David Gemmell - Dark Prince

Alexander watched him walk away down the mountain to vanish into the trees, then the boy climbed up to the cave-mouth and sat for a while enjoying the sunshine.

Hunger at last forced him to move and he walked through the wall of illusion, entering the palace beyond and making his way to the kitchens where he ate honey-cakes and dried fruit. He had seen no servants here, yet the food was replenished every day. His interest aroused, Alexander strolled out into the palace grounds, seeking signs of life.

But there were no tracks in the soft earth, save those that he made himself, and he returned to the palace where he wandered aimlessly from room to room, bored and lonely.

For a time he looked at the scrolls and books in one of the many library rooms. But these were of little interest, inscribed as they were with symbols he could not read. At last he came to a small room, western-facing, where he found a circular table covered with a velvet cloth. At first he thought the table was cast from solid gold, but as he examined the six ornate legs he realized they were carved from wood and overlaid with thick gold-leaf. Climbing on a chair he pulled aside the velvet and gazed down on a jet-black surface, so dark it reflected no light, and it seemed he was staring down into an enormous well. Reaching out he tentatively touched the table — and recoiled, as dark ripples spread across the surface, lapping at the raised perimeter.

Fascinated, he touched it again. It was colder than snow and yet curiously comforting.

The surface lightened, becoming blue. Then a cloud moved across it. Alexander laughed aloud. 'There should be birds,' he shouted. Obedient to his wishes the scene rolled on and he saw swans flying in formation across the sky.

'Wonderful!' he cried. 'Now where is the land?' The image rolled once more, making the boy dizzy so that he gripped the edges of the table to steady himself. But now he saw the forest as if from a great height, the trees clinging to the mountains like green smoke. 'Show me Chiron!' he commanded.

A figure loomed into life. It was the magus sitting beside a stream, flipping stones into the water. His expression was sorrowful and Alexander felt a sudden stab of guilt for intruding on Chiron's solitude.

'Show me Philippos!' he said.

The mirror table darkened and he saw an army camped before a burning city, dark tents highlighted by the distant flames. The image settled on a huge tent at the centre of the camp, moving inside to where the King was seated on a black throne of carved ebony.

Around him, kneeling at his feet, were dark-robed priests. One of them was speaking, but the boy could hear nothing.

Pale shapes moved at the edge of the mirror, and Alexander felt an icy touch of dread as creatures of nightmare crept forward to surround the King. Their skin was fish-white, their eyes dark and hooded, their heads bald, the crown of the scalp raised in ridges of sharp bone. Scaled wings grew from their shoulder-blades and their hands were hooked into talons.

'Closer!' ordered the boy.

A ghastly face, in silhouette, filled the mirror and Alexander could see that the teeth inside the lipless mouth were pointed and sharp, rotting and green at the purple gums. Suddenly the creature's head turned — the dark shining eyes, with their slitted pupils, staring up at the child.

'He cannot see me,' Alexander whispered.

The mirror exploded outwards as a taloned hand flashed up, sinking into the boy's tunic and scoring the flesh beneath. The prince found himself dragged forward into the mirror and screamed, his hands scrabbling at the scaled arm.

The killing power surged from his fingers with such power that the arm holding him was turned instantly to dust.

Throwing himself back Alexander toppled to the floor, the taloned hand still clinging to his tunic. Ripping it loose, he flung it across the floor and then swiftly gathered the velvet covering, hurling it over the mirror table.

As he did so there came a sound like a low groan, which formed into a terrible sentence.

'I know where you are, child,' came the voice of Philippos, 'and there is no escape.'

Alexander sped from the room. His foot caught the edge of a flagstone and he tumbled to the floor, grazing his knees. Tears fell now as this fresh pain unleashed his fears. They are coming for me , his mind screamed at him. Up the long stairs he ran, heart beating wildly, until at last he emerged from the cave-mouth into the sunshine.

Scanning the skies for signs of the scaled creatures he sank to a rock in the sunshine, shivering uncontrollably.

A centaur carrying a bow and quiver trotted from the tree-line, saw him and cantered up the mountainside. It was the white-bearded leader with the palomino flanks. He halted before the child.

'Why do you cry?' he asked, leaning forward to touch his thumb to Alexander's cheek, brushing away a tear.

'My enemies are coming for me,' said Alexander, struggling to halt the surging panic.

'Where is the outcast who carried you here?'

'He is gone. I am with Chiron now.'

The centaur nodded, his dark eyes thoughtful. 'These enemies you speak of, child — are they men, or of the Enchantment?'

'They have wings and scales. They are not men.'

'Vores,' hissed the centaur. 'Their touch is disease, their breath is the plague. Why does the Demon King seek you?'

'He wants to kill me,' the child answered. 'He wants to live for ever.' The shivering was worse now and sweat bathed his face. He felt dizzy and nauseous.

'Are you Iskander then?' asked the centaur, his voice echoing from a great distance as if whispering across the vaults of Time.

'That is… what they. . called me,' answered Alexander. The world spun and he toppled from the rock to the soft grass. It felt cool against his face, but his chest was burning and a dark mist rolled across his mind. .

Dropping his bow and arrows Kytin bent his front forelegs and leaned down, lifting the child in his arms. The small boy was burning with fever. The centaur pulled aside the boy's torn tunic, cursing as he saw the marks of talons on the slender torso. Already pus was seeping from the wounds, the flesh around them puckered and unhealthy. Leaving his weapons where they lay Kytin galloped down the mountainside, cutting along a narrow path through the trees and splashing across a shallow stream.

Two other centaurs rode alongside him.

'Why do you have the child?' asked one.

'He is Iskander,' replied Kytin, 'and he is dying!' Without waiting for a response he galloped on, lungs burning with the effort of the sustained pace, breath coming in ragged gasps. On he ran, deep into the heart of the woods. It was almost dusk when he arrived at a village on the banks of a broad river. The homes here, perfectly round and windowless, with huge, gaping doorways, were built of wood and straw. Beyond the scores of buildings were wide pastures and treeless hills, and already there were horses grazing, their bondsmen sitting around fires. Kytin felt the Need upon him. Not yet, he cautioned himself. Hold to the Form . Iskander needs you!

Halting before a roundhouse set apart from the rest, he called out a name. But there was no reply and he stood waiting, knowing she was inside. Yet he would not — indeed could not — disturb her at this time, and felt with sick dread the life of the child ebbing away like water passing through sand.

Finally an ancient pony stepped from the large doorway, tossed its head and trotted towards the hills.

'Gaea,' called the centaur. 'Come forth. I need you.'

An old woman, supporting herself with a staff, hobbled into the doorway. 'I am tired,' she said.

'This is Iskander,' Kytin told her, extending his arms. 'He has been touched by a Vore.'