David Gemmell - Dark Prince

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The Lion of Macedon - strategos, Parmenion. A lone hero in search of salvation and finding, instead, destiny. The Dark Prince - the child who will become Alexander, creator of the greatest empire the world has ever known. He will conquer all. All except the Chaos Spirit, the immortal evil that dwells in his soul. Together they will be forced into other dimensions, across time, into enchanted worlds full of wonder and sorcery...

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Two hours before dawn he reached the foothills of the Kerkine Mountains. The breeze was colder here as he urged the gelding up the scree-covered slope towards the pass, and he pulled his black cloak more tightly about him. As he crested the slope he saw four mounted men blocking the narrow pass. Beyond them were two more horses.

Parmenion flicked his gaze to the rocks on the left, where two archers waited with arrows notched.

'A fine day to be riding,' said a swarthy warrior on a sturdy black stallion. The man touched heels to his mount and rode forward. He was hatchet-faced, a thick black beard failing to disguise the pockmarks on his cheeks. His eyes were dark and deep-set. His comrades hung back, waiting silently, hands on their swords.

'Indeed it is,' agreed Parmenion. 'What do you require of me?'

'You have entered Thracian lands, Macedonian, and we require a toll. Be so kind as to hand over the contents of that pouch by your side.'

'Firstly,' said Parmenion, 'I am no Macedonian, and secondly it should take no great mind to reason that a mercenary has no coin when he is riding towards Persia. Only when he returns.'

'Ah, well,' answered the man, smiling, 'you do have a fine horse. That will have to do.'

The warrior suddenly tensed. Instantly Parmenion kicked the gelding into a run. Two arrows slashed through the air where the Spartan had been. The gelding's shoulder cannoned into the stallion, who bucked violently, throwing his rider. Drawing his sword the Spartan charged at the remaining men, but they scattered before him and then re-formed to give chase.

The pass curved to the right. Out of sight of his pursuers Parmenion hauled on the reins, turning the gelding back the way he had come. It was the last move the robbers had considered. As they rounded the bend, expecting to see their quarry running away from them, they found themselves instead facing a charge.

The gelding hurtled fearlessly into their midst. Parmenion hacked his blade into one rider's neck, spilling him to the ground with blood spurting from his open jugular. The gelding reared, kicking out at a second man whose horse stumbled and fell.

The swarthy leader screamed a battle-cry and lunged at the Spartan. But Parmenion blocked the wild cut, sending a riposte that sliced the skin of the man's face, tearing out his right eye.

The other robbers galloped clear. Parmenion dismounted and approached the fallen leader. The man was struggling to rise, his hand pressed against his ruined eye, trying in vain to stop the flow of blood.

'You whoreson!' he shouted, lifting his sword and running at Parmenion. The Spartan side-stepped, his own blade cleaving into the man's groin, and with a cry of anguish the Thracian toppled to the ground. Parmenion slashed his sword through the man's neck, then stepped over the body to gather the reins of the gelding.

'Neatly done,' came a familiar voice and Parmenion cursed softly.

'What do you want here, Attalus?'

The King's Champion leapt lightly down from the dappled grey and walked across to where Parmenion waited. 'Not overjoyed to see me? Ah, well, that is I suppose understandable. But you intrigued me with your tale of sorcerers and rocks; I thought it might amuse me to meet the man.'

Parmenion shook his head. 'I would as soon sleep with a poisonous snake as entertain your company on the road. Go back to Pella.'

Attalus smiled at the insult, but there was malice in his cold eyes. 'You are known as a man who thinks well, Spartan.

I respect you for that. But you are not thinking now. Suppose this. . wizard. . can lead you to the child — do you think you will be able to rescue him alone? You may not like me, Parmenion, but you cannot argue against the fact that I am the finest swordsman in Macedonia.'

'That is not at issue,' Parmenion snapped.

‘Then what is?'

'I cannot trust you,' answered the Spartan.

'Is that all? Gods, man, what do you expect me to do — cut your throat while you sleep?'

'Perhaps. But you will not have the opportunity for I will travel alone.'

'I do not think that wise,' came a third voice and both men swung to see a grey-haired man sitting cross-legged on a flat-topped boulder.

'You move silently,' whispered Attalus, easing his sword from its scabbard.

'Indeed I do, young Attalus. Now put your sword away — it would be bad manners to attack a man who is arguing on your behalf.' Aristotle looked to Parmenion. 'I think you may find that the King's Champion will be an aid to you on this quest. And believe me, you will need help to recover the prince.'

'Where is he held?' asked Parmenion.

'In a kingdom of the damned,' answered the magus . Jumping down from the boulder, he walked back towards a towering rock-face and disappeared. Ignoring Attalus, Parmenion tugged the gelding's reins and followed Aristotle.

As before, the seemingly solid wall of rock proved no more substantial than mist, and man and horse found themselves in a cold cavern where great stalactites hung like dragons' teeth from the domed roof. The gelding did not like this dank, cold place and began to tremble. Parmenion patted the beast's neck, whispering soothing words.

Attalus came through the wall behind him.

'Not seen enough to amuse you?' asked Parmenion.

'Almost,' the swordsman answered. 'Where did he go?'

Parmenion pointed to a distant shaft of golden sunlight and the two men headed towards it, emerging at last from a wide cave-mouth which overlooked a verdant valley. At the bottom of the slope was a white-walled house, built alongside a mountain stream. Mounting their horses, the two warriors rode down to the house where Aristotle was waiting beside a table laden with food and wine.

'Now to the point of your visit,' said Aristotle as the meal was concluded. 'The child, Alexander, is no longer in this world.'

'You mean he is dead?' hissed Attalus. 'I do not believe it!'

'Not dead,' said Aristotle patiently. 'He was drawn through a portal into a parallel world — that is why his guards reported seeing stars in the corridor. In order to rescue him, you must travel into that world. I can show you the way.'

'This is nonsense,' stormed Attalus, rising from the table. 'Are you going to sit and listen to this horse-dung?' he asked the Spartan.

'Before making judgements,' Parmenion told him, 'look about you. Where are the mountains we rode through? Where is the River Nestos? Can you not see that we are already in another world?'

'It's a trick of some kind,' muttered Attalus, swinging round to stare at the unfamiliar horizon.

Ignoring him, Parmenion turned back to Aristotle. 'Why did they take the boy?'

Aristotle leaned forward, resting his elbows on the broad table-top. 'There is a King there, a man possessed. He desires immortality. To win such a prize he must devour the heart of a special sacrifice. His priests told him of a golden child… a special child.'

'This world — is it like our own? Can we find our way through it?' asked the Spartan.

'I cannot fully answer that,' the magus told him. 'There are great similarities and yet enormous differences. There are centaurs there, and all the creatures you would hear of only in myth — werebeasts and Harpies, gorgons and beasts of darkness. It is a world of magic, my friend. And yet it is Greece.'

'The King you spoke of- he has a name?'

‘Philippos, King of the Makedones. And, before you ask, yes, he is Philip, the image of the man you serve.'

'This is insane,' sneered Attalus. 'Why do you sit and listen to such gibberish?'

'As I told you before,' said Parmenion coldly, 'you are more than welcome to return to Pella. As for myself, I will travel into this other Greece. And I will find the prince. Will you come with me, Aristotle?'

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