Dark Prince (42 page)

“I am no coward!”

“Deeds, not words, Estipan. Do not tell me—show me!”

Estipan reared again. “Follow me!” he bellowed, and galloped out onto the plain. More than sixty centaurs armed with bows and knives rode after him. Alexander relaxed and sagged back into Thena’s arms.

“I am so tired,” he whispered, and she dismounted, lifting him to the ground. There the boy lay down, his head resting on his arm. Within seconds he was asleep. Thena gazed back to the hill. Warriors were swarming up it, looking like ants at this distance. But the centaurs were closing fast.

Reaching out, she linked with Attalus. But she did not speak, for he was fighting desperately against several attackers, and she could not risk distracting him. Sitting down on the grass, she allowed her spirit to fly free and sped to the hillside. Only three men were still alive—Helm, Ektalis, and the Macedonian—and they had been pushed back to the western wall of boulders.

She saw Helm block a thrust, then send a reverse cut through
a warrior’s throat. “Seven!” he shouted. “You’ll never catch me now, swordsman!”

The words mystified Thena, but she noticed Attalus smile.

Floating higher, she watched as the centaurs reached the foot of the hill, their arrows hissing into the Messenians as they scaled the boulders. Panic-stricken, the enemy on the hillside fled to their mounts. But inside the circle of boulders the fight went on. Helm was cut on both arms, and blood was also seeping from a gash in his right thigh. Attalus had suffered no new wounds, the cut to his forehead having sealed in a jagged red line. Ektalis was unhurt but tiring fast. Attalus blocked a wild slashing cut and shoulder-charged the attacker. The man went down, but Attalus slipped on the blood-smeared rocks and fell with him. Two warriors ran in to make the kill. Ektalis hurled himself into their path, dispatching the first with a powerful thrust through the belly, but the second man’s sword hacked down through the back of Ektalis’ neck, killing him instantly.

Attalus rolled to his feet and, back to back with Helm, fought on.

A warrior rushed at Attalus, but an arrow point punched through his temple, and he staggered and fell. More shafts hissed through the air, and the surviving Messenians scrambled back, hurling aside their swords and retreating. Helm staggered, but Attalus caught his arm, hauling him upright.

“How many?” Attalus asked.

“Nine. You?”

“Six. I owe you a thousand gold pieces.”

“I’d settle for a drink of rich red wine and a soft, soft woman.”

A white-maned centaur trotted across the clearing, stepping carefully over the bodies. “Iskander sent us,” he said.

Attalus gazed down at the dead Ektalis. “You were a little late,” he answered somberly.

THE CITY OF SPARTA

Parmenion awoke just before dawn. The room was dark save for a silver shaft of moonlight from the balcony window. He was alone … and cold. Sitting up, he rubbed the skin of his shoulders. It was like winter, and he cast his eyes around the room, seeking a blanket or a cloak. The only warmth he could feel was from the necklet at his throat.

Beyond the shaft of moonlight something stirred, and Parmenion rolled from the bed, snatching his sword from its scabbard.

“Show yourself!” he commanded.

A spectral figure moved through the moonlight. The shock was immense. Apart from the golden eye, the man was Philip, hair and beard shining like a panther’s pelt, movements sure and confident. But it was not Philip, and Parmenion recoiled from the spirit of the demon king.

“You fear me? That is wise,” the man said. “But you stand against me, and that is foolish. I know all your actions, I know your thoughts. Your plans lie before me. Why, then, do you persist in this meaningless struggle?”

“What do you want here?” countered Parmenion.

“There is a child with golden hair. Have him brought to me and I will spare you and your city. He means nothing to you; he is not even of this world. He is a demon and carries within him a seed of evil that must be destroyed.”

“A demon, you say? Then surely he should be a friend to you, Philippos.”

“I am a man, Parmenion,” answered Philippos, his voice smooth and friendly, his golden eye gleaming in the pale light. “My deeds are my own. You should understand that. You are a warrior and a fine general; you came the closest to defeating me. But that is all I am, Parmenion, a warrior king building an empire. Thus has it been since the dawn of time. Great men will always seek power. Look at me! Do you see a demon?”

“I see a man who butchered his own children to try to become a god. I see a man possessed. Do not seek to sway me, Philippos. I am not to be bought.”

“One child for a whole city? And that child not even Spartan! Are you insane or merely stupid?”

“Your insults mean nothing to me,” said Parmenion. “And you are wrong, I do not fear you. I learned much during the battle at Mantinea. I learned that you are a poor general with no strategic skills. You rely always on your sorcerous eye to feed you victory, but without it you would be nothing. Within a few days you will face the might of Sparta. And you will know defeat and death. For I know how to kill you, Philippos.”

“Now I know that you are insane. I am invulnerable and invincible. No blade, no poison known to man can kill me. Bring on your five thousand and your army of slaves and old men. We shall see how they fare against the power of Makedon! And no false goddess will save you this time. I will order you taken alive, and I will see the skin flayed from your body.”

Parmenion laughed then. “Do I see fear, demon? How does it taste?”

The king shimmered, his form expanding, features twisting and stretching until his eyes were crimson slits in a mottled gray face, his mouth a huge, lipless gash rimmed by fangs. Curved ram’s horns of black pushed through the dark hair, curling to rest against the misshapen skull. The beast advanced, but Parmenion held his ground with sword extended.

“Fear, human?” came a chilling voice. “You ask me if I know fear?” Parmenion’s mouth was dry, but his sword was
steady. The beast halted before him, towering over the slender swordsman.

“I am the lord of this world. It is mine. It has always been mine, for all that exists is born of chaos. Everything. From the smallest seed to the largest star. Before there were men, I walked upon this world, when the ground below my feet boiled and the air was fire. I will walk upon it when it is barren and there are no mewling sounds of humans upon the face of it. For it will be ash and dust, dark and cold. I will be here when the stars burn out. And you think to teach me fear?”

“Not you,” admitted Parmenion. “But
he
felt fear, else you would not have shown yourself.”

“You are clever, human. And do not think that I do not know you are an impostor. I watched you in the forest and in the sea when the death ship sank. You will fail, even as your twin failed. You cannot prevail. What is more, you know it.”

“What I know is that you must be opposed. And you can be beaten. For your power is finite; it depends on the men who serve you. They can die, and you can lose.”

“As I said, you are a clever man, Parmenion. But you are doomed. The Spartan army will avail you nothing, and the slaves will scatter and flee at the first charge. Your Spartans will be surrounded and destroyed. What purpose, then, will your defiance serve?”

Parmenion did not answer, could not answer, but he gazed into the demon’s eyes and raised his sword. The demon shimmered and faded, but his voice whispered one last time: “I will see that you live to watch every man, woman, and child in this city put to death. You will be the last to die. Think on it, mortal, for that is your future!”

Parmenion sank back to the bed, letting the sword drop from his hand. Despair washed over him, choking his emotions and clouding his judgment. How could he have dreamed of defeating such a creature? “I am with you,” said a voice in his mind.

“Thena?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see?”

“I did, and I am proud of the way you stood against him. Alexander is safe; we are at the gateway, and there are many creatures here with great powers. Philippos would need his army to capture Alexander now.”

Relief swept through the Spartan. “That at least is good news. Did you give Brontes my message?”

“I did. But he could not convince them to come to your aid: they are fearful of the ways of man—and rightly so. For centuries they have been hunted and slain, betrayed and deceived. All they want now is for the enchantment to be restored. But Brontes, Helm, and Attalus are riding to join you. No others.”

“I half expected that, but even so it is more than a disappointment.”

“Consider something else for a moment,” she advised. “Philippos thought you were Parmenion the king. He could not read your mind. So at least your plans are safe from him.”

He smiled then. “I have only one plan, lady. One giant gamble. If it fails, we fail.”

“Only one?”

“There is no time for great subtlety, Thena. One throw of the dice is all we have.”

“Then you must make it work … and you can. For you are the
strategos
and the hope of the world.”

Parmenion took a deep, calming breath. “Philippos may not be able to read
my
thoughts, but others will know of my plan on the day of battle. I will need help then. The demon king must be distracted. If he should learn of my strategy, then all will truly be lost. Is there anything you can do?”

For a moment there was silence. “I will think on it,” she promised at last.

“It is good to hear you again,” he told her suddenly.

“May the source of all life be with you, my … friend.”

“I would sooner have five thousand cavalry, lady.”

The day was long, hot, and endlessly frustrating. The slaves, in their new breastplates and leather kilts, drove the officers training them to distraction. Scores were dismissed from service,
and many were injured in combat training, spraining limbs, sustaining cuts.

Parmenion moved among the toiling groups, offering words of encouragement to the officers and men, suggesting small changes in the training methods, urging the officers to have patience with their recruits. And so the day ground on.

By the afternoon Parmenion was helping the barracks youngsters block the streets—carrying furniture from homes, filling sacks with earth and stones and hoisting them to the barricades.

“I want javelins left on every roof along Leaving Street and the Avenue of Kings,” he told Cleander. “And men with strong arms to hurl them. I want several hundred bowmen stationed at the
agora
, behind barricades.”

“It will be done, sire,” the dying man promised.

Returning to the palace at dusk, Parmenion spent two hours with Leonidas, Timasion, Cleander, and a group of officers, listening to their reports on the progress of the training.

“Within two days we will have a core of men with potential,” said Leonidas. “But no more than five thousand. The rest would be useless in any major combat. I would suggest leaving them with Cleander to defend the city.”

“Agreed,” said Parmenion. “But the men not selected must not be made to feel useless. Split them into groups of twenty, each with their own leader; then have the leaders report to Cleander. In this battle morale must take the place of discipline—let us all understand that. Do not criticize a man for lack of ability with a sword or for clumsiness. Neither should you point out to them that Spartan skill comes only with years of training. You must coax the best from them, encourage them always. If you cannot commend their skill, then commend their courage. Treat them like brothers. Any officer who finds such methods disagreeable must be returned to his regiment. I saw several men today shouting and screaming at the recruits; that must stop.”

Black-bearded Timasion leaned forward. “I appreciate what you are saying, my lord, but the truth is that no matter
how hard we train the slaves, they will not stand against the Makedones phalanx. Because it does take years of training for men to instantly follow a shouted command, to move smoothly into place, to change ranks. You cannot expect the slaves to learn it in a week or less.”

“Timasion is right,” said Lycon. “An army is only as strong as its weakest part. We will have no cavalry, and the wings will be slaves and veterans. The veterans we can trust, but they are too old to withstand a charge, and the slaves will break.”

“I will not argue with you, my friends,” Parmenion told them, “but let me say this: To speak of defeat or breaking is to herald it. Once we believe that we are lost, then we
are
lost. The recruits are men; they will do their part. Trust me on this, and if you do not trust me, then pretend to. I want no talk of defeat or weakness. We are all warriors here, and we all understand the nature of war. Everything you say is true … but it must not be said. Ultimately battles are won or lost on the actions of a single man. One man panics, and it spreads like the plague. One man holds, and others hold with him. I do not want the slaves to march out with defeat in their hearts. I want them marching like men, full of belief and hope. I want them to be proud, filled with the knowledge that their Spartan overlords hold them in high esteem. I do not care if it is not true … but it must appear to be true. And then, when they have done their part and the victory is ours, it
will
be true.”