Dark Prince (34 page)

“He told me he was returning to gather his forces and that he would bring them to the giant’s gateway. I think that he will.”

The Minotaur lifted his head and laughed. “You cannot trust him, Parmenion. He is a creature of darkness.”

“We shall see. But we must proceed as if we do believe him.”

“Why?”

“Because if Gorgon does lead his beasts toward the south,
it is likely the people of the enchantment will think he is attacking them.”

“As he probably will,” Brontes muttered.

“Listen to me: put aside your hate. I need you to travel alone to the woods around the gateway. I want you to prepare the way for Gorgon.”

“Never! He is a traitor and a killer.”

“Then I shall see Iskander does not fulfill his destiny.”

The Minotaur stormed to his feet. “You dare to threaten me, human?” he raged.

“Yes,” answered Parmenion. “What is wrong with you? The war is over, and he is your brother. Without his aid none of us would be alive.”

“For his own purposes he helped us. Do not forget that!”

“And are you any different? Did you not threaten to kill me? You are here only because of Iskander.”

“You don’t understand! Gorgon killed my children and raped my … our … mother. There is no good in him. He was born in darkness, and he thrives on it. And you want me to prepare the way? Better for the enchantment to die than for a creature like him to benefit from its return.”

“You do not believe that,” whispered Parmenion. “That is the voice of your hatred. We are not talking here about your grief or your bitterness. We are considering the future of all the people of the enchantment. You have no right to make decisions concerning them. You are a dying race with one hope of survival: Iskander. Now go to the woods and do what must be done.”

“You will deny us Iskander if I refuse?”

“No,” admitted Parmenion. “I will not deny you. That was the voice of my anger. Will you do as I ask?”

“I will think on it,” promised Brontes, but he looked away as he spoke, avoiding Parmenion’s eyes.

THE PLAIN OF MANTINEA

Helm was the first to see the two men emerge from the treeline and walk toward the waiting group. He studied them as they approached, his hand resting lightly on his sword hilt. The nine Korinthians all stood, but the golden-haired child shouted a name and began to run toward the newcomers.

The first of the men leaned forward to sweep the child into his arms. He had no sword, Helm noticed, but he moved like a warrior, smoothly and always in balance. The second man was pale-eyed, his movements catlike and sure. The lion and the wolf, thought Helm.

The taller man lowered the child to the ground, ruffling his hair, then swung his gaze over the waiting warriors, coming at last to Helm. There was no expression in his blue eyes as he saw the face of bronze.

The Korinthians were waiting, but the newcomer strolled directly to Helm. “Who are you?” he asked, the tone easy, the question spoken without a sign of arrogance yet with quiet authority. Here, thought Helm, is a man used to command.

“I wish I could tell you. But I know nothing of my past save that I was told to find the child.”

“For what purpose?”

“I do not know that, either, but it was not to do him harm.”

“My name is Parmenion. If you ride with me, you follow my orders. If that should not suit you, then you can leave now.”

“It suits me,” answered Helm easily.

The man smiled and nodded, then turned to the Korinthians, singling out Ektalis. “My thanks to you, sir, for helping the boy. You and your men have risked much, and I applaud your courage. I see there are enough horses for all of us, and I think it wise we move south before continuing our conversation. The enemy is closing in on us even as we speak.”

Ektalis nodded and gave the order to mount. Parmenion walked to the woman, laying his hand on her shoulder, but Helm could not hear the words that passed between them and moved on to the horses. The mounts of the Makedones were smaller than the horses of the Korinthians, but they were deep-chested and powerful, reared for stamina rather than speed; Helm chose a roan gelding, taking hold of the mane and smoothly vaulting to its back.

“You know your horses,” said Parmenion. “He is one I would have chosen.”

For two hours the group rode in silence, angling south and east through rolling hills, skirting small villages and towns, and holding to the treeline.

At last, as the sun began to set, they made camp in a sheltered hollow.

Parmenion called Ektalis to him. “We will need sentries,” he said, “one on that hillside, a second in the trees to the north.”

As Ektalis saluted and moved away, Helm grinned. The salute had seemed natural, Parmenion accepting it as his due. “I think you are used to larger armies than this,” offered Helm.

“I am indeed,” the man answered, his hand resting on the hilt of a Makedones sword now belted at his side, “but this is all we have. May I see your sword?”

“Of course,” answered Helm, sliding the blade from its scabbard, reversing it, and passing it hilt first to the general.

“It is a fine weapon. How did you come by it?”

“When I awoke, it was close by, along with the armor and the helm.”

“What made you think it was yours?”

“I cannot answer that. I was naked and alone … and it fitted
me well. Especially the helm, which, as you can see, has melted over my face.”

Parmenion was silent for a moment. “You concern me, warrior,” he said, and Helm became acutely aware that the man before him was now holding his sword. “How do I know you were not sent by Philippos?”

“You don’t,” answered Helm. “But then, neither do I.”

“You fight well. That is good. Your slaying of the Makedones supplied Attalus and myself with weapons, and for that I am grateful. Such a deed makes it unlikely you are an enemy. Unlikely but not impossible.”

“I accept that, Parmenion. And where does that leave us?”

“In mortal peril either way,” the general answered, returning Helm’s sword and turning away.

By the afternoon of the following day the riders had reached the high ground overlooking the plain of Mantinea, a wide, flat area between the mountains, bordering on the kingdom of Argolis. In the distance they could see two mighty armies facing one another. Thena dismounted and sat on a cliff ledge, closing her eyes, her spirit soaring out over the waiting forces.

What she saw sent a shiver through her, and she fled back to her body, crying out as she woke.

“What is it?” asked Parmenion, dismounting and kneeling beside her, gripping her shoulder.

“Send the others south,” she whispered. “Tell them we will join them later.”

“Why?”

“Trust me! You are about to walk a different path, and you must send them on. Swiftly now, for there is little time.”

Parmenion called Attalus to him. “You must travel on without me for a while, my friend. Take Alexander south—to the gateway, if necessary. I will meet you when I can.”

“We should stay together,” argued Attalus.

“There is no time for debate. You must protect Alexander. Brontes has gone to prepare the way, and you will be safe in the south. I can tell you no more, for I know no more.”

Attalus cursed softly, then vaulted to his mount. “Look after yourself, Spartan,” he called as he led the company away to the south.

Parmenion returned to the priestess. “Tell me all,” he said.

“Wait,” she advised. “The battle is beginning.”

The
strategos
turned his attention to the two armies. At this distance they were just like the tiny carved models with which he had won his first encounter with his rival, Leonidas, thirty-three years earlier in another world. They appeared as toys, glittering and bright, moving across the dusty plain. But they were not toys. Within moments living, breathing men would be cut down, swords and spears slashing and cleaving flesh and bone. The army of Makedon, black cloaks and black banners swirling in the breeze, marched forward confidently, the cavalry on the left sweeping out to envelop the enemy flanks.

But then they were met by a countercharge, warriors in blue cloaks and shining helms emerging from their hiding places among the boulders at the foot of the slopes. Parmenion smiled. This was good strategy from the Spartan king. Straining his eyes, he could just make out the monarch standing at the center of the Spartan phalanx, three hundred men in tight formation six ranks deep, fifty shields wide. It was a defensive formation and had been placed at the center of the field, with mercenary divisions around it. “He seeks to hold the center steady,” said Parmenion. “See how they gather around the Spartans?” More allied cavalry rode from the right, but the Makedones swung their lines to meet the charge. It seemed to Parmenion that the Makedones’ defense was moving into action even before the charge, and he recalled with a sinking heart that Philippos could read the mind of his enemy.

Even so the charge carried through, pushing back the enemy. The Spartan center surged forward, and Parmenion watched as the king mounted a fine gray stallion and rode back to join the reserve cavalry on the left. The battle was fully joined now, a great heaving mass of men vying for control of the field.

“Now!” whispered Parmenion. “Now lead the charge!” As if the Spartan king had heard him, Parmenion saw the great gray horse thunder into a gallop, riders streaming behind with the sun glittering on their lance points.

But on the far side of the battle the allied cavalry suddenly gave way, panic sweeping their ranks. Swinging their mounts, they fled the field. The Makedones poured into the breach, moving out to surround the allied center. Two mercenary divisions broke and ran, leaving a gap on the Spartan right.

“Sweet Zeus, no!” shouted Parmenion. “He had it won!”

The Spartan king disengaged his cavalry from the attack and led his men in a desperate ride across the battlefield, trying to close the gap, but Parmenion knew the attempt was doomed. Panic swept through the allied army like a grass fire, and all but the Spartans threw down their shields and ran.

The Spartan phalanx closed, becoming a fighting square, moving back from the center toward a narrow pass in the mountains. But the king led one last desperate charge against the enemy center, almost reaching Philippos. Now Parmenion saw the demon king riding forward on a giant black stallion, hacking and cutting his way toward his enemy. A spear slashed into the gray stallion, and it bolted, carrying the Spartan king clear of the action as he fought to control the pain-maddened beast.

Now the king was riding toward Parmenion and Thena, pursued by a score of black-cloaked riders. Glancing back, he saw them and swung the horse up onto a scree slope, the beast scrambling onto a ledge. There was nowhere else to go, and the Spartan king leapt from his mount as the first Makedones reached the top. The man’s horse reared as the king ran at it, toppling his rider, but then the others arrived, leaping from their horses and advancing on the lone warrior.

Parmenion’s heart ached for the man. He had come so close, only to be betrayed by cowards and men of little heart. He longed to gallop down to fight alongside the king, but a gorge separated them and the king was but moments from death—before him a score of enemies, behind him a chasm.
He fought bravely and with great skill, but at the last a sword gashed his throat and he fell back, teetering on the edge of the abyss. Parmenion cried out in anguish as the Spartan king toppled from the ledge, his bronze-clad body cartwheeling through the air to crash against the mountainside before pitching once more into space to be dashed against the rocks below. Parmenion groaned and looked away. “So close—so near to victory,” he whispered.

“I know,” said Thena. “Now we must wait.”

“For what? I have seen enough.”

“There is more, my dear,” she told him.

The enemy soldiers pulled back from the ledge, seeking a way to recover the body. But the cliff was too steep, and they remounted their horses and vanished from sight.

“Now,” said Thena. “Before they can circle around from the north, we must get to the body.”

“Why?”

“There is no time to explain. Trust me.” Remounting, Thena urged her horse over the crest of the hill and down the gentle slope to the valley floor. Parmenion had no wish to gaze upon the ruined body of so great a warrior, but he followed the priestess on the long ride, coming at last to the blood-spattered corpse. Thena climbed down from her mount and moved to the body, gently rolling it to its back. The red-plumed helm lay close by, scarcely dented, but the breastplate was split at the shoulder, where a white bone could be seen jutting from dead flesh.

The man’s face was remarkably untouched, his blue eyes open and staring at the sky. Parmenion moved to the body and stopped, heart hammering and legs unsteady.

“I am sorry,” whispered Thena, “but you stand before the body of Parmenion, the king of Sparta.”

Parmenion could find no words as he gazed down at his own corpse. He had observed Thena’s magic back in the forest when she had created the illusion of the group still sleeping around the camp fire, though in its way that had been almost
amusing, causing a lifting of tension and fear. But this was real. The dead man at his feet was his twin, and Parmenion felt the anguish of bereavement. Worse than this, the tragedy brought him a sickening sense of his own mortality. The Parmenion lying here had been a man with dreams, hopes, ambitions. Yet he had been cut down in his prime, his body smashed, broken.