David Gemmell - Dark Prince

Now she knelt in the darkened cellar beneath the house with the bodies of her two recent lovers stretched out on the cold floor, blood drying on their chests.

Aida smiled and, reaching out to the nearest body, traced a bloody line with her finger from the chest wound to the belly. Throughout history there had been many forms of payment — the Akkadians using crystal, the Hittites iron, the Persians gold. But for the demonic forces beyond the ken of mortals there was only one currency. Blood. The source of life.

Aida closed her eyes. 'Morpheus!' she called. 'Euclistes!'

Even now the assassins would be approaching Pella, and it was vital that the palace guards were removed from the fray.

She called again and the darkness in the room deepened, the cold increasing. Aida felt their presence and whispered the words of power. Then the demons vanished and with them went the bodies of the slain. Not even a single spot of blood remained on the marble floor.

Aida rose and trembled with excitement. Tonight the new era would be born. Tonight the King would die.

Unable to sleep, Philip rolled from the bed, walking out on to the balcony. He shivered as the winter wind touched his naked body but remained where he was, enjoying its caress. I have been such a fool, he thought, recalling his treatment of his son. How could a man be so wise in the ways of the world, he wondered, yet so blinded to the values of his own flesh and blood?

For years Philip had schemed and plotted to rule Greece, organizing an army of agents and subversives in all the major cities, outwitting the likes of Demosthenes and Aischines in Athens and the most brilliant minds of Sparta, Thebes and Corinth. Yet here in Macedonia he had perhaps lost the love of his son by misreading the young man's intentions.

It was galling.

He shivered again and returned to his room, wrapping himself in a warm, hooded cloak of sheepskin before returning to the balcony.

His mind fled back over the years, seeing himself once more a hostage in Thebes, waiting for his own death.

Unhappy days of solitude and introspection. And he remembered the sick sense of horror when he had heard of his brother's death in the battle against the Illyrians and had seen the shape of his own destiny. He had never wanted to be King. But what choice was there? His country was surrounded by enemies, the army crushed, the future dark with the promise of despair.

He gazed out over the sleeping city to the low hills beyond. In little more than twenty years he had made Macedonia great, putting the nation beyond the reach of any enemy.

Philip sighed. His leg was throbbing and he sat down on a narrow chair, rubbing at the scar above the old wound. His bones ached and the constant pain of his blind eye nagged at him. He needed a drink.

Rising, he swung to enter the royal bedroom and stared, surprised, at the thin white mist that was seeping under the bedroom door. At first he thought it was smoke, but it clung to the floor, rolling out to fill the room. Philip backed away to the edge of the balcony. The mist followed but, once outside, the night winds dispersed it.

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 cloak, he moved to the rear chambers. On a wooden frame hung his armour and shield and he swiftly buckled on 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 andron s, 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 round 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 upon the rugs. Philip leapt over 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 towards 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.

Half-way 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 towards 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 towards the fallen guards, desperate to lay his hands upon 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 upwards, 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 towards 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.