Dark Prince (59 page)

But inside the room it flowed over the rugs and chairs and up over the bed in which Cleopatra lay sleeping. As he watched, the mist slowly faded, becoming at first translucent and then almost transparent. Finally it disappeared altogether. Philip stepped back into the room, crossing swiftly to where Cleopatra lay. His fingers touched the pulse at her neck. She was sleeping deeply; he tried to rouse her but could get no response.

Concerned now, he limped across the room, pulling open the door to summon the guards. Both men were slumped in the corridor with their spears beside them.

Fear swept into the king’s heart as, throwing aside the curtain, he moved to the rear chambers. On a wooden frame hung his armor and shield, and he swiftly buckled on a breastplate and a bronze-reinforced leather kilt. Dragging his sword from its scabbard, he returned to the outer room.

All was silence. His mouth was dry as he stood in the doorway listening. How many assassins would there be?

Don’t think of that, he cautioned himself, for there lies defeat and despair.

His thoughts turned to Cleopatra and the child she carried. Was she safe? Or also a target for the killers? Crossing to the bed, he lifted her clear and lowered her to the floor, covering her with a blanket and easing her body under the bed and out of sight.

You are alone, he realized. For the first time in twenty years you have no army to call upon. Anger touched him then, building to a cold fury.

Once more he moved to the doorway, listening. To his right was the stairway leading to the great hall and the lower
androns
, to his left the corridors of the women’s quarters. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out over the sleeping guards. A curtain to his left flickered, and a dark-robed assassin leapt from hiding. Philip spun, his sword plunging through the man’s chest and ripping into his heart. Dragging the blade clear, he whirled around as a second swordsman, hooded and masked, ran at him from the left. Philip blocked a savage cut, then hammered his shoulder into the man, knocking him to the floor. From behind he could hear the padding of many feet on the rugs. Philip leapt the fallen man and ran for the staircase. A thrown knife thudded against his breastplate, ricocheting up and slicing the skin behind his ear.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he halted. Three more guards were down, stretched out in a drugged sleep. Snatching up a fallen spear, the king turned to see seven men racing toward him along the corridor. Philip waited. As they closed upon him, his arm went back, the muscles bunching, then swept forward, the spear flashing into the chest of the first man and punching through to emerge by the spine. Blood gushed from the assassin’s mouth, and he stumbled. Philip did not wait for the others to reach him but ran down the stairs, taking them three at a time, trying to keep the weight on his good leg.

Halfway down he stumbled, pitching forward and losing his grip on his sword. He hit hard, rolling to the foot of the stairs and striking his head on the base of a statue. Half-stunned, he struggled to rise. His sword was ten steps above him, but there was no chance to recover it, for the six remaining assassins were almost upon him.

Glancing to his right, he saw the bodies of two sentries and ran toward them. An assassin leapt to his back, a wiry arm encircling the king’s throat, but Philip ducked his head, twisted on his heel, and threw the man into the path of his fellows.
His vision blurred, Philip staggered on toward the fallen guards, desperate to lay his hands on a weapon. A thrown knife slashed into his leg, but he ignored the pain and threw himself full-length to fall across the body of a guard. He just had time to grab for a sword before the assassins were upon him. Rolling, he thrust the blade upward, lancing it through a man’s groin. A booted foot cracked against his temple, and a knife plunged into his thigh. With a roaring battle cry Philip came to his knees and launched himself at the killers. The sword was knocked from his right hand, but his left caught an assassin by the throat; the man stabbed out at the king, but the blade was blocked by Philip’s breastplate. The king’s fingers dug into the man’s neck, closing like an iron trap around his windpipe; a sword lanced into his hip just below the breastplate, and he cried out, releasing his hold on the assassin’s throat. The man staggered back, gasping for breath. Philip’s fist cracked against another man’s chin, and for a moment only, he had space. Lurching to his left, the king staggered toward an open doorway. The assassins sprang after him, but he reached the empty room and slammed shut the door, dropping the narrow bar into place.

The assassins hurled themselves at the door, which creaked and tore at its hinges.

Knowing they would not be thwarted for long, Philip swung around, seeking a weapon. But the room was the lower, small
andron
. Windowless, it boasted only six satin-covered couches, a row of tables, and an iron brazier filled with glowing coals. Earlier that evening he had sat there with Cleopatra calmly discussing their future.

A door panel cracked open, and the king moved into the center of the room, blood gushing from the wounds in his leg and hip. The entire door was sundered, and the five remaining assassins pushed inside. Philip ran to the brazier as they advanced. One assailant, bolder than the rest, charged at the king, but he swept up the brazier to hurl it into the man’s face. Hot coals struck the assassin’s mask, falling into his hood and down behind the neck of his dark tunic. He screamed as smoke and flames billowed up around him, and the smell of
scorched flesh filled the air. The man fell, hair and beard alight, and writhed screaming as flames engulfed him. The four remaining killers edged forward to encircle the king.

Weaponless and wounded, Philip waited for death.

But the assassins suddenly froze, and the king saw their eyes widen in fear and shock. One by one they backed away from him, turning to flee from the room.

Philip could scarcely believe his luck. Then a cold breeze whispered against the back of his neck, and he turned.

The far wall shimmered, then darkened, a huge bloated shape forming from floor to ceiling. A head emerged, gross and distorted, lidless eyes peering into the room. The mouth was rimmed with long fangs, curved like sabers. The king blinked, unable to believe what his eyes were seeing. It must be a nightmare, he thought, but the pain from the wounds in his leg and hip was all too real.

With a whispered curse Philip started to run toward the door just in time to see it slam shut, bars of fire dancing across it. He swung back to the monster. The creature had no arms, but in their place huge snakes grew: heads the size of wine barrels, fangs as long as swords. A sibilant hissing came from the snakes, and they writhed toward the king.

Backing away, Philip came to the corpse of the assassin he had struck with the brazier and, stooping, lifted the man’s knife. It seemed but a tiny weapon against the monstrosity emerging from the wall.

The creature came clear at last and stood on its huge fur-covered legs, its head touching the high ceiling, its eyes focused on the man before it. The snake arms swept out.

Left without an avenue of retreat, the king advanced on the enemy.

Parmenion’s mount, the gray Paxus, found itself hard-pressed to keep up with Bucephalus, who cantered on ahead tirelessly, and the Spartan did not push him. Paxus was a thoroughbred of the same bloodline as Titan, Bucephalus’ sire, but there was no comparison between the stallions. Though fast,
Paxus could not match the awesome speed of the black or his stamina.

Yet still Parmenion had to hold back on the reins, for Paxus dearly wanted to run, to take on his rival. The general’s thoughts were somber as he rode behind Alexander. The prince had dismissed his companions, assuring them of his safety, and—disgruntled and unsure—they had ridden away. But it was not their unease that bothered Parmenion. It was Hephaistion. The young officer had approached them from the south, spoken quietly to Alexander, and then angled his mount away to the southwest. He did not speak to Parmenion and avoided the general’s gaze.

Parmenion was hurt, though his face did not show it. He had been surprised when Hephaistion was present at the campsite, and now he knew that the young man’s loyalty was no longer his for the asking. Youth will always call upon youth, he told himself, but the hurt remained.

The moon was high when the trio rode into Pella. The mounts of both Parmenion and Attalus were lathered and tired, but Bucephalus’ black flanks merely gleamed. Alexander walked while the others came alongside and grinned at Parmenion. “Never was a prince given a greater gift,” he said, patting the stallion’s sleek, dark neck.

At the stables a sleepy groom, hearing hoofbeats on the flagstones, wandered out into the night, bowing as he saw the prince. “Give him a good rubdown,” ordered Alexander as he dismounted. The prince seemed in good humor as he walked toward the palace, but then he stopped in midstride, his eyes narrowing.

“What is wrong?” Attalus asked.

Parmenion saw instantly what was troubling the prince. “There are no sentries,” hissed the general. Drawing his sword, Parmenion ran toward the huge bronze-reinforced oak doors beneath the twin columns at the front of the palace. As he reached them, he saw a fallen spear in the shadows and his heart began to hammer. “The king!” he shouted, hurling himself at the door on the left. It slammed open, and the Spartan ran inside.

Lamps flickered on the walls, and by their dim light he saw the sentries lying flat on the floor. A shadow moved to his right, and four armed men emerged from the lower
andron;
they were clad in dark
chitons
and leggings, their faces hooded and masked. Seeing the Spartan, they ran at him, long knives in their hands, and Parmenion leapt to meet them. Veering, three of the assassins tried to make a break for the doorway, but Alexander and Attalus moved into their path.

Parmenion swayed aside from a vicious thrust, sending his own blade slashing down into the outstretched arm. The iron edge bit deep, smashing bone and severing arteries. Screaming, the knifeman fell back. Parmenion stepped forward to plunge his sword into the man’s chest.

Behind him Alexander dispatched another assassin with a thrust to the belly, while Attalus grappled with a third. The fourth man ran out into the night. Attalus’ sword was knocked from his hand, then a fist cracked against his chin and he sagged against the wall. Alexander moved in behind the attacker, and just as the man’s knife rose above Attalus’ throat, the prince’s blade cleaved into the killer’s back.

Attalus staggered as the man fell, then stooped to gather his sword.

Parmenion had started to climb the stairs when a weird, unearthly cry came from the lower
andron
. Alexander was first to the door, which seemed to be locked. The prince hurled himself against it, but it did not move despite the fact that the hinges were torn loose.

Nothing seemed to be holding the door in place, yet it stood as strong as iron.

Alexander stepped back and stared for a moment at the wood. Then he raised his sword.

“That will not cut—” began Parmenion.

The sword slashed down, and the door seemed to explode inward, shards and splinters flying into the room. Alexander leapt inside, with the two officers following him. All three froze as they saw the huge demon at the far end of the
andron
, the king advancing upon it.

Snake arms slashed out to circle the king’s waist and drag
him from his feet. Alexander and Parmenion sprang forward. Attalus, horror-struck, found he could not move.

The king was slowly lifted toward the creature’s cavernous maw, its fangs dripping saliva on his chest. Alexander ran forward but then stopped, his sword arm swinging back like a javeliner. His hand flashed forward, the iron blade slicing through the air. Just as the fangs were about to close on Philip, the sword punched home through the demon’s eye. As its neck arched back, Philip thrust his dagger into the stretched, scaly skin of the throat. Black blood bubbled from the wound, and the snake arms went into spasm, dropping the king to the mosaic floor, where he landed heavily and lay winded. Parmenion ran in, hacking and cutting at the creature as Alexander moved to the king, pulling him back across the center of the room.

Smoke billowed from the demon’s wounds, filling the
andron
and choking the lungs of the warriors.

“Get back!” Parmenion shouted.

Attalus joined Alexander, and together the two men lifted Philip, carrying him out into the corridor. Parmenion joined them, and together the trio carried the wounded king out of the palace, laying him down between the twin pillars of the doorway.

“Fetch a surgeon,” ordered Parmenion, but Attalus knelt by the king, his face a mask of shock and disbelief.

“He must not die!” the swordsman whispered.

Parmenion shook him roughly. “Nor will he! Now fetch a surgeon!”

“Yes … Yes,” muttered Attalus, pushing himself to his feet and running to the guards’ barracks.

“The wounds are deep,” said Alexander, “but I do not think they are mortal. Already the gash in the thigh is clotting.”

“He is a tough man.” The moon emerged from behind the clouds, bright silver light bathing the palace entrance. “Look at that!” whispered Parmenion, pointing to Philip’s iron breastplate. The metal was twisted and bent where the snake arms had coiled around it. Swiftly the two men unbuckled the armor, pulling it clear; then, with a dagger, Alexander slit
Philip’s chiton. The king’s upper body was covered in bruises. Parmenion pressed a finger to Philip’s ribs. “One at least is cracked,” he announced.

The king stirred, his eyes opening. “Alexander?” he whispered.

“I am here, Father.”

“Thank … the … gods. Will you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive. Parmenion says you have suffered under a dark enchantment. All is well now. We are together.”

Philip struggled to rise, but Parmenion gently pushed him back. “Wait for the surgeon.”

“A pox on all surgeons!” snorted Philip. Parmenion shook his head but helped the king to a sitting position.