Dark Prince (47 page)

All was chaos now, the battle no longer the standard parallel lines of opposing forces. By breaking the Spartan right, Leonidas had gambled everything on crushing the enemy center.

But there stood the demon king. And he was invulnerable.

Even in the thick of the fighting, his sword arm weary, Parmenion knew that the pivotal point in the battle had been reached. He could feel it in the same way that a runner sensed the presence of an unheard rival closing behind him. The Makedones were fighting furiously, but there was an edge of panic in them. For years they had fought and won, and this battle was to have been their easiest victory. That expectation had been cruelly crushed, and their morale was now brittle and ready to crack.

Parmenion blocked a savage thrust, slashing his blade through his attacker’s neck in a deadly riposte. The man fell back, and for a moment Parmenion was clear of the action. He swung, looking to the left, where Learchus and his regiment were once more making headway against the regulars. To the right and rear Timasion was urging his men forward into the Illyrians in a bid to reach the center of the field.

All around the king the slaves were standing firm, though their losses were great, and Parmenion felt afresh the surging determination not to lose. These men deserved a victory.

But there was no place for strategy now. Amid the carnage of the battleground there was room only for strength of arm, allied to the courage of the human spirit. The Makedones fought only for conquest and plunder, while the slaves were fighting for their freedom and the Spartans were battling for city, home, and honor. The difference was significant as the two armies, their formations broken, fought man to man on the blood-soaked field.

A movement on the hilltops to the southwest caught Parmenion’s eye. The swirling dust made identification difficult at first, then the king saw the giant form of Gorgon moving down the slope. Behind him came hundreds of beasts from the forest, some reptilian and scaled, others covered in matted fur. Many were armed with crude clubs of knotted oak, but most needed no weapon save fang and claw. Vores circled above them and, at a signal from Gorgon, swooped down over the Makedones ranks to hurl their poison-tipped darts.

The Makedones at the rear saw the monsters approaching and panicked. Throwing aside their weapons, they fled the battlefield. Others, with more courage, tried to link shields against this new enemy.

The forest creatures fell upon the Makedones with terrible force, their talons slicing through armor and chain mail, ripping flesh and snapping bones like rotten wood. Nothing could withstand them.

The guards’ defenses collapsed.

One moment they were an army, the next a seething, frightened horde desperate to escape.

Gorgon, wielding two iron clubs, drove into their ranks, smashing men from their feet. His pale eyes glowed. Warriors in his path screamed and froze, their bodies stiffening, shrinking, crumbling to the earth, dry and withered.

Seeing the panic among the guards, the Illyrians facing Timasion’s regiment turned and fled.

Now only a tightly knit fighting square surrounded the demon king. Philippos drew his sword and waited, secure in his invincibility. Gorgon broke through the shield wall, one huge club hammering down on the king’s shoulder. But the weapon
bounced clear, and Philippos leapt forward, his sword cleaving into Gorgon’s chest. The forest lord staggered back with dark blood gushing from the wound. Philippos advanced, but Brontes hurled himself forward, dropping his ax and curling his huge arms around the king’s frame. The king struggled in his grip, trying to turn his sword on this new attacker, but Brontes pinned the king’s arms to his sides, lifting him from his feet. Philippos screamed but could not free himself.

The last Makedones resistance crumpled, men throwing down their swords and falling to their knees, begging for mercy. At first they were cut down despite their pleas, but Parmenion’s voice rose above the battle.

“Enough! Let them live!”

A strange, unnatural quiet fell over the battlefield. To the south the once-invincible army of Makedon was fleeing in disorder. Here at the center the remaining Makedones laid down their weapons.

Brontes threw the demon king to the ground, dragging back the defeated monarch’s arms and calling for thongs to bind him. An archer offered his spare bowstring. Brontes tied the king’s thumbs together and then stood, watching Philippos struggle to his knees.

Helm stepped forward and stood before Philippos, staring down into the king’s face. Then he staggered and seemed about to fall. Attalus leapt to his side, catching him.

“Are you all right?” the Macedonian asked. Helm did not answer, and Attalus saw the bronze face stiffen and swell, becoming solid once more. The enchanted warrior lifted his hand to the helm he now wore; it was no longer part of his face.

Yet he did not remove it.

Parmenion moved swiftly to where Gorgon lay, his lifeblood draining to the churned ground. Kneeling beside the monster, Parmenion took his hand but could find no words for the dying Titan.

Gorgon’s eyes opened. “Surprised to see me?” asked the forest king.

“Yes. But you were more than welcome, my friend. I think you saved us.”

“No. They were ready to crack.” Gorgon struggled to rise, but fresh blood gushed from the awful wound in his chest. “I cannot feel my legs. Am I dying?”

“Yes,” whispered Parmenion.

Gorgon smiled. “Curious … there is no pain. Will you promise me that my people will have their chance at the gateway?”

“Of course.”

“Your friendship … carries … a high price. But …” The forest lord’s head lolled back, and his body began to tremble. The skin of his face seemed to shimmer, and the snakes receded. Parmenion remained where he was as the body slowly changed, becoming at the point of death the handsome dark-haired man Gorgon had once been in life.

Weary and full of sorrow, Parmenion rose.

Brontes stumbled forward, kneeling by his brother.

“Why?” he shouted. “Why did you do this?” Taking hold of Gorgon’s shoulders, he began to shake the body.

“He cannot hear you,” said Parmenion softly.

The Minotaur looked up, his huge brown eyes streaming with tears. “Tell me, Parmenion, why he came.”

“For friendship,” answered the Spartan simply.

“He did not understand the meaning of the word.”

“I think that he did. Why else would he and his people have risked their lives? They had nothing to gain here.”

“But … my own people refused to help you. And yet this … creature … died for you. I do not understand.” Lifting his horned head, the Minotaur screamed his torment to the skies.

The laughter of Philippos pealed out. “That’s it!” he called. “Wail, you pitiful monstrosity. I killed him. Release me and I’ll kill you. I’ll kill all of you!”

Brontes lurched to his feet, gathering up his ax. Philippos laughed again. The ax blade hammered into the king’s face, but the skin was not even marked.

Helm stepped forward, approaching Parmenion. “Let him loose,” said the warrior. The Spartan turned to Helm. The
voice was no longer metallic, the helmet now separated from the skin.

“Your memory has returned?” Parmenion asked him, knowing the answer.

“It has. Let him loose. I will fight him.”

“He cannot be killed.”

“We shall see.”

“Wait!” whispered Parmenion. Swiftly he unclasped the necklet, stepping forward to fasten it around Helm’s neck. “Now he will not be able to read your mind.” The warrior nodded and moved away from the Spartan, drawing his sword. Brontes looked to Parmenion. “Release him.” Brontes slashed the ax blade through the bindings. Philippos staggered, then righted himself and swung to see Helm approaching him with sword extended.

The demon king laughed. “The first to die,” he said, gathering his blade from where it had fallen during the struggle with Brontes. “Come, let me arrange your journey to Hades.”

Helm said nothing, but his advance continued. Philippos leapt to meet him, blade stabbing forward in a disemboweling thrust. Helm parried it, sending a reverse cut that sliced through the skin of the demon king’s bicep. Philippos jumped back, gazing down in horror at the blood oozing from the wound.

“I cannot be hurt!” he screamed. “I cannot!”

Helm paused and, lifting his left hand, removed his helmet. Philippos reeled back, the light fading from his golden eye.

Warriors of both armies stood transfixed, for facing the demon king was his twin, save that his eye was not gold but the color of opal.

“Who are you?” whispered Philippos.

“Philip of Macedon,” the warrior answered.

The demon king tried a desperate attack, but it was easily parried and Philip’s blade plunged into his enemy’s throat. Blood bubbled from Philippos’ mouth. “That,” hissed Philip, “is for threatening my son! And this is for me!” The sword slashed in a glittering arc, decapitating the demon king. The
head fell to the left, bouncing on the hard-packed earth. The body, spouting blood, pitched to the right.

“Is that dead enough for you?” asked Philip.

The aftermath of the battle proved long and mind-numbingly complex. The disarmed Makedones were herded together, and Parmenion called their officers to him. They were, he told them, free to return to Makedon, there to elect a new king. But first they were obliged to swear sacred oaths that they would help rebuild the ruined city of Kadmos. This they did. The baggage train of the Makedones was captured, and with it the enormous wealth accrued by Philippos. This was taken by the Spartans, but Parmenion promised one-half of it to the victims of Makedones aggression, including twenty gold pieces for every slave who had fought alongside him.

The surviving slaves and half the Spartan army were sent back to the city, while Brontes agreed to lead Gorgon’s followers to the giant’s gateway, there to await Parmenion’s arrival.

Emissaries arrived from the scattered Illyrians and Thracians, begging for peace terms. These were granted on the understanding that the warriors return immediately to their homelands.

During all these negotiations Makedones and Spartan surgeons moved among the wounded of both sides, performing operations under torchlight.

By the end of the day more than eleven thousand enemy corpses had been counted on the battlefield, another four thousand slain in the attack on Sparta. The Makedones dead were stripped of their armor, while their living comrades dug several mass graves. The 870 Spartan dead would be returned to the city for honorable funerals. Of the slaves, more than two thousand were dead. The Spartans dug a special grave for them, and Leonidas promised that a monument would be raised above it.

Long after midnight Parmenion finally retired to the tent of Philippos and was there joined by Philip, Attalus, and Leonidas.

“I do not understand,” said Attalus as the three men relaxed, “how the demon king was slain. He was said to be invulnerable.”

“Except to self-inflicted wounds,” Parmenion told him wearily. “Philip was … is … Philippos: the same man in different worlds. I would imagine that the spell protecting him could not differentiate between the two.”

Leonidas rose. “I will leave you friends alone together,” he said. “But first may I speak with you privately, sir?” Parmenion nodded and followed the young Spartan from the tent.

“I think I know what you are going to say,” whispered Parmenion, “and I have not forgotten my promise. Will you allow me to ride to Sparta one last time to say farewell to Derae?”

Leonidas shook his head. “You are wrong, my friend. I am asking you to stay. There is so much to be done now. Who else would be king? Timasion? He will want to go to war with Korinthos and Messenia. He would seek to punish our enemies, creating new hatreds. Lycon is too young and headstrong. There are no others.”

“You do yourself an injustice. You would make a fine king.”

Leonidas smiled. “Not so, Parmenion. I am a warrior; that is enough for me. Think about what I have said. We need you here.”

The officer walked away into the night, past the glittering torches that lit the battlefield. Parmenion stood silently staring out over the plain, then a hand touched his shoulder. “There is much to what he says.”

Parmenion nodded. Philip took his arm, and the two men strolled out, avoiding the campfires around which the Spartan soldiers slept.

“This would be a good life for you, Parmenion. Here you are revered as a savior. You could build an empire.”

“I have no wish for empires, sire. And I have never desired to be a king.” The Spartan sighed. “This is not my world.”

“You know how much I need you, and it would hurt like Hades to lose you. But think carefully about this,” Philip advised.

“I shall. But tell me, how did you become Helm?”

Philip swore, then laughed. “The day after you left a man came to see me, saying he had news of Alexander. Since he insisted on seeing me alone, he was brought to my chambers. Naturally he was searched, but he carried no weapons. In fact, apart from his clothes he had only a small leather pouch containing a stone veined with gold. A lucky charm, he said. He entered the room, and that is the last I remember. I awoke in a graveyard. Can you believe that? How he spirited me here I do not know. Nor do I know why he took away my memory and turned my face to metal.”

“I would guess that the man was Aristotle,” said Parmenion, “and I cannot say why he left you with no knowledge of your identity, but the metal face was a great protection. Had you been recognized as Philippos, your life would have been short indeed.”

“Philippos,” whispered the Macedonian, letting the name hang in the air. “Was he truly me? Do you think I could be like him? A destroyer, a demon?”

“No, sire. He was possessed. Driven by a spirit of darkness.”

“Even so, his army swept across the world much as mine has in the past. It is not a good feeling to see such savagery from the side of the victims.”

“Perhaps it is,” argued Parmenion.

Philip chuckled. “Maybe,” he agreed. “When we get home, I shall rethink my plans. Diplomacy shall be the key. I shall convince the Athenians, the Spartans, and the Thebans to make me the leader of Greece. Only then will I carry the war into Persia. I shall never be a Philippos, Parmenion.
Never.”