Dark Prince, Page 4

  She felt the rush of tears and saw again the young Parmenion standing alone against the raiders who had abducted her; lived once more the moment when he first held her.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered.

  And she wept.

  Before allowing herself the luxury of sleep, Derae traced the lines of three protective spells on the walls, door and window of her room. They would not stop a seeress with the power of Aida, but any disruption to the spells would wake Derae in time to protect herself.

  It was almost five years since the last attack, when Leucion had died defending her against the demons sent by the sorceress. Since then Derae had heard little of Aida. The Dark Lady had left her palace in Samothrace and journeyed back to the mainland - travelling, according to rumour, to the northern edges of the Persian empire, there to await Alexander’s coming-of-age. Derae shivered.

  The child of Chaos, soon to be a destroyer such as the earth had seldom witnessed.

  Her thoughts turned to Parmenion and she climbed on to the bed, covering herself with a thin sheet of white linen. The night was warm and close, the merest breath of breeze drifting in through the open window. Seeking the sanctuary of sleep, Derae pictured Parmenion as he had been all those years ago - the bitter young man, despised by his fellows, who had found love in the tranquil hills of Olympia. Moment by moment she savoured the heady joys of their five days together, stopping her memories short of that awful morning when her father had dragged her from the house and sent her in shame back to Sparta. Slowly, dreamily, she drifted into a new dream where strange beasts - half-horse half-man - ran through forest trails, and dryads, beautiful and bewitching, sat by sparkling streams. Here was peace. Here was joy.

  But the dream moved on and she saw an army marching, cities ablaze, thousands slain. The warriors wore black cloaks and armour, and carried round shields emblazoned with a huge sunburst.

  At the centre of the horde rode a warrior in a black cuirass edged with gold. He was black-bearded and handsome, and she recognized him instantly. Yet there was something about him that was strange, different. Floating close to him, she saw that his right eye was made of gold, seemingly molten, and she felt the black touch of his spirit reaching out like ice and flame to freeze and burn.

  Recoiling she tried to flee, seeking the peace of the enchanted wood where the centaurs roamed. But she could not escape and a new vision flowed before her spirit eyes.

  She saw a palace, grim and shadow-haunted, and a child weeping in a small room. The King came to him there. Derae tried to block her ears and eyes to the scene. To no avail. The man approached the weeping child, and in his hand was a long, curved dagger.

  ‘Father, please!’ the child begged.

  Derae screamed as the knife clove through the boy’s chest. The scene shimmered and she saw the King leave the room, his mouth and beard streaming with blood.

  ‘Am I immortal now?’ he asked a shaven-headed priest who waited outside the room.

  The man bowed, his hooded eyes avoiding the gaze of his King. ‘You have added perhaps twenty years to your life-span, sire. But this was not the Golden Child.’

  ‘Then find him!’ roared the King, blood spraying from his lips and staining the man’s pale robes.

  The invisible chains holding Derae to the scene fell away and the Healer fled, coming awake in her darkened room.

  ‘You saw?’ asked Aristotle, his voice soft.

  ‘So, it was your doing,’ she answered, sitting up and reaching for a goblet of water from the table beside the bed.

  ‘I sent you there,’ he admitted, ‘but what you saw was real. There are many sides to Chaos, Derae, in many worlds. In the Greece you saw there is already a Demon King.’

  ‘Why did you show it to me? What purpose did it serve?’

  Aristotle rose and walked to the window, staring out over the moonlit sea. ‘You recognized the King?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He has murdered all his children in a bid to achieve immortality. Now he seeks a child of legend, Iskander.’

  ‘What has this to do with me? Speak swiftly, magus, for I am tired.’

  ‘The enchantment in the world you saw is fading, the centaurs and other creatures of beauty dying with it. They believe that a child will come, a Golden Child, and that he will save them all. The King seeks that golden child; he believes that by eating his heart he will gain immortality. Perhaps he is right.’ Aristotle shrugged. ‘There are many ways of extending a life. However, even that is not the point. His priests can form small gateways between worlds, and now they are searching for that special boy. They think they have found him.’

  ‘Alexander?’ whispered Derae. ‘They will take Alexander?’

  ‘They will try.’

  ‘And remove him from our world? Surely that is to be desired?’

  Aristotle’s eyes narrowed. ‘You think it desirable that another child should have his heart cut from his body?’

  ‘I do not think I like you,’ whispered Derae. ‘You are not doing this for the Source, or even to fight Chaos.’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘It is for me alone. My own life is in peril. Will you help me?’

  ‘I will think on it,’ she replied. ‘Now leave me in peace.’

  Pella, Macedonia, Summer

  Alexander lifted his hand and stared at the blue and grey bird perched in the lowest branches of the tall cypress tree. The tiny creature fluffed out its feathers and cocked its head to one side, regarding the golden-haired child.

  ‘Come to me,’ the boy whispered. The bird hopped along the branch, then took to the air, swooping over the child’s head. Alexander waited, statue-still, his concentration intense. With his eyes closed he could follow the bird’s flight up over the garden wall, circling back to the palace and down, ever closer to the outstretched arm. Twice the finch sped by him, but the third time its tiny talons sought purchase on his index finger. Alexander opened his eyes and gazed down at the creature. ‘We are friends then?’ he asked, his voice gentle. Once more the bird cocked its head and Alexander could feel its tension and its fear. Slowly he reached over with his left hand to stroke the finch’s back.

  Suddenly he felt the surge of killing power swelling within him, his heartbeat increasing, his arm beginning to tremble. Holding it back, desperately he began to count aloud. But as he reached seven he felt the awful flow of death along his arm.

  ‘Fly!’ he commanded. The finch soared into the air.

  Alexander sank to the grass, the lust for death departing as swiftly as it had come. ‘I will not give in,’ he whispered. ‘I will reach ten - and then twenty. And one day I will stop it for ever.’

  Never, came the dark voice of his heart. You will never defeat me. You are mine. Now and always.

  Alexander shook his head and stood, forcing the voice away, deeper and deeper inside. The sun was beginning to drop towards the distant mountains and the boy moved into the cool shadows of the western wall. From here he could see the sentries at the gate, their armour bright, their bronze helms gleaming like gold. Tall men, stern of eye, proud, angry because they had been left behind when the King rode to battle.

  The guards stiffened to attention, lifting their lances to the vertical. Excitement flared in the boy as the sentries saluted someone beyond the gate. Alexander began to run along the path.

  ‘Parmenion!’ he cried, his high-pitched voice disturbing scores of birds in the trees. ‘Parmenion!’

  The general returned the salute and walked into the gardens, smiling as he saw the four-year-old running towards him with arms outstretched. The Spartan knelt and the boy threw himself into his arms.

  ‘We won, didn’t we, Parmenion! We crushed the Phocians!’

  ‘We did indeed, young prince. Now be careful you don’t scratch yourself on my armour.’ Detaching the boy’s arms from around his neck, Parmenion loosened the leather thongs on the gilded ear-guards of his helmet, pulling it loose and laying it on the grass. Alexander sat down beside the hel
m, brushing his small fingers across the white horsehair crest.

  ‘Father fought like a lion. I know, I watched it. He attacked the enemy flank, and had three horses killed under him. Then he cut the head from the traitor, Onomarchus.’

  ‘Yes, he did all that. But he will tell you himself when he comes home.’

  ‘No,’ said Alexander softly, shaking his head. ‘He won’t tell me. He doesn’t speak to me often. He doesn’t like me. Because I kill things.’

  Parmenion reached out, drawing the boy close and ruffling his hair. ‘He loves you, Alexander, I promise you. But, if it pleases you, I will tell you of the battle.’

  ‘I know about the battle. Truly. But Father should beware of neck cuts. With his blind eye he needs to swing his head more than a warrior should, and that bares the veins of the throat. He needs to have a collar made, of leather and bronze.’

  Parmenion nodded. ‘You are very wise. Come, let us go inside. I am thirsty from the journey and the sun is too hot.’

  ‘Can I ride your shoulders? Can I?’

  The Spartan rose smoothly and, taking the prince by the arms, swung him high. The boy squealed with excitement as he settled into place. Parmenion scooped up his helm and walked back towards the palace. The guards saluted once more, the prince’s nursemaids dropping to their knees as he passed. ‘I feel like a King,’ shouted Alexander. ‘I am taller than any man!’

  Olympias came out into the garden, her servants behind her. The Spartan took a deep breath as he saw her. With her tightly-curled red hair and her green eyes, she was the image of the Derae he had loved so many years before. The Queen was dressed in a sea-green gown of Asian silk, held in place at the shoulder by a brooch of gold shaped like a sunburst. She laughed aloud as she saw the Spartan general and his burden. Parmenion bowed, Alexander screaming with mock fear as he almost came loose.

  ‘Greetings, lady. I bring you your son.’

  Olympias stepped forward, kissing Parmenion’s cheek. ‘Always the welcome visitor,’ she told him. Turning to her servants, she ordered wine and fruit for her guest and ushered him into her apartments. Everywhere there were fine silk hangings, brocaded couches, cushioned chairs, and the walls were beautifully painted with Homeric scenes. Parmenion lifted Alexander and lowered him to a couch, but the boy scrambled clear and took hold of the general’s hand.

  ‘Look, Mother. I can hold Parmenion’s hand. There is no pain, is there, Parmenion?’

  ‘No pain,’ he answered.

  ‘He saved Father’s life. He led the counter-charge against the Phocian cavalry. They couldn’t fool you, could they, Parmenion?’

  ‘No,’ the Spartan agreed.

  Two female servants helped Parmenion from his breastplate and a third brought him a goblet of wine mixed with cool water. Yet another girl entered, bearing a bowl of fruit which she placed in front of him before bowing and running from the room.

  The Spartan waited until the servants had been dismissed and then raised his goblet to the Queen. ‘Your beauty improves with every year,’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘The compliment is a pretty one, my friend, but let us talk of more serious matters. Are you out of favour with Philip?’

  ‘The King says not,’ he told her.

  ‘But that is not an answer.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He is jealous of you,’ said Alexander softly.

  The Queen’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘You should not speak of matters you do not understand,’ she chided. ‘You are too young to know what the King thinks.’ Alexander met her gaze but said nothing, and the Queen looked back at the general. ‘You will not leave us, will you?’

  Parmenion shook his head. ‘Where would I go, lady? My family are here. I will spend the autumn at my estates; Mothac tells me there is much to do.’

  ‘How is Phaedra? Have you seen her?’ asked Olympias, keeping her voice neutral.

  Parmenion shrugged. ‘Not yet. She was well when last I saw her. The birth of Hector was troublesome and she was weak for a while.’

  ‘And the other boys?’

  The Spartan chuckled then. ‘Philotas is always getting into trouble, but his mother spoils him, giving way in everything. Nicci is more gentle; he is only two, but he follows Philo everywhere. He adores him.’

  ‘Phaedra is very lucky,’ said Olympias. ‘She must be so happy.’

  Parmenion drained his watered wine and stood. ‘I should be riding home,’ he said.

  ‘No! No!’ cried Alexander. ‘You promised to tell me of the battle.’

  ‘A promise should always be kept,’ said the Queen.

  ‘Indeed it should,’ the general agreed. ‘So, young prince, ask me your questions.’

  ‘How many Macedonian casualties were there?’

  Leaning forward, Parmenion ruffled the child’s golden hair. ‘Your questions fly like arrows to their target, Alexander. We lost just over three hundred men, with around two hundred badly wounded.’

  ‘We should have more surgeons,’ said the boy. ‘The dead should not outnumber the wounded.’

  ‘Most of the dead come from the early casualties,’ the Spartan told him. ‘They bleed to death during the battle - before the surgeons can get to them. But you are correct in that we need more skilled physicians. I will speak to your father.’

  ‘When I am King we will not suffer such losses,’ the boy promised. ‘Will you be my general, Parmenion?’

  ‘I may be a little old by then, my prince. Your father is still a young man - and a mighty warrior.’

  ‘I will be mightier still,’ promised the child.

  The meeting with the Queen and her son disturbed Parmenion as he rode north towards his vast estates on the Emathian Plain. The boy, as all men knew, was possessed, and Parmenion remembered with both fear and pride the battle for the child’s soul in the Valley of Hades five years before.

  It was a time of miracles. Parmenion, dying of a cancer in the brain, had fallen into a coma - only to open his eyes to a world of nightmare, grey, soulless, twisted and barren. Here he had been met by the magus, Aristotle, and together with the dead sorceress Tamis had tried to save the soul of the unborn Alexander.

  Conceived on the mystic isle of Samothrace, the child was intended to be the human vessel of the Dark God, Kadmilos, destined to bring chaos and terror to the world. A small victory had been won in the Valley of the Damned. The child’s soul had not been destroyed by the evil, but had merged with it, Light and Dark in a constant war.

  Poor Alexander, thought Parmenion. A brilliant child, beautiful and sensitive, yet host to the Spirit of Chaos.

  ‘Will you be my general, Parmenion?’

  Parmenion had longed to say, ‘Yes, my prince, I will lead your armies across the world.’

  But, what if the Dark God won? What if the prince of beauty became the prince of demons?

  The bay gelding crested the last hill before the estate and Parmenion drew rein and sat, staring down at his home. The white stone of the great house shone in the sunlight, the groves of cypress trees around it standing like sentries. Away to the left lay the smaller houses of the servants and farm-workers and to the right, the stables, paddocks and pastures to house Parmenion’s growing herd of war-horses.

  The general shaded his eyes, scanning the grounds of the great house. There was Phaedra, sitting by the fountain with Philo and Nicci beside her, little Hector in her arms. Parmenion’s heart sank. Swinging his horse to the east he rode down onto the plain, skirting the great house and angling towards the stable buildings.

  Mothac sat in the hay stroking the mare’s long neck, whispering words of comfort. She grunted and struggled to stand. Mothac rose with her.

  ‘No movement yet,’ said his assistant, Croni, a wiry Thessalian who stood at the rear waiting to assist the birth of the foal.

  ‘Good girl,’ Mothac whispered to the mare. ‘You’ll do right. This is not the first, eh, Larina? Three fine stallions you have borne.’ Stroking the mare’s face and neck, he ran his
hands along her back and moved alongside the Thessalian.

  The mare had been in labour now for several hours and was weary to the point of exhaustion. The old Theban knew it was unusual for a birth to be so delayed. Most mares foaled swiftly with few problems.

  Always in the past Larina had delivered with speed, her foals strong. But this time they had covered her with the Thracian stallion, Titan, a huge beast of more than seventeen hands.

  The mare grunted once more and lay down. Pushing Croni aside, Mothac gently eased his hand inside her, his fingers feeling for the water-sac.

  ‘Be careful, master,’ whispered the Thessalian. Mothac grunted and swore at the man, who chuckled and shook his head.

  ‘Yes! It’s coming. I can feel the feet.’

  ‘Front or back?’ asked Croni nervously. A breech birth, both men knew, would likely see the foal born dead.

  ‘I can’t tell. But it’s moving. Wait! I can feel the head. By Zeus, it’s big.’ Easing his hand back Mothac stood and stretched. For the last two years his spine had been steadily stiffening, his shoulders becoming arthritic and painful. ‘Fetch some grease, Croni. I fear the foal is tearing her apart.’

  The Thessalian ran back to the main house, reappearing minutes later with a tub of animal fat, mostly used for the painting of hooves, to prevent sand-cracks and splitting. Mothac took the tub and smelt it.

  ‘This is no good,’ he grunted. ‘It’s almost rancid. Get some olive oil - and be quick about it!’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  He returned with a large jug in which Mothac dipped his hands, smearing the oil inside the mare, around the head and hooves of the foal. The mare strained once more and the foetal sac moved closer.

  ‘That’s it, Larina, my pet,’ said Mothac. ‘A little more now.’

  The two men waited beside the mare for some time before the sac appeared, pale and semi-translucent. The foal’s front legs could just be seen within the membrane.

  ‘Shall I help her, master?’ Croni asked.

  ‘Not yet. Give her time; she’s an old hand at this by now.’