David Gemmell - Dark Prince

Alexander sat transfixed as horse and magus became one. Gone was the stallion's head. Now the torso of a man reared up from the shoulders of the stallion. The centaur stamped his front hoof and reared, then, seeing the boy, trotted forward.

'Who are you?' boomed a voice deep as distant thunder. Alexander stood looking into the distorted face. Nothing of Chiron remained. The eyes were wide-set and brown, the mouth full, the beard chestnut-coloured and straight.

'I am Alexander — and I have a message from Chiron,' he said.

'You are very small. And I am hungry.'

'Chiron told me to warn you that the Makedones are near.'

Leaning back his head the centaur gave a great cry, a mixture of rage and anger. He saw the bow in the boy's hand and reached out.

'Give to me. I will kill Makedones.'

'Chiron also said that you are to go home. He needs you. You must not fight the Makedones.'

The centaur moved closer, dipping his torso until he looked over the prince. 'You are friend to Chiron?'

'Yes.'

'Then I will not kill you. Now give me the bow, and I will go home.'

'Chiron said for you to take me with you,' lied the boy swiftly, handing him the bow and quiver.

The centaur nodded. 'You may ride me, Human, but if you fall Camiron shall not stop for you.'

Reaching out, he swung Alexander to his back and cantered from the clearing. The boy slipped and almost fell. 'Hold to my mane,' called Camiron. Alexander looked up. Long hair grew from the centaur's spine and he took hold of it with both hands. The centaur broke into a run, and then a gallop, coming clear of the tree-line and thundering into the open.

Directly ahead of them were some fifty cavalrymen. Camiron dug in his front hooves, skidding to a stop that almost dislodged the prince. The riders saw them and fanned out in a wide circle to trap them. Camiron notched an arrow to his bow. 'I kill Makedones,' he said.

'No!' shouted Alexander. 'Home. Go home. Chiron needs you!'

The centaur grunted and leapt to the gallop. An arrow sliced the air by his head. At full run Camiron loosed his own shaft; it hammered into a warrior's chest, toppling him from his mount. More arrows flew at them and one slashed through the muscles of Camiron's hip. He shouted in pain and rage, but continued to run.

They were almost encircled now and Alexander felt a growing sense of despair. Just as it seemed they would be run down the centaur swerved and cut to the right, loosing an arrow into a second rider. The man fell, and for a brief moment a gap appeared in the Makedones' line. Swift as a storm wind Camiron leapt through it, his hooves thundering on the plain as he swept clear of the riders, who streamed after them.

The centaur increased his speed, his laughter carrying back to the warriors who screamed curses after him.

'I fool them!' shouted Camiron. 'The greatest am I.'

'Yes,' agreed Alexander, clinging to the mane. 'You are great. How far is home?'

'Long way for you to walk,' said the centaur. 'Not far for Camiron to run. Are you truly friend to Chiron?'

'Yes, I told you.'

'It better be truth,' the centaur told him. 'If Chiron is not there — I will kill you, Human, and dine on your marrow.'

Parmenion reined in the gelding and swung to look back over the hills towards the distant River Axios. He could no longer see the rider, but he knew without a shred of doubt that he was still being followed. The Spartan found this irksome, but not as yet worrying.

He had spotted him on his second day from Pella, a distant dot on the horizon, and had changed his course, veering north-east before cutting back to the main trail. From a heavily wooded hill-top Parmenion had then watched the rider also change direction.

The distance was too great for identification. All Parmenion could see was that the man wore a burnished helm and breastplate and was riding a tall, dappled grey. The Spartan rode on, wary now for Thrace was close and he wished no confrontation with the border guards.

The land stretched ahead in a series of folds, gulleys and hollows, thinly wooded and undulating. There were shallow streams here, sparkling in the sunlight, offspring of the great River Nestos that flowed through the land to merge with the sea north of the island of Thasos.

Parmenion guided the chestnut gelding into a small wood and dismounted by a stream. The gelding stood quietly with ears pricked, nostrils quivering with the sweet smell of mountain water. Parmenion removed the lionskin chabraque from the horse's back and rubbed him down with a handful of dry grass. Mothac had urged him to take the stallion Bessus, but instead the Spartan had chosen the chestnut. The beast was sure-footed and sound of temperament, having no great speed but enormous levels of stamina. Parmenion stroked the gelding's face and led him to water. There was no need to hobble the chestnut and the Spartan strolled to a nearby boulder and sat listening to the rushing water and the bird-song from the trees.

Six years before, he had travelled this route heading west into Macedonia and had met the magus , Aristotle.

'Seek me out when you have need,' Aristotle had told him. Well, thought Parmenion, the need could not be greater.

Untying the chinstraps of his baked leather helm Parmenion pulled it clear, running his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. Despite the imminence of winter the weather remained hot and dry and he could feel sweat trickling down his back under the leather breastplate.

Phaedra could not understand why he had clothed himself like a poor mercenary. Worse still, she had asked openly why he should embark on such a quest at all.

'You are the real power in Macedonia,' she whispered. 'You could seize the throne. The army would follow you — and then Philo would have the future the gods ordained for him. Why should you care what happens to the demon child?'

He had not answered her. Settling his chabraque over the gelding, he had ridden from the great house without a backward glance.

Skirting the villages on his estate, his first stop had been in a small town in the shadows of the Krousian Mountains.

Here he bought supplies, dried meat and fruit, grain for the gelding. The town was expanding — new buildings being erected on the outskirts, evidence of Macedonia's growing wealth. Many of the new settlers were mercenaries, buying land with their wages from Philip's campaigns. Others were crippled ex-soldiers who had earned good pensions from the King's service. The town bustled with activity and Parmenion had been glad to ride from it, heading for the sanctuary and peace of the countryside.

Now, as he sat by the stream, he considered again the problems facing him. He had no idea where Alexander was being held — nor why — and his hopes were resting on the promise of a magus he had met in the flesh only once. And what if the Persians had smuggled Alexander out of Macedonia? Suppose he was being held hostage in Susa? How could one man hope to rescue him? And if he did would not Philip, hungry for revenge, take his armies east into the heart of the Persian kingdom?

These sombre thoughts fluttered around Parmenion's mind like irritating moths and angrily he brushed them aside, remembering Xenophon's advice:

'When asked to move a mountain, do not look upon its size. Merely move the first rock.'

The first rock was to find Aristotle.

Allowing the gelding to rest, Parmenion walked to the crest of the hill and stared out over his back-trail, seeking the rider who was following him. But a heat-haze shimmered over the land and he could see no sign of movement.

Riding until dusk, Parmenion made camp in a hollow in the mountains, setting a small fire against a boulder and enjoying the reflected heat. Tomorrow he would reach the pass where first he had met the magus . Praying that Aristotle would be there, he slept fitfully.