David Gemmell - Dark Prince

Lolon felt the weight of his heartache and sank to the soft ground, tears welling in his eyes. He had never been rich.

A maker of sandals, he eked out a living, often going hungry himself so that Casa and the children could eat. But the Macedonians had come with their siege-engines, their long spears and their stabbing swords.

There was no place in the tyrant's heart for an independent city within Macedonia. Oh, no! Bend the knee or die.

I wish they'd given me the chance to bend the knee, thought Lolon.

But now — thanks to the Athenians — he had a chance to repay the tyrant in blood. A simple thrust with the knife and the Demon Prince would die. Then Philip would know the anguish of loss.

Lolon's mouth was dry and the cool night breeze made him shiver.

He had been marched first to Pelagonia in the north-west, where the new slaves were put to work building a line of fortresses along the borders of Illyria. For a year Lolon had toiled in the stone quarries. He had spent his evenings making sandals for other slaves before his handiwork was observed by a Macedonian officer. After that he was removed from the work-force and given a better billet, with warm blankets and good food. And he made sandals, boots and shoes for the soldiers.

In Methone his work had been considered fair, but among the barbaric Macedonians he was an artist. In truth his talent did swell, and he was sold on at great profit — to the household of Attalus, the King's Champion.

It was then that the Athenians had come to him. He had been walking in the market-place, ordering leather and hide, and had stopped for a cool drink.

'Surely I know you, friend,' came a voice, and Lolon turned. The speaker was a short, stout man, bald and beardless.

Lolon did not remember him, but glanced down at the man's sandals. These he knew; he had made them two years before — a month before the Macedonians came.

'Yes, I remember you,' he answered dully.

As the weeks passed he saw the man, Gorinus, more often, at first talking of better days, and then — the floodgates of his bitterness giving way — speaking of his hatred. Gorinus had been a good listener, becoming a friend.

One morning, as they met in the market-place, Gorinus introduced a second man and they took Lolon to a small house behind the agora. Here the plot was hatched: kill the demon child, said Gorinus, and then come with us to Athens.

At first he had refused, but they fed his bitterness, reminding him of how the Macedonians had killed the children of Methone, taking the youngest by their ankles and dashing their brains to the walls.

'Yes! Yes!' cried Lolon. 'I will have my revenge!'

Now he cowered beneath the trees, staring up at Alexander's window. Easing himself from the shadows, he ran to the wall, his heart beating wildly. Slipping through a side door into the corridor beyond he moved carefully in the darkness, climbing the stairs, stopping every few steps to listen for the sentries. There was no guard on Alexander's door, the Athenians had assured him, but two warriors were stationed at the end of the corridor.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he glanced out. The soldiers were standing some twenty paces away, talking in hushed voices, their whispers carrying to the waiting assassin. They were discussing a coming horserace. Neither was looking in Lolon's direction. Swiftly he crossed the corridor, pushing his back against the door to Alexander's room.

Slowly he drew the dagger.

Alexander swung his legs from the bed and jumped to the floor, the dream still strong in his mind, his golden hair lank with sweat. Moonlight streamed through the open window of his room, bathing the ceiling with a pale, white light.

He could still hear the voices, like whispering echoes in his mind.

'Iskander! Iskander! Come to us!'

'No,' he whispered, sitting down at the centre of a goatskin rug and pressing his hands to his ears. 'No, I won't! You are dreams. You are not real!'

The rug was warm and he lay down upon it, staring up at the moonlit ceiling.

Something was wrong in the room. He gazed around, the dream forgotten, but could see nothing amiss. His toy soldiers were still scattered about the floor, with his small siege-engines. His books and drawings were on the tiny table. Alexander stood and walked to the window, climbing up on the bench seat below it so that he could look out into the gardens. Leaning out on the sill he gazed down… at the moon.

The gardens had disappeared and stars shone all around the palace, above and below, to left and right. In the distance there were no mountains, no plains or hills, no valleys and woods. Only the dark of an all-consuming sky.

The boy's fear was forgotten, lost as he was in the wonder of this miracle. He did not often wake in the night.

Perhaps it was always this way, but no one had bothered to tell him. The moon was an incredible sight, no longer a silver disc but a scarred and pitted shield that had seen many battles. Alexander could see the marks of arrows and stones upon the surface, the dents and cuts.

And the stars were different also, perfectly round, like a slinger's stones, glowing, pulsing. In the distance he saw a movement, a flashing light, a dragon with a tail of fire. . then it was gone. Behind him the door opened, but he was aware of nothing but the beauty of this colossal night.

Lolon saw the boy at the window. Softly closing the door, he swallowed hard and advanced across the room. His foot came down on a wooden soldier, which broke with a loud crack. The prince glanced round.

'Look,' he said, 'isn't it wonderful? The stars are everywhere.'

Lolon drew his dagger, but the boy had turned back to the window and was leaning out over the void.

One thrust and it would be over. Lolon tensed, aiming the dagger point at the small back. He was no older than Lolon's youngest. .

Don't think that way, he cautioned himself. Think of revenge! Think of the pain you will cause the tyrant!

Suddenly Alexander cried out and fell forward, losing his grip on the sill. Without thinking Lolon's hand snaked out, grabbing the prince by the leg and hauling him back. A terrible, soul-searing pain swept through the slave and he staggered, clutching his chest. The agony coalesced into a burning ball in his heart and he sank to his knees, gasping for air.

‘I’m sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!' wailed Alexander, the stars forgotten. Lolon began to tremble, then pitched face-first to the floor. ‘I’ll get help,' shouted the prince, running to the door and pulling it open. But there was no corridor, no stone walls, no familiar hangings. The door opened on to the vault of the night, huge, dark and irresistible. The boy teetered on the edge of the abyss, his balance failing him. With a last despairing cry he fell. . tumbling among the stars.

The voices came roaring back to him as he hurtled through the sky, and he heard a shout of triumph from the priest:

'He is coming! The Golden Child is coming! '

Alexander screamed and saw again the face of the man who looked like his father — a malevolent grin on his bearded face, his golden eye gleaming like a ball of fire.

The man's heart was weak, the valves hard and inelastic. His lungs were huge now, distorting his rib-cage, and he could move only a few paces before exhaustion forced him to rest. Derae sat beside his bed, her hand resting on his chest, and gazed down into his tired eyes.

'I can do nothing for you,' she said sadly, watching the light of hope fade from his eyes.

'Just. . give me… a few more days,' he begged, his voice weak.

'Not even that,' she told him, taking his hand.

Beside the bed his wife began to weep. 'So… soon. . then?' he whispered.