David Gemmell - Dark Prince

'I am back,' said a soft voice. Parmenion turned his head and was not surprised to see Aristotle sitting beside him on the wooden bench. The man had not changed. In fact he seemed if anything a little younger, his grey beard streaked now with auburn hairs.

'Why did you create the lion?'

The magus shrugged. 'I like to make a dramatic entrance.' But there was no smile and his voice was subdued.

'Why have you come?'

'It was time.'

Parmenion nodded, though he did not understand. 'Alexander is losing his battle with the Dark God,' he said, 'and I am powerless to save him. He no longer listens to me, and the messages from his court are all of murder and madness. Can you help him?'

Aristotle did not answer at once, but reached out and laid his hand on Parmenion's arm. 'No, my friend. The Dark God's power is far greater than mine.'

'Alexander is my son. My flesh, my blood, my guilt. His evil is upon my hands. I should have killed him years ago.'

'No,' said Aristotle. 'The drama is not yet played out. I took the liberty of fetching this from your rooms.' The magus held out a small pouch of soft hide.

'It is useless now,' said Parmenion.

'Take it anyway.'

The Spartan tucked the pouch into his belt. 'You said it was time. So what is to happen?'

Aristotle leaned back, turning his face to stare up towards the house.

'Three men are dismounting at the main entrance. Soon you will see them striding down this path. Kadmilos — the Dark God — sent them. You understand?'

Parmenion took a deep breath and his eyes narrowed. 'I am to die,' he said.

A door opened at the rear of the house and three men began the long walk down the path by the glittering stream.

Parmenion stood and turned to Aristotle.

But the magus had disappeared…

Parmenion walked slowly towards the three men. He did not know them by name, but had seen them with Alexander. Two were Parthians, dressed in oiled black leather tunics and long riding-boots, their dark hair cropped short to the skull. The third was a high-born Persian who had entered the King's service. The Spartan smiled as he saw that the man carried a sealed scroll.

'We have a message for you, sir,' called the Persian, increasing his pace. He wore loose-fitting silk troos and an embroidered shirt, beneath a cape of soft leather which hung down over his right arm.

'Then deliver it,' Parmenion told him. As the Persian came closer, Parmenion could smell the sweet, perfumed oil which coated his dark tightly-curled hair. He offered the scroll with his left hand, but as the Spartan reached for it the man's right hand emerged from beneath the cape. In it was a slender dagger. Parmenion had been waiting for the move and, sidestepping, he slapped the man's arm aside and drove his own dagger home into the assassin's chest. The Persian gasped and stumbled to his knees. The two Parthians leapt at Parmenion with swords drawn. The Spartan threw himself at them, but they were young men, swift of reflex, and he no longer had the advantage of surprise. A sword clove into his left shoulder, snapping the bone of his arm. Spinning, he hurled his dagger at the swordsman, the blade slicing home into the man's throat to tear open the jugular.

Something struck Parmenion in the lower back. It felt like the kick of a horse and there was no sensation of a cut or stab, but he knew that a sword-blade had plunged into him. Anger flared, for his warrior's heart could not bear the thought of dying without at least ensuring that his killer joined him on the path to Hades. Pain roared through him as the assassin wrenched the blade clear. The Spartan staggered forward and fell to the path, rolling to his back.

The Parthian loomed over him. Parmenion's fingers closed over a rock and, as the swordsman prepared himself for the death strike, the Spartan's hand flashed forward, the rock cracking against his assailant's brow. The man staggered back, the skin above his right eye split.

With a curse he ran at the wounded Spartan, but Parmenion's leg lashed out to sweep the Parthian from his feet. The man fell heavily, losing his grip on his sword. Parmenion rolled to his belly and struggled to rise. But for once his strength was not equal to his will and he fell.

He heard the Parthian climb to his feet and felt the sudden pain of the sword-blade as it pierced his back, gouging into his lung. A boot cracked against his head, then a rough hand tipped him to his back.

'I am going to cut your throat. . slowly,' hissed the Parthian. Dropping his sword the assassin drew a curved dagger with a serrated edge, laying it against the skin of the Spartan's neck.

A shadow fell across the killer. The man looked up… in time to see the short sword that hammered into his temple.

He was catapulted across Parmenion's body and fell face-first into the stream, where his blood mingled with the water that rippled over the crystals.

Alexander knelt by the stricken Spartan, lifting him into his arms.

'I am sorry. Oh gods, I am so sorry,' he said, tears falling from his eyes.

Parmenion's head sagged against the young man's chest and he could hear Alexander's heartbeat, loud and strong.

Lifting his arm, the Spartan pulled the pouch clear from his belt and pushed it towards the King. Alexander took it and tipped the contents on his palm; the gold necklet glittered in the sunshine.

'Put… it… on,' pleaded Parmenion. Alexander lowered him back to the ground and took the necklet in trembling fingers, looping it over his head and struggling with the clasp. At last it sat proud, gleaming and perfect.

Aristotle appeared alongside the two men. 'Help me to carry Parmenion to the eastern wall,' he said.

'Why? We should get a surgeon,' said Alexander.

The magus shook his head. 'No surgeon could save him. But I can. His time here is done, Alexander.'

'Where will you take him?'

'To one of my homes. I shall heal him, do not fear for that. But we must hurry.'

Together they carried the unconscious Parmenion to the white lion, laying him down on the grass beside the statue.

The stone beast reared up upon its hind legs, growing, widening, until it loomed above them like a monster of legend. The belly shimmered and disappeared, and through it Alexander could see a large room with a vaulted window, opening on to a night-dark sky ablaze with stars.

Once more they lifted the Spartan, carrying him to a wide bed and laying him upon it. Aristotle took a golden stone from the pouch at his side, placing it on the Spartan's chest. All breathing ceased.

'Is he dead?' Alexander asked.

'No. Now you must return to your own world. But know this, Alexander, that the magic of the necklet is finite. It may last ten years, but more likely the power will fade before then. Be warned.'

'What will happen to Parmenion?'

'It is no longer your concern, boy. Go now!'

Alexander backed away and found himself standing in the sunlit garden staring back into the moonlit room within the statue. Slowly the image faded and the lion shrank, the great head coming level with the King — the jaws open, the teeth long and sharp. Then it sank to the earth and slowly crumbled, the stone peeling away like snowflakes, drifting on the breeze.

Behind him he heard the sound of running feet and turned to see Craterus and Ptolemy, followed by a score of warriors from the Royal Guard.

'Where is Parmenion, sire?' Ptolemy asked.

'The Lion of Macedon is gone from the world,' answered Alexander.

Seven years of constant battles had taken their toll on Alexander. The young man who had left Macedonia was now a scarred warrior of thirty-two, who moved with difficulty following a wound to his right lung and the slashing by a hand-axe of the tendons in his left calf.