed. These have been hard years, Thena. Hard, lonely years. Even now, with your coming, the darkness moves toward my city.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Is he with you?”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“The one who is to be. The
strategos.

“Yes, he is here.”

Tamis sighed and closed her opal eyes. “The Spartan king is riding to his death. Nothing will change that. He is a noble man, a good man. I have helped him through these desperate years. But even now the Fates have worked against me. This is the time of the festival of Apollo, when the priests say no Spartan army can march, so the king is leading the forces of light with only his personal bodyguard. And he will die.”

Derae said nothing. Even in her own world Sparta had suffered through such stupidities. When the Persian king, Xerxes, led his army into Greece, the Spartans had refused to march against him because of a religious festival. And then, as now it seemed, the king had led his personal bodyguard of three hundred men to block the pass of Thermopylae. Three hundred against a quarter of a million. Their courage and valor had held against the Persian horde for several days, but at the last they had been slain to a man.

“What was your vision?” Derae asked.

“I saw the
strategos
and the golden child and a warrior with a face of bronze. And with that vision was a rainbow and
the fleeing of a storm. I hoped it meant the Dark God was vanquished. But perhaps it did not. Perhaps my hopes have been in vain.”

“Did you try to prevent the birth of the Dark God?” asked Derae, remembering the dark deeds of Tamis in the world of Greece.

“I considered it, but it seemed folly. Was I wrong?”

“No,” said Derae. “You were wise, very wise. I will bring the
strategos
here. But I do not know what he can achieve.”

“You will understand very soon, child. Very soon. May the source bless you.”

“He has, in many ways,” said Derae, but there was no response from the blind seeress.

Parmenion awoke from an uneasy sleep, his mind whirling with the many problems he faced. His head ached as he sat up and he sucked in a deep breath. Alexander was alive, and that in itself was a victory, but the
strategos
knew that in battle as in life, only the final victory counted. And all the odds favored Philippos.

One step at a time, he cautioned himself. Brontes had not yet returned with Attalus, and Gorgon was sitting nearby staring out over the gulf. Parmenion leaned his back to the cliff face, calming his thoughts.

Through most of his life he had been forced to battle against the odds. In Sparta, as a despised mix-blood, he had fought alone against the hatred of his fellows. In Thebes he had engineered a victory against the Spartan overlords, inflicting the first major defeat on a full Spartan army. In Persia he had led the forces of minor satraps and governors, always finding the path to conquest. And in Macedonia he had helped a young king beset by enemies build a nation feared across the world.

But here, in this enchanted realm, he was not a
strategos
or a general. He was a weaponless stranger in a world he scarcely understood. There were some similarities. Philippos was king of Makedon and had built an army to crush all opposition. Sparta was still the city of heroes. But here magic
ruled; creatures like Gorgon, Brontes, and Camiron were accepted as a normal part of life. Winged beasts patrolled the skies, and the demon king could read the hearts and minds of his enemies.

How, then, can I defeat him? Parmenion wondered.

Chiron had said the king was invulnerable to all weapons of war, his body immune to poisons. “I only ever saw him hurt once,” the
magus
had told him. “He was a child and playing with a sharp dagger. It cut his finger, and blood flowed. It healed very swiftly. His mother scolded him in my presence, then turned to me, offering me the blade. ‘Cut him,’ she told me. At first I refused, but she insisted. So I took the dagger and gently ran the edge over the skin of his arm but could make no impression.”

“Then why did it cut him?” Parmenion had asked.

“The sorcery protects him from his enemies, but he is
within
the spell. Should he choose, he could no doubt kill himself.”

Parmenion smiled at the memory. All he had to do was find a way to defeat the greatest army of this strange world, outthinking a king who could read his mind and ultimately forcing that king to take his own life.

“Why do you smile?” asked Gorgon.

“Why should I not? The sun is shining.”

“You are a curious man, Parmenion,” observed the forest king, turning his great head to stare out over the waves. Parmenion sat quietly, watching the creature. The skin of Gorgon’s huge shoulders seemed lighter here in the sunlight, the mottled colors of the forest, dark green and rust brown, giving way to the paler hues of summer grass and polished pine. The snakes hung lank and lifeless from his head, and his eyes had lost their demonic glow.

“What are you looking for?” asked the Spartan.

“I am not looking. I am remembering. It is more than a century since I last gazed upon the sea. I had a house once, with Persephone, on the island of Andros. We often came to the beach to swim and to laze. The memories have been buried too long. Ah, but she was a beauty, her skin pale as
marble, even in summer, her eyes like
turkis
yet not cold and blue but warm and enchanting as the midsummer sky.” Gorgon sighed, then a low growl rumbled from his misshapen mouth. “Why do I talk like this? My mind is failing.”

“You have spent too long in the forest,” said Parmenion softly.

“Aye, that is true. Persephone used to sing. We would sit under an awning watching the sunset over the waves, and she would sing. Yet I can remember no words. All that fills me is the memory of peace and joy. But I was a man then, and arrogant in the ways of youth. I could not begin to imagine a time when she would not be beside me, sending the sun to sleep with a song.”

“No one can take that from you, my friend. Not ever.”

“I have no friends, human,” snapped Gorgon, surging to his feet and walking away. Parmenion watched the giant for a few moments and then followed him to the shoreline.

“I do not pretend to know your pain,” said the Spartan, “and it would be trite to point out that we all carry scars. But I will do all that I can to fulfill my promise to you. Iskander tells me he is the chosen one. I believe that, and I will risk my life to see that he has the chance to prove it. But that is the greater quest, Gorgon, and for another day. Today we are a small group, battling for survival, and friendship is not to be spurned—not even by a child of the Titans.”

“You seek to lecture me?” hissed Gorgon.

“Perhaps I do. Perhaps your years in the slime of the dark forest have affected your perceptions.”

Gorgon nodded. “Perhaps they have,” he conceded, his voice carrying no conviction. Then he smiled. “Or perhaps I am now what I always was, a distorted monstrosity.”

“If that were true, would Persephone have loved you?”

“You do not understand, human. How could you? The war was terrible, and we all committed acts which would turn your soul to ashes. There is no escape from those memories. My brother Brontes is correct. You do not know what I have done, what colossal evils are stamped upon the pages of history in my name.”

“Nor do I need to,” answered Parmenion, “for you are right that they would change my thoughts of you. But that was yesterday, and whatever is hidden in the past can remain there. Today you stand on the side of the just and seek to save the people of the enchantment. And yes, if you succeed, it will not wash away the evil of the past, but it will give at least some hope for a future.”

“How can we succeed,” asked Gorgon, “when all the forces of Philippos are ranged against us?”

“We are not talking of defeating Philippos in a battle. We are speaking of opening the giant’s gateway. If the Spartans can hold the demon king for a little while, we can bring Iskander to his destiny.”

Gorgon sighed. “I will not travel on with you, human. Now that you are—for the moment—safe, I will return to the forest to gather what followers remain and bring them to the gateway.”

“How will you bring them all across the gulf?”

“We will not cross the gulf. We will travel the old paths, between Achaea and Hades. No human may pass them and keep his sanity. But my … people … can walk them. I have played my part, human. I have brought you across the sea. Now it is for you to bring Iskander to the gateway.”

“We will succeed or die, my lord. It is all we can do. But let us at least part as friends.”

“Why is that important to you?”

“It is important to both of us,” answered Parmenion, extending his hand.

Gorgon glanced down at it, then looked into Parmenion’s eyes. “I have said it before, but you are a strange man, and I do not remember the last time I talked of friendship.” His arm came up, his fingers gripping Parmenion’s hand, and they stood for a moment in silence.

Then the forest king waded out into the sea and began to swim.

It was late afternoon before Brontes returned with Attalus. The swordsman’s face was bruised, his right eye swollen
where a wave had dashed him against the rocks, but he did not complain as he sank down beside Parmenion.

“It was difficult to rouse him,” said Brontes, “but he refused my offer to carry him.”

“I am glad to see you alive,” said Parmenion, gripping the Macedonian’s shoulder.

Attalus smiled. “You saved my life. I shall not forget it. The breastplate would have killed me. What now?”

“We will find the others and make our way south.”

“And after that?”

“I do not know.”

Attalus nodded. “No, of course not. It is just … well, I am used to you,
strategos
. And my faith in your talents grows day by day.”

“I cannot see why. After all, I failed to get the trees to uproot and march with us.”

Attalus chuckled. “Forgive me for that, Spartan, but that cursed forest seeped into my soul. By all the gods, I swear it is good to be back in the sunlight. Brontes tells me Alexander is safe.”

“Yes,” answered Parmenion. “And now it is time to find him. But first I must speak with Brontes.” The Spartan rose and walked to where the Minotaur sat on a boulder overlooking the sea.

“Where is my brother?” Brontes asked.

“Gone.”

Brontes nodded. “I thought he might stay the course. But what can you expect from such a creature?”

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