David Gemmell - Dark Prince

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

Knowing they would not be thwarted for long, Philip swung round, 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 here with Cleopatra calmly discussing their future.

A door panel cracked open and the King moved into the centre of the room, blood gushing from the wounds in his leg and hip. The entire door 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 scarce 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 sabres. 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 were all too real.

With a whispered curse Philip started to run towards 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 towards 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 grey 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 blood-line as Titan, Bucephalus'

sire, but there was no comparison between the stallions. Though fast, Paxus could not match the awesome speed of the black, nor 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 sombre 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 south-west. 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 not present at the camp-site, 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 waited 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 rub-down,' ordered Alexander as he dismounted. The prince seemed in good humour as he walked towards the palace — but then he stopped in mid-stride, 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 towards 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 upon the floor. A shadow moved to his right and four armed men emerged from the lower andron ; they were clad in dark chiton s 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 despatched 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 clove 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 inwards, 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 towards 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 centre of the room.