David Gemmell - Dark Prince

The name of the assassin.

He sat upright. Why would Parzalamis have revealed the name? Why not just tell Mothac that a servant had been bribed? It would be safer that way. A mistake, perhaps? No, Parzalamis was too wily to fall victim to a loose tongue.

The answer was suddenly chillingly obvious — they were still testing Mothac. Parzalamis did not need a hiding-place for the Athenians. What he needed was to know whether his finest Macedonian spy could be trusted. Yet to tell him of the assassination attempt was perilous indeed, for if news came to Philip he would certainly go to war with Persia.

Therefore Parzalamis must have taken steps to prevent the information reaching the Macedonian King.

It was as if sunlight had speared through the clouds of Parmenion's troubled thoughts. Mothac would have been. .

must have been. . followed. Once they had seen him rushing to Parmenion, they would know he had betrayed them.

The unarmed Spartan lurched to his feet. Parzalamis would have only one option now. Eliminate the danger. Kill Mothac and the man to whom he had confided the secret.

With a whispered curse he started to run back towards the house.

A figure leapt from the shadows, moonlight gleaming on an upraised knife-blade. Parmenion ducked and hammered his left fist into the man's face, hurling him off balance. A second attacker grabbed him from behind, but Parmenion dropped to one knee, taking hold of the assassin's arm and pitching him into his comrade. A third man ran at him with a short stabbing sword in his hand. Surging to his feet Parmenion swayed left, the blade slashing past his hip.

His fist cannoned against the assassin's chin, staggering him. The other men had regained their feet and were advancing. Parmenion backed away. They came at him in a rush. With a savage scream the Spartan launched himself feet first into their midst, smashing one of the attackers from his feet. The sword cut a shallow wound in his thigh, a knife sliced his scalp. Parmenion rolled to his left. The sword-blade clanged against the stone of the path, sending up a shower of sparks. Parmenion's right leg swept out, knocking the swordsman to the ground. The Spartan's hand fell against a large stone, which he threw into the advancing knifeman's face. Blood spurting from his crushed nose the man cried out, dropping his knife. Parmenion dived for it and rolled to his feet.

The swordsman aimed a wild cut at his head. Parmenion ducked once more and then stepped inside, ramming the knife into the man's belly and ripping it up through the lungs. As the assassin screamed and fell, his comrades turned to run. Parmenion's arm swept up, the blood-covered knife slicing through the air to plunge into one assassin's back.

The man stumbled but ran on. Scooping up the fallen sword, the Spartan gave chase. The fleeing warriors ran to the western gate, where their mounts were tethered. The first man vaulted to his horse but his wounded comrade, blood streaming down his back, could not summon the strength to mount. 'Help me, Danis!' he begged. Ignoring him, his companion kicked his horse into a gallop.

Parmenion raced through the gateway and hacked the sword through the wounded attacker's neck. Seizing the reins of the assassin's horse, he swung himself to the beast's back and set off after the third man.

The fleeing rider had a good start, but he was no horseman and steadily Parmenion gained. His mount, a sway-backed dun gelding, was not quality but he had staying power and slowly Parmenion closed the distance. His erstwhile attacker, a slim bearded man, cast a nervous glance over his shoulder as the horses thundered up the hillside heading east. Suddenly the assassin's horse stumbled, pitching his rider to the earth. The man hit hard, but pushed himself to his feet and started to run. Parmenion galloped his horse alongside the man, the flat of the sword-blade rapping his skull and toppling him to the ground.

Reining in the gelding, Parmenion leapt down. His would-be killer backed away.

'Speak swiftly,' said the Spartan. 'Your life depends on it.'

The man's face hardened. ‘I’ll tell you nothing, you Spartan scum-bucket.'

'Unwise,' said Parmenion, plunging the sword into the man's belly. The warrior died without a sound, toppling face-first to the grass. Parmenion remounted and galloped the gelding down past the paddocks and stables, leaping to the ground outside Mothac's house.

The Theban walked out to greet him. His face was ashen and a dagger jutted from his shoulder. 'I think you should forget about keeping contact with Parzalamis,' Mothac grunted.

Parmenion walked into the house where the Persian was lying on the floor, his head twisted at an impossible angle.

'He was waiting for me,' said Mothac, 'but I don't think he expected an old man to be so strong. And like so many of his ilk he wanted to talk before he fought, to make me feel fear, to force me to beg, perhaps. He knew of my meeting with you; he called me a traitor. I think he was truly offended by my duplicity.'

'We must get that knife out,' Parmenion said.

'No time, my friend. Before we fought he taunted me with the fact that the assassination of Alexander is set for tonight. Take Bessus — he's the fastest we have.'

Parmenion ran to the stable. But even as the stallion galloped clear of the buildings, the Spartan felt an icy terror.

There was no way he could reach the capital in time. .

Alexander's dreams were troubled. He saw a dark mountainside and a stone altar around which black-robed priests were chanting, calling out a name, summoning. .

'Iskander! Iskander!'

The voices were sibilant, like storm winds through winter branches, and he felt a terrible pull on his chest. Fear swept through him.

'They are calling me,' he realized, and his dream eyes fixed on the sharp knives they carried and the blood channels carved into the altar.

A figure moved forward, the moonlight shining on his face. Alexander almost screamed then, for the man was his father, Philip, dressed for war in a cuirass the boy had never seen.

'Well?' asked the King. 'Where is the child?'

'He will come, sire,' answered the chief priest. 'I promise you.'

The King turned and Alexander saw that his blind eye was no longer like an opal. Now it shone pure gold and seemed to burn with a yellow fire.

'I see him.!' yelled the King, pointing directly at Alexander. 'But he is so faint!'

'Come to us, Iskander!' the priests chanted.

The pull grew stronger.

'No!' screamed the child.

And woke in his bed, his body trembling, sweat covering his tiny frame.

Lolon crept into the royal gardens, keeping to the shadows of the trees, ever watchful for the sentries. His hand strayed to the dagger at his side, taking comfort from the cold hilt. The child was possessed, he reminded himself. It was not like killing a real child. Not as the Macedonians had done to his own two sons back at Methone, when the troops poured through the breached wall, killing all who stood in their way. The mercenaries guarding the walls had been the first to die, alongside the city militia. But then it was the citizens — cut down as they fled, the women raped, the children butchered.

The survivors had been herded together in the main square. Lolon had tried to protect his wife, Casa, and his sons.

But what could he do against armed men? They dragged Casa and the other women away, killing the children and making a mound of their tiny bodies. Then they marched the men north, the women east, where the ships waited to take them to the slave markets of Asia.

The city had been destroyed, razed utterly, every surviving man and woman sold into slavery.