Dark Prince (35 page)

The Spartan took a deep, shuddering breath.

“We must move him,” said Thena, “before the Makedones arrive.”

“Why?” responded Parmenion, unwilling to touch his alter ego.

“Because they must not know he is dead. Come now! Lift him across your horse.”

Parmenion’s hands were trembling as he pulled the corpse upright, draping the body over his shoulder, transferring it to the Makedones gelding, then vaulting to the beast’s back. The horse was strong, but even so he could not bear the double weight for long. Parmenion turned to see Thena sitting on a boulder.

“Take my horse to the woods,” she commanded. “I will be there by dusk.”

“You cannot stay here. They will kill you.”

“No, they will not see me. When you reach the woods, strip the body and bury it. Then put on his armor. Go now!” Parmenion tugged the reins, and the gelding began to walk away to the west. “Wait!” called Thena. Gathering up the king’s fallen sword and helm, she passed them to Parmenion. “Now ride, for time is short.”

The ground was rock-strewn and hard-packed, the gelding’s hooves leaving little sign as the Spartan rode away. Now and again he glanced back to see Thena sitting quietly, awaiting the Makedones. He tried not to look at the body, but his eyes were drawn to it. It was no longer leaking blood, but the bowels had opened and the stench was strong. There is no dignity in death, thought Parmenion as he angled the horse up to the treeline and into the woods.

Once there, he followed Thena’s instructions, stripping the body, digging out a shallow grave in the loam, and rolling the corpse into it. The body fell to its back, dead eyes staring up at the Spartan, dead mouth sagging open.

“I have no coin for the ferryman,” Parmenion told the dead king. “But you were a man of courage, and I believe you will find the Elysian Fields without it.”

Swiftly he pushed the dark earth over the body, then sat back trembling.

After a while he picked up the king’s sword and was not surprised to find it the same blade he himself had won more than thirty years earlier in another Sparta. It was the legendary blade of Leonidas, the sword king, beautifully crafted and wondrously sharp.

Leonidas! A glorious name from the past yet also the name of Parmenion’s first enemy, the brother of Derae, in whose name Parmenion had suffered taunts and beatings, hatred and dark violence.

That era had come to an end at Leuctra when Parmenion’s battle plan had smashed the Spartan line, killing their king and freeing the city of Thebes from Spartan dictatorship. When the battle had ended, so, too, had Spartan power in Greece.

Parmenion remembered well the day he had won the sword. It was the final of the general’s games where the young men of Sparta, using carved model armies, engaged in battles of tactics and strategy. The final was contested at the house of Xenophon, the renegade Athenian general who had become a close friend of the Spartan king, Agisaleus.

Agisaleus, believing his nephew Leonidas would win the final, had offered the legendary blade as a prize. But Leonidas had not won. He had been crushed by the hated mix-blood, humiliated in front of his peers and his king.

And the sword came to Parmenion.

Yet at Leuctra, with Sparta crushed, it had been Leonidas who had come to discuss the recovery from the battlefield of the Spartan dead, and it was Parmenion to whom he had come.

Leonidas had been dignified in defeat, strong and proud, and—in a moment he had never quite understood—Parmenion had given him the sword, ending forever their enmity.

Yet now he sat in an alien forest with the twin of the blade in his hand.

What now? he asked himself. But the answer was inescapable. Parmenion the king had been slain, leaving his enemy triumphant and the Spartan army leaderless.

The demon king had won.

Derae watched until Parmenion was no longer in sight, then she relaxed, calming her mind, honing her powers, reaching out to seek the Makedones riders who were coming to claim the body of their enemy.

They were still half a mile distant, and she focused on the leader, Theoparlis, a stocky, dark-eyed man, strong and fearless, his heart darkened by bitter memories of slavery and torture in the early years of his life. Derae floated within his subconscious, silently preparing him. Then she moved on to the others one by one.

When at last she opened her eyes, they were riding toward the rocks, fanning out, their eyes scanning the boulders. Drawing rein, they dismounted and began to search.

Derae took a deep breath. Not a man had noticed her. Now she stood.

“He is not here,” she said softly. The nearest man gasped and staggered back. He did not see a tall, bony woman in an ill-fitting
chiton
. His eyes widened in awe as he drank in the sight of a regal warrior woman, a Doric helm pushed back on her head, a golden breastplate adorning her torso. An owl sat on her shoulders, its bright eyes blinking in the sunlight.

The twenty warriors stood silently before Athena, goddess of wisdom and war. In her hand was a golden spear, and this she raised to point at Theoparlis. “Return to your king,” she said, her voice ringing with authority, “and tell him that Parmenion lives.”

“He will kill us all, lady, and brand us liars,” Theoparlis protested.

“Draw your swords,” she said softly. They did so. “Now gaze upon them.”

The blades writhed in their hands, becoming serpents. With cries of shock and horror, the men flung the weapons aside, all but Theoparlis. “It is still a sword,” he said, his face white, his hand trembling.

The serpent blade stiffened, the snake disappearing. “Indeed it is, Theoparlis; you are a strong man,” said Derae. “But then, the magic was not wrought to harm you but to allow you to go to your king and convince him. Has he not the eye to read a man’s mind? He will know you do not lie.”

“How could the Spartan have survived such a fall?” he asked.

Derae pointed to the man beside Theoparlis. “Take up your sword,” she ordered. The man obeyed. “Draw the blade across your palm.”

“No!” shouted the man, but the sword rose of its own accord, his left hand opening to receive it. “No!” he screamed again, but the sharp iron cut into his flesh, and blood welled from the wound.

“Hold up the hand so that all may see,” Derae ordered. “This is no illusion. Theoparlis, touch the blood.” The Makedones obeyed. “Is it real?”

“Yes, lady.”

“Now watch … and learn.”

Derae closed her eyes. The cut was shallow and even, and it was a matter of moments to accelerate the tissue bond, producing ten days of healing in as many heartbeats. When she opened her eyes, the men had gathered around the injured warrior and were staring at his blood-covered hand. “Wipe clear the blood,” said Derae. Using the edge of his black cloak, the man did so. Only a faint scar remained.

“Now you know how the king survived,” she told them. “I healed him. And I tell you this: he is beloved of the gods. The next time you see him will be on the day of your deaths—if he should so choose.”

“His army is destroyed,” said Theoparlis.

“You have yet to face the might of Sparta.”

“Five thousand men cannot stand against the forces of Makedon.”

“We shall see. Go now. Report what I have said to Philippos. And tell him the words of Athena: If he marches against Sparta, he will die.”

Theoparlis bowed and backed away to his horse, his men following.

Derae let fall the illusion, and it seemed to the warriors as if the goddess had suddenly disappeared from view. Unnoticed, the priestess walked away to the west and the distant woods.

She found Parmenion sitting by the freshly covered grave. “You will take his place?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Thena,” he answered. “We were heading for Sparta because we thought it would be safe and Aristotle could meet us there. But now? Now the Spartans have no war leader, and the Makedones could march all the way to the city.”

“What choices are there?”

He shrugged. “We could make for the gateway and allow Alexander his destiny—if such it be … and hope Aristotle is there to bring us home before the Makedones arrive.”

“And the demon king?”

“He is not my problem, Thena. This is not my world.” His words lacked conviction, and his gaze strayed to the grave. He sighed and stood. “Tell me what is right,” he said.

“Are you asking me or him? He was you, Parmenion. Ask yourself what you would wish for if the roles were reversed. Would you prefer to see your city conquered, your people enslaved? Or would you hope that your twin could achieve what you could not?”

“You know the answer to that. But there is Alexander to consider.”

“Yet the situation is the same as before,” she said. “We need Sparta to hold back the Makedones, to give Alexander
time at the gateway. Who better to ensure the Spartans can do just that than their own battle king?”

“But I am not him. It feels wrong, Thena. He may have a family, a wife, sons, daughters. They will know him. And even if they do not, surely it is an insult to his memory.”

“Would you consider it an insult to yours if it was he who fought for you?”

“No,” he admitted. “Yet still it does not sit well with me. And what of Attalus and the Korinthians? They know I am not the Spartan king.”

“Attalus knows what he must do. But you and I must ride to Sparta. There is much to be done and little time, for Philippos will march on the city within a few days.”

Suddenly Parmenion cursed. “Why me?” he shouted. “I came here to rescue my son, not to become embroiled in a war in which I have no interest.”

Derae said nothing for a while, then came close to the Spartan and laid her hand on his arm. “You know the answer to that, my dear. Why you? Because you are here. Simply that. Now time is short.”

Parmenion moved to the graveside. “I never knew you,” he said softly, “but men spoke well of you. I will do what I can for your city and your people.”

Swiftly he donned the dented armor of the dead monarch, strapping the sword of Leonidas to his side. Turning to Derae, he smiled.

“There is much to do,” she told him.

“Then let us begin,” he said.

For two hours they rode south, then cut toward the east over rolling hills, stopping at dusk in a ruined and deserted settlement. Parmenion built a fire against the stones of a fallen wall and sat in silence, staring at the flames. Derae did not intrude on his thoughts. At last he spoke.

“The king’s bodyguards were engaged in a fighting retreat,” he said suddenly. “Did they escape?”

“I will find out,” she said. Moments later she nodded. “They lost more than a third of their number, but they are defending a narrow pass and still holding the Makedones.”

“We must be with them by dawn. If I can convince the king’s captain that there is a chance, I can carry this through.”

“Even then,” she whispered, “can you win against the demon king?”

“I have fought in many wars, lady, and I have never lost. I do not say this with arrogance, but I am the
strategos
. If there is a way to defeat Philippos, I will find it. Or be buried like … like my brother in an unmarked grave. I can do no more.”

“You know that you need not fight this war. It is not your world, not your city. You could ride to the giant’s gateway and wait for Aristotle.”

“No, I could not do that.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Ever since I came here, I have heard nothing but good of the Spartan king. Even the creatures of enchantment speak well of him, saying he gave them lands for their own where they would not be hunted. He was everything I would wish to be. But our lives took different paths. I became a wandering mercenary, filled with bitterness and hatred, with war my only talent. He became a king—and a better man.”

“That is not so. You are also kind, noble, and generous of spirit.”

“I am the Death of Nations, Thena, not the father of one.”

“The woman who gave you that title was wrong—wrong in all that she did. She manipulated your life, causing you grief and fueling your hatred. But you rose above that.”

“You knew her?” he asked, surprised.

“I was … a disciple. It was part of a plan she had, a dream. You were to be the warrior who would stand against the Dark God. But it was a futile, self-defeating vision, and she died knowing it. But here there was no bitterness and hatred. You understand? He was no different from you. He was a man of courage and nobility, intelligent and caring. But then, so is the Parmenion I know.” Her breathing was ragged, her color high, and she turned away from him, lying down and covering herself with her cloak.

He moved to her, his hand touching her shoulder. “You are angry with me,” he said, his voice soft, his touch gentle.

“No,” she told him, “there is no anger. Let me sleep now, for I am very tired.”

She heard him move back to the fire and closed her eyes.

THE PASS OF TEGAEA

Leonidas shouted an order and stepped back from the line. The warriors on either side of him closed ranks and waited, shields held high, short stabbing swords extended. Leonidas ran several paces, then climbed to a high boulder and gazed back down the pass.